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The temporal proximity of these two unrelated events is remarkable. Recently I attended the burial of an old doctor in a cemetery on the outskirts of Berlin. Then he immersed himself in literature on the topic and increasingly came to recognise that his son, whom he loved more than anything, had been homosexual from birth. At his residence, he had no objection to the son taking in his friend, indeed the good parents transferred all their love to the young man, who came from the most humble background.
They exerted an obvious positive influence on each other; while each would have had difficulty getting ahead on his own, as a pair they managed splendidly, because the wisdom and kindness of the one found its complement in the energy and thrift of the other.
The largest gathering of homosexual women is an annual costume party arranged by a lady of Berlin. This party is not open to the public, rather it is usually restricted to those acquainted with the ladies of the committee.
One participant, Miss R. Here you see a stylish fraternity member arriving with impressive duelling scars, there a slim Rococo cavalier gallantly helping a lady alight from her coach. The large, brightly lit rooms become ever more crowded; here comes a fat Capuchin monk, accepting the salutations of respectful gypsies, pierrots, sailors, clowns, bakers, peasants, spruce officers, gentlemen and ladies in riding outfits, Boers, Japanese gentlemen and dainty geishas.
A dark-eyed Carmen sets a jockey aflame, a fiery Italian strikes up an intimate friendship with a snowman. The cheerful gaggle of those in the most colourful, dazzling costumes presents an unusually becoming tableau. Then the tables are cleared away. From the adjoining halls comes the sound of bright laughter, the clinking of glasses and blithe song, but nowhere — no matter where you look — are the bounds of an elegant costume party transgressed.