"Who is he?"I said."And why does he sit always alone,with his back to us,too?""Ah!"whispered the Frau Oberregierungsrat,"he is a BARON."She looked at me very solemnly,and yet with the slightest possible contempt--a "fancy-not-recognising-that-at-the-first-glance"expression.
"But,poor soul,he cannot help it,"I said."Surely that unfortunate fact ought not to debar him from the pleasures of intellectual intercourse."If it had not been for her fork I think she would have crossed herself.
"Surely you cannot understand.He is one of the First Barons."More than a little unnerved,she turned and spoke to the Frau Doktor on her left.
"My omelette is empty--EMPTY,"she protested,"and this is the third I have tried!"I looked at the First of the Barons.He was eating salad--taking a whole lettuce leaf on his fork and absorbing it slowly,rabbit-wise--a fascinating process to watch.
Small and slight,with scanty black hair and beard and yellow-toned complexion,he invariably wore black serge clothes,a rough linen shirt,black sandals,and the largest black-rimmed spectacles that I had ever seen.
The Herr Oberlehrer,who sat opposite me,smiled benignantly.
"It must be very interesting for you,gnadige Frau,to be able to watch.
Of course this is a VERY FINE HOUSE.There was a lady from the Spanish Court here in the summer;she had a liver.We often spoke together."I looked gratified and humble.
"Now,in England,in your 'boarding 'ouse',one does not find the First Class,as in Germany.""No,indeed,"I replied,still hypnotised by the Baron,who looked like a little yellow silkworm.
"The Baron comes every year,"went on the Herr Oberlehrer,"for his nerves.
He has never spoken to any of the guests--YET!A smile crossed his face.
I seemed to see his visions of some splendid upheaval of that silence--a dazzling exchange of courtesies in a dim future,a splendid sacrifice of a newspaper to this Exalted One,a "danke schon"to be handed down to future generations.
At that moment the postman,looking like a German army officer,came in with the mail.He threw my letters into my milk pudding,and then turned to a waitress and whispered.She retired hastily.The manager of the pension came in with a little tray.A picture post card was deposited on it,and reverently bowing his head,the manager of the pension carried it to the Baron.
Myself,I felt disappointed that there was not a salute of twenty-five guns.
At the end of the meal we were served with coffee.I noticed the Baron took three lumps of sugar,putting two in his cup and wrapping up the third in a corner of his pocket-handkerchief.He was always the first to enter the dining-room and the last to leave;and in a vacant chair beside him he placed a little black leather bag.
In the afternoon,leaning from my window,I saw him pass down the street,walking tremulously and carrying the bag.Each time he passed a lamp-post he shrank a little,as though expecting it to strike him,or maybe the sense of plebeian contamination.
I wondered where he was going,and why he carried the bag.Never had Iseen him at the Casino or the Bath Establishment.He looked forlorn,his feet slipped in his sandals.I found myself pitying the Baron.
