‘In Rüdesheim on the Rüde.’ And then she did one of the things for which I loved her most, something she did in special psychological moments: she put her tongue between her teeth, and quickly withdrew it again, producing a blind whiplash of spray. She got a kiss for that – on this journey, we always seemed to have a compartment to ourselves – and immediately she used a newly acquired Danish oath: ‘May the Devil embroider you in baby pink!’ And then we started to sing.

In Kokenhusen

sings a nightingale

In Duna by the sea.

And the nightingale

singing sweetly

drops a present in my hand

Just when we were singing at the tops of our voices, the first houses of the city came into view. Points clicked, the train rattled over a low bridge and came to a halt. Come on! Suitcases. Porter. A cab. Hotel. Hello. Stockholm.

5

‘What shall we do now?’ I asked, when we’d washed. All we could see of Stockholm from our hotel window was four chimneys against a blue sky.

‘I think,’ the Princess said, ‘we should first get an interpreter – your Swedish is excellent, quite excellent . . . but it must be ancient Swedish, and the people here are so uneducated. So we should take an interpreter out into the countryside and find a very cheap little cottage, and we’ll stay there very quietly. I don’t want to travel another kilometre ever again.’

We took a walk through Stockholm.

They have a lovely town hall and attractive new houses. A city with water is always beautiful. Doves were cooing in a square and the harbour smelled of tar, but not quite strongly enough. The women in the streets were gorgeous . . . of a quite mesmerising blondness. And you could only get schnaps at certain times, which acted as a powerful spur on us to drink some – it was clear and pure, and didn’t do you any harm so long as you remained sober. As soon as you’d drunk it, the waiter would whisk the glasses away, as though he had been party to some crime. In a shop-window on the Vasagatan was a Swedish translation of the latest hit song from Berlin.

Well, and is that all you saw of Stockholm? Eh? And the national character? Ah, friends! How monotonous our cities have become! Go to Melbourne and spend a long time talking and arguing with the businessmen. Then, if you really want to get to know them, marry their daughters or do a deal with them or, better still, share an inheritance with them. You have to sound out what is below the surface . . . you won’t be able to see it at a glance. What is there to see? The same tram-bells ring everywhere, policemen raise their white-gloved hands, everywhere the same colourful posters for shaving-soap or women’s stockings. The world has put on an occidental uniform, with American trimmings. It’s no longer possible just to go out and see the world; you have to live with it, or against it.