The Emperor Waltz (8 page)

‘I do indeed,’ Neddermeyer said. ‘Perhaps you noticed my drawings over there, on the table. There are some photographs, too, of some projects that came to life. A very civil young man, before the war, came to see me and spent six months visiting what I had designed and built, and wrote a very flattering article about my work in an architectural review. After that article, I had letters from architects in America, even. Of course, that was in 1905. People are not interested now.’

‘Did you always build in Weimar?’

‘Weimar and surroundings,’ Neddermeyer said carelessly, waving his hand at the window as if to suggest that he might have built all of it. ‘I could have gone to America. Interest in my work was very high there, as I said. But as I told my apprentices, my thinking, such as it is, was formed in an age where people climbed to the top floor if that was where they wanted to go. I was too old to change, to think how a tower of thirty floors could be ornamented. A mistake, no doubt. Now. Where were we.’

Neddermeyer stood, and walked over in a vague, uncommitted way to the table, as if hardly engaged.

‘Well, here they are!’ he said. ‘There is no purpose, really, in continuing to work, but the imagination continues to thrive. Sometimes I am playing at the pianoforte and I will be seized with an idea, quite a new idea, for a suspended balcony at the front of a royal palace, or for some rolling bookshelves to simplify storage and display in a library. Now, this is an idea I had for a triumphal arch …’

Neddermeyer’s fantasy work was neatly drawn, exquisitely finished, ornamented and made human with decorative touches of trees and figures. They were a credit to the tools in the open walnut case. He began to turn over the sheets, lovingly, murmuring words of explanation, like an ambassador introducing great dignitaries. Here was an idea he had for a state library; for a permanent circus on the classical model; for an English cottage; for a nobleman’s country house, refined and yet rustic; an idea for the Emperor’s military barracks; a new cathedral for Berlin (‘I was so disappointed, Herr Vogt, with the one His Majesty built, until I did not see why I should not put my own thoughts on paper’); a monument to the dead of the war; a bridge over a country stream and the same bridge, on a larger scale, bearing the traffic of the town; and a royal palace, eighty windows long on its front façade. Christian turned the sheets one after another. The plans were rich in ornament and fantasy; they specialized in pendentives and arches, in caryatids and classical columns, in portes-cochères heavy with mythological figures, in windows leaning out far over the street like orchards, in stucco ornament in their interiors and stone ornament on their exteriors. They specialized in the heavy imagination of the old Emperor, and Christian turned the pages with fascinated absorption. The moment for gargoyles, he thought, looking at the design for the Berlin cathedral, was gone.

‘You see, Herr Vogt,’ Neddermeyer said. ‘What architecture needs is imagination, and variety. The eye craves richness, and finds ornament restful. Now, for one of your teachers at the Bauhaus, a new cathedral in Weimar would be a simple matter.’ Neddermeyer was pulling a sketchbook towards him, a spiral-bound orange book, and now leant over the table to pluck a pencil from its place. ‘It would look just like –’ he began to draw ‘– you see, just like – ah, yes, that is that problem solved. You see?’

He turned the sketchbook around for Christian to see. On the page, he had drawn nothing more than a rectangle, then filled it in roughly with a grid. He took it back, and drew a line underneath it and, with a couple of scribbles, placed some stick figures on the ground. ‘You see, Herr Vogt, I remember there was a great scandal in Vienna when the leader of the school built something opposite the Emperor’s house. The Emperor had not been consulted, and when he saw the building, he said, “Who has built that house with no eyebrows, just there?” A very ugly building, still, and a gross insult to the Emperor. That is the sort of place you are going to, Herr Vogt. I am sorry for you.’

‘Your buildings are very interesting, Herr Neddermeyer,’ Christian said. ‘I look forward to talking with you a great deal more. But I am hoping to become an artist, not an architect.’

Neddermeyer was now as flushed and excited as Christian had expected to find him. ‘You see, I lost everything,’ he said. ‘It all went – family and business and home and everything.’

‘I am sorry,’ Christian said formally. He wondered whether now was the time to offer to show Neddermeyer the drawings he had done that morning. He decided that now was not the time. ‘Thank you so much for the coffee, Herr Neddermeyer.’

‘I believe that Herr Wolff will be joining us for dinner,’ Neddermeyer said wretchedly. ‘So the topic for tonight will be politics.’

‘I look forward to that, too,’ Christian said, letting himself out with what he felt was an expert smile, like a doctor leaving a patient in pain, a patient midway through a fit of raving.

13.

Before supper, Christian wrote a letter to his brother Dolphus.

It is not very much like being a student of art in the opera, living at Frau Scherbatsky’s house. I do not think I could bring mistresses with tuberculosis to die in the attic – like in
La Bohème
. (No attic, too.) It is a large, dull, ugly villa, built not ten years ago by a local architect. He also lives here, the architect, so it is important to compliment the beauty of the house, the convenience of the rooms, and so on, very regularly. I thought at first he was living here as a lodger, because he had fallen on hard times after the war. Actually, he has formed a connection with Frau Scherbatsky. They keep up appearances, but their connection is an intimate one. There is another lodger, a man named Wolff, who has been away, but who I have seen since starting this letter, walking in the garden smoking a cigar. I can only describe him from what I have seen – a small, well-built man, with very short grey hair, carrying a cane and wearing plus-fours. He appears alert and fit – he was whacking the side of his legs with his cane as he walked, quite vigorously. He may be younger than my landlady and her architect friend. He was accosted by Neddermeyer, as the architect of the house is called, who came out to exchange some friendly words with him, but he responded briefly and continued walking briskly from one side of the lawn to the other. Neddermeyer tried to keep up with him, but after a while he gave up and sat down on the bench under the oak tree, limiting himself to saying something when Wolff happened to pass him directly. He seemed to be taking exercise, or perhaps pacing because he had something to think through – you know how Papa does. What do they think of me? They deplore all students of the Bauhaus, I believe, but have not come out into the open on the subject. Luckily, because I can hardly defend it as yet. I have met only one student, a woman who introduced herself to me in the street, who I cannot believe is typical, and I have seen another, a man, through an open window. But I have already been shouted at by a stranger, an inhabitant of Weimar, who disapproved of art students indiscriminately, even of a polite fellow like your brother. (That is why I was spoken to by the woman student who introduced herself in the street – she was defending me. I think I may need a good deal of defending.)

Give my love to Papa and my best to the fellows. If there is anything in this letter which you would like to share with them, then you have my permission. I do hope you will come very soon to visit your brother – I have a good-sized room, and you would be very welcome to rough it for three or four days, and I can show you what an art student’s life is like. Do steer clear of wild company – do not drink or play cards or stay out late, now that you have no guide in life. And take care that Papa makes conversation at dinner. He is growing silent as he grows older. That is not good. The weather here is excellent and set to continue fine.

Your loving brother

C. S. T. Vogt.

And then Christian ornamented the remaining blank half-page of his writing paper by drawing a picture with his fountain pen, which he knew Dolphus would enjoy: an Alpine landscape with a path in the foreground, and two gentlemanly snails with Alpine hats on, one smoking a pipe, rising up and greeting each other with a little bow. When he got to the second one, the idea of getting it to remove its hat politely with one of the stalks it had on its head occurred to him. It was hard to draw, but satisfying. He finished it off with a few Alpine bouquets at the foot, put the letter into an envelope, sealed it and addressed it. The gong for supper was sounding softly downstairs.

‘There were Communist protesters, however,’ the man who must be Wolff was saying, as Christian came into the dining room and took his seat with a brief apology. ‘Or Spartacists. I do not know the exact colour of the beast. They were a small but violent group, throwing bottles. We did not respond – a brother in the movement had his head split open, blood running down his face, but still we did not respond, Frau Scherbatsky. We made our point, and we were very much applauded by the ordinary people of Erfurt. Do you know Erfurt, Herr Neddermeyer? A fine town, I believe.’

‘Herr Wolff, I do not think,’ Frau Scherbatsky said, ‘that you have met our new guest, Herr Vogt.’

‘How do you do?’ Wolff said, unsmiling and closing his eyes as he turned to Christian and nodded. ‘You are most welcome.’

‘Herr Vogt is the son of one of my husband’s oldest friends – no, not his son, but the son of a business associate of that most old friend,’ Frau Scherbatsky said.

Wolff nodded in acknowledgement, again turning to Christian but closing his eyes as he did so. He had something shining in his lapel, something attached. It seemed to Christian that all the discussions about his being a student at the Bauhaus had been gone over and expurgated before he had arrived. There had been something wary, alert and savage about Wolff’s demeanour when he had entered the room, like one dog when introduced to another. Christian resolved to be polite and warm.

‘I was passing the time in the train with the fellows,’ Wolff said, ‘counting the number of places we have assembled at this year. Do you know, we have already had twenty meetings and demonstrations, and this only September? Last year, we mounted only twelve, the whole length of the year. We have really already been the length and breadth of the kingdom.’

‘Which town has the best food in Germany, would you say, Herr Wolff, from your exhaustive travels?’ Frau Scherbatsky said.

‘My dear lady,’ Wolff said, beaming, ‘I can hardly say – you know, we are so busy from the moment we arrive to the moment we depart, sometimes running from missiles. We were not always so very popular in the first days. Meeting, arranging, discussing, making speeches. We often have to settle for something simple to eat. Only very occasionally do the local group leaders arrange for the principal speakers to dine. I cannot say that the food was uppermost in my mind.’

‘I always think the best food in Germany is in Bavaria,’ Neddermeyer said. ‘Those knuckles! Those white sausages! The fried veal slices!’

‘And the most beautiful towns,’ Frau Scherbatsky said. ‘And the country, of course. There can be no doubt about that. Surely you found time to raise your head and admire the beauty of a town in the course of your travels, Herr Wolff?’

Maria came in with soup bowls on a small trolley with dragon’s head ornamentation, setting the soup down before the four of them. As she set one down before Frau Scherbatsky, she caught Christian’s eye. He did not lower his: he engaged her gaze as she murmured in her mistress’s ear. She made her way round the table, taking the bowls from the trolley, and he watched her, boldly. She reached him, placed a bowl in front of him, and lowered her face to murmur in his ear as she offered him a basket of bread. There was an attractive smell of sweat and of clean skin under soap, mixing with the soup’s sour odours. He had thought she was going to share a moment’s comment with him, but she said only, ‘Liver dumpling soup’, raised her head, gave the table a single, surveying glance, and removed herself with the empty trolley.

‘You get good numbers in Bavaria,’ Wolff said. ‘When we were just beginning, in the months after the war, we were sometimes only ten or a dozen, and greeted with savage violence. You recall, Frau Scherbatsky – ah, no, it was before I was living here, it was when I was at Fräulein Schlink’s, before she took exception to me—’

‘How could anyone take exception to our dear Herr Wolff!’ Frau Scherbatsky cried.

‘Dear lady,’ Wolff said absently. ‘They broke my finger then – it was in Jena. But in the last year, the numbers have grown so wonderfully! For me, the beauties of Bavaria are tied up with the support and understanding the movement is gaining there.’

‘What is your movement, Herr Wolff?’ Christian asked.

Again, that creaking movement of the head; again, the inspection with quite closed eyes of the art student, the revolutionary, the boy of violence, anarchy and square glass-walled houses. ‘It is a small group of associates who stand for what is right,’ Wolff said, in a voice that seemed to have had its patience tried. ‘That is all.’

‘I see,’ Christian said.

‘There were secret forces that led us defeated out of the war, defeated and shamed, and sold us to people who have long planned for our downfall. Every week, more and more people understand what it is that lies behind. We work hard to help people to understand. In Erfurt, they lined the streets, cheering. The crowd was two deep in places. You can only rely on Germans, now. More and more people understand that, since the war. That was’ – and Wolff did not lower his voice, continued to shout as he moved into compliment and said – ‘a delicious soup, Frau Scherbatsky.’

Maria took away the soup, and brought in a white fricassee of what must be the promised rabbit, with rice alongside.

‘And did you see your wizards today, Frau Scherbatsky?’ Christian said, with an attempt at lightness.

‘My wizards, Herr Vogt?’ She seemed genuinely puzzled.