dinary and likely to give me the
shivers. My mother consented immediately, a thing which can be
explained only on the assumption that she expected her darling child
with the beautiful blond locks to make a good impression upon my
grandfather, whose home was the goal of the journey. "Very well," she
said, "take the boy along. But first I will put a warm coat on him."
"Not necessary; I'll put him in the footbag." And, surely enough, I
was hauled up into the carriage and put just as I was into the footbag
lying on the front of the carriage, which was entirely open, with not
even a leather apron stretched across it. If a stone got in our way or
we received a jolt there was nothing to keep me from being thrown out.
But this notion did not for a single moment disturb my pleasure. At a
quick trot we rolled along through Alt-Ruppin toward Cremmen, and long
before we reached this place, which was about half way along the
journey, the stars came out and grew brighter and brighter and more
and more sparkling. I gazed enraptured at this splendor and no sleep
came to my eyes. Never since have I traveled with such delight; it
seemed as though we were journeying to heaven. Toward eight o 'clock
in the morning our carriage drove up before my grandfather's house.
Let me here insert the remark that my grandfather, with the help of
his three wives, whom he had married a number of years apart, had
risen first from a drawing teacher to a private secretary, and then,
what was still more significant, had recently advanced to the dignity
of a well-to-do property owner in Berlin. To be sure, only in the
Little Hamburg street. The art of living implied in this achievement
was not transmitted to any of his sons or grandsons.

We climbed the stairs and entered the door. Here we were greeted by a
homely idyl. Pierre Barthelemy and his third wife--an excellent woman,
whom I later learned to esteem very highly--were just sitting at
breakfast. Everything looked very cozy. On the table was a service of
Dresden china, and among the cups and pitchers I noticed a neat blue
and white figured open-work bread basket with Berlin milk rolls in it.
The rolls then were different from now, much larger and circular in
shape, baked a light brown and yet crisp. Over the sofa hung a large
oil portrait of my grandfather, just recently painted, by Professor
Wachs. It was very good and full of life, but I should have forgotten
the expressive face and perhaps the whole s