What do you think of our new season’s catalogue?

I wish you an enjoyable holiday, and am,

with all best wishes,

Yours

[enormous flourish] Ernst Rowohlt

15 June

Dear Herr Rowohlt,

Gulbransson has sketched you to the life in the new catalogue: ‘quietly thinking beside the stream’ – and reeling in the fat fish! The bait of 14% of copies without royalties isn’t tasty enough: 12% would be more tempting. Just think about that for a bit, and give your hard publisher’s heart a little nudge. I can’t guarantee inspiration at 14% – the Muse starts at 12%

As I write this, I’ve already got one foot on the train. I’m leaving in an hour, for Sweden. I shan’t do any work on this holiday; I just want to look at trees and have a proper rest for a change.

We can think about our project again when I get back. But, in the meantime, let me send you my best regards and wish you a good summer! And don’t forget: 12%!

Best wishes,

Your faithful Tucholsky.

Signed – sealed – stamped. It was exactly ten past eight. The train from Berlin to Copenhagen was leaving at twenty past nine. We were off to collect the Princess.

2

She had a deep contralto voice; her name was Lydia.

Karlchen and Jakopp referred to every woman that any of us was involved with as ‘the Princess’, in order to honour whoever was her princely consort. So for the moment she was the Princess. But no other woman would ever be accorded the title again.

She wasn’t a real princess at all.

In fact, she was something which contains every nuance you can possibly imagine: she was a secretary. She was the secretary of a monstrously fat boss; I had seen him once and found him horrible, and between him and Lydia . . . but no! That only happens in novels. Between him and Lydia there was a peculiar relationship: affection, nervous sufferance and trust on the one side; and affection, antipathy and suffering nerves on the other. She was his secretary. He affected the title ‘Generalkonsul’, but actually he dealt in soap. There were always packages of it lying about the office, which at least gave the fat man some excuse for his greasy hands.

In a fit of noble magnanimity, the Generalkonsul had allowed her five weeks off; he was going to Abbazia. He had left the night before – may he rest easy in his wagon-lit! His brother-in-law was in the office, and there was a replacement for Lydia. But what did I care about his soap? I cared about Lydia.

There she was in front of her house, with her suitcases.

‘Hello!’

‘Well, look who it isn’t!’ or words to that effect, said the Princess, to the utter astonishment of the taxi-driver, who clearly thought she was speaking Manchurian. But it was Missingsch.