yearâs midnight...the worldâs whole sap is sunk.â On the way back we passed a group of youths sitting on a low wall and kicking their heels as they whistled the Horst Wessel Lied between their teeth. Fritz said, âI think , perhaps, Iâve heard that tune before...â
That night at the inn, I noticed that a lint-haired young man at the next table was fixing me with an icy gleam. Except for pale blue eyes set flush with his head like a hareâs, he might have been an albino. He suddenly rose with a stumble, came over, and said: âSo? Ein Engländer?â with a sardonic smile. â Wunderbar! â Then his face changed to a mask of hate. Why had we stolen Germanyâs colonies? Why shouldnât Germany have a fleet and a proper army? Did I think Germany was going to take orders from a country that was run by the Jews? A catalogue of accusation followed, not very loud, but clearly and intensely articulated. His face, which was almost touching mine, raked me with long blasts of schnapps-breath. âAdolf Hitler will change all that,â he ended. â Perhaps youâve heard the name? â Fritz shut his eyes with a bored groan and murmured âUm Gottes willen!â Then he took him by the elbow with the words, âKomm, Franzi!â; and, rather surprisingly, my accuser allowed himself to be led to the door. Fritz sat down again, saying: âIâm so sorry. You see what itâs like.â Luckily, none of the other tables had noticed and the hateful moment was soon superseded by feasting and talk and wine and, later, by songs to usher in St. Sylvesterâs Vigil; and by the time the first bells of 1934 were clashing outside, everything had merged in a luminous haze of music and toasts and greetings.
* * *
Frau Spengel insisted that it was absurd to set off on New Yearâs Day; so I spent another twenty-four hours wandering about the town and the castle and reading and writing and talking with this kind and civilized family. (My sojourn at the Red Ox, afterwards, was one of several high points of recollection that failed to succumb to the obliterating moods of war. I often thought of it.) [3]
âDonât forget your treuer Wanderstab ,â Frau Spengel said, handing me my gleaming stick as I was loading up for departure on the second of January. Fritz accompanied me to the edge of the town. Ironed linen lay neatly in my rucksack; also a large parcel of Gebäck, special Sylvestrine cakes rather like shortbread, which I munched as I loped along over the snow. All prospects glowed, for the next haltâat Bruchsal, a good stretch furtherâwas already fixed up. Before leaving London, a friend who had stayed there the summer before and canoed down the Neckar by faltboot with one of the sons of the house, had given me an introduction to the mayor. Fritz had telephoned; and by dusk I was sitting with Dr. Arnold and his family drinking tea laced with brandy in one of the huge baroque rooms of Schloss Bruchsal. I couldnât stop gazing at my magnificent surroundings. Bruchsal is one of the most beautiful baroque palaces in the whole of Germany. It was built in the eighteenth century by the Prince-Bishops of Spires, I canât remember when their successors stopped living in it; perhaps when their secular sovereignty was dissolved. But for many decades it had been the abode of the Burgomasters of Bruchsal. I stayed here two nights, sleeping in the bedroom of an absent son. After a long bath, I explored his collection of Tauchnitz editions and found exactly what I wanted to read in bedâ Leave it to Psmith âand soon I wasnât really in a German schloss at all, but in the corner seat of afirst-class carriage on the 3:45 from Paddington to Market Blandings, bound for a different castle.
* * *
It was the first time I had seen such architecture. The whole of next day I loitered about the building; hesitating halfway up shallow
That night at the inn, I noticed that a lint-haired young man at the next table was fixing me with an icy gleam. Except for pale blue eyes set flush with his head like a hareâs, he might have been an albino. He suddenly rose with a stumble, came over, and said: âSo? Ein Engländer?â with a sardonic smile. â Wunderbar! â Then his face changed to a mask of hate. Why had we stolen Germanyâs colonies? Why shouldnât Germany have a fleet and a proper army? Did I think Germany was going to take orders from a country that was run by the Jews? A catalogue of accusation followed, not very loud, but clearly and intensely articulated. His face, which was almost touching mine, raked me with long blasts of schnapps-breath. âAdolf Hitler will change all that,â he ended. â Perhaps youâve heard the name? â Fritz shut his eyes with a bored groan and murmured âUm Gottes willen!â Then he took him by the elbow with the words, âKomm, Franzi!â; and, rather surprisingly, my accuser allowed himself to be led to the door. Fritz sat down again, saying: âIâm so sorry. You see what itâs like.â Luckily, none of the other tables had noticed and the hateful moment was soon superseded by feasting and talk and wine and, later, by songs to usher in St. Sylvesterâs Vigil; and by the time the first bells of 1934 were clashing outside, everything had merged in a luminous haze of music and toasts and greetings.
* * *
Frau Spengel insisted that it was absurd to set off on New Yearâs Day; so I spent another twenty-four hours wandering about the town and the castle and reading and writing and talking with this kind and civilized family. (My sojourn at the Red Ox, afterwards, was one of several high points of recollection that failed to succumb to the obliterating moods of war. I often thought of it.) [3]
âDonât forget your treuer Wanderstab ,â Frau Spengel said, handing me my gleaming stick as I was loading up for departure on the second of January. Fritz accompanied me to the edge of the town. Ironed linen lay neatly in my rucksack; also a large parcel of Gebäck, special Sylvestrine cakes rather like shortbread, which I munched as I loped along over the snow. All prospects glowed, for the next haltâat Bruchsal, a good stretch furtherâwas already fixed up. Before leaving London, a friend who had stayed there the summer before and canoed down the Neckar by faltboot with one of the sons of the house, had given me an introduction to the mayor. Fritz had telephoned; and by dusk I was sitting with Dr. Arnold and his family drinking tea laced with brandy in one of the huge baroque rooms of Schloss Bruchsal. I couldnât stop gazing at my magnificent surroundings. Bruchsal is one of the most beautiful baroque palaces in the whole of Germany. It was built in the eighteenth century by the Prince-Bishops of Spires, I canât remember when their successors stopped living in it; perhaps when their secular sovereignty was dissolved. But for many decades it had been the abode of the Burgomasters of Bruchsal. I stayed here two nights, sleeping in the bedroom of an absent son. After a long bath, I explored his collection of Tauchnitz editions and found exactly what I wanted to read in bedâ Leave it to Psmith âand soon I wasnât really in a German schloss at all, but in the corner seat of afirst-class carriage on the 3:45 from Paddington to Market Blandings, bound for a different castle.
* * *
It was the first time I had seen such architecture. The whole of next day I loitered about the building; hesitating halfway up shallow
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