‘An ass!’ said the Princess. We wanted to protest, but she was referring to a real one, which had just appeared from behind some trees. He was probably after some whisky too. We got up at once and stroked him, but asses don’t like being stroked; a wise man discovered that it was their misfortune to be called asses, and that was the only reason why they were so badly treated. We treated this one well and called him Joachim. We played the gramophone for him . . .

‘Play a bit from Carmen,’ said the Princess. ‘No! Play the one with the little gnomes . . .!’ That was a piece of music with a little skipping-marching rhythm, and the Princess insisted it was meant to go with a pantomime in which dwarves with little lanterns scampered across the stage. I put on the record with the gnomes, the machine did its stuff, the ass ate grass and we drank whisky.

‘Another finger for me please!’ said Karlchen.

For dessert the Princess was eating celery and cheese, as a great gourmet had recommended.

‘What’s it like?’ asked Karlchen.

‘It tastes,’ the Princess chewed slowly and thoughtfully – ‘it tastes like dirty laundry.’ Even Joachim swished his tail about in disapproval.

Then we sang him all the songs we knew, and there were a considerable number of them.

‘King Solomon has three hundred wives

and that’s the reason why

he always missed his morning train

kissing them all good-bye!’

‘Mooh!’ went the ass, and was given a talking to – after all, he wasn’t a cow. Karlchen blew some gentle melodies on a comb-and-tissue-paper, and boisterously expressed a desire to go to the Chantant . . . the Princess laughed a lot, and sometimes at an undignified volume, and, like both of the others, I was convinced I was the only one left sober in the midst of this hullaballoo.

Before we went to bed, I said, ‘Lydia – he’s not to write postcards this time! He keeps writing postcards!’

‘What kind . . .?’ she asked.

‘When he leaves, the craziest postcards arrive the next day, he writes them on the train. It’s his way of saying goodbye. He’s not to; it worries me!’

‘Herr Karlchen, will you swear not to write any postcards?’

He gave us his word of honour as a citizen of Giessen. We hit the sack.