The Secret Memoirs of Bertha Krupp. Fischer Henry William

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СКАЧАТЬ fond of his godchild to treat you like an equal – almost," she too added.

      Drum and fife still made for ear-splitting discord when Count Keller handed Bertha out of the carriage. His lordship, by the way, was now congratulating himself on having been deprived of the seat of honour. Small doubt, if he had taken it, it would have been reported to the War Lord, and Majesty, bent on showering Royal honours on the commoner, would have been furious.

      Two lackeys at the door, more at the bottom of the stairs, still more on the first landing – men-servants seem to be the only commodity lavishly provided at the Berlin Court.

      "Kammerherr, the Noble Lord von – " (mentioning some Masurian village) "commanded to the sublime honour – Fraulein Krupp's service" (long intervals between half-sentences to show that the speaker was really a Simon-pure Prussian aristocrat) "beg to submit – with Fraulein's permission – I will conduct Fraulein to her apartments."

      Bertha did not understand half the titled personage trumpeted in nasal cacophony, but a word or two from little Bassewitz explained. Then ceremonious leave-taking, as if it was for years; assurances of "unexampled pleasure experienced," of "more in store," and "Majesty is so graciously fond of Fraulein – she ought to be so happy"; in fact, there wasn't a girl "in the wide, wide world so favoured," and more polite fiction of the sort.

      Up two flights of stairs; corridor thinly and shiningly carpeted; electric bulbs few and far between. Ante-room, saloon and bedchamber. In the first threadbare, red plush furniture. The bedchamber was hung in cretonne of doubtful freshness.

      "I trust Fraulein's slightest wishes are anticipated. Princess von Itzenplitz last had these apartments, and was graciously pleased to express her highest satisfaction," boasted the kammerherr.

      Her Grace of Itzenplitz may have done so, but the richest girl in the world was not inclined to put up with such third-class hotel accommodation!

      When the kammerherr had bowed himself out Bertha sat down on the edge of the bed and had a good cry. Received like a princess, and housed like a charwoman! But she wasn't going to stand it, not she, Bertha Krupp.

      Her assertiveness, newly acquired, but all the stronger for that, made her give a vicious pull to the bell-rope. She hardly noticed that it came off in her hand when a lackey, scenting baksheesh, responded.

      "My servants, quick!" she ordered.

      "Beg Fraulein's pardon, they haven't yet arrived from the station."

      "Didn't Count Keller provide a conveyance for them?" she demanded peremptorily, hoping that her words would reach that worthy. "They must be sent for instantly."

      There were sounds of carriage wheels in the courtyard below.

      "Wait," cried Bertha; "there they are at last!" She handed the servant a small gold coin. "For the driver; let him keep the change."

      The footman withdrew with a broad smile. No doubt he robbed the cabman of half the generous tip.

      Torrents of "Ohs!" and "Ach Gotts!" when the Essen contingent came in. They had waited more than half an hour for the expected royal carriage, and then in despair took the only public vehicle available.

      Bertha's tirewoman inspected the apartment while giving vent to her outraged feelings. "Darling Fraulein can never sleep in that bed. It's as hard as rocks."

      "I know," said Bertha. "But what is to be done?"

      "I will send Fritz to fetch in the car your own bed, all except the frame," decided the tirewoman after reflection.

      "But wouldn't that be an insult to my hosts?" Bertha asked.

      "Rubbish! The late Queen Victoria always carried her bed along, even when she came to visit her own daughter in Berlin. Besides, we can plead doctor's orders," said Frau Martha; and when the heiress still seemed doubtful she added: "On my own responsibility, of course; you don't know anything about it. The Baroness will back me up, I'm sure."

      The Krupp footman was accordingly dispatched, and returned two hours later with the bed-furnishings.

      Meanwhile Bertha, all in white silk – according to the Court Marshal's command – was waiting upon Her Majesty, who fondly kissed her and inquired most affably after her mother – a regular set of questions afterwards repeated by the War Lord, all his sons, and daughter. They are not very original, these Hohenzollerns.

      The Krupp heiress, who, as intimated, was first inclined to be rather proud that the guards were called out in her honour, loathed herself for that weakness ten minutes after penetrating the Imperial circle, for the incessant reference about that piece of pomp made by the royal family and their titled attendants was simply maddening. "Unheard-of honour"; "Must remember it to the end of your days"; "Most unique spectacle in Europe"; "How thoughtful of Majesty"; "Too bad madame, your mother, didn't witness it," were among the least stupid comments assailing Bertha's ears on all sides. The War Lord himself went into raptures of delight, being as pleased with his surprise, as he called it, as a schoolboy with a new top, and then forestalled possible further speculations on the matter of his dispensations of honour by announcing that, in honour of Bertha, he would partake of the family luncheon.

      More effusions of delight, more congratulations showered on Bertha: "He must love his godchild very dearly"; "He wouldn't have done that for the Emperor of China." …

      Luncheon at Court! Bertha had pictured to herself a grand function: courtiers in gold lace, swords at their side; ladies in grand toilettes; swarms of servants in showy liveries; a dozen or more courses, under the direction of the Lord Steward of the Household; golden dinner service à la American multi-millionaire; "heavenly music," and so forth.

      Alas! And Bertha had brought her appetite along, the appetite of a growing, young, country lass from a food-worshipping household!

      The ladies were dowdy, the gentlemen in ordinary uniform or dressed in abominable Berlin taste; over-loud music, with which the War Lord persistently found fault with both time and execution. The average Kapellmeister "had not the shadow of a perception" of the composer's artistic intentions. His views were "plebeian, necessarily – maybe his mother was a washerwoman, poor wench"; and, after all, the War Lord himself must conduct to "get proper results." Of course, everybody was "convinced" of that.

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