An Infinity of Mirrors by Richard Condon Page A

for politics than a perversion for war, if I may say so.”
    â€œPlease!” Paule said. “No more of this. And don’t tell me that you two are just fooling.”
    â€œJust an abstract discussion, darling.” Veelee looked at her and shrugged, and for an instant she had the feeling it was all over his head, too.
    â€œOf course,” the Maître said. “The art of conversation is not necessarily dead. That’s all, Paule.”
    â€œIt would be nicer if you practiced on music,” Paule said. “Saint-Saëns versus Wagner, or a conversational theme like that.”
    â€œWe were discussing education, which is even more harmless,” Veelee said, moving up his next set of gambits into the firing line, his memory serving him without flaw. “The French attitude toward their politics, I think, is the fault of their basic education—in the family unit, that is, where it counts. The ability to deceive self, then to deceive life, begins with the family unit. The goal of the French family is not obedience but animal gratification and Saturnalian existence. With such goals how can they find unity? Each man’s sensual gratification differs from each other’s. And that is anti-family—that is the cult of the individual. That is the total service of self and only of self. A family is a group of people, just as a nation is a group of families, and if the group has divisive goals there is no more group. What France needs is a stern and demanding father. Your revolutionary slogan has come to mean Libertinism, Equal Rights to Self-indulgence, and the cold, anti-social Fraternity of self having intercourse only with self.”
    In reply Maître Gitlin’s voice answered almost too precisely, adding paragoges to the ending of each word, so that the effect was a caricature of precision. “Frenchmen live to live, not to die,” he said.
    â€œAnd I envy that, Maître,” Veelee answered. “I even think it is true to an extent—at least to the extent that each country’s solution will contrast with the other’s because of the basic differences in our education.”
    â€œI hope you are right, and for that reason,” the Maître said. “Thank God for the difference too, I say.” He stood up. “Please excuse me. I must get some air.”
    Veelee stared at the slammed door of the compartment. “I’m sure I’ve offended him,” he said, not having the slightest idea how he had done it, “but these long train rides are so dull.”
    Paule continued to stare at Veelee with new, awed eyes. He had revealed a casual brilliance which she had never imagined he possessed. It was to be many years before she could convince herself that he was not an intensely mental man.
    Lieutenant-Colonel Wilhelm von Rhode, Herr auf Klein-Kus-serow und Wusterwitz, had been a part of the German Army since he had entered the cadet school and his first uniform at Berlin-Lichterfelde when he was nine years old. He could have been educated at a grammar school, but old-timers among the senior officers, such as the formidable von Seeckt, all thought the Kadettenanstalt background to be much more stylish.
    It was indeed a military school. Even the chaplain wore spurs under his robes and held the rank of captain. Before each meal the Officer of the Day would shout, “Let us— PRAY!” A barracks order read:
    After the night prayer the Officer of the Day will command: “GO TO SLEEP!” The cadet will undress as quickly as possible, place his clothes in the regulation place, go to bed, place his right arm under his head, left arm over the blanket, and fall asleep immediately .
    A company of one hundred cadets slept in each barracks and the lights burned all night long to protect the younger boys from the older ones and to permit the NCO who cleaned boots to do his work and to beat off older boys. The cadets were always under