Free The Berlin Stories by Christopher Isherwood

Arthur deeply; most of them spoke with the broadest Berlin accents. They wrestled and boxed on the beach and did somersault dives from the spring-board into the lake. The Baron joined in everything and often got severely handled. With good-humoured brutality the boys played practical jokes on him which smashed his spare monocles and might easily have broken his neck. He bore it all with his heroic frozen smile.
    On the second evening of our visit, he escaped from them and took a walk with me in the woods, alone. That morning they had tossed him in a blanket and he had landed on the asphalt pavement; he was still a bit shaky. His hand rested heavily on my arm. “When you get to my age,” he told me sadly, “I think you will find that the most beautiful things in life belong to the Spirit. The Flesh alone cannot give us happiness.” He sighed and gave my arm a faint squeeze.
    “Our friend Kuno is a most remarkable man,” observed Arthur, as we sat together in the train on our way back to Berlin. “Some people believe that he has a great career ahead of him. I shouldn’t be at all surprised if he were to be offered an important post under the next Government.”
    “You don’t say so?”
    “I think,” Arthur gave me a discreet, sideways glance, “that he’s taken a great fancy to you.”
    “Do you?”
    “I sometimes feel, William, that with your talents, it’s a pity you’re not more ambitious. A young man should make use of his opportunities. Kuno is in a position to help you in all sorts of ways.”
    I laughed. “To help both of us, you mean?”
    “Well, if you put it in that way, yes. I quite admit that I foresee certain advantages to myself from the arrangement. Whatever my faults, I hope I’m not a hypocrite. For instance, he might make you his secretary.”
    “I’m sorry, Arthur,” I said, “but I’m afraid I should find my duties too heavy.”

CHAPTER FIVE
    Towards the end of August, Arthur left Berlin. An air of mystery surrounded his departure; he hadn’t even told me that he was thinking of going. I rang up the flat twice, at times when I was pretty sure Schmidt would not be there. Hermann, the cook, knew only that his master was away for an indefinite period. On the second occasion, I asked where he had gone, and was told London. I began to be afraid that Arthur had left Germany for good. No doubt he had the best of reasons for doing so.
    One day, however, during the second week in September, the telephone rang. Arthur himself was on the line.
    “Is that you, dear boy? Here I am, back at last! I’ve got such a lot to tell you. Please don’t say you’re engaged this evening. You aren’t? Then will you come round here about half-past six? I think I may add that I’ve got a little surprise in store for you. No, I shan’t tell you anything more. You must come and see for yourself. Au revoir.”
    I arrived at the flat to find Aurther in the best of spirits.
    “My dear William, what a pleasure to see you again! How have you been getting on? Getting on and getting off?”
    Arthur tittered, scratched his chin and glanced rapidly and uneasily round the room as though he were not yet quite convinced that all the furniture was still in its proper place.
    “What was it like in London?” I asked. In spite of what he had said over the telephone, he didn’t seem in a particularly communicative mood.
    “In London?” Arthur looked blank. “Ah, yes. London… To be perfectly frank with you, William, I was not in London. I was in Paris. Just at present, it is desirable that a slight uncertainty as to my whereabouts should exist in the minds of certain persons here.” He paused, added impressively: “I suppose I may tell you, as a very dear and intimate friend, that my visit was not unconnected with the Communist Party.”
    “Do you mean to say that you’ve become a communist?”
    “In all but name, William, yes. In all but name.”
    He paused for a moment, enjoying my astonishment. “What is