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with new laden dishes. Frau Knesebeck has had brandy brought
up from the cellar. Very few of the inhabitants of Frauenstein have
even been aware that such a supply is hoarded there. It must date
back to the early, half-forgotten years of the place, presumably
transported from Windhoek or perhaps Luderitz on one of the wagons
which still, a few times a year, traverse the desert with
provisions Frauenstein cannot produce on its own – salt and sugar,
oil and vinegar, coffee, paraffin and lanterns, small quantities of
chewing tobacco, medicaments, shoes and clothing, needles and wool
and reels of cotton, cutlery and crockery, occasionally paper and
ink and pens for records and registers which are supposed to be
kept although it is hardly ever done, bales and bolts of chintz or
cheesecloth or sheeting, some basic farming implements. (From time
to time there is some official error which results in large
quantities of unexpected and unnecessary items being dumped in the
yard: once a whole wagon-load of porcelain pisspots, once a pile of
army uniforms, once a mountain of left shoes, a consignment of
sheep-shears, a supply of pickaxe handles intended for a mine in
Otavi or Otjiwarongo. So, too, presumably, once, the superfluity of
brandy.)
    As the meal progresses and the spirits flow more and more
copiously, the officers grow steadily more rowdy. Some resort to
eating with their hands, tearing meat from bones with their teeth;
glasses and plates are broken; brandy is gulped directly from the
bottles which continue to be brought up from the dark bowels of the
building. And judging by their ever more irresponsible comportment
several of the serving women must also be partaking of the liquid
fire as they shuttle along an increasingly unpredictable route
between cellar and dining hall. Frau Knesebeck’s mouth resembles
more and more the rear end of a fowl as Colonel von Blixen’s
gestures, accompanying his account of exploits on and off the field
of battle, become more recklessly expansive and more
precarious.
    Here and there on the long sides of the table the general
carousing erupts in raucous song; among members of conflicting
groups of singers scuffles break out. More crockery is smashed, no
longer in exuberance but in anger. Colonel von Blixen rises to his
feet, steadies himself on his long arms, and thunders a long
command ending in a string of verbs. Escorted by four more senior
officers, the gang leaders in the brawl are ordered out. Stripped
of the insignia of their ranks, they will accompany the
footsoldiers outside on the resumption of their march. For a short
while, under the scorching stare of their commander, the men
remaining at the long table fall silent as they attempt, with
varying degrees of success, to pour the next round of brandy in the
abandoned glasses. The escorting officers return up the broad
staircase, two of them on all fours.
    “It is time to drink our toasts,” announces the colonel, who
appears to have forgotten that they have already done so.
    The officers rise with studied dignity. Three toasts are
proposed and drunk. To their gracious hostesses. To the high
command in Windhoek. To His Imperial Majesty, Kaiser Wilhelm II in
Berlin.
    “We shall now proceed with the enjoyment of the other delicacies
so graciously put at our disposal,” announces Colonel von
Blixen.
    He pushes out his chair, takes a moment to steady himself with
his hands on the high back, and begins to move in slow measured
strides towards the nearest cluster of women against the wall. He
stops to wipe his perspiring forehead with a large kerchief drawn,
not without effort, from his pocket. Beaming the goodwill of the
conqueror, he raises the chin of the first woman, briefly studies
her face, moves on to the next.
    “Herr Oberst,” says Frau Knesebeck, rising hesitantly at the far
end of the table.
    He pays no attention. By the time he reaches the fifth or sixth
woman his comportment has become more brazen. He no longer