the possession of England. Jytte insisted on taking me to see
Glaus Berg's sixteenth-century altar-piece in Frue Kirke
(heavily restored and really rather dull) % Next day we drove
out to the Fjord for a picnic in the sun.
Throughout the trip I could not be free from involuntary,
though inaccurate, recollections of Fraulein Geutner. The
sight of her, sitting cross-legged in the chintz armchair, was
continually appearing in the tail of my inner eye; but as with
a phrase of music that one feels frustrated at being unable
precisely to recall, I could never quite visualize her face. And
with this went a notion, never exactly formulated or going
so far as to contend with the present pleasure, that I was not
really in the right place. So might a migrant bird feel among
the first, barely perceptible touches of autumn. It will soon
be time to return.
On Friday morning I proceeded once more to Mr Hansen's
71
in the Panoptikon, somewhat burdened with his claret and a
bottle of Arpege. In London, of course, one would simply
have put the Arpege in one's pocket, but in K0benhavn they
gift-wrap virtually everything as a matter of course. The
Arpege, with its ribbons and coloured paper, was in a large
bag. Both presents were intended to strike the recipients as
slightly, though not ostentatiously, more than they had been
expecting. I wanted them to think well of Englishmen and
besides, other letters might need typing on some later
occasion.
Mr Hansen - still with all the time to spare in the world
- inquired politely about the Fyn trip, responded to my questions
about his grandchildren (their photographs were on his
desk) and, of course, reproached me for bringing the claret.
'You should not have done this, Mr Desland, and I will tell
you why. You could see that the claret was very good, but
you have not yet seen that the letters are very good.'
'Det er jeg sikker pa at de er.'
'Well, here they are. I have them ready for you.' And he
handed me a folder.
This was unexpected, and I failed to check a little start.
Only then did I realize that it had never entered my head
that Fraulein Geutner would not be giving me the letters herself.
Yet why should she? What more considerate and polite
than that Mr Hansen should have them ready? As I took the
folder from him, confusion and disappointment descended
upon my self-possession like a sheet of newspaper blown
across the windscreen of a moving car. I was at a loss and
Mr Hansen, perceiving this, albeit uncomprehendingly,
waited courteously for me to find my tongue.
'How - oh, that's really most kind of you, Mr Hansen. I
- er - do you think I ought to see Fraulein Geutner myself
a moment? I brought a little - er - gift for her too, as a
matter of fact.'
'You are much too kind, Mr Desland. There was no need
for you to put yourself to all this trouble and expense. Would
you like me to give it to her? Only I am not quite sure where
she gets to this morning. I think she may have gone round
to our other office.'
72
Again it came over me - 'It's incredible. He doesn't know!'
But this time I felt only relief. If the man was short-sighted,
that merely left me free to move more easily before his eyes.
But I now knew - and the force of the feeling lifted me beyond
self-consciousness - that I was utterly determined to
see her, even if it made me look the biggest fool in Denmark.
'Well, I would have liked to see her personally - just for a
minute - she really took a lot of trouble, you know - I er-'
At this moment his secretary came in. As she was about to
speak, Hansen asked, 'Ah, Birgit, do you know whether
Fraulein Geutner is here or at the other office this morning?'
'She's just come back this moment, Mr Hansen. Do you
want to see her?'
'Yes, ask her to come in, please.'
The girl went out and I, having been begged once more by
Mr Hansen to look at the letters, at last opened the folder.
They were far better than I had expected. The German ones
were faultless. Of the Danish I was no competent judge, but
it was plain that here and there she had, on her own initiative,
corrected and improved my imperfect Danish in the typing.
In the English ones there were a few errors (I particularly
liked 'bridal path' for 'bridle-path': it was my own fault), but
nothing at all which many an English shorthand-typist might
not well have perpetrated. As I was signing them and assuring
Mr Hansen of my sincere appreciation ('But you are
seeming too much surprised, Mr Desland'), Fraulein Geutner
came in.
I stood up, and then felt self-conscious because Mr Hansen,
naturally enough, did not. He was about to speak and
so was I, but she forestalled us both. With a brief smile to
him, she came across the room and held out her hand.
'Good morning, Mr Desland,' she said. 'I hope you had a
nice time at Odense, with your friends?'
She had a very light, fresh scent of carnation, and as she
shook my hand a thin chain bracelet slid down her wrist and
for a moment covered my finger-tips. I saw now that neither
her clothes - a plain, white cotton blouse and dark skirt 73
li
nor her shoes could have cost very much. They made her
look like a princess who has taken care not to put on anything
obviously beyond the means of the loving subjects
whose hospitality she has accepted.
'Thank you,' I replied. 'I did.5 And for twopence I would
have gone on to tell her all about it, but I restrained myself.
'I wanted to thank you for the letters. They're excellent - it's
really a great help to me -'
'Oh, f'ff -' And with a little gesture of her fingers she dismissed
the matter. Princesses have innumerable accomplishments.
They do not need to be praised for them. Indeed, it
is slightly bad form to mention such things, as though they
were ordinary people. 'And soon now you must go back to
England?'
'On Monday, I'm afraid. "Must" is right - I always hate
leaving K0benhavn."
'Oh - haffen't you got any friends in England?'
This was plain teasing, yet there was no impudence in it. It
seemed more like a kind of test. If I failed to respond, the
sun could easily be switched off.
'Yes, but you see I always leave my heart in K0benhavn.
It gets so heavy at the prospect of leaving that I can't afford
the excess baggage.'
'Then we must take care of it for you. Mr Hansen, you
are such a kind employer; can you find a job for Mr Desland's
heart?"
It was while Hansen was taking a rather ponderous swing
at this - something about always being happy to have close
at hand the brave hearts of the English - that I was hit by
the cold truth like a man who comes in sight of the station
to see his train steaming at the platform. 'In a few moments
this girl is going to go from the room, and unless you do
something about it, the odds are that you'll never see her
again.' The thought was unbearable. There was nothing,
nothing I wanted more than to see her again. If I did not see
her again, grey ashes would fall from the sky. To-day would
grieve, to-morrow grieve. I felt myself in a world of stripped
and burning reality - a world like that of the animals, where
only immediate longings exist, and they with total, compul74
!
sive intensity. Yet the presence of Mr Hansen, for all his
casual bonhomie, was inhibiting. What could I say?
At this moment his secretary reappeared, and he broke off
and looked at her inquiringly.
'What I came in to tell you just now, Mr Hansen, was that
Mr Andersen is here and would like to see you for a few moments.
Apparently it's rather urgent. Shall I send him in?'
Til come out,' said Hansen. 'Please excuse me one minute,
Mr Desland.' He evidently knew what it was about, for before
going he paused to select some papers from his desk and
took them with him.
Now might I do it, pat, now a' is a-praying.
'I was wondering, Fraulein Geutner -' She had been watching
Hansen as he went out of the door, and looked quickly
round with a slightly startled air. I realized that my words
had come tumbling out in a little, breathless rush. I sat
down on the edge of Hansen's desk and made myself relax
and smile.
'If you're not doing anything this evening, would you care
to have dinner with me? I should enjoy it so much.'
Kathe, as I was still to learn, made up her own rules. Like
Peacock's Mr Gall, I could already distinguish the picturesque
and the beautiful, but I had still to add to them the third and
distinct character of unexpectedness. Her reply was more
than unladylike - it was charming. She smiled indulgently,
with a tiny expulsion of breath and a quick movement of the
shoulders which suggested that she was restraining herself
from actually laughing; but whether from pleasure or
mockery, or both, there was no telling.
'Will it be somewhere very nice?'
This not only meant Yes, but also 'You are excited, aren't
you, my lad, my admirer? Perhaps I might be, too.'
'It can be wherever you like. Tell me.'
'Nein.' And then, more gravely, 'I don't know about
restaurants.' (I have people who see to that sort of thing for
me. You're one of them.) 'I will be delighted, Mr Desland.
How very kind of you!'
But now came a quick, practical flash - almost a retort 75
which again took me by surprise. In this respect, at all
events, she knew what she wanted; and meant to have it, too.
'Ach, nein! I will meet you. I will meet you at the restaurant
at - Moment bitte - at eight o'clock.'
'Isn't that a bit late?'
'Nein. That will be perfect, Mr Desland. I shall look
forward to it very much.'
'So shall I. At the "Golden Pheasant", then. I'll tell the
head waiter to expect you and show you to the table.'
She smiled again, with raised eyebrows, as much as to say
'Well, that's magnificent - more than I could have expected.
You know how things ought to be done, don't you?' This
time it was just short of teasing, and made me feel like a
king.
Mr Hansen returned and I took my leave. When I got outside
I realized that I was still carrying the bag containing the
Arpege.
JARL and Jytte had made no arrangements for that evening
and I knew them well enough to say that I had collected a
dinner invitation at short notice with a ceramics acquaintance
whom I had met unexpectedly. There was no particular
reason why I should not have said that I was dining with a
girl who had typed my letters - they would have been rather
tickled, and Jytte was never one either to tease or to pry. Yet
for some reason I felt a kind of superstitious disinclination
to tell. An undertaking of great advantage, but no one to
know what it is. The bubble might burst.
The 'Golden Pheasant' was full. I had known it would be
and had called in at mid-day to book a table, make myself
known to the head waiter (this being Denmark, I did not
have to tip him in advance) and order a bottle of Dom
Perignon to be put on the ice in good time. The table was on
the further side of the restaurant, opposite the door, with a
banquette against the wall and a looking-glass above it. I
76
arrived at ten to eight, sat down facing the glass, ordered a
gin-and-tonic and pretended to read Politiken.
It was ten past eight and I was just beginning to feel
apprehensive when, in the reflection, I saw her appear. Two
men, not accompanied by girls, were about to go out through
the door, which was glass-panelled. She, in the porch outside,
already had a hand raised to the door-handle when she
noticed them through the glass. At once she lowered her arm
and waited, standing perfectly still. One of the men, looking
sideways as he talked to his companion, pulled open the
door and was about to go through it when he saw her. At
once he stepped back, took his cigar out of his mouth and
held the door wide. She passed between the two of them,
turning her head to smile first at one and then the other as
they looked her up and down with about the most undisguised
admiration I have ever seen. And there they remained
for several seconds longer, their eyes following her as she
walked leisurely across to the head waiter's desk and spoke
to him.
She was wearing a black velvet cloak, fastened at the neck
with a silver chain, which fell to within a few inches of her
sandals. In her hair, above the left temple, was a spray of
stephanotis. She was carrying a small black bag, which she
put down on the desk. As the head waiter answered her she
suddenly flung back her head and burst into open-mouthed
laughter. I could hear it from where I was sitting. After a
moment's pause the head waiter (who at lunch-time had
treated me with somewhat frosty propriety) laughed too,
showing every evidence of genuine amusement - or perhaps
delight would be a more accurate term. Then he bowed and
conducted her across to the door of the cloakroom; opened
it for her and hung around in the general vicinity for a good
three minutes until she reappeared.
Her plain, lilac jersey dress, full-skirted and narrowbodiced,
which could have come off the peg at any department
store, fitted her as its skin a deer. The lilac of the
pearl beads round her neck did not quite match the dress,
and neither did the lavender chiffon scarf which floated at
her wrist, held by the chain bracelet. Such was her ease and
77
assurance, however, that this dissonance of colours seemed
intentional, as though she were modelling some challenging
and brilliant new creation. Everyone else looked rather
over-dressed and as though they had taken more trouble
than was appropriate to an evening's casual, light-hearted
enjoyment. Several men turned their heads to look at her
as she followed the head waiter across the restaurant. They
reached my table and I stood up and turned round.
'Guten Abend, Fraulein Geutner.'
Putting a hand on mine, she replied in English. 'I'm so
sorry to be late.'
(How about a little counter-tease?) 'Are you really?'
'No, not really.' And the very tip of her tongue showed
for an instant between her lips.
Then she was sitting opposite me, elbows on the table,
chin resting lightly on her fingers. The head waiter said, 'A
drink for madame?'
I raised my eyebrows. 'What shall I have?' she asked.
'Sherry? Dry martini? Gin-and-tonic?'
'Oh, but I asked you - really.'
I ordered a large dry sherry and offered her a cigarette.
'I never smoke. You don't either, do you?'
'No. How did you know?'
'I knew. But you carry cigarettes?'
'Well, it was just in case you might want one, as a matter
of fact. I can give them away now. That's a beautiful cloak
you were wearing when you came in.'
'Oh, it's not mine. I borrowed it, Alan.' She said this wideeyed
and with a little shake of the head, as though it must
surely have been obvious to anyone with a spark of commonsense.
'How did you know my name?'
'You don't know mine?' (Slipping, aren't you?)
'I'd like to.'
'Kathe. With dots.' She poked twice at the air with one
finger. 'To show I'm dotty, you know.' It was the sort of joke
no one would make in her own language, but which one
thinks rather well of oneself for making in a foreign language
- one knows an idiom and can make a pun.
78
The head waiter - who had apparently taken us over personally
- reappeared with two menus about as big as the
Fish Footman's invitation. Before he could proffer her one
of them she raised her hand to one side, thus ensuring that
he would give it to her in a way which would not obscure
our view of one another. I wondered whether she would ask
me to choose the meal for her as well, but on the contrary
she went through everything with the closest attention before
finally ordering whitebait and Wiener Schnitzel. When
at length she had finished questioning the head waiter closely
about vegetables, I asked for a dozen escargots and a mixed
grill.
'Your English is very good, Kathe. Where did you learn it?'
'But everybody in K0benhavn speaks good English, don't
you think?'
'You've lived here a little while, then?'
'Isn't it a beautiful city? You come here quite often, don't
you? It must be nicer than London, I suppose. 1st das der
Grund?'
'I don't live in London, thank goodness. What part of Germany
do you come from?'
'Oh, it's so easy to forget, sometimes, that I come from
Germany. But some of the times I am missing German things.
Little things. Christmas is so nice in Germany - and the
wine festivals - you know, when - when anything goes. You
say anything goes?'
'Yes, and sometimes I feel it, too.'
'Then you should come to a wine festival.'
She ate like a German, with a kind of serious pleasure and
unself-conscious greed; slowly, and every last thing on each
plate. My escargots alerted her as a ball of wool a kitten.
Her eyes followed the first one out of the shell and up to
my mouth.
'Was ist das?'
'Escargots.' Gazing, she shook her head. 'Snails, Kathe.'
'Snails? You mean Schnecken? Really?'
'They're delicious. You haven't come across them before?'
'Can I try to taste one?'
I extracted one and held out to her the butt of the little,
79
two-pronged fork. Instead of taking it from me she raised
a hand to mine, turned the business-end towards herself and
then, leaning across the table, took the snail into her open
mouth.
'Oh, lovely! M'mm! I wish I'd had some.'
'You can. I'll call him over.'
Again she made the little, dismissive gesture with her
fingers. 'Ach nein. Bin anderes Mai. For now, as long as we
both have had garlic-' And she returned to her whitebait
with concentration.
Twice, however, with a smile and a nod, she summoned the
head waiter on her own account. With her whitebait she required
thin brown bread-and-butter; but the Wiener Schnitzel,