Mr Norris Changes Trains by Christopher Isherwood

Author:Christopher Isherwood
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: New Directions
Published: 2013-02-28T00:00:00+00:00

Arthur had certainly transformed the daily routine of life at Frl. Schroeder’s. Because he insisted on a hot bath every morning, she had to get up an hour earlier, in order to stoke the little old-fashioned boiler. She didn’t complain of this. Indeed, she seemed to admire Arthur for the trouble he caused her.

“He’s so particular, Herr Bradshaw. More like a lady than a gentleman. Everything in his room has its place, and I get into trouble if it isn’t all just as he wants it. I must say, though, it’s a pleasure to wait on anybody who takes such care of his things. You ought to see some of his shirts, and his ties. A perfect dream! And his silk underclothes! ‘Herr Norris,’ I said to him once, ‘you should let me wear those; they’re too fine for a man.’ I was only joking, of course. Herr Norris does enjoy a joke. He takes in four daily papers, you know, not to mention the weekly illustrateds, and I’m not allowed to throw any of them away. They must all be piled up in their proper order, according to the dates, if you please, on top of the cupboard. It makes me wild, sometimes, when I think of the dust they’re collecting. And then, every day, before he goes out, Herr Norris gives me a list as long as your arm of messages I’ve got to give to people who ring up or call. I have to remember all their names, and which ones he wants to see, and which he doesn’t. The door-bell’s for ever ringing, nowadays, with telegrams for Herr Norris, and express letters and air mail and I don’t know what else. This last fortnight it’s been specially bad. If you ask me, I think the ladies are his little weakness.”

“What makes you think that, Frl. Schroeder?”

“Well, I’ve noticed that Herr Norris is always getting telegrams from Paris. I used to open them, at first, thinking it might be something important which Herr Norris would like to know at once. But I couldn’t make head or tail of them. They were all from a lady named Margot. Very affectionate some of them were, too. ‘I am sending you a hug,’ and ‘last time you forgot to enclose kisses.’ I must say I should never have the nerve to write such things myself; fancy the clerks at the post office reading them! These French girls must be a shameless lot. From my experience when a woman makes a parade of her feelings like that, she’s not worth much . . . And then she wrote such a lot of nonsense besides.”

“What sort of nonsense?”

“Oh, I forget half of it. Stuff about teapots and kettles and bread and butter and cake.”

“How very queer.”

“You’re right, Herr Bradshaw. It is queer . . . I’ll tell you what I think.” Frl. Schroeder lowered her voice and glanced towards the door; perhaps she had caught the trick from Arthur. “I believe it’s a kind of secret language.

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