Chapter twelve: In the house of my brother II--- 1907
Life at the Manor
To my surprise, navigating the halls proved far simpler than I had imagined. With my brother leading the way, we moved at a brisk and purposeful pace, his characteristic efficiency reflected even in this small act.
As we were walking, I noticed the manor itself, though grand in its own right, carried an air of understated simplicity. I had overestimated its grandeur in my mind. The guest quarters occupied the third corridor of the second floor, their abundance evident from the line of doors that stretched nearly end to end.
What struck me most, however, was the sight of luggage neatly arranged in the open doorways. It seemed the guest rooms were nearly all occupied, a curious detail that immediately piqued my interest.
"Why do you have so many people staying here? Surely not just for tonight's dinner," I asked, my confusion evident.
I must note, for the benefit of the reader, that even in 1907 it was unusual to house employees at one's place of business. This arrangement, though practical in certain cases, seemed excessive to me at the time.
Sensing my presumption, Gustav replied with his usual calm pragmatism. "Honestly, Adolf, they are translators for the dinner. My guests are coming from all corners of the world."
"I can't very well expect them all to speak English or German, can I?" he added with a faint smile.
"Did you happen to notice the little flags on their doors?" he asked, a hint of amusement in his voice.
In truth, I had not noticed the flags at all, my attention drawn instead to the luggage and personal effects scattered about the rooms.
Gustav, of course, knew he had caught me unprepared. Before he could seize the opportunity for a quip, I preempted him. "Yes, Gustav, I saw the flags," I said with mock conviction. Then, adopting his tone, I added, "One must always pay attention to their surroundings, as you so often love to remind me."
Gustav, not one to miss the opportunity, replied in the same playful tone. "Good, Adolf! You've learned something after all. Keep that advice close."
He smirked in that way he always did when he thought himself clever, leading me farther down the hall. My room, it seemed, was situated at the very end of the leftmost wing of the house. Most likely, I thought, a deliberate choice on his part to ensure I'd have to traverse half the manor for even the simplest needs. We passed many empty rooms along the way, their silence only amplifying the sense of distance.
When Gustav finally opened the door to my quarters, I was struck by its simplicity. Spacious yet unadorned, the room reflected his preference for function over frivolity. As I stepped inside, he offered instructions with his usual precision. "Dinner is at six. First floor, second hall to the right. You can't miss it—it's an open room."
As I surveyed the room, my attention was drawn to a small terrace beyond a tall wooden half-door. Curious about the view, I opened the door and stepped outside, the fresh air hitting me as I took in the scene.
Before me stretched a proper woodland, the trees to my left so close they seemed to whisper in the breeze. To my right, down below, the house opened onto a well-trodden path, winding its way to a modest dock on a narrow river—likely a tributary of the Medway. The contrast between forest and open air gave the view a quiet harmony.
I couldn't help but chuckle quietly to myself. The view was magnificent, the kind that others might covet for its beauty alone. But I knew Gustav too well. This place had been chosen not for its charm, but for its utility. The river's transportation value had sealed the deal. It was quintessentially Gustav—practical to a fault.
Even with all his success, Gustav remained ever true to himself, favoring function over form. I wouldn't have wanted him any other way.
As I unpacked my belongings, a discovery in the closet caught my eye: standing frames, perfect for canvases of any size. A smile crept across my face. For all his pragmatism and occasional sternness, Gustav always found ways to show he cared.
Time slipped by as I settled into my new quarters, and before I realized it, dinner hour had arrived. Glancing at the clock, I saw it was already 6:05—I was late.
Curiosity piqued, I decided to pay closer attention as I walked down the hall, noting the small flags Gustav had mentioned earlier. French, Russian, Danish, Spanish, Swedish, Hungarian—even Turkish? The sheer variety left me momentarily stunned.
"He's truly going all out, isn't he?" I murmured to myself, a mix of admiration and amusement coloring my thoughts.
Finding the dining room proved as simple as Gustav had promised. There was no door to mark it—just an open archway leading into a spacious room dominated by a long table. Near its end sat Gustav and Mother, already engrossed in their meal. My eyes wandered to the table, immediately recognizing the centerpiece: medium-well pork chops, Gustav's childhood favorite.
Taking a seat to Gustav's right, I nodded in acknowledgment before joining them. The warmth of the evening was unmistakable—a rare moment of familial closeness. For that night, and the nights that followed, we felt like a true family.
Come Saturday, with no pressing matters at the manor, Gustav extended an invitation to tour his office supplies factory—a proposition I found intriguing, if only to see what 'grand' vision he had prepared.
The drive to the factory was brief, as Gustav had promised, no more than a few minutes. My first impression of the building was its sheer size—far larger than I had anticipated. Situated on the outskirts of the city, it dwarfed the cramped factories I was accustomed to seeing near Linz's bustling center.
As we stepped inside, the factory was cloaked in darkness and silence—unsurprising given the absence of workers. We waited briefly for the electric lights to warm and illuminate the cavernous space before proceeding.
Curious, I asked Gustav about the factory's history. He explained that it had once been a steel mill, now repurposed for office supplies production. The transformation baffled me—how could machinery designed for forging steel adapt to something so different? My gaze swept over the rows of intricate equipment, but the workings of the machinery eluded me entirely. I quickly resigned myself to the mystery.
As promised, Gustav provided the demonstrations. The process involved little more than paper, ink, and metal, yet it was unlike anything I had expected. His company was producing office supplies that were, as he explained, entirely new to the market. Far from the mundane items I had assumed, they represented what the industry would call "innovation." Ballpoint pens, staplers, and their corresponding staples were his flagship products, produced in bulk with remarkable efficiency.
The production process itself was simpler than I had imagined, yet its scale was impressive. Gustav explained that his primary customers were businesses in Rochester, though he was currently producing in bulk at a loss due to the lack of large orders. He led me to a warehouse where stacks of neatly packed wooden crates reached halfway to the ceiling. The sight was staggering, though the precarious arrangement struck me as a horrific fire hazard waiting to happen.
Gustav laid out his vision with characteristic confidence. His business strategy was focused on business-to-business sales. A handful of reliable clients, he assured me, would guarantee a profit. He was convinced that his products could become industry standards, and with his projections, the current stockpile wouldn't last two months once the orders began pouring in.
At the time, I found his approach reckless—producing such vast quantities without secured buyers seemed to me an invitation to disaster. Yet, as I would later learn, Gustav always had a plan. In this case, it was a carefully crafted marketing strategy.
Gustav's strategy relied on an ingenious form of product placement. He gifted his supplies liberally—to the mayor, his business partners, his bankers, even the British government. He ensured that his ballpoint pens and staplers were in constant use, filing taxes and permits with his own staples as a subtle advertisement. It was only a matter of time, he believed, before someone of influence recognized the value of his products, and the rest would follow.