Elizabeth and Her German Garden

[Illustration]

ELIZABETH AND HER GERMAN GARDEN

By Elizabeth Von Arnim

INTRODUCTION TO THE EDITION

Originally published in 1898, “Elizabeth and her German Garden” is the

first book by Marie Annette Beauchamp—known all her life as

“Elizabeth”. The book, anonymously published, was an incredible

success, going through printing after printing by several publishers

over the next few years. (I myself own three separate early editions of

this book by different publishers on both sides of the Atlantic.) The

present Gutenberg edition was scanned from the illustrated deluxe

MacMillan (London) edition of 1900.

Elizabeth was a cousin of the better-known writer Katherine Mansfield

(whose real name was Kathleen Mansfield Beauchamp). Born in Australia,

Elizabeth was educated in England. She was reputed to be a fine

organist and musician. At a young age, she captured the heart of a

German Count, was persuaded to marry him, and went to live in Germany.

Over the next years she bore five daughters. After her husband’s death

and the decline of the estate, she returned to England. She was a

friend to many of high social standing, including people such as H. G.

Wells (who considered her one of the finest wits of the day). Some time

later she married the brother of Bertrand Russell; which marriage was a

failure and ended in divorce. Eventually Elizabeth fled to America at

the outbreak of the Second World War, and there died in 1941.

Elizabeth is best known to modern readers by the name “Elizabeth von

Arnim”, author of “The Enchanted April” which was recently made into a

successful film by the same title. Another of her books, “Mr.

Skeffington” was also once made into a film starring Bette Davis, circa

1940.

Some of Elizabeth’s work is published in modern editions by Virago and

other publishers. Among these are: “Love”, “The Enchanted April”,

“Caravaners”, “Christopher and Columbus”, “The Pastor’s Wife”, “Mr.

Skeffington”, “The Solitary Summer”, and “Elizabeth’s Adventures in

Rugen”. Also published by Virago is her non-autobiography “All the Dogs

of My Life”—as the title suggests, it is the story not of her life, but

of the lives of the many dogs she owned; though of course it does touch

upon her own experiences.

In the centennial year of this book’s first publication, I hope that

its availability through will stir some renewed

interest in Elizabeth and her delightful work. She is, I would venture,

my favorite author; and I hope that soon she will be one of your

favorites.

R. McGowan San Jose, April 11 1998.

ELIZABETH AND HER GERMAN GARDEN

_May_ 7_th_.—I love my garden. I am writing in it now in the late

afternoon loveliness, much interrupted by the mosquitoes and the

temptation to look at all the glories of the new green leaves washed

half an hour ago in a cold shower. Two owls are perched near me, and are

carrying on a long conversation that I enjoy as much as any warbling of

nightingales. The gentleman owl says [Music], and she answers from her

tree a little way off, [Music], beautifully assenting to and completing

her lord’s remark, as becomes a properly constructed German she-owl.

They say the same thing over and over again so emphatically that I think

it must be something nasty about me; but I shall not let myself be

frightened away by the sarcasm of owls.

This is less a garden than a wilderness. No one has lived in the house,

much less in the garden, for twenty-five years, and it is such a pretty

old place that the people who might have lived here and did not,

deliberately preferring the horrors of a flat in a town, must have

belonged to that vast number of eyeless and earless persons of whom the

world seems chiefly composed. Noseless too, though it does not sound

pretty; but the greater part of my spring happiness is due to the scent

of the wet earth and young leaves.

I am always happy (out of doors be it understood, for indoors there are

servants and furniture) but in quite different ways, and my spring

happiness bears no resemblance to my summer or autumn happiness, though

it is not more intense, and there were days last winter when I danced

for sheer joy out in my frost-bound garden, in spite of my years and

children. But I did it behind a bush, having a due regard for the

decencies.

There are so many bird-cherries round me, great trees with branches

sweeping the grass, and they are so wreathed just now with white

blossoms and tenderest green that the garden looks like a wedding. I

never saw such masses of them; they seemed to fill the place. Even

across a little stream that bounds the garden on the east, and right in

the middle of the cornfield beyond, there is an immense one, a picture

of grace and glory against the cold blue of the spring sky.

My garden is surrounded by cornfields and meadows, and beyond are great

stretches of sandy heath and pine forests, and where the forests leave

off the bare heath begins again; but the forests are beautiful in their

lofty, pink-stemmed vastness, far overhead the crowns of softest

gray-green, and underfoot a bright green wortleberry carpet, and

everywhere the breathless silence; and the bare heaths are beautiful

too, for one can see across them into eternity almost, and to go out on

to them with one’s face towards the setting sun is like going into the

very presence of God.

In the middle of this plain is the oasis of bird-cherries and greenery

where I spend my happy days, and in the middle of the oasis is the gray

stone house with many gables where I pass my reluctant nights. The

house is very old, and has been added to at various times. It was a

convent before the Thirty Years’ War, and the vaulted chapel, with its

brick floor worn by pious peasant knees, is now used as a hall.

Gustavus Adolphus and his Swedes passed through more than once, as is

duly recorded in archives still preserved, for we are on what was then

the high-road between Sweden and Brandenburg the unfortunate. The Lion

of the North was no doubt an estimable person and acted wholly up to

his convictions, but he must have sadly upset the peaceful nuns, who

were not without convictions of their own, sending them out on to the

wide, empty plain to piteously seek some life to replace the life of

silence here.

From nearly all the windows of the house I can look out across the

plain, with no obstacle in the shape of a hill, right away to a blue

line of distant forest, and on the west side uninterruptedly to the

setting sun—nothing but a green, rolling plain, with a sharp edge

against the sunset. I love those west windows better than any others,

and have chosen my bedroom on that side of the house so that even times

of hair-brushing may not be entirely lost, and the young woman who

attends to such matters has been taught to fulfil her duties about a

mistress recumbent in an easy-chair before an open window, and not to

profane with chatter that sweet and solemn time. This girl is grieved

at my habit of living almost in the garden, and all her ideas as to the

sort of life a respectable German lady should lead have got into a sad

muddle since she came to me. The people round about are persuaded that

I am, to put it as kindly as possible, exceedingly eccentric, for the

news has travelled that I spend the day out of doors with a book, and

that no mortal eye has ever yet seen me sew or cook. But why cook when

you can get some one to cook for you? And as for sewing, the maids will

hem the sheets better and quicker than I could, and all forms of

needlework of the fancy order are inventions of the evil one for

keeping the foolish from applying their heart to wisdom.

We had been married five years before it struck us that we might as

well make use of this place by coming down and living in it. Those five

years were spent in a flat in a town, and during their whole

interminable length I was perfectly miserable and perfectly healthy,

which disposes of the ugly notion that has at times disturbed me that

my happiness here is less due to the garden than to a good digestion.

And while we were wasting our lives there, here was this dear place

with dandelions up to the very door, all the paths grass-grown and

completely effaced, in winter so lonely, with nobody but the north wind

taking the least notice of it, and in May—in all those five lovely

Mays—no one to look at the wonderful bird-cherries and still more

wonderful masses of lilacs, everything glowing and blowing, the

virginia creeper madder every year, until at last, in October, the very

roof was wreathed with blood-red tresses, the owls and the squirrels

and all the blessed little birds reigning supreme, and not a living

creature ever entering the empty house except the snakes, which got

into the habit during those silent years of wriggling up the south wall

into the rooms on that side whenever the old housekeeper opened the

windows. All that was here,—peace, and happiness, and a reasonable

life,—and yet it never struck me to come and live in it. Looking back I

am astonished, and can in no way account for the tardiness of my

discovery that here, in this far-away corner, was my kingdom of heaven.

Indeed, so little did it enter my head to even use the place in summer,

that I submitted to weeks of seaside life with all its horrors every

year; until at last, in the early spring of last year, having come down

for the opening of the village school, and wandering out afterwards

into the bare and desolate garden, I don’t know what smell of wet earth

or rotting leaves brought back my childhood with a rush and all the

happy days I had spent in a garden. Shall I ever forget that day? It

was the beginning of my real life, my coming of age as it were, and

entering into my kingdom. Early March, gray, quiet skies, and brown,

quiet earth; leafless and sad and lonely enough out there in the damp

and silence, yet there I stood feeling the same rapture of pure delight

in the first breath of spring that I used to as a child, and the five

wasted years fell from me like a cloak, and the world was full of hope,

and I vowed myself then and there to nature, and have been happy ever

since.

My other half being indulgent, and with some faint thought perhaps that

it might be as well to look after the place, consented to live in it at

any rate for a time; whereupon followed six specially blissful weeks

from the end of April into June, during which I was here alone,

supposed to be superintending the painting and papering, but as a

matter of fact only going into the house when the workmen had gone out

of it.

How happy I was! I don’t remember any time quite so perfect since the

days when I was too little to do lessons and was turned out with sugar

on my eleven o’clock bread and butter on to a lawn closely strewn with

dandelions and daisies. The sugar on the bread and butter has lost its

charm, but I love the dandelions and daisies even more passionately now

than then, and never would endure to see them all mown away if I were

not certain that in a day or two they would be pushing up their little

faces again as jauntily as ever. During those six weeks I lived in a

world of dandelions and delights. The dandelions carpeted the three

lawns,—they used to be lawns, but have long since blossomed out into

meadows filled with every sort of pretty weed,—and under and among the

groups of leafless oaks and beeches were blue hepaticas, white

anemones, violets, and celandines in sheets. The celandines in

particular delighted me with their clean, happy brightness, so

beautifully trim and newly varnished, as though they too had had the

painters at work on them. Then, when the anemones went, came a few

stray periwinkles and Solomon’s Seal, and all the bird-cherries

blossomed in a burst. And then, before I had a little got used to the

joy of their flowers against the sky, came the lilacs—masses and masses

of them, in clumps on the grass, with other shrubs and trees by the

side of walks, and one great continuous bank of them half a mile long

right past the west front of the house, away down as far as one could

see, shining glorious against a background of firs. When that time

came, and when, before it was over, the acacias all blossomed too, and

four great clumps of pale, silvery-pink peonies flowered under the

south windows, I felt so absolutely happy, and blest, and thankful, and

grateful, that I really cannot describe it. My days seemed to melt away

in a dream of pink and purple peace.

There were only the old housekeeper and her handmaiden in the house, so

that on the plea of not giving too much trouble I could indulge what my

other half calls my _fantaisie déréglée_ as regards meals—that is to

say, meals so simple that they could be brought out to the lilacs on a

tray; and I lived, I remember, on salad and bread and tea the whole

time, sometimes a very tiny pigeon appearing at lunch to save me, as

the old lady thought, from starvation. Who but a woman could have stood

salad for six weeks, even salad sanctified by the presence and scent of

the most gorgeous lilac masses? I did, and grew in grace every day,

though I have never liked it since. How often now, oppressed by the

necessity of assisting at three dining-room meals daily, two of which

are conducted by the functionaries held indispensable to a proper

maintenance of the family dignity, and all of which are pervaded by

joints of meat, how often do I think of my salad days, forty in number,

and of the blessedness of being alone as I was then alone!

And then the evenings, when the workmen had all gone and the house was

left to emptiness and echoes, and the old housekeeper had gathered up

her rheumatic limbs into her bed, and my little room in quite another

part of the house had been set ready, how reluctantly I used to leave

the friendly frogs and owls, and with my heart somewhere down in my

shoes lock the door to the garden behind me, and pass through the long

series of echoing south rooms full of shadows and ladders and ghostly

pails of painters’ mess, and humming a tune to make myself believe I

liked it, go rather slowly across the brick-floored hall, up the

creaking stairs, down the long whitewashed passage, and with a final

rush of panic whisk into my room and double lock and bolt the door!

There were no bells in the house, and I used to take a great

dinner-bell to bed with me so that at least I might be able to make a

noise if frightened in the night, though what good it would have been I

don’t know, as there was no one to hear. The housemaid slept in another

little cell opening out of mine, and we two were the only living

creatures in the great empty west wing. She evidently did not believe

in ghosts, for I could hear how she fell asleep immediately after

getting into bed; nor do I believe in them, “_mais je les redoute_,” as

a French lady said, who from her books appears to have been

strongminded.

The dinner-bell was a great solace; it was never rung, but it comforted

me to see it on the chair beside my bed, as my nights were anything but

placid, it was all so strange, and there were such queer creakings and

other noises. I used to lie awake for hours, startled out of a light

sleep by the cracking of some board, and listen to the indifferent

snores of the girl in the next room. In the morning, of course, I was

as brave as a lion and much amused at the cold perspirations of the

night before; but even the nights seem to me now to have been

delightful, and myself like those historic boys who heard a voice in

every wind and snatched a fearful joy. I would gladly shiver through

them all over again for the sake of the beautiful purity of the house,

empty of servants and upholstery.

How pretty the bedrooms looked with nothing in them but their cheerful

new papers! Sometimes I would go into those that were finished and

build all sorts of castles in the air about their future and their

past. Would the nuns who had lived in them know their little

white-washed cells again, all gay with delicate flower papers and clean

white paint? And how astonished they would be to see cell No. 14 turned

into a bathroom, with a bath big enough to insure a cleanliness of body

equal to their purity of soul! They would look upon it as a snare of

the tempter; and I know that in my own case I only began to be shocked

at the blackness of my nails the day that I began to lose the first

whiteness of my soul by falling in love at fifteen with the parish

organist, or rather with the glimpse of surplice and Roman nose and

fiery moustache which was all I ever saw of him, and which I loved to

distraction for at least six months; at the end of which time, going

out with my governess one day, I passed him in the street, and

discovered that his unofficial garb was a frock-coat combined with a

turn-down collar and a “bowler” hat, and never loved him any more.

The first part of that time of blessedness was the most perfect, for I

had not a thought of anything but the peace and beauty all round me.

Then he appeared suddenly who has a right to appear when and how he

will and rebuked me for never having written, and when I told him that

I had been literally too happy to think of writing, he seemed to take

it as a reflection on himself that I could be happy alone. I took him

round the garden along the new paths I had had made, and showed him the

acacia and lilac glories, and he said that it was the purest

selfishness to enjoy myself when neither he nor the offspring were with

me, and that the lilacs wanted thoroughly pruning. I tried to appease

him by offering him the whole of my salad and toast supper which stood

ready at the foot of the little verandah steps when we came back, but

nothing appeased that Man of Wrath, and he said he would go straight

back to the neglected family. So he went; and the remainder of the

precious time was disturbed by twinges of conscience (to which I am

much subject) whenever I found myself wanting to jump for joy. I went

to look at the painters every time my feet were for taking me to look

at the garden; I trotted diligently up and down the passages; I

criticised and suggested and commanded more in one day than I had done

in all the rest of the time; I wrote regularly and sent my love; but I

could not manage to fret and yearn. What are you to do if your

conscience is clear and your liver in order and the sun is shining?

_May_ 10_th_.—I knew nothing whatever last year about gardening and

this year know very little more, but I have dawnings of what may be

done, and have at least made one great stride—from ipomæa to tea-roses.

The garden was an absolute wilderness. It is all round the house, but

the principal part is on the south side and has evidently always been

so. The south front is one-storied, a long series of rooms opening one

into the other, and the walls are covered with virginia creeper. There

is a little verandah in the middle, leading by a flight of rickety

wooden steps down into what seems to have been the only spot in the

whole place that was ever cared for. This is a semicircle cut into the

lawn and edged with privet, and in this semicircle are eleven beds of

different sizes bordered with box and arranged round a sun-dial, and

the sun-dial is very venerable and moss-grown, and greatly beloved by

me. These beds were the only sign of any attempt at gardening to be

seen (except a solitary crocus that came up all by itself each spring

in the grass, not because it wanted to, but because it could not help

it), and these I had sown with ipomæa, the whole eleven, having found a

German gardening book, according to which ipomæa in vast quantities was

the one thing needful to turn the most hideous desert into a paradise.

Nothing else in that book was recommended with anything like the same

warmth, and being entirely ignorant of the quantity of seed necessary,

I bought ten pounds of it and had it sown not only in the eleven beds

but round nearly every tree, and then waited in great agitation for the

promised paradise to appear. It did not, and I learned my first lesson.

Luckily I had sown two great patches of sweet-peas which made me very

happy all the summer, and then there were some sunflowers and a few

hollyhocks under the south windows, with Madonna lilies in between. But

the lilies, after being transplanted, disappeared to my great dismay,

for how was I to know it was the way of lilies? And the hollyhocks

turned out to be rather ugly colours, so that my first summer was

decorated and beautified solely by sweet-peas. At present we are only

just beginning to breathe after the bustle of getting new beds and

borders and paths made in time for this summer. The eleven beds round

the sun-dial are filled with roses, but I see already that I have made

mistakes with some. As I have not a living soul with whom to hold

communion on this or indeed on any matter, my only way of learning is

by making mistakes. All eleven were to have been carpeted with purple

pansies, but finding that I had not enough and that nobody had any to

sell me, only six have got their pansies, the others being sown with

dwarf mignonette. Two of the eleven are filled with Marie van Houtte

roses, two with Viscountess Folkestone, two with Laurette Messimy, one

with Souvenir de la Malmaison, one with Adam and Devoniensis, two with

Persian Yellow and Bicolor, and one big bed behind the sun-dial with

three sorts of red roses (seventy-two in all), Duke of Teck, Cheshunt

Scarlet, and Prefet de Limburg. This bed is, I am sure, a mistake, and

several of the others are, I think, but of course I must wait and see,

being such an ignorant person. Then I have had two long beds made in

the grass on either side of the semicircle, each sown with mignonette,

and one filled with Marie van Houtte, and the other with Jules Finger

and the Bride; and in a warm corner under the drawing-room windows is a

bed of Madame Lambard, Madame de Watteville, and Comtesse Riza du Parc;

while farther down the garden, sheltered on the north and west by a

group of beeches and lilacs, is another large bed, containing Rubens,

Madame Joseph Schwartz, and the Hon. Edith Gifford. All these roses are

dwarf; I have only two standards in the whole garden, two Madame George

Bruants, and they look like broomsticks. How I long for the day when

the tea-roses open their buds! Never did I look forward so intensely to

anything; and every day I go the rounds, admiring what the dear little

things have achieved in the twenty-four hours in the way of new leaf or

increase of lovely red shoot.

The hollyhocks and lilies (now flourishing) are still under the south

windows in a narrow border on the top of a grass slope, at the foot of

which I have sown two long borders of sweet-peas facing the rose beds,

so that my roses may have something almost as sweet as themselves to

look at until the autumn, when everything is to make place for more

tea-roses. The path leading away from this semicircle down the garden

is bordered with China roses, white and pink, with here and there a

Persian Yellow. I wish now I had put tea-roses there, and I have

misgivings as to the effect of the Persian Yellows among the Chinas,

for the Chinas are such wee little baby things, and the Persian Yellows

look as though they intended to be big bushes.

There is not a creature in all this part of the world who could in the

least understand with what heart-beatings I am looking forward to the

flowering of these roses, and not a German gardening book that does not

relegate all tea-roses to hot-houses, imprisoning them for life, and

depriving them for ever of the breath of God. It was no doubt because I

was so ignorant that I rushed in where Teutonic angels fear to tread

and made my tea-roses face a northern winter; but they did face it

under fir branches and leaves, and not one has suffered, and they are

looking to-day as happy and as determined to enjoy themselves as any

roses, I am sure, in Europe.

_May_ 14_th_.—To-day I am writing on the verandah with the three

babies, more persistent than mosquitoes, raging round me, and already

several of the thirty fingers have been in the ink-pot and the owners

consoled when duty pointed to rebukes. But who can rebuke such penitent

and drooping sunbonnets? I can see nothing but sunbonnets and pinafores

and nimble black legs.

These three, their patient nurse, myself, the gardener, and the

gardener’s assistant, are the only people who ever go into my garden,

but then neither are we ever out of it. The gardener has been here a

year and has given me notice regularly on the first of every month, but

up to now has been induced to stay on. On the first of this month he

came as usual, and with determination written on every feature told me

he intended to go in June, and that nothing should alter his decision.

I don’t think he knows much about gardening, but he can at least dig

and water, and some of the things he sows come up, and some of the

plants he plants grow, besides which he is the most unflaggingly

industrious person I ever saw, and has the great merit of never

appearing to take the faintest interest in what we do in the garden. So

I have tried to keep him on, not knowing what the next one may be like,

and when I asked him what he had to complain of and he replied

“Nothing,” I could only conclude that he has a personal objection to me

because of my eccentric preference for plants in groups rather than

plants in lines. Perhaps, too, he does not like the extracts from

gardening books I read to him sometimes when he is planting or sowing

something new. Being so helpless myself, I thought it simpler, instead

of explaining, to take the book itself out to him and let him have

wisdom at its very source, administering it in doses while he worked. I

quite recognise that this must be annoying, and only my anxiety not to

lose a whole year through some stupid mistake has given me the courage

to do it. I laugh sometimes behind the book at his disgusted face, and

wish we could be photographed, so that I may be reminded in twenty

years’ time, when the garden is a bower of loveliness and I learned in

all its ways, of my first happy struggles and failures.

All through April he was putting the perennials we had sown in the

autumn into their permanent places, and all through April he went about

with a long piece of string making parallel lines down the borders of

beautiful exactitude and arranging the poor plants like soldiers at a

review. Two long borders were done during my absence one day, and when

I explained that I should like the third to have plants in groups and

not in lines, and that what I wanted was a natural effect with no bare

spaces of earth to be seen, he looked even more gloomily hopeless than

usual; and on my going out later on to see the result, I found he had

planted two long borders down the sides of a straight walk with little

lines of five plants in a row—first five pinks, and next to them five

rockets, and behind the rockets five pinks, and behind the pinks five

rockets, and so on with different plants of every sort and size down to

the end. When I protested, he said he had only carried out my orders

and had known it would not look well; so I gave in, and the remaining

borders were done after the pattern of the first two, and I will have

patience and see how they look this summer, before digging them up

again; for it becomes beginners to be humble.

If I could only dig and plant myself! How much easier, besides being so

fascinating, to make your own holes exactly where you want them and put

in your plants exactly as you choose instead of giving orders that can

only be half understood from the moment you depart from the lines laid

down by that long piece of string! In the first ecstasy of having a

garden all my own, and in my burning impatience to make the waste

places blossom like a rose, I did one warm Sunday in last year’s April

during the servants’ dinner hour, doubly secure from the gardener by

the day and the dinner, slink out with a spade and a rake and

feverishly dig a little piece of ground and break it up and sow

surreptitious ipomæa, and run back very hot and guilty into the house,

and get into a chair and behind a book and look languid just in time to

save my reputation. And why not? It is not graceful, and it makes one

hot; but it is a blessed sort of work, and if Eve had had a spade in

Paradise and known what to do with it, we should not have had all that

sad business of the apple.

What a happy woman I am living in a garden, with books, babies, birds,

and flowers, and plenty of leisure to enjoy them! Yet my town

acquaintances look upon it as imprisonment, and burying, and I don’t

know what besides, and would rend the air with their shrieks if

condemned to such a life. Sometimes I feel as if I were blest above all

my fellows in being able to find my happiness so easily. I believe I

should always be good if the sun always shone, and could enjoy myself

very well in Siberia on a fine day. And what can life in town offer in

the way of pleasure to equal the delight of any one of the calm

evenings I have had this month sitting alone at the foot of the

verandah steps, with the perfume of young larches all about, and the

May moon hanging low over the beeches, and the beautiful silence made

only more profound in its peace by the croaking of distant frogs and

hooting of owls? A cockchafer darting by close to my ear with a loud

hum sends a shiver through me, partly of pleasure at the reminder of

past summers, and partly of fear lest he should get caught in my hair.

The Man of Wrath says they are pernicious creatures and should be

killed. I would rather get the killing done at the end of the summer

and not crush them out of such a pretty world at the very beginning of

all the fun.

This has been quite an eventful afternoon. My eldest baby, born in

April, is five years old, and the youngest, born in June, is three; so

that the discerning will at once be able to guess the age of the

remaining middle or May baby. While I was stooping over a group of

hollyhocks planted on the top of the only thing in the shape of a hill

the garden possesses, the April baby, who had been sitting pensive on a

tree stump close by, got up suddenly and began to run aimlessly about,

shrieking and wringing her hands with every symptom of terror. I

stared, wondering what had come to her; and then I saw that a whole

army of young cows, pasturing in a field next to the garden, had got

through the hedge and were grazing perilously near my tea-roses and

most precious belongings. The nurse and I managed to chase them away,

but not before they had trampled down a border of pinks and lilies in

the cruellest way, and made great holes in a bed of China roses, and

even begun to nibble at a Jackmanni clematis that I am trying to

persuade to climb up a tree trunk. The gloomy gardener happened to be

ill in bed, and the assistant was at vespers—as Lutheran Germany calls

afternoon tea or its equivalent—so the nurse filled up the holes as

well as she could with mould, burying the crushed and mangled roses,

cheated for ever of their hopes of summer glory, and I stood by looking

on dejectedly. The June baby, who is two feet square and valiant beyond

her size and years, seized a stick much bigger than herself and went

after the cows, the cowherd being nowhere to be seen. She planted

herself in front of them brandishing her stick, and they stood in a row

and stared at her in great astonishment; and she kept them off until

one of the men from the farm arrived with a whip, and having found the

cowherd sleeping peacefully in the shade, gave him a sound beating. The

cowherd is a great hulking young man, much bigger than the man who beat

him, but he took his punishment as part of the day’s work and made no

remark of any sort. It could not have hurt him much through his leather

breeches, and I think he deserved it; but it must be demoralising work

for a strong young man with no brains looking after cows. Nobody with

less imagination than a poet ought to take it up as a profession.

After the June baby and I had been welcomed back by the other two with

as many hugs as though we had been restored to them from great perils,

and while we were peacefully drinking tea under a beech tree, I

happened to look up into its mazy green, and there, on a branch quite

close to my head, sat a little baby owl. I got on the seat and caught

it easily, for it could not fly, and how it had reached the branch at

all is a mystery. It is a little round ball of gray fluff, with the

quaintest, wisest, solemn face. Poor thing! I ought to have let it go,

but the temptation to keep it until the Man of Wrath, at present on a

journey, has seen it was not to be resisted, as he has often said how

much he would like to have a young owl and try and tame it. So I put it

into a roomy cage and slung it up on a branch near where it had been

sitting, and which cannot be far from its nest and its mother. We had

hardly subsided again to our tea when I saw two more balls of fluff on

the ground in the long grass and scarcely distinguishable at a little

distance from small mole-hills. These were promptly united to their

relation in the cage, and now when the Man of Wrath comes home, not

only shall he be welcomed by a wife decked with the orthodox smiles,

but by the three little longed-for owls. Only it seems wicked to take

them from their mother, and I know that I shall let them go again some

day—perhaps the very next time the Man of Wrath goes on a journey. I

put a small pot of water in the cage, though they never could have

tasted water yet unless they drink the raindrops off the beech leaves.

I suppose they get all the liquid they need from the bodies of the mice

and other dainties provided for them by their fond parents. But the

raindrop idea is prettier.

_May_ 15_th_.—How cruel it was of me to put those poor little owls into

a cage even for one night! I cannot forgive myself, and shall never

pander to the Man of Wrath’s wishes again. This morning I got up early

to see how they were getting on, and I found the door of the cage wide

open and no owls to be seen. I thought of course that somebody had

stolen them—some boy from the village, or perhaps the chastised

cowherd. But looking about I saw one perched high up in the branches of

the beech tree, and then to my dismay one lying dead on the ground. The

third was nowhere to be seen, and is probably safe in its nest. The

parents must have torn at the bars of the cage until by chance they got

the door open, and then dragged the little ones out and up into the

tree. The one that is dead must have been blown off the branch, as it

was a windy night and its neck is broken. There is one happy life less

in the garden to-day through my fault, and it is such a lovely, warm

day—just the sort of weather for young soft things to enjoy and grow

in. The babies are greatly distressed, and are digging a grave, and

preparing funeral wreaths of dandelions.

Just as I had written that I heard sounds of arrival, and running out I

breathlessly told the Man of Wrath how nearly I had been able to give

him the owls he has so often said he would like to have, and how sorry

I was they were gone, and how grievous the death of one, and so on

after the voluble manner of women.

He listened till I paused to breathe, and then he said, “I am surprised

at such cruelty. How could you make the mother owl suffer so? She had

never done you any harm.”

Which sent me out of the house and into the garden more convinced than

ever that he sang true who sang—

Two paradises ’twere in one to live in Paradise alone.

_May_ 16_th_.—The garden is the place I go to for refuge and shelter,

not the house. In the house are duties and annoyances, servants to

exhort and admonish, furniture, and meals; but out there blessings

crowd round me at every step—it is there that I am sorry for the

unkindness in me, for those selfish thoughts that are so much worse

than they feel; it is there that all my sins and silliness are

forgiven, there that I feel protected and at home, and every flower and

weed is a friend and every tree a lover. When I have been vexed I run

out to them for comfort, and when I have been angry without just cause,

it is there that I find absolution. Did ever a woman have so many

friends? And always the same, always ready to welcome me and fill me

with cheerful thoughts. Happy children of a common Father, why should

I, their own sister, be less content and joyous than they? Even in a

thunder storm, when other people are running into the house, I run out

of it. I do not like thunder storms—they frighten me for hours before

they come, because I always feel them on the way; but it is odd that I

should go for shelter to the garden. I feel better there, more taken

care of, more petted. When it thunders, the April baby says, “There’s

_lieber Gott_ scolding those angels again.” And once, when there was a

storm in the night, she complained loudly, and wanted to know why

_lieber Gott_ didn’t do the scolding in the daytime, as she had been so

_tight_ asleep. They all three speak a wonderful mixture of German and

English, adulterating the purity of their native tongue by putting in

English words in the middle of a German sentence. It always reminds me

of Justice tempered by Mercy.

We have been cowslipping to-day in a little wood dignified by the name

of the Hirschwald, because it is the happy hunting-ground of

innumerable deer who fight there in the autumn evenings, calling each

other out to combat with bayings that ring through the silence and send

agreeable shivers through the lonely listener. I often walk there in

September, late in the evening, and sitting on a fallen tree listen

fascinated to their angry cries.

We made cowslip balls sitting on the grass. The babies had never seen

such things nor had imagined anything half so sweet. The Hirschwald is

a little open wood of silver birches and springy turf starred with

flowers, and there is a tiny stream meandering amiably about it and

decking itself in June with yellow flags. I have dreams of having a

little cottage built there, with the daisies up to the door, and no

path of any sort—just big enough to hold myself and one baby inside and

a purple clematis outside. Two rooms—a bedroom and a kitchen. How

scared we would be at night, and how completely happy by day! I know

the exact spot where it should stand, facing south-east, so that we

should get all the cheerfulness of the morning, and close to the

stream, so that we might wash our plates among the flags. Sometimes,

when in the mood for society, we would invite the remaining babies to

tea and entertain them with wild strawberries on plates of

horse-chestnut leaves; but no one less innocent and easily pleased than

a baby would be permitted to darken the effulgence of our sunny

cottage—indeed, I don’t suppose that anybody wiser would care to come.

Wise people want so many things before they can even begin to enjoy

themselves, and I feel perpetually apologetic when with them, for only

being able to offer them that which I love best myself—apologetic, and

ashamed of being so easily contented.

The other day at a dinner party in the nearest town (it took us the

whole afternoon to get there) the women after dinner were curious to

know how I had endured the winter, cut off from everybody and snowed up

sometimes for weeks.

“Ah, these husbands!” sighed an ample lady, lugubriously shaking her

head; “they shut up their wives because it suits them, and don’t care

what their sufferings are.”

Then the others sighed and shook their heads too, for the ample lady

was a great local potentate, and one began to tell how another dreadful

husband had brought his young wife into the country and had kept her

there, concealing her beauty and accomplishments from the public in a

most cruel manner, and how, after spending a certain number of years in

alternately weeping and producing progeny, she had quite lately run

away with somebody unspeakable—I think it was the footman, or the

baker, or some one of that sort.

“But I am quite happy,” I began, as soon as I could put in a word.

“Ah, a good little wife, making the best of it,” and the female

potentate patted my hand, but continued gloomily to shake her head.

“You cannot possibly be happy in the winter entirely alone,” asserted

another lady, the wife of a high military authority and not accustomed

to be contradicted.

“But I am.”

“But how can you possibly be at your age? No, it is not possible.”

“But I _am_.”

“Your husband ought to bring you to town in the winter.”

“But I don’t want to be brought to town.”

“And not let you waste your best years buried.”

“But I like being buried.”

“Such solitude is not right.”

“But I’m not solitary.”

“And can come to no good.” She was getting quite angry.

There was a chorus of No Indeeds at her last remark, and renewed

shaking of heads.

“I enjoyed the winter immensely,” I persisted when they were a little

quieter; “I sleighed and skated, and then there were the children, and

shelves and shelves full of—” I was going to say books, but stopped.

Reading is an occupation for men; for women it is reprehensible waste

of time. And how could I talk to them of the happiness I felt when the

sun shone on the snow, or of the deep delight of hoar-frost days?

“It is entirely my doing that we have come down here,” I proceeded,

“and my husband only did it to please me.”

“Such a good little wife,” repeated the patronising potentate, again

patting my hand with an air of understanding all about it, “really an

excellent little wife. But you must not let your husband have his own

way too much, my dear, and take my advice and insist on his bringing

you to town next winter.” And then they fell to talking about their

cooks, having settled to their entire satisfaction that my fate was

probably lying in wait for me too, lurking perhaps at that very moment

behind the apparently harmless brass buttons of the man in the hall

with my cloak.

I laughed on the way home, and I laughed again for sheer satisfaction

when we reached the garden and drove between the quiet trees to the

pretty old house; and when I went into the library, with its four

windows open to the moonlight and the scent, and looked round at the

familiar bookshelves, and could hear no sounds but sounds of peace, and

knew that here I might read or dream or idle exactly as I chose with

never a creature to disturb me, how grateful I felt to the kindly Fate

that has brought me here and given me a heart to understand my own

blessedness, and rescued me from a life like that I had just seen—a

life spent with the odours of other people’s dinners in one’s nostrils,

and the noise of their wrangling servants in one’s ears, and parties

and tattle for all amusement.

But I must confess to having felt sometimes quite crushed when some

grand person, examining the details of my home through her eyeglass,

and coolly dissecting all that I so much prize from the convenient

distance of the open window, has finished up by expressing sympathy

with my loneliness, and on my protesting that I like it, has murmured,

“_sehr anspruchslos_.” Then indeed I have felt ashamed of the fewness

of my wants; but only for a moment, and only under the withering

influence of the eyeglass; for, after all, the owner’s spirit is the

same spirit as that which dwells in my servants—girls whose one idea of

happiness is to live in a town where there are others of their sort

with whom to drink beer and dance on Sunday afternoons. The passion for

being for ever with one’s fellows, and the fear of being left for a few

hours alone, is to me wholly incomprehensible. I can entertain myself

quite well for weeks together, hardly aware, except for the pervading

peace, that I have been alone at all. Not but what I like to have

people staying with me for a few days, or even for a few weeks, should

they be as _anspruchslos_ as I am myself, and content with simple joys;

only, any one who comes here and would be happy must have something in

him; if he be a mere blank creature, empty of head and heart, he will

very probably find it dull. I should like my house to be often full if

I could find people capable of enjoying themselves. They should be

welcomed and sped with equal heartiness; for truth compels me to

confess that, though it pleases me to see them come, it pleases me just

as much to see them go.

On some very specially divine days, like today, I have actually longed

for some one else to be here to enjoy the beauty with me. There has

been rain in the night, and the whole garden seems to be singing—not

the untiring birds only, but the vigorous plants, the happy grass and

trees, the lilac bushes—oh, those lilac bushes! They are all out

to-day, and the garden is drenched with the scent. I have brought in

armfuls, the picking is such a delight, and every pot and bowl and tub

in the house is filled with purple glory, and the servants think there

is going to be a party and are extra nimble, and I go from room to room

gazing at the sweetness, and the windows are all flung open so as to

join the scent within to the scent without; and the servants gradually

discover that there is no party, and wonder why the house should be

filled with flowers for one woman by herself, and I long more and more

for a kindred spirit—it seems so greedy to have so much loveliness to

oneself—but kindred spirits are so very, very rare; I might almost as

well cry for the moon. It is true that my garden is full of friends,

only they are—dumb.

_June_ 3_rd_.—This is such an out-of-the-way corner of the world that

it requires quite unusual energy to get here at all, and I am thus

delivered from casual callers; while, on the other hand, people I love,

or people who love me, which is much the same thing, are not likely to

be deterred from coming by the roundabout train journey and the long

drive at the end. Not the least of my many blessings is that we have

only one neighbour. If you have to have neighbours at all, it is at

least a mercy that there should be only one; for with people dropping

in at all hours and wanting to talk to you, how are you to get on with

your life, I should like to know, and read your books, and dream your

dreams to your satisfaction? Besides, there is always the certainty

that either you or the dropper-in will say something that would have

been better left unsaid, and I have a holy horror of gossip and

mischief-making. A woman’s tongue is a deadly weapon and the most

difficult thing in the world to keep in order, and things slip off it

with a facility nothing short of appalling at the very moment when it

ought to be most quiet. In such cases the only safe course is to talk

steadily about cooks and children, and to pray that the visit may not

be too prolonged, for if it is you are lost. Cooks I have found to be

the best of all subjects—the most phlegmatic flush into life at the

mere word, and the joys and sufferings connected with them are

experiences common to us all.

Luckily, our neighbour and his wife are both busy and charming, with a

whole troop of flaxen-haired little children to keep them occupied,

besides the business of their large estate. Our intercourse is arranged

on lines of the most beautiful simplicity. I call on her once a year,

and she returns the call a fortnight later; they ask us to dinner in

the summer, and we ask them to dinner in the winter. By strictly

keeping to this, we avoid all danger of that closer friendship which is

only another name for frequent quarrels. She is a pattern of what a

German country lady should be, and is not only a pretty woman but an

energetic and practical one, and the combination is, to say the least,

effective. She is up at daylight superintending the feeding of the

stock, the butter-making, the sending off of the milk for sale; a

thousand things get done while most people are fast asleep, and before

lazy folk are well at breakfast she is off in her pony-carriage to the

other farms on the place, to rate the “mamsells,” as the head women are

called, to poke into every corner, lift the lids off the saucepans,

count the new-laid eggs, and box, if necessary, any careless

dairymaid’s ears. We are allowed by law to administer “slight corporal

punishment” to our servants, it being left entirely to individual taste

to decide what “slight” shall be, and my neighbour really seems to

enjoy using this privilege, judging from the way she talks about it. I

would give much to be able to peep through a keyhole and see the

dauntless little lady, terrible in her wrath and dignity, standing on

tiptoe to box the ears of some great strapping girl big enough to eat

her.

The making of cheese and butter and sausages _excellently_ well is a

work which requires brains, and is, to my thinking, a very admirable

form of activity, and entirely worthy of the attention of the

intelligent. That my neighbour is intelligent is at once made evident

by the bright alertness of her eyes—eyes that nothing escapes, and that

only gain in prettiness by being used to some good purpose. She is a

recognised authority for miles around on the mysteries of

sausage-making, the care of calves, and the slaughtering of swine; and

with all her manifold duties and daily prolonged absences from home,

her children are patterns of health and neatness, and of what dear

little German children, with white pigtails and fearless eyes and thick

legs, should be. Who shall say that such a life is sordid and dull and

unworthy of a high order of intelligence? I protest that to me it is a

beautiful life, full of wholesome outdoor work, and with no room for

those listless moments of depression and boredom, and of wondering what

you will do next, that leave wrinkles round a pretty woman’s eyes, and

are not unknown even to the most brilliant. But while admiring my

neighbour, I don’t think I shall ever try to follow in her steps, my

talents not being of the energetic and organising variety, but rather

of that order which makes their owner almost lamentably prone to take

up a volume of poetry and wander out to where the kingcups grow, and,

sitting on a willow trunk beside a little stream, forget the very

existence of everything but green pastures and still waters, and the

glad blowing of the wind across the joyous fields. And it would make me

perfectly wretched to be confronted by ears so refractory as to require

boxing.

Sometimes callers from a distance invade my solitude, and it is on

these occasions that I realise how absolutely alone each individual is,

and how far away from his neighbour; and while they talk (generally

about babies, past, present, and to come), I fall to wondering at the

vast and impassable distance that separates one’s own soul from the

soul of the person sitting in the next chair. I am speaking of

comparative strangers, people who are forced to stay a certain time by

the eccentricities of trains, and in whose presence you grope about

after common interests and shrink back into your shell on finding that

you have none. Then a frost slowly settles down on me and I grow each

minute more benumbed and speechless, and the babies feel the frost in

the air and look vacant, and the callers go through the usual form of

wondering who they most take after, generally settling the question by

saying that the May baby, who is the beauty, is like her father, and

that the two more or less plain ones are the image of me, and this

decision, though I know it of old and am sure it is coming, never fails

to depress me as much as though I heard it for the first time. The

babies are very little and inoffensive and good, and it is hard that

they should be used as a means of filling up gaps in conversation, and

their features pulled to pieces one by one, and all their weak points

noted and criticised, while they stand smiling shyly in the operator’s

face, their very smile drawing forth comments on the shape of their

mouths; but, after all, it does not occur very often, and they are one

of those few interests one has in common with other people, as

everybody seems to have babies. A garden, I have discovered, is by no

means a fruitful topic, and it is amazing how few persons really love

theirs—they all pretend they do, but you can hear by the very tone of

their voice what a lukewarm affection it is. About June their interest

is at its warmest, nourished by agreeable supplies of strawberries and

roses; but on reflection I don’t know a single person within twenty

miles who really cares for his garden, or has discovered the treasures

of happiness that are buried in it, and are to be found if sought for

diligently, and if needs be with tears. It is after these rare calls

that I experience the only moments of depression from which I ever

suffer, and then I am angry at myself, a well-nourished person, for

allowing even a single precious hour of life to be spoilt by anything

so indifferent. That is the worst of being fed enough, and clothed

enough, and warmed enough, and of having everything you can reasonably

desire—on the least provocation you are made uncomfortable and unhappy

by such abstract discomforts as being shut out from a nearer approach

to your neighbour’s soul; which is on the face of it foolish, the

probability being that he hasn’t got one.

The rockets are all out. The gardener, in a fit of inspiration, put

them right along the very front of two borders, and I don’t know what

his feelings can be now that they are all flowering and the plants

behind are completely hidden; but I have learned another lesson, and no

future gardener shall be allowed to run riot among my rockets in quite

so reckless a fashion. They are charming things, as delicate in colour

as in scent, and a bowl of them on my writing-table fills the room with

fragrance. Single rows, however, are a mistake; I had masses of them

planted in the grass, and these show how lovely they can be. A border

full of rockets, mauve and white, and nothing else, must be beautiful;

but I don’t know how long they last nor what they look like when they

have done flowering. This I shall find out in a week or two, I suppose.

Was ever a would-be gardener left so entirely to his own blundering? No

doubt it would be a gain of years to the garden if I were not forced to

learn solely by my failures, and if I had some kind creature to tell me

when to do things. At present the only flowers in the garden are the

rockets, the pansies in the rose beds, and two groups of azaleas—mollis

and pontica. The azaleas have been and still are gorgeous; I only

planted them this spring and they almost at once began to flower, and

the sheltered corner they are in looks as though it were filled with

imprisoned and perpetual sunsets. Orange, lemon, pink in every delicate

shade—what they will be next year and in succeeding years when the

bushes are bigger, I can imagine from the way they have begun life. On

gray, dull days the effect is absolutely startling. Next autumn I shall

make a great bank of them in front of a belt of fir trees in rather a

gloomy nook. My tea-roses are covered with buds which will not open for

at least another week, so I conclude this is not the sort of climate

where they will flower from the very beginning of June to November, as

they are said to do.

_July_ 11_th_.—There has been no rain since the day before Whitsunday,

five weeks ago, which partly, but not entirely, accounts for the

disappointment my beds have been. The dejected gardener went mad soon

after Whitsuntide, and had to be sent to an asylum. He took to going

about with a spade in one hand and a revolver in the other, explaining

that he felt safer that way, and we bore it quite patiently, as becomes

civilised beings who respect each other’s prejudices, until one day,

when I mildly asked him to tie up a fallen creeper—and after he bought

the revolver my tones in addressing him were of the mildest, and I

quite left off reading to him aloud—he turned round, looked me straight

in the face for the first time since he has been here, and said, “Do I

look like Graf X———— (a great local celebrity), or like a monkey?”

After which there was nothing for it but to get him into an asylum as

expeditiously as possible. There was no gardener to be had in his

place, and I have only just succeeded in getting one; so that what with

the drought, and the neglect, and the gardener’s madness, and my

blunders, the garden is in a sad condition; but even in a sad condition

it is the dearest place in the world, and all my mistakes only make me

more determined to persevere.

The long borders, where the rockets were, are looking dreadful. The

rockets have done flowering, and, after the manner of rockets in other

walks of life, have degenerated into sticks; and nothing else in those

borders intends to bloom this summer. The giant poppies I had planted

out in them in April have either died off or remained quite small, and

so have the columbines; here and there a delphinium droops unwillingly,

and that is all. I suppose poppies cannot stand being moved, or perhaps

they were not watered enough at the time of transplanting; anyhow,

those borders are going to be sown to-morrow with more poppies for next

year; for poppies I will have, whether they like it or not, and they

shall not be touched, only thinned out.

Well, it is no use being grieved, and after all, directly I come out

and sit under the trees, and look at the dappled sky, and see the

sunshine on the cornfields away on the plain, all the disappointment

smooths itself out, and it seems impossible to be sad and discontented

when everything about me is so radiant and kind.

To-day is Sunday, and the garden is so quiet, that, sitting here in

this shady corner watching the lazy shadows stretching themselves

across the grass, and listening to the rooks quarrelling in the

treetops, I almost expect to hear English church bells ringing for the

afternoon service. But the church is three miles off, has no bells, and

no afternoon service. Once a fortnight we go to morning prayer at

eleven and sit up in a sort of private box with a room behind, whither

we can retire unobserved when the sermon is too long or our flesh too

weak, and hear ourselves being prayed for by the black-robed parson. In

winter the church is bitterly cold; it is not heated, and we sit

muffled up in more furs than ever we wear out of doors; but it would of

course be very wicked for the parson to wear furs, however cold he may

be, so he puts on a great many extra coats under his gown, and, as the

winter progresses, swells to a prodigious size. We know when spring is

coming by the reduction in his figure. The congregation sit at ease

while the parson does the praying for them, and while they are droning

the long-drawn-out chorales, he retires into a little wooden box just

big enough to hold him. He does not come out until he thinks we have

sung enough, nor do we stop until his appearance gives us the signal. I

have often thought how dreadful it would be if he fell ill in his box

and left us to go on singing. I am sure we should never dare to stop,

unauthorised by the Church. I asked him once what he did in there; he

looked very shocked at such a profane question, and made an evasive

reply.

If it were not for the garden, a German Sunday would be a terrible day;

but in the garden on that day there is a sigh of relief and more

profound peace, nobody raking or sweeping or fidgeting; only the little

flowers themselves and the whispering trees.

I have been much afflicted again lately by visitors—not stray callers

to be got rid of after a due administration of tea and things you are

sorry afterwards that you said, but people staying in the house and not

to be got rid of at all. All June was lost to me in this way, and it

was from first to last a radiant month of heat and beauty; but a garden

where you meet the people you saw at breakfast, and will see again at

lunch and dinner, is not a place to be happy in. Besides, they had a

knack of finding out my favourite seats and lounging in them just when

I longed to lounge myself; and they took books out of the library with

them, and left them face downwards on the seats all night to get well

drenched with dew, though they might have known that what is meat for

roses is poison for books; and they gave me to understand that if they

had had the arranging of the garden it would have been finished long

ago—whereas I don’t believe a garden ever is finished. They have all

gone now, thank heaven, except one, so that I have a little breathing

space before others begin to arrive. It seems that the place interests

people, and that there is a sort of novelty in staying in such a

deserted corner of the world, for they were in a perpetual state of

mild amusement at being here at all.

Irais is the only one left. She is a young woman with a beautiful,

refined face, and her eyes and straight, fine eyebrows are particularly

lovable. At meals she dips her bread into the salt-cellar, bites a bit

off, and repeats the process, although providence (taking my shape) has

caused salt-spoons to be placed at convenient intervals down the table.

She lunched to-day on beer, _Schweinekoteletten_, and cabbage-salad

with caraway seeds in it, and now I hear her through the open window,

extemporising touching melodies in her charming, cooing voice. She is

thin, frail, intelligent, and lovable, all on the above diet. What

better proof can be needed to establish the superiority of the Teuton

than the fact that after such meals he can produce such music? Cabbage

salad is a horrid invention, but I don’t doubt its utility as a means

of encouraging thoughtfulness; nor will I quarrel with it, since it

results so poetically, any more than I quarrel with the manure that

results in roses, and I give it to Irais every day to make her sing.

She is the sweetest singer I have ever heard, and has a charming trick

of making up songs as she goes along. When she begins, I go and lean

out of the window and look at my little friends out there in the

borders while listening to her music, and feel full of pleasant sadness

and regret. It is so sweet to be sad when one has nothing to be sad

about.

The April baby came panting up just as I had written that, the others

hurrying along behind, and with flaming cheeks displayed for my

admiration three brand-new kittens, lean and blind, that she was

carrying in her pinafore, and that had just been found motherless in

the woodshed.

“Look,” she cried breathlessly, “such a much!”

I was glad it was only kittens this time, for she had been once before

this afternoon on purpose, as she informed me, sitting herself down on

the grass at my feet, to ask about the _lieber Gott_, it being Sunday

and her pious little nurse’s conversation having run, as it seems, on

heaven and angels.

Her questions about the _lieber Gott_ are better left unrecorded, and I

was relieved when she began about the angels.

“What do they wear for clothes?” she asked in her German-English.

“Why, you’ve seen them in pictures,” I answered, “in beautiful, long

dresses, and with big, white wings.”

“Feathers?” she asked.

“I suppose so,—and long dresses, all white and beautiful.”

“Are they girlies?”

“Girls? Ye—es.”

“Don’t boys go into the _Himmel?_”

“Yes, of course, if they’re good.”

“And then what do _they_ wear?”

“Why, the same as all the other angels, I suppose.”

“_Dwesses?_”

She began to laugh, looking at me sideways as though she suspected me

of making jokes. “What a funny Mummy!” she said, evidently much amused.

She has a fat little laugh that is very infectious.

“I think,” said I, gravely, “you had better go and play with the other

babies.”

She did not answer, and sat still a moment watching the clouds. I began

writing again.

“Mummy,” she said presently.

“Well?”

“Where do the angels get their dwesses?”

I hesitated. “From _lieber Gott_,” I said.

“Are there shops in the _Himmel?_”

“Shops? No.”

“But, then, where does _lieber Gott_ buy their dwesses?”

“Now run away like a good baby; I’m busy.”

“But you said yesterday, when I asked about _lieber Gott_, that you

would tell about Him on Sunday, and it is Sunday. Tell me a story about

Him.”

There was nothing for it but resignation, so I put down my pencil with

a sigh. “Call the others, then.”

She ran away, and presently they all three emerged from the bushes one

after the other, and tried all together to scramble on to my knee. The

April baby got the knee as she always seems to get everything, and the

other two had to sit on the grass.

I began about Adam and Eve, with an eye to future parsonic probings.

The April baby’s eyes opened wider and wider, and her face grew redder

and redder. I was surprised at the breathless interest she took in the

story—the other two were tearing up tufts of grass and hardly

listening. I had scarcely got to the angels with the flaming swords and

announced that that was all, when she burst out, “Now _I’ll_ tell about

it. Once upon a time there was Adam and Eva, and they had _plenty_ of

clothes, and there was no snake, and _lieber Gott_ wasn’t angry with

them, and they could eat as many apples as they liked, and was happy

for ever and ever—there now!”

She began to jump up and down defiantly on my knee.

“But that’s not the story,” I said rather helplessly.

“Yes, yes! It’s a much nicelier one! Now another.”

“But these stories are _true_,” I said severely; “and it’s no use my

telling them if you make them up your own way afterwards.”

“Another! another!” she shrieked, jumping up and down with redoubled

energy, all her silvery curls flying.

I began about Noah and the flood.

“Did it rain _so_ badly?” she asked with a face of the deepest concern

and interest.

“Yes, all day long and all night long for weeks and weeks——”

“And was everybody so wet?”

“Yes—”

“But why didn’t they open their umbwellas?”

Just then I saw the nurse coming out with the tea-tray.

“I’ll tell you the rest another time,” I said, putting her off my knee,

greatly relieved; “you must all go to Anna now and have tea.”

“I don’t like Anna,” remarked the June baby, not having hitherto opened

her lips; “she is a stupid girl.”

The other two stood transfixed with horror at this statement, for,

besides being naturally extremely polite, and at all times anxious not

to hurt any one’s feelings, they had been brought up to love and

respect their kind little nurse.

The April baby recovered her speech first, and lifting her finger,

pointed it at the criminal in just indignation. “Such a child will

never go into the _Himmel_,” she said with great emphasis, and the air

of one who delivers judgment.

_September_ 15_th_.—This is the month of quiet days, crimson creepers,

and blackberries; of mellow afternoons in the ripening garden; of tea

under the acacias instead of the too shady beeches; of wood-fires in

the library in the chilly evenings. The babies go out in the afternoon

and blackberry in the hedges; the three kittens, grown big and fat, sit

cleaning themselves on the sunny verandah steps; the Man of Wrath

shoots partridges across the distant stubble; and the summer seems as

though it would dream on for ever. It is hard to believe that in three

months we shall probably be snowed up and certainly be cold. There is a

feeling about this month that reminds me of March and the early days of

April, when spring is still hesitating on the threshold and the garden

holds its breath in expectation. There is the same mildness in the air,

and the sky and grass have the same look as then; but the leaves tell a

different tale, and the reddening creeper on the house is rapidly

approaching its last and loveliest glory.

My roses have behaved as well on the whole as was to be expected, and

the Viscountess Folkestones and Laurette Messimys have been most

beautiful, the latter being quite the loveliest things in the garden,

each flower an exquisite loose cluster of coral-pink petals, paling at

the base to a yellow-white. I have ordered a hundred standard tea-roses

for planting next month, half of which are Viscountess Folkestones,

because the tea-roses have such a way of hanging their little heads

that one has to kneel down to be able to see them well in the dwarf

forms—not but what I entirely approve of kneeling before such perfect

beauty, only it dirties one’s clothes. So I am going to put standards

down each side of the walk under the south windows, and shall have the

flowers on a convenient level for worship. My only fear is, that they

will stand the winter less well than the dwarf sorts, being so

difficult to pack up snugly. The Persian Yellows and Bicolors have

been, as I predicted, a mistake among the tea-roses; they only flower

twice in the season and all the rest of the time look dull and moping;

and then the Persian Yellows have such an odd smell and so many insects

inside them eating them up. I have ordered Safrano tea-roses to put in

their place, as they all come out next month and are to be grouped in

the grass; and the semicircle being immediately under the windows,

besides having the best position in the place, must be reserved solely

for my choicest treasures. I have had a great many disappointments, but

feel as though I were really beginning to learn. Humility, and the most

patient perseverance, seem almost as necessary in gardening as rain and

sunshine, and every failure must be used as a stepping-stone to

something better.

I had a visitor last week who knows a great deal about gardening and

has had much practical experience. When I heard he was coming, I felt I

wanted to put my arms right round my garden and hide it from him; but

what was my surprise and delight when he said, after having gone all

over it, “Well, I think you have done wonders.” Dear me, how pleased I

was! It was so entirely unexpected, and such a complete novelty after

the remarks I have been listening to all the summer. I could have

hugged that discerning and indulgent critic, able to look beyond the

result to the intention, and appreciating the difficulties of every

kind that had been in the way. After that I opened my heart to him, and

listened reverently to all he had to say, and treasured up his kind and

encouraging advice, and wished he could stay here a whole year and help

me through the seasons. But he went, as people one likes always do go,

and he was the only guest I have had whose departure made me sorry.

The people I love are always somewhere else and not able to come to me,

while I can at any time fill the house with visitors about whom I know

little and care less. Perhaps, if I saw more of those absent ones, I

would not love them so well—at least, that is what I think on wet days

when the wind is howling round the house and all nature is overcome

with grief; and it has actually happened once or twice when great

friends have been staying with me that I have wished, when they left, I

might not see them again for at least ten years. I suppose the fact is,

that no friendship can stand the breakfast test, and here, in the

country, we invariably think it our duty to appear at breakfast.

Civilisation has done away with curl-papers, yet at that hour the soul

of the _Hausfrau_ is as tightly screwed up in them as was ever her

grandmother’s hair; and though my body comes down mechanically, having

been trained that way by punctual parents, my soul never thinks of

beginning to wake up for other people till lunch-time, and never does

so completely till it has been taken out of doors and aired in the

sunshine. Who can begin conventional amiability the first thing in the

morning? It is the hour of savage instincts and natural tendencies; it

is the triumph of the Disagreeable and the Cross. I am convinced that

the Muses and the Graces never thought of having breakfast anywhere but

in bed.

_November_ 11_th_.—When the gray November weather came, and hung its

soft dark clouds low and unbroken over the brown of the ploughed fields

and the vivid emerald of the stretches of winter corn, the heavy

stillness weighed my heart down to a forlorn yearning after the

pleasant things of childhood, the petting, the comforting, the warming

faith in the unfailing wisdom of elders. A great need of something to

lean on, and a great weariness of independence and responsibility took

possession of my soul; and looking round for support and comfort in

that transitory mood, the emptiness of the present and the blankness of

the future sent me back to the past with all its ghosts. Why should I

not go and see the place where I was born, and where I lived so long;

the place where I was so magnificently happy, so exquisitely wretched,

so close to heaven, so near to hell, always either up on a cloud of

glory, or down in the depths with the waters of despair closing over my

head? Cousins live in it now, distant cousins, loved with the exact

measure of love usually bestowed on cousins who reign in one’s stead;

cousins of practical views, who have dug up the flower-beds and planted

cabbages where roses grew; and though through all the years since my

father’s death I have held my head so high that it hurt, and loftily

refused to listen to their repeated suggestions that I should revisit

my old home, something in the sad listlessness of the November days

sent my spirit back to old times with a persistency that would not be

set aside, and I woke from my musings surprised to find myself sick

with longing. It is foolish but natural to quarrel with one’s cousins,

and especially foolish and natural when they have done nothing, and are

mere victims of chance. Is it their fault that my not being a boy

placed the shoes I should otherwise have stepped into at their

disposal? I know it is not; but their blamelessness does not make me

love them more. “_Noch ein dummes Frauenzimmer!_” cried my father, on

my arrival into the world—he had three of them already, and I was his

last hope,—and a _dummes Frauenzimmer_ I have remained ever since; and

that is why for years I would have no dealings with the cousins in

possession, and that is why, the other day, overcome by the tender

influence of the weather, the purely sentimental longing to join hands

again with my childhood was enough to send all my pride to the winds,

and to start me off without warning and without invitation on my

pilgrimage.

I have always had a liking for pilgrimages, and if I had lived in the

Middle Ages would have spent most of my time on the way to Rome. The

pilgrims, leaving all their cares at home, the anxieties of their

riches or their debts, the wife that worried and the children that

disturbed, took only their sins with them, and turning their backs on

their obligations, set out with that sole burden, and perhaps a

cheerful heart. How cheerful my heart would have been, starting on a

fine morning, with the smell of the spring in my nostrils, fortified by

the approval of those left behind, accompanied by the pious blessings

of my family, with every step getting farther from the suffocation of

daily duties, out into the wide fresh world, out into the glorious free

world, so poor, so penitent, and so happy! My dream, even now, is to

walk for weeks with some friend that I love, leisurely wandering from

place to place, with no route arranged and no object in view, with

liberty to go on all day or to linger all day, as we choose; but the

question of luggage, unknown to the simple pilgrim, is one of the rocks

on which my plans have been shipwrecked, and the other is the certain

censure of relatives, who, not fond of walking themselves, and having

no taste for noonday naps under hedges, would be sure to paralyse my

plans before they had grown to maturity by the honest horror of their

cry, “How very unpleasant if you were to meet any one you know!” The

relative of five hundred years back would simply have said, “How holy!”

My father had the same liking for pilgrimages—indeed, it is evident

that I have it from him—and he encouraged it in me when I was little,

taking me with him on his pious journeys to places he had lived in as a

boy. Often have we been together to the school he was at in

Brandenburg, and spent pleasant days wandering about the old town on

the edge of one of those lakes that lie in a chain in that wide green

plain; and often have we been in Potsdam, where he was quartered as a

lieutenant, the Potsdam pilgrimage including hours in the woods around

and in the gardens of Sans Souci, with the second volume of Carlyle’s

Frederick under my father’s arm; and often did we spend long summer

days at the house in the Mark, at the head of the same blue chain of

lakes, where his mother spent her young years, and where, though it

belonged to cousins, like everything else that was worth having, we

could wander about as we chose, for it was empty, and sit in the deep

windows of rooms where there was no furniture, and the painted Venuses

and cupids on the ceiling still smiled irrelevantly and stretched their

futile wreaths above the emptiness beneath. And while we sat and

rested, my father told me, as my grandmother had a hundred times told

him, all that had happened in those rooms in the far-off days when

people danced and sang and laughed through life, and nobody seemed ever

to be old or sorry.

There was, and still is, an inn within a stone’s throw of the great

iron gates, with two very old lime trees in front of it, where we used

to lunch on our arrival at a little table spread with a red and blue

check cloth, the lime blossoms dropping into our soup, and the bees

humming in the scented shadows overhead. I have a picture of the house

by my side as I write, done from the lake in old times, with a boat

full of ladies in hoops and powder in the foreground, and a youth

playing a guitar. The pilgrimages to this place were those I loved the

best.

But the stories my father told me, sometimes odd enough stories to tell

a little girl, as we wandered about the echoing rooms, or hung over the

stone balustrade and fed the fishes in the lake, or picked the pale

dog-roses in the hedges, or lay in the boat in a shady reed-grown bay

while he smoked to keep the mosquitoes off, were after all only

traditions, imparted to me in small doses from time to time, when his

earnest desire not to raise his remarks above the level of dulness

supposed to be wholesome for _Backfische_ was neutralised by an impulse

to share his thoughts with somebody who would laugh; whereas the place

I was bound for on my latest pilgrimage was filled with living,

first-hand memories of all the enchanted years that lie between two and

eighteen. How enchanted those years are is made more and more clear to

me the older I grow. There has been nothing in the least like them

since; and though I have forgotten most of what happened six months

ago, every incident, almost every day of those wonderful long years is

perfectly distinct in my memory.

But I had been stiffnecked, proud, unpleasant, altogether cousinly in

my behaviour towards the people in possession. The invitations to

revisit the old home had ceased. The cousins had grown tired of

refusals, and had left me alone. I did not even know who lived in it

now, it was so long since I had had any news. For two days I fought

against the strong desire to go there that had suddenly seized me, and

assured myself that I would not go, that it would be absurd to go,

undignified, sentimental, and silly, that I did not know them and would

be in an awkward position, and that I was old enough to know better.

But who can foretell from one hour to the next what a woman will do?

And when does she ever know better? On the third morning I set out as

hopefully as though it were the most natural thing in the world to fall

unexpectedly upon hitherto consistently neglected cousins, and expect

to be received with open arms.

It was a complicated journey, and lasted several hours. During the

first part, when it was still dark, I glowed with enthusiasm, with the

spirit of adventure, with delight at the prospect of so soon seeing the

loved place again; and thought with wonder of the long years I had

allowed to pass since last I was there. Of what I should say to the

cousins, and of how I should introduce myself into their midst, I did

not think at all: the pilgrim spirit was upon me, the unpractical

spirit that takes no thought for anything, but simply wanders along

enjoying its own emotions. It was a quiet, sad morning, and there was a

thick mist. By the time I was in the little train on the light railway

that passed through the village nearest my old home, I had got over my

first enthusiasm, and had entered the stage of critically examining the

changes that had been made in the last ten years. It was so misty that

I could see nothing of the familiar country from the carriage windows,

only the ghosts of pines in the front row of the forests; but the

railway itself was a new departure, unknown in our day, when we used to

drive over ten miles of deep, sandy forest roads to and from the

station, and although most people would have called it an evident and

great improvement, it was an innovation due, no doubt, to the zeal and

energy of the reigning cousin; and who was he, thought I, that he

should require more conveniences than my father had found needful? It

was no use my telling myself that in my father’s time the era of light

railways had not dawned, and that if it had, we should have done our

utmost to secure one; the thought of my cousin, stepping into my shoes,

and then altering them, was odious to me. By the time I was walking up

the hill from the station I had got over this feeling too, and had

entered a third stage of wondering uneasily what in the world I should

do next. Where was the intrepid courage with which I had started? At

the top of the first hill I sat down to consider this question in

detail, for I was very near the house now, and felt I wanted time.

Where, indeed, was the courage and joy of the morning? It had vanished

so completely that I could only suppose that it must be lunch time, the

observations of years having led to the discovery that the higher

sentiments and virtues fly affrighted on the approach of lunch, and

none fly quicker than courage. So I ate the lunch I had brought with

me, hoping that it was what I wanted; but it was chilly, made up of

sandwiches and pears, and it had to be eaten under a tree at the edge

of a field; and it was November, and the mist was thicker than ever and

very wet—the grass was wet with it, the gaunt tree was wet with it, I

was wet with it, and the sandwiches were wet with it. Nobody’s spirits

can keep up under such conditions; and as I ate the soaked sandwiches,

I deplored the headlong courage more with each mouthful that had torn

me from a warm, dry home where I was appreciated, and had brought me

first to the damp tree in the damp field, and when I had finished my

lunch and dessert of cold pears, was going to drag me into the midst of

a circle of unprepared and astonished cousins. Vast sheep loomed

through the mist a few yards off. The sheep dog kept up a perpetual,

irritating yap. In the fog I could hardly tell where I was, though I

knew I must have played there a hundred times as a child. After the

fashion of woman directly she is not perfectly warm and perfectly

comfortable, I began to consider the uncertainty of human life, and to

shake my head in gloomy approval as lugubrious lines of pessimistic

poetry suggested themselves to my mind.

Now it is clearly a desirable plan, if you want to do anything, to do

it in the way consecrated by custom, more especially if you are a

woman. The rattle of a carriage along the road just behind me, and the

fact that I started and turned suddenly hot, drove this truth home to

my soul. The mist hid me, and the carriage, no doubt full of cousins,

drove on in the direction of the house; but what an absurd position I

was in! Suppose the kindly mist had lifted, and revealed me lunching in

the wet on their property, the cousin of the short and lofty letters,

the _unangenehme Elisabeth!_ “_Die war doch immer verdreht_,” I could

imagine them hastily muttering to each other, before advancing wreathed

in welcoming smiles. It gave me a great shock, this narrow escape, and

I got on to my feet quickly, and burying the remains of my lunch under

the gigantic molehill on which I had been sitting, asked myself

nervously what I proposed to do next. Should I walk back to the

village, go to the _Gasthof_, write a letter craving permission to call

on my cousins, and wait there till an answer came? It would be a

discreet and sober course to pursue; the next best thing to having

written before leaving home. But the _Gasthof_ of a north German

village is a dreadful place, and the remembrance of one in which I had

taken refuge once from a thunderstorm was still so vivid that nature

itself cried out against this plan. The mist, if anything, was growing

denser. I knew every path and gate in the place. What if I gave up all

hope of seeing the house, and went through the little door in the wall

at the bottom of the garden, and confined myself for this once to that?

In such weather I would be able to wander round as I pleased, without

the least risk of being seen by or meeting any cousins, and it was

after all the garden that lay nearest my heart. What a delight it would

be to creep into it unobserved, and revisit all the corners I so well

remembered, and slip out again and get away safely without any need of

explanations, assurances, protestations, displays of affection, without

any need, in a word, of that exhausting form of conversation, so dear

to relations, known as _Redensarten!_

The mist tempted me. I think if it had been a fine day I would have

gone soberly to the _Gasthof_ and written the conciliatory letter; but

the temptation was too great, it was altogether irresistible, and in

ten minutes I had found the gate, opened it with some difficulty, and

was standing with a beating heart in the garden of my childhood.

Now I wonder whether I shall ever again feel thrills of the same

potency as those that ran through me at that moment. First of all I was

trespassing, which is in itself thrilling; but how much more thrilling

when you are trespassing on what might just as well have been your own

ground, on what actually was for years your own ground, and when you

are in deadly peril of seeing the rightful owners, whom you have never

met, but with whom you have quarrelled, appear round the corner, and of

hearing them remark with an inquiring and awful politeness “I do not

think I have the pleasure—?” Then the place was unchanged. I was

standing in the same mysterious tangle of damp little paths that had

always been just there; they curled away on either side among the

shrubs, with the brown tracks of recent footsteps in the centre of

their green stains, just as they did in my day. The overgrown lilac

bushes still met above my head. The moisture dripped from the same

ledge in the wall on to the sodden leaves beneath, as it had done all

through the afternoons of all those past Novembers. This was the place,

this damp and gloomy tangle, that had specially belonged to me. Nobody

ever came to it, for in winter it was too dreary, and in summer so full

of mosquitoes that only a _Backfisch_ indifferent to spots could have

borne it. But it was a place where I could play unobserved, and where I

could walk up and down uninterrupted for hours, building castles in the

air. There was an unwholesome little arbour in one dark corner, much

frequented by the larger black slug, where I used to pass glorious

afternoons making plans. I was for ever making plans, and if nothing

came of them, what did it matter? The mere making had been a joy. To me

this out-of-the-way corner was always a wonderful and a mysterious

place, where my castles in the air stood close together in radiant

rows, and where the strangest and most splendid adventures befell me;

for the hours I passed in it and the people I met in it were all

enchanted.

Standing there and looking round with happy eyes, I forgot the

existence of the cousins. I could have cried for joy at being there

again. It was the home of my fathers, the home that would have been

mine if I had been a boy, the home that was mine now by a thousand

tender and happy and miserable associations, of which the people in

possession could not dream. They were tenants, but it was my home. I

threw my arms round the trunk of a very wet fir tree, every branch of

which I remembered, for had I not climbed it, and fallen from it, and

torn and bruised myself on it uncountable numbers of times? and I gave

it such a hearty kiss that my nose and chin were smudged into one green

stain, and still I did not care. Far from caring, it filled me with a

reckless, _Backfisch_ pleasure in being dirty, a delicious feeling that

I had not had for years. Alice in Wonderland, after she had drunk the

contents of the magic bottle, could not have grown smaller more

suddenly than I grew younger the moment I passed through that magic

door. Bad habits cling to us, however, with such persistency that I did

mechanically pull out my handkerchief and begin to rub off the

welcoming smudge, a thing I never would have dreamed of doing in the

glorious old days; but an artful scent of violets clinging to the

handkerchief brought me to my senses, and with a sudden impulse of

scorn, the fine scorn for scent of every honest _Backfisch_, I rolled

it up into a ball and flung it away into the bushes, where I daresay it

is at this moment. “Away with you,” I cried, “away with you, symbol of

conventionality, of slavery, of pandering to a desire to please—away

with you, miserable little lace-edged rag!” And so young had I grown

within the last few minutes that I did not even feel silly.

As a _Backfisch_ I had never used handkerchiefs—the child of nature

scorns to blow its nose—though for decency’s sake my governess insisted

on giving me a clean one of vast size and stubborn texture on Sundays.

It was stowed away unfolded in the remotest corner of my pocket, where

it was gradually pressed into a beautiful compactness by the other

contents, which were knives. After a while, I remember, the

handkerchief being brought to light on Sundays to make room for a

successor, and being manifestly perfectly clean, we came to an

agreement that it should only be changed on the first and third Sundays

in the month, on condition that I promised to turn it on the other

Sundays. My governess said that the outer folds became soiled from the

mere contact with the other things in my pocket, and that visitors

might catch sight of the soiled side if it was never turned when I

wished to blow my nose in their presence, and that one had no right to

give one’s visitors shocks. “But I never do wish——” I began with great

earnestness. “_Unsinn_,” said my governess, cutting me short.

After the first thrills of joy at being there again had gone, the

profound stillness of the dripping little shrubbery frightened me. It

was so still that I was afraid to move; so still, that I could count

each drop of moisture falling from the oozing wall; so still, that when

I held my breath to listen, I was deafened by my own heart-beats. I

made a step forward in the direction where the arbour ought to be, and

the rustling and jingling of my clothes terrified me into immobility.

The house was only two hundred yards off; and if any one had been

about, the noise I had already made opening the creaking door and so

foolishly apostrophising my handkerchief must have been noticed.

Suppose an inquiring gardener, or a restless cousin, should presently

loom through the fog, bearing down upon me? Suppose Fräulein

Wundermacher should pounce upon me suddenly from behind, coming up

noiselessly in her galoshes, and shatter my castles with her customary

triumphant “_Jetzt halte ich dich aber fest!_” Why, what was I thinking

of? Fräulein Wundermacher, so big and masterful, such an enemy of

day-dreams, such a friend of _das Praktische_, such a lover of creature

comforts, had died long ago, had been succeeded long ago by others,

German sometimes, and sometimes English, and sometimes at intervals

French, and they too had all in their turn vanished, and I was here a

solitary ghost. “Come, Elizabeth,” said I to myself impatiently, “are

you actually growing sentimental over your governesses? If you think

you are a ghost, be glad at least that you are a solitary one. Would

you like the ghosts of all those poor women you tormented to rise up

now in this gloomy place against you? And do you intend to stand here

till you are caught?” And thus exhorting myself to action, and

recognising how great was the risk I ran in lingering, I started down

the little path leading to the arbour and the principal part of the

garden, going, it is true, on tiptoe, and very much frightened by the

rustling of my petticoats, but determined to see what I had come to see

and not to be scared away by phantoms.

How regretfully did I think at that moment of the petticoats of my

youth, so short, so silent, and so woollen! And how convenient the

canvas shoes were with the india rubber soles, for creeping about

without making a sound! Thanks to them I could always run swiftly and

unheard into my hiding-places, and stay there listening to the garden

resounding with cries of “Elizabeth! Elizabeth! Come in at once to your

lessons!” Or, at a different period, “_Où êtes-vous donc, petite

sotte?_” Or at yet another period, “_Warte nur, wenn ich dich erst

habe!_” As the voices came round one corner, I whisked in my noiseless

clothes round the next, and it was only Fräulein Wundermacher, a person

of resource, who discovered that all she needed for my successful

circumvention was galoshes. She purchased a pair, wasted no breath

calling me, and would come up silently, as I stood lapped in a false

security lost in the contemplation of a squirrel or a robin, and seize

me by the shoulders from behind, to the grievous unhinging of my

nerves. Stealing along in the fog, I looked back uneasily once or

twice, so vivid was this disquieting memory, and could hardly be

reassured by putting up my hand to the elaborate twists and curls that

compose what my maid calls my _Frisur_, and that mark the gulf lying

between the present and the past; for it had happened once or twice,

awful to relate and to remember, that Fräulein Wundermacher, sooner

than let me slip through her fingers, had actually caught me by the

long plait of hair to whose other end I was attached and whose English

name I had been told was pigtail, just at the instant when I was

springing away from her into the bushes; and so had led me home

triumphant, holding on tight to the rope of hair, and muttering with a

broad smile of special satisfaction, “_Diesmal wirst du mir aber nicht

entschlüpfen!_” Fräulein Wundermacher, now I came to think of it, must

have been a humourist. She was certainly a clever and a capable woman.

But I wished at that moment that she would not haunt me so

persistently, and that I could get rid of the feeling that she was just

behind in her galoshes, with her hand stretched out to seize me.

Passing the arbour, and peering into its damp recesses, I started back

with my heart in my mouth. I thought I saw my grandfather’s stern eyes

shining in the darkness. It was evident that my anxiety lest the

cousins should catch me had quite upset my nerves, for I am not by

nature inclined to see eyes where eyes are not. “Don’t be foolish,

Elizabeth,” murmured my soul in rather a faint voice, “go in, and make

sure.” “But I don’t like going in and making sure,” I replied. I did go

in, however, with a sufficient show of courage, and fortunately the

eyes vanished. What I should have done if they had not I am altogether

unable to imagine. Ghosts are things that I laugh at in the daytime and

fear at night, but I think if I were to meet one I should die. The

arbour had fallen into great decay, and was in the last stage of

mouldiness. My grandfather had had it made, and, like other buildings,

it enjoyed a period of prosperity before being left to the ravages of

slugs and children, when he came down every afternoon in summer and

drank his coffee there and read his _Kreuzzeitung_ and dozed, while the

rest of us went about on tiptoe, and only the birds dared sing. Even

the mosquitoes that infested the place were too much in awe of him to

sting him; they certainly never did sting him, and I naturally

concluded it must be because he had forbidden such familiarities.

Although I had played there for so many years since his death, my

memory skipped them all, and went back to the days when it was

exclusively his. Standing on the spot where his armchair used to be, I

felt how well I knew him now from the impressions he made then on my

child’s mind, though I was not conscious of them for more than twenty

years. Nobody told me about him, and he died when I was six, and yet

within the last year or two, that strange Indian summer of remembrance

that comes to us in the leisured times when the children have been born

and we have time to think, has made me know him perfectly well. It is

rather an uncomfortable thought for the grown-up, and especially for

the parent, but of a salutary and restraining nature, that though

children may not understand what is said and done before them, and have

no interest in it at the time, and though they may forget it at once

and for years, yet these things that they have seen and heard and not

noticed have after all impressed themselves for ever on their minds,

and when they are men and women come crowding back with surprising and

often painful distinctness, and away frisk all the cherished little

illusions in flocks.

I had an awful reverence for my grandfather. He never petted, and he

often frowned, and such people are generally reverenced. Besides, he

was a just man, everybody said; a just man who might have been a great

man if he had chosen, and risen to almost any pinnacle of worldly

glory. That he had not so chosen was held to be a convincing proof of

his greatness; for he was plainly too great to be great in the vulgar

sense, and shrouded himself in the dignity of privacy and

potentialities. This, at least, as time passed and he still did

nothing, was the belief of the simple people around. People must

believe in somebody, and having pinned their faith on my grandfather in

the promising years that lie round thirty, it was more convenient to

let it remain there. He pervaded our family life till my sixth year,

and saw to it that we all behaved ourselves, and then he died, and we

were glad that he should be in heaven. He was a good German (and when

Germans are good they are very good) who kept the commandments, voted

for the Government, grew prize potatoes and bred innumerable sheep,

drove to Berlin once a year with the wool in a procession of waggons

behind him and sold it at the annual Wollmarkt, rioted soberly for a

few days there, and then carried most of the proceeds home, hunted as

often as possible, helped his friends, punished his children, read his

Bible, said his prayers, and was genuinely astonished when his wife had

the affectation to die of a broken heart. I cannot pretend to explain

this conduct. She ought, of course, to have been happy in the

possession of so good a man; but good men are sometimes oppressive, and

to have one in the house with you and to live in the daily glare of his

goodness must be a tremendous business. After bearing him seven sons

and three daughters, therefore, my grandmother died in the way

described, and afforded, said my grandfather, another and a very

curious proof of the impossibility of ever being sure of your ground

with women. The incident faded more quickly from his mind than it might

otherwise have done for its having occurred simultaneously with the

production of a new kind of potato, of which he was justly proud. He

called it _Trost in Trauer_, and quoted the text of Scripture _Auge um

Auge, Zabn um Zahn_, after which he did not again allude to his wife’s

decease. In his last years, when my father managed the estate, and he

only lived with us and criticised, he came to have the reputation of an

oracle. The neighbours sent him their sons at the beginning of any

important phase in their lives, and he received them in this very

arbour, administering eloquent and minute advice in the deep voice that

rolled round the shrubbery and filled me with a vague sense of guilt as

I played. Sitting among the bushes playing muffled games for fear of

disturbing him, I supposed he must be reading aloud, so unbroken was

the monotony of that majestic roll. The young men used to come out

again bathed in perspiration, much stung by mosquitoes, and looking

bewildered; and when they had got over the impression made by my

grandfather’s speech and presence, no doubt forgot all he had said with

wholesome quickness, and set themselves to the interesting and

necessary work of gaining their own experience. Once, indeed, a

dreadful thing happened, whose immediate consequence was the abrupt end

to the long and close friendship between us and our nearest neighbour.

His son was brought to the arbour and left there in the usual way, and

either he must have happened on the critical half hour after the coffee

and before the _Kreuzzeitung_, when my grandfather was accustomed to

sleep, or he was more courageous than the others and tried to talk, for

very shortly, playing as usual near at hand, I heard my grandfather’s

voice, raised to an extent that made me stop in my game and quake,

saying with deliberate anger, “_Hebe dich weg von mir, Sohn des

Satans!_” Which was all the advice this particular young man got, and

which he hastened to take, for out he came through the bushes, and

though his face was very pale, there was an odd twist about the corners

of his mouth that reassured me.

This must have happened quite at the end of my grandfather’s life, for

almost immediately afterwards, as it now seems to me, he died before he

need have done because he would eat crab, a dish that never agreed with

him, in the face of his doctor’s warning that if he did he would surely

die. “What! am I to be conquered by crabs?” he demanded indignantly of

the doctor; for apart from loving them with all his heart he had never

yet been conquered by anything. “Nay, sir, the combat is too unequal—do

not, I pray you, try it again,” replied the doctor. But my grandfather

ordered crabs that very night for supper, and went in to table with the

shining eyes of one who is determined to conquer or die, and the crabs

conquered, and he died. “He was a just man,” said the neighbours,

except that nearest neighbour, formerly his best friend, “and might

have been a great one had he so chosen.” And they buried him with

profound respect, and the sunshine came into our home life with a

burst, and the birds were not the only creatures that sang, and the

arbour, from having been a temple of Delphic utterances, sank into a

home for slugs.

Musing on the strangeness of life, and on the invariable ultimate

triumph of the insignificant and small over the important and vast,

illustrated in this instance by the easy substitution in the arbour of

slugs for grandfathers, I went slowly round the next bend of the path,

and came to the broad walk along the south side of the high wall

dividing the flower garden from the kitchen garden, in which sheltered

position my father had had his choicest flowers. Here the cousins had

been at work, and all the climbing roses that clothed the wall with

beauty were gone, and some very neat fruit trees, tidily nailed up at

proper intervals, reigned in their stead. Evidently the cousins knew

the value of this warm aspect, for in the border beneath, filled in my

father’s time in this month of November with the wallflowers that were

to perfume the walk in spring, there was a thick crop of—I stooped down

close to make sure—yes, a thick crop of radishes. My eyes filled with

tears at the sight of those radishes, and it is probably the only

occasion on record on which radishes have made anybody cry. My dear

father, whom I so passionately loved, had in his turn passionately

loved this particular border, and spent the spare moments of a busy

life enjoying the flowers that grew in it. He had no time himself for a

more near acquaintance with the delights of gardening than directing

what plants were to be used, but found rest from his daily work

strolling up and down here, or sitting smoking as close to the flowers

as possible. “It is the Purest of Humane pleasures, it is the Greatest

Refreshment to the Spirits of Man,” he would quote (for he read other

things besides the _Kreuzzeitung_), looking round with satisfaction on

reaching this fragrant haven after a hot day in the fields. Well, the

cousins did not think so. Less fanciful, and more sensible as they

probably would have said, their position plainly was that you cannot

eat flowers. Their spirits required no refreshment, but their bodies

needed much, and therefore radishes were more precious than

wallflowers. Nor was my youth wholly destitute of radishes, but they

were grown in the decent obscurity of odd kitchen garden corners and

old cucumber frames, and would never have been allowed to come among

the flowers. And only because I was not a boy here they were profaning

the ground that used to be so beautiful. Oh, it was a terrible

misfortune not to have been a boy! And how sad and lonely it was, after

all, in this ghostly garden. The radish bed and what it symbolised had

turned my first joy into grief. This walk and border me too much of my

father reminded, and of all he had been to me. What I knew of good he

had taught me, and what I had of happiness was through him. Only once

during all the years we lived together had we been of different

opinions and fallen out, and it was the one time I ever saw him severe.

I was four years old, and demanded one Sunday to be taken to church. My

father said no, for I had never been to church, and the German service

is long and exhausting. I implored. He again said no. I implored again,

and showed such a pious disposition, and so earnest a determination to

behave well, that he gave in, and we went off very happily hand in

hand. “Now mind, Elizabeth,” he said, turning to me at the church door,

“there is no coming out again in the middle. Having insisted on being

brought, thou shalt now sit patiently till the end.” “Oh, yes, oh,

yes,” I promised eagerly, and went in filled with holy fire. The

shortness of my legs, hanging helplessly for two hours midway between

the seat and the floor, was the weapon chosen by Satan for my

destruction. In German churches you do not kneel, and seldom stand, but

sit nearly the whole time, praying and singing in great comfort. If you

are four years old, however, this unchanged position soon becomes one

of torture. Unknown and dreadful things go on in your legs, strange

prickings and tinglings and dartings up and down, a sudden terrifying

numbness, when you think they must have dropped off but are afraid to

look, then renewed and fiercer prickings, shootings, and burnings. I

thought I must be very ill, for I had never known my legs like that

before. My father sitting beside me was engrossed in the singing of a

chorale that evidently had no end, each verse finished with a

long-drawn-out hallelujah, after which the organ played by itself for a

hundred years—by the organist’s watch, which was wrong, two minutes

exactly—and then another verse began. My father, being the patron of

the living, was careful to sing and pray and listen to the sermon with

exemplary attention, aware that every eye in the little church was on

our pew, and at first I tried to imitate him; but the behaviour of my

legs became so alarming that after vainly casting imploring glances at

him and seeing that he continued his singing unmoved, I put out my hand

and pulled his sleeve.

“Hal-le-lu-jah,” sang my father with deliberation; continuing in a low

voice without changing the expression of his face, his lips hardly

moving, and his eyes fixed abstractedly on the ceiling till the

organist, who was also the postman, should have finished his solo, “Did

I not tell thee to sit still, Elizabeth?” “Yes, but——” “Then do it.”

“But I want to go home.”

“_Unsinn_.” And the next verse beginning, my father sang louder than

ever. What could I do? Should I cry? I began to be afraid I was going

to die on that chair, so extraordinary were the sensations in my legs.

What could my father do to me if I did cry? With the quick instinct of

small children I felt that he could not put me in the corner in church,

nor would he whip me in public, and that with the whole village looking

on, he was helpless, and would have to give in. Therefore I tugged his

sleeve again and more peremptorily, and prepared to demand my immediate

removal in a loud voice. But my father was ready for me. Without

interrupting his singing, or altering his devout expression, he put his

hand slowly down and gave me a hard pinch—not a playful pinch, but a

good hard unmistakeable pinch, such as I had never imagined possible,

and then went on serenely to the next hallelujah. For a moment I was

petrified with astonishment. Was this my indulgent father, my playmate,

adorer, and friend? Smarting with pain, for I was a round baby, with a

nicely stretched, tight skin, and dreadfully hurt in my feelings, I

opened my mouth to shriek in earnest, when my father’s clear whisper

fell on my ear, each word distinct and not to be misunderstood, his

eyes as before gazing meditatively into space, and his lips hardly

moving, “_Elizabeth, wenn du schreist, kneife ich dich bis du platzt_.”

And he finished the verse with unruffled decorum—

“Will Satan mich verschlingen,

So lass die Engel singen

Hallelujah!”

We never had another difference. Up to then he had been my willing

slave, and after that I was his.

With a smile and a shiver I turned from the border and its memories to

the door in the wall leading to the kitchen garden, in a corner of

which my own little garden used to be. The door was open, and I stood

still a moment before going through, to hold my breath and listen. The

silence was as profound as before. The place seemed deserted; and I

should have thought the house empty and shut up but for the carefully

tended radishes and the recent footmarks on the green of the path. They

were the footmarks of a child. I was stooping down to examine a

specially clear one, when the loud caw of a very bored looking crow

sitting on the wall just above my head made me jump as I have seldom in

my life jumped, and reminded me that I was trespassing. Clearly my

nerves were all to pieces, for I gathered up my skirts and fled through

the door as though a whole army of ghosts and cousins were at my heels,

nor did I stop till I had reached the remote corner where my garden

was. “Are you enjoying yourself, Elizabeth?” asked the mocking sprite

that calls itself my soul: but I was too much out of breath to answer.

This was really a very safe corner. It was separated from the main

garden and the house by the wall, and shut in on the north side by an

orchard, and it was to the last degree unlikely that any one would come

there on such an afternoon. This plot of ground, turned now as I saw

into a rockery, had been the scene of my most untiring labours. Into

the cold earth of this north border on which the sun never shone I had

dug my brightest hopes. All my pocket money had been spent on it, and

as bulbs were dear and my weekly allowance small, in a fatal hour I had

borrowed from Fräulein Wundermacher, selling her my independence,

passing utterly into her power, forced as a result till my next

birthday should come round to an unnatural suavity of speech and manner

in her company, against which my very soul revolted. And after all,

nothing came up. The labour of digging and watering, the anxious zeal

with which I pounced on weeds, the poring over gardening books, the

plans made as I sat on the little seat in the middle gazing admiringly

and with the eye of faith on the trim surface so soon to be gemmed with

a thousand flowers, the reckless expenditure of _pfennings_, the

humiliation of my position in regard to Fräulein Wundermacher,—all, all

had been in vain. No sun shone there, and nothing grew. The gardener

who reigned supreme in those days had given me this big piece for that

sole reason, because he could do nothing with it himself. He was no

doubt of opinion that it was quite good enough for a child to

experiment upon, and went his way, when I had thanked him with a

profuseness of gratitude I still remember, with an unmoved countenance.

For more than a year I worked and waited, and watched the career of the

flourishing orchard opposite with puzzled feelings. The orchard was

only a few yards away, and yet, although my garden was full of manure,

and water, and attentions that were never bestowed on the orchard, all

it could show and ever did show were a few unhappy beginnings of growth

that either remained stationary and did not achieve flowers, or

dwindled down again and vanished. Once I timidly asked the gardener if

he could explain these signs and wonders, but he was a busy man with no

time for answering questions, and told me shortly that gardening was

not learned in a day. How well I remember that afternoon, and the very

shape of the lazy clouds, and the smell of spring things, and myself

going away abashed and sitting on the shaky bench in my domain and

wondering for the hundredth time what it was that made the difference

between my bit and the bit of orchard in front of me. The fruit trees,

far enough away from the wall to be beyond the reach of its cold shade,

were tossing their flower-laden heads in the sunshine in a carelessly

well-satisfied fashion that filled my heart with envy. There was a rise

in the field behind them, and at the foot of its protecting slope they

luxuriated in the insolent glory of their white and pink perfection. It

was May, and my heart bled at the thought of the tulips I had put in in

November, and that I had never seen since. The whole of the rest of the

garden was on fire with tulips; behind me, on the other side of the

wall, were rows and rows of them,—cups of translucent loveliness, a

jewelled ring flung right round the lawn. But what was there not on the

other side of that wall? Things came up there and grew and flowered

exactly as my gardening books said they should do; and in front of me,

in the gay orchard, things that nobody ever troubled about or

cultivated or noticed throve joyously beneath the trees,—daffodils

thrusting their spears through the grass, crocuses peeping out

inquiringly, snowdrops uncovering their small cold faces when the first

shivering spring days came. Only my piece that I so loved was

perpetually ugly and empty. And I sat in it thinking of these things on

that radiant day, and wept aloud.

Then an apprentice came by, a youth who had often seen me busily

digging, and noticing the unusual tears, and struck perhaps by the

difference between my garden and the profusion of splendour all around,

paused with his barrow on the path in front of me, and remarked that

nobody could expect to get blood out of a stone. The apparent

irrelevance of this statement made me weep still louder, the bitter

tears of insulted sorrow; but he stuck to his point, and harangued me

from the path, explaining the connection between north walls and tulips

and blood and stones till my tears all dried up again and I listened

attentively, for the conclusion to be drawn from his remarks was

plainly that I had been shamefully taken in by the head gardener, who

was an unprincipled person thenceforward to be for ever mistrusted and

shunned. Standing on the path from which the kindly apprentice had

expounded his proverb, this scene rose before me as clearly as though

it had taken place that very day; but how different everything looked,

and how it had shrunk! Was this the wide orchard that had seemed to

stretch away, it and the sloping field beyond, up to the gates of

heaven? I believe nearly every child who is much alone goes through a

certain time of hourly expecting the Day of Judgment, and I had made up

my mind that on that Day the heavenly host would enter the world by

that very field, coming down the slope in shining ranks, treading the

daffodils under foot, filling the orchard with their songs of

exultation, joyously seeking out the sheep from among the goats. Of

course I was a sheep, and my governess and the head gardener goats, so

that the results could not fail to be in every way satisfactory. But

looking up at the slope and remembering my visions, I laughed at the

smallness of the field I had supposed would hold all heaven.

Here again the cousins had been at work. The site of my garden was

occupied by a rockery, and the orchard grass with all its treasures had

been dug up, and the spaces between the trees planted with currant

bushes and celery in admirable rows; so that no future little cousins

will be able to dream of celestial hosts coming towards them across the

fields of daffodils, and will perhaps be the better for being free from

visions of the kind, for as I grew older, uncomfortable doubts laid

hold of my heart with cold fingers, dim uncertainties as to the exact

ultimate position of the gardener and the governess, anxious

questionings as to how it would be if it were they who turned out after

all to be sheep, and I who—? For that we all three might be gathered

into the same fold at the last never, in those days, struck me as

possible, and if it had I should not have liked it.

“Now what sort of person can that be,” I asked myself, shaking my head,

as I contemplated the changes before me, “who could put a rockery among

vegetables and currant bushes? A rockery, of all things in the

gardening world, needs consummate tact in its treatment. It is easier

to make mistakes in forming a rockery than in any other garden scheme.

Either it is a great success, or it is great failure; either it is very

charming, or it is very absurd. There is no state between the sublime

and the ridiculous possible in a rockery.” I stood shaking my head

disapprovingly at the rockery before me, lost in these reflections,

when a sudden quick pattering of feet coming along in a great hurry

made me turn round with a start, just in time to receive the shock of a

body tumbling out of the mist and knocking violently against me.

It was a little girl of about twelve years old.

“Hullo!” said the little girl in excellent English; and then we stared

at each other in astonishment.

“I thought you were Miss Robinson,” said the little girl, offering no

apology for having nearly knocked me down. “Who are you?”

“Miss Robinson? Miss Robinson?” I repeated, my eyes fixed on the little

girl’s face, and a host of memories stirring within me. “Why, didn’t

she marry a missionary, and go out to some place where they ate him?”

The little girl stared harder. “Ate him? Marry? What, has she been

married all this time to somebody who’s been eaten and never let on?

Oh, I say, what a game!” And she threw back her head and laughed till

the garden rang again.

“O hush, you dreadful little girl!” I implored, catching her by the

arm, and terrified beyond measure by the loudness of her mirth. “Don’t

make that horrid noise—we are certain to be caught if you don’t stop——”

The little girl broke off a shriek of laughter in the middle and shut

her mouth with a snap. Her eyes, round and black and shiny like boot

buttons, came still further out of her head. “Caught?” she said

eagerly. “What, are you afraid of being caught too? Well, this _is_ a

game!” And with her hands plunged deep in the pockets of her coat she

capered in front of me in the excess of her enjoyment, reminding me of

a very fat black lamb frisking round the dazed and passive sheep its

mother.

It was clear that the time had come for me to get down to the gate at

the end of the garden as quickly as possible, and I began to move away

in that direction. The little girl at once stopped capering and planted

herself squarely in front of me. “Who are you?” she said, examining me

from my hat to my boots with the keenest interest.

I considered this ungarnished manner of asking questions impertinent,

and, trying to look lofty, made an attempt to pass at the side.

The little girl, with a quick, cork-like movement, was there before me.

“Who are you?” she repeated, her expression friendly but firm. “Oh,

I—I’m a pilgrim,” I said in desperation.

“A pilgrim!” echoed the little girl. She seemed struck, and while she

was struck I slipped past her and began to walk quickly towards the

door in the wall. “A pilgrim!” said the little girl, again, keeping

close beside me, and looking me up and down attentively. “I don’t like

pilgrims. Aren’t they people who are always walking about, and have

things the matter with their feet? Have you got anything the matter

with your feet?”

“Certainly not,” I replied indignantly, walking still faster.

“And they never wash, Miss Robinson says. You don’t either, do you?”

“Not wash? Oh, I’m afraid you are a very badly brought-up little

girl—oh, leave me alone—I must run—”

“So must I,” said the little girl, cheerfully, “for Miss Robinson must

be close behind us. She nearly had me just before I found you.” And she

started running by my side.

The thought of Miss Robinson close behind us gave wings to my feet,

and, casting my dignity, of which, indeed, there was but little left,

to the winds, I fairly flew down the path. The little girl was not to

be outrun, and though she panted and turned weird colours, kept by my

side and even talked. Oh, I was tired, tired in body and mind, tired by

the different shocks I had received, tired by the journey, tired by the

want of food; and here I was being forced to run because this very

naughty little girl chose to hide instead of going in to her lessons.

“I say—this is jolly—” she jerked out.

“But why need we run to the same place?” I breathlessly asked, in the

vain hope of getting rid of her.

“Oh, yes—that’s just—the fun. We’d get on—together—you and I—”

“No, no,” said I, decided on this point, bewildered though I was.

“I can’t stand washing—either—it’s awful—in winter—and makes one

have—chaps.”

“But I don’t mind it in the least,” I protested faintly, not having any

energy left.

“Oh, I say!” said the little girl, looking at my face, and making the

sound known as a guffaw. The familiarity of this little girl was wholly

revolting.

We had got safely through the door, round the corner past the radishes,

and were in the shrubbery. I knew from experience how easy it was to

hide in the tangle of little paths, and stopped a moment to look round

and listen. The little girl opened her mouth to speak. With great

presence of mind I instantly put my muff in front of it and held it

there tight, while I listened. Dead silence, except for the laboured

breathing and struggles of the little girl.

“I don’t hear a sound,” I whispered, letting her go again. “Now what

did you want to say?” I added, eyeing her severely.

“I wanted to say,” she panted, “that it’s no good pretending you wash

with a nose like that.”

“A nose like that! A nose like what?” I exclaimed, greatly offended;

and though I put up my hand and very tenderly and carefully felt it, I

could find no difference in it. “I am afraid poor Miss Robinson must

have a wretched life,” I said, in tones of deep disgust.

The little girl smiled fatuously, as though I were paying her

compliments. “It’s all green and brown,” she said, pointing. “Is it

always like that?”

Then I remembered the wet fir tree near the gate, and the enraptured

kiss it had received, and blushed.

“Won’t it come off?” persisted the little girl.

“Of course it will come off,” I answered, frowning.

“Why don’t you rub it off?”

Then I remembered the throwing away of the handkerchief, and blushed

again.

“Please lend me your handkerchief,” I said humbly, “I—I have lost

mine.”

There was a great fumbling in six different pockets, and then a

handkerchief that made me young again merely to look at it was

produced. I took it thankfully and rubbed with energy, the little girl,

intensely interested, watching the operation and giving me advice.

“There—it’s all right now—a little more on the right—there—now it’s all

off.”

“Are you sure? No green left?” I anxiously asked.

“No, it’s red all over now,” she replied cheerfully. “Let me get home,”

thought I, very much upset by this information, “let me get home to my

dear, uncritical, admiring babies, who accept my nose as an example of

what a nose should be, and whatever its colour think it beautiful.” And

thrusting the handkerchief back into the little girl’s hands, I hurried

away down the path. She packed it away hastily, but it took some

seconds for it was of the size of a small sheet, and then came running

after me. “Where are you going?” she asked surprised, as I turned down

the path leading to the gate.

“Through this gate,” I replied with decision.

“But you mustn’t—we’re not allowed to go through there——”

So strong was the force of old habits in that place that at the words

_not allowed_ my hand dropped of itself from the latch; and at that

instant a voice calling quite close to us through the mist struck me

rigid.

“Elizabeth! Elizabeth!” called the voice, “Come in at once to your

lessons—Elizabeth! Elizabeth!”

“It’s Miss Robinson,” whispered the little girl, twinkling with

excitement; then, catching sight of my face, she said once more with

eager insistence, “Who are you?”

“Oh, I’m a ghost!” I cried with conviction, pressing my hands to my

forehead and looking round fearfully.

“Pooh,” said the little girl.

It was the last remark I heard her make, for there was a creaking of

approaching boots in the bushes, and seized by a frightful panic I

pulled the gate open with one desperate pull, flung it to behind me,

and fled out and away down the wide, misty fields.

The _Gotha Almanach_ says that the reigning cousin married the daughter

of a Mr. Johnstone, an Englishman, in 1885, and that in 1886 their only

child was born, Elizabeth.

_November_ 20_th_.—Last night we had ten degrees of frost (Fahrenheit),

and I went out the first thing this morning to see what had become of

the tea-roses, and behold, they were wide awake and quite

cheerful—covered with rime it is true, but anything but black and

shrivelled. Even those in boxes on each side of the verandah steps were

perfectly alive and full of buds, and one in particular, a Bouquet

d’Or, is a mass of buds, and would flower if it could get the least

encouragement. I am beginning to think that the tenderness of tea-roses

is much exaggerated, and am certainly very glad I had the courage to

try them in this northern garden. But I must not fly too boldly in the

face of Providence, and have ordered those in the boxes to be taken

into the greenhouse for the winter, and hope the Bouquet d’Or, in a

sunny place near the glass, may be induced to open some of those buds.

The greenhouse is only used as a refuge, and kept at a temperature just

above freezing, and is reserved entirely for such plants as cannot

stand the very coldest part of the winter out of doors. I don’t use it

for growing anything, because I don’t love things that will only bear

the garden for three or four months in the year and require coaxing and

petting for the rest of it. Give me a garden full of strong, healthy

creatures, able to stand roughness and cold without dismally giving in

and dying. I never could see that delicacy of constitution is pretty,

either in plants or women. No doubt there are many lovely flowers to be

had by heat and constant coaxing, but then for each of these there are

fifty others still lovelier that will gratefully grow in God’s

wholesome air and are blessed in return with a far greater intensity of

scent and colour.

We have been very busy till now getting the permanent beds into order

and planting the new tea-roses, and I am looking forward to next summer

with more hope than ever in spite of my many failures. I wish the years

would pass quickly that will bring my garden to perfection! The Persian

Yellows have gone into their new quarters, and their place is occupied

by the tea-rose Safrano; all the rose beds are carpeted with pansies

sown in July and transplanted in October, each bed having a separate

colour. The purple ones are the most charming and go well with every

rose, but I have white ones with Laurette Messimy, and yellow ones with

Safrano, and a new red sort in the big centre bed of red roses. Round

the semicircle on the south side of the little privet hedge two rows of

annual larkspurs in all their delicate shades have been sown, and just

beyond the larkspurs, on the grass, is a semicircle of standard tea and

pillar roses.

In front of the house the long borders have been stocked with

larkspurs, annual and perennial, columbines, giant poppies, pinks,

Madonna lilies, wallflowers, hollyhocks, perennial phloxes, peonies,

lavender, starworts, cornflowers, Lychnis chalcedonica, and bulbs

packed in wherever bulbs could go. These are the borders that were so

hardly used by the other gardener. The spring boxes for the verandah

steps have been filled with pink and white and yellow tulips. I love

tulips better than any other spring flower; they are the embodiment of

alert cheerfulness and tidy grace, and next to a hyacinth look like a

wholesome, freshly tubbed young girl beside a stout lady whose every

movement weighs down the air with patchouli. Their faint, delicate

scent is refinement itself; and is there anything in the world more

charming than the sprightly way they hold up their little faces to the

sun? I have heard them called bold and flaunting, but to me they seem

modest grace itself, only always on the alert to enjoy life as much as

they can and not afraid of looking the sun or anything else above them

in the face. On the grass there are two beds of them carpeted with

forget-me-nots; and in the grass, in scattered groups, are daffodils

and narcissus. Down the wilder shrubbery walks foxgloves and mulleins

will (I hope) shine majestic; and one cool corner, backed by a group of

firs, is graced by Madonna lilies, white foxgloves, and columbines.

In a distant glade I have made a spring garden round an oak tree that

stands alone in the sun—groups of crocuses, daffodils, narcissus,

hyacinths, and tulips, among such flowering shrubs and trees as Pirus

Malus spectabilis, floribunda, and coronaria; Prunus Juliana, Mahaleb,

serotina, triloba, and Pissardi; Cydonias and Weigelias in every

colour, and several kinds of Cratægus and other May lovelinesses. If

the weather behaves itself nicely, and we get gentle rains in due

season, I think this little corner will be beautiful—but what a big

“if” it is! Drought is our great enemy, and the two last summers each

contained five weeks of blazing, cloudless heat when all the ditches

dried up and the soil was like hot pastry. At such times the watering

is naturally quite beyond the strength of two men; but as a garden is a

place to be happy in, and not one where you want to meet a dozen

curious eyes at every turn, I should not like to have more than these

two, or rather one and a half—the assistant having stork-like

proclivities and going home in the autumn to his native Russia,

returning in the spring with the first warm winds. I want to keep him

over the winter, as there is much to be done even then, and I sounded

him on the point the other day. He is the most abject-looking of human

beings—lame, and afflicted with a hideous eye-disease; but he is a good

worker and plods along unwearyingly from sunrise to dusk.

“Pray, my good stork,” said I, or German words to that effect, “why

don’t you stay here altogether, instead of going home and rioting away

all you have earned?”

“I would stay,” he answered, “but I have my wife there in Russia.”

“Your wife!” I exclaimed, stupidly surprised that the poor deformed

creature should have found a mate—as though there were not a

superfluity of mates in the world—“I didn’t know you were married?”

“Yes, and I have two little children, and I don’t know what they would

do if I were not to come home. But it is a very expensive journey to

Russia, and costs me every time seven marks.”

“Seven marks!”

“Yes, it is a great sum.”

I wondered whether I should be able to get to Russia for seven marks,

supposing I were to be seized with an unnatural craving to go there.

All the labourers who work here from March to December are Russians and

Poles, or a mixture of both. We send a man over who can speak their

language, to fetch as many as he can early in the year, and they arrive

with their bundles, men and women and babies, and as soon as they have

got here and had their fares paid, they disappear in the night if they

get the chance, sometimes fifty of them at a time, to go and work

singly or in couples for the peasants, who pay them a _pfenning_ or two

more a day than we do, and let them eat with the family. From us they

get a mark and a half to two marks a day, and as many potatoes as they

can eat. The women get less, not because they work less, but because

they are women and must not be encouraged. The overseer lives with

them, and has a loaded revolver in his pocket and a savage dog at his

heels. For the first week or two after their arrival, the foresters and

other permanent officials keep guard at night over the houses they are

put into. I suppose they find it sleepy work; for certain it is that

spring after spring the same thing happens, fifty of them getting away

in spite of all our precautions, and we are left with our mouths open

and much out of pocket. This spring, by some mistake, they arrived

without their bundles, which had gone astray on the road, and, as they

travel in their best clothes, they refused utterly to work until their

luggage came. Nearly a week was lost waiting, to the despair of all in

authority.

Nor will any persuasions induce them to do anything on Saints’ days,

and there surely never was a church so full of them as the Russian

Church. In the spring, when every hour is of vital importance, the work

is constantly being interrupted by them, and the workers lie sleeping

in the sun the whole day, agreeably conscious that they are pleasing

themselves and the Church at one and the same time—a state of

perfection as rare as it is desirable. Reason unaided by Faith is of

course exasperated at this waste of precious time, and I confess that

during the first mild days after the long winter frost when it is

possible to begin to work the ground, I have sympathised with the gloom

of the Man of Wrath, confronted in one week by two or three empty days

on which no man will labour, and have listened in silence to his

remarks about distant Russian saints.

I suppose it was my own superfluous amount of civilisation that made me

pity these people when first I came to live among them. They herd

together like animals and do the work of animals; but in spite of the

armed overseer, the dirt and the rags, the meals of potatoes washed

down by weak vinegar and water, I am beginning to believe that they

would strongly object to soap, I am sure they would not wear new

clothes, and I hear them coming home from their work at dusk singing.

They are like little children or animals in their utter inability to

grasp the idea of a future; and after all, if you work all day in God’s

sunshine, when evening comes you are pleasantly tired and ready for

rest and not much inclined to find fault with your lot. I have not yet

persuaded myself, however, that the women are happy. They have to work

as hard as the men and get less for it; they have to produce offspring,

quite regardless of times and seasons and the general fitness of

things; they have to do this as expeditiously as possible, so that they

may not unduly interrupt the work in hand; nobody helps them, notices

them, or cares about them, least of all the husband. It is quite a

usual thing to see them working in the fields in the morning, and

working again in the afternoon, having in the interval produced a baby.

The baby is left to an old woman whose duty it is to look after babies

collectively. When I expressed my horror at the poor creatures working

immediately afterwards as though nothing had happened, the Man of Wrath

informed me that they did not suffer because they had never worn

corsets, nor had their mothers and grandmothers. We were riding

together at the time, and had just passed a batch of workers, and my

husband was speaking to the overseer, when a woman arrived alone, and

taking up a spade, began to dig. She grinned cheerfully at us as she

made a curtesy, and the overseer remarked that she had just been back

to the house and had a baby.

“Poor, _poor_ woman!” I cried, as we rode on, feeling for some occult

reason very angry with the Man of Wrath. “And her wretched husband

doesn’t care a rap, and will probably beat her to-night if his supper

isn’t right. What nonsense it is to talk about the equality of the

sexes when the women have the babies!”

“Quite so, my dear,” replied the Man of Wrath, smiling condescendingly.

“You have got to the very root of the matter. Nature, while imposing

this agreeable duty on the woman, weakens her and disables her for any

serious competition with man. How can a person who is constantly losing

a year of the best part of her life compete with a young man who never

loses any time at all? He has the brute force, and his last word on any

subject could always be his fist.”

I said nothing. It was a dull, gray afternoon in the beginning of

November, and the leaves dropped slowly and silently at our horses’

feet as we rode towards the Hirschwald.

“It is a universal custom,” proceeded the Man of Wrath, “amongst these

Russians, and I believe amongst the lower classes everywhere, and

certainly commendable on the score of simplicity, to silence a woman’s

objections and aspirations by knocking her down. I have heard it said

that this apparently brutal action has anything but the maddening

effect tenderly nurtured persons might suppose, and that the patient is

soothed and satisfied with a rapidity and completeness unattainable by

other and more polite methods. Do you suppose,” he went on, flicking a

twig off a tree with his whip as we passed, “that the intellectual

husband, wrestling intellectually with the chaotic yearnings of his

intellectual wife, ever achieves the result aimed at? He may and does

go on wrestling till he is tired, but never does he in the very least

convince her of her folly; while his brother in the ragged coat has got

through the whole business in less time than it takes me to speak about

it. There is no doubt that these poor women fulfil their vocation far

more thoroughly than the women in our class, and, as the truest:

happiness consists in finding one’s vocation quickly and continuing in

it all one’s days, I consider they are to be envied rather than not,

since they are early taught, by the impossibility of argument with

marital muscle, the impotence of female endeavour and the blessings of

content.”

“Pray go on,” I said politely.

“These women accept their beatings with a simplicity worthy of all

praise, and far from considering themselves insulted, admire the

strength and energy of the man who can administer such eloquent

rebukes. In Russia, not only _may_ a man beat his wife, but it is laid

down in the catechism and taught all boys at the time of confirmation

as necessary at least once a week, whether she has done anything or

not, for the sake of her general health and happiness.”

I thought I observed a tendency in the Man of Wrath rather to gloat

over these castigations.

“Pray, my dear man,” I said, pointing with my whip, “look at that baby

moon so innocently peeping at us over the edge of the mist just behind

that silver birch; and don’t talk so much about women and things you

don’t understand. What is the use of your bothering about fists and

whips and muscles and all the dreadful things invented for the

confusion of obstreperous wives? You know you are a civilised husband,

and a civilised husband is a creature who has ceased to be a man.”

“And a civilised wife?” he asked, bringing his horse close up beside me

and putting his arm round my waist, “has she ceased to be a woman?”

“I should think so indeed,—she is a goddess, and can never be

worshipped and adored enough.”

“It seems to me,” he said, “that the conversation is growing personal.”

I started off at a canter across the short, springy turf. The

Hirschwald is an enchanted place on such an evening, when the mists lie

low on the turf, and overhead the delicate, bare branches of the silver

birches stand out clear against the soft sky, while the little moon

looks down kindly on the damp November world. Where the trees thicken

into a wood, the fragrance of the wet earth and rotting leaves kicked

up by the horses’ hoofs fills my soul with delight. I particularly love

that smell,—it brings before me the entire benevolence of Nature, for

ever working death and decay, so piteous in themselves, into the means

of fresh life and glory, and sending up sweet odours as she works.

_December_ 7_th_.—I have been to England. I went for at least a month

and stayed a week in a fog and was blown home again in a gale. Twice I

fled before the fogs into the country to see friends with gardens, but

it was raining, and except the beautiful lawns (not to be had in the

Fatherland) and the infinite possibilities, there was nothing to

interest the intelligent and garden-loving foreigner, for the good

reason that you cannot be interested in gardens under an umbrella. So I

went back to the fogs, and after groping about for a few days more

began to long inordinately for Germany. A terrific gale sprang up after

I had started, and the journey both by sea and land was full of

horrors, the trains in Germany being heated to such an extent that it

is next to impossible to sit still, great gusts of hot air coming up

under the cushions, the cushions themselves being very hot, and the

wretched traveller still hotter.

But when I reached my home and got out of the train into the purest,

brightest snow-atmosphere, the air so still that the whole world seemed

to be listening, the sky cloudless, the crisp snow sparkling underfoot

and on the trees, and a happy row of three beaming babies awaiting me,

I was consoled for all my torments, only remembering them enough to

wonder why I had gone away at all.

The babies each had a kitten in one hand and an elegant bouquet of pine

needles and grass in the other, and what with the due presentation of

the bouquets and the struggles of the kittens, the hugging and kissing

was much interfered with. Kittens, bouquets, and babies were all

somehow squeezed into the sleigh, and off we went with jingling bells

and shrieks of delight. “Directly you comes home the fun begins,” said

the May baby, sitting very close to me. “How the snow purrs!” cried the

April baby, as the horses scrunched it up with their feet. The June

baby sat loudly singing “The King of Love my Shepherd is,” and swinging

her kitten round by its tail to emphasise the rhythm.

The house, half-buried in the snow, looked the very abode of peace, and

I ran through all the rooms, eager to take possession of them again,

and feeling as though I had been away for ever. When I got to the

library I came to a standstill,—ah, the dear room, what happy times I

have spent in it rummaging amongst the books, making plans for my

garden, building castles in the air, writing, dreaming, doing nothing!

There was a big peat fire blazing half up the chimney, and the old

housekeeper had put pots of flowers about, and on the writing-table was

a great bunch of violets scenting the room. “Oh, how _good_ it is to be

home again!” I sighed in my satisfaction. The babies clung about my

knees, looking up at me with eyes full of love. Outside the dazzling

snow and sunshine, inside the bright room and happy faces—I thought of

those yellow fogs and shivered. The library is not used by the Man of

Wrath; it is neutral ground where we meet in the evenings for an hour

before he disappears into his own rooms—a series of very smoky dens in

the southeast corner of the house. It looks, I am afraid, rather too

gay for an ideal library; and its colouring, white and yellow, is so

cheerful as to be almost frivolous. There are white bookcases all round

the walls, and there is a great fireplace, and four windows, facing

full south, opening on to my most cherished bit of garden, the bit

round the sun-dial; so that with so much colour and such a big fire and

such floods of sunshine it has anything but a sober air, in spite of

the venerable volumes filling the shelves. Indeed, I should never be

surprised if they skipped down from their places, and, picking up their

leaves, began to dance.

With this room to live in, I can look forward with perfect equanimity

to being snowed up for any time Providence thinks proper; and to go

into the garden in its snowed-up state is like going into a bath of

purity. The first breath on opening the door is so ineffably pure that

it makes me gasp, and I feel a black and sinful object in the midst of

all the spotlessness. Yesterday I sat out of doors near the sun-dial

the whole afternoon, with the thermometer so many degrees below

freezing that it will be weeks finding its way up again; but there was

no wind, and beautiful sunshine, and I was well wrapped up in furs. I

even had tea brought out there, to the astonishment of the menials, and

sat till long after the sun had set, enjoying the frosty air. I had to

drink the tea very quickly, for it showed a strong inclination to begin

to freeze. After the sun had gone down the rooks came home to their

nests in the garden with a great fuss and fluttering, and many

hesitations and squabbles before they settled on their respective

trees. They flew over my head in hundreds with a mighty swish of wings,

and when they had arranged themselves comfortably, an intense hush fell

upon the garden, and the house began to look like a Christmas card,

with its white roof against the clear, pale green of the western sky,

and lamplight shining in the windows.

I had been reading a Life of Luther, lent me by our parson, in the

intervals between looking round me and being happy. He came one day

with the book and begged me to read it, having discovered that my

interest in Luther was not as living as it ought to be; so I took it

out with me into the garden, because the dullest book takes on a

certain saving grace if read out of doors, just as bread and butter,

devoid of charm in the drawing-room, is ambrosia eaten under a tree. I

read Luther all the afternoon with pauses for refreshing glances at the

garden and the sky, and much thankfulness in my heart. His struggles

with devils amazed me; and I wondered whether such a day as that, full

of grace and the forgiveness of sins, never struck him as something to

make him relent even towards devils. He apparently never allowed

himself just to be happy. He was a wonderful man, but I am glad I was

not his wife.

Our parson is an interesting person, and untiring in his efforts to

improve himself. Both he and his wife study whenever they have a spare

moment, and there is a tradition that she stirs her puddings with one

hand and holds a Latin grammar in the other, the grammar, of course,

getting the greater share of her attention. To most German _Hausfraus_

the dinners and the puddings are of paramount importance, and they

pride themselves on keeping those parts of their houses that are seen

in a state of perpetual and spotless perfection, and this is

exceedingly praiseworthy; but, I would humbly inquire, are there not

other things even more important? And is not plain living and high

thinking better than the other way about? And all too careful making of

dinners and dusting of furniture takes a terrible amount of precious

time, and—and with shame I confess that my sympathies are all with the

pudding and the grammar. It cannot be right to be the slave of one’s

household gods, and I protest that if my furniture ever annoyed me by

wanting to be dusted when I wanted to be doing something else, and

there was no one to do the dusting for me, I would cast it all into the

nearest bonfire and sit and warm my toes at the flames with great

contentment, triumphantly selling my dusters to the very next pedlar

who was weak enough to buy them. Parsons’ wives have to do the

housework and cooking themselves, and are thus not only cooks and

housemaids, but if they have children—and they always do have

children—they are head and under nurse as well; and besides these

trifling duties have a good deal to do with their fruit and vegetable

garden, and everything to do with their poultry. This being so, is it

not pathetic to find a young woman bravely struggling to learn

languages and keep up with her husband? If I were that husband, those

puddings would taste sweetest to me that were served with Latin sauce.

They are both severely pious, and are for ever engaged in desperate

efforts to practise what they preach; than which, as we all know,

nothing is more difficult. He works in his parish with the most noble

self-devotion, and never loses courage, although his efforts have been

several times rewarded by disgusting libels pasted up on the

street-corners, thrown under doors, and even fastened to his own garden

wall. The peasant hereabouts is past belief low and animal, and a

sensitive, intellectual parson among them is really a pearl before

swine. For years he has gone on unflinchingly, filled with the most

living faith and hope and charity, and I sometimes wonder whether they

are any better now in his parish than they were under his predecessor,

a man who smoked and drank beer from Monday morning to Saturday night,

never did a stroke of work, and often kept the scanty congregation

waiting on Sunday afternoons while he finished his postprandial nap. It

is discouraging enough to make most men give in, and leave the parish

to get to heaven or not as it pleases; but he never seems discouraged,

and goes on sacrificing the best part of his life to these people when

all his tastes are literary, and all his inclinations towards the life

of the student. His convictions drag him out of his little home at all

hours to minister to the sick and exhort the wicked; they give him no

rest, and never let him feel he has done enough; and when he comes home

weary, after a day’s wrestling with his parishioners’ souls, he is

confronted on his doorstep by filthy abuse pasted up on his own front

door. He never speaks of these things, but how shall they be hid?

Everybody here knows everything that happens before the day is over,

and what we have for dinner is of far greater general interest than the

most astounding political earthquake. They have a pretty, roomy

cottage, and a good bit of ground adjoining the churchyard. His

predecessor used to hang out his washing on the tombstones to dry, but

then he was a person entirely lost to all sense of decency, and had

finally to be removed, preaching a farewell sermon of a most

vituperative description, and hurling invective at the Man of Wrath,

who sat up in his box drinking in every word and enjoying himself

thoroughly. The Man of Wrath likes novelty, and such a sermon had never

been heard before. It is spoken of in the village to this day with

bated breath and awful joy.

_December_ 22_nd_.—Up to now we have had a beautiful winter. Clear

skies, frost, little wind, and, except for a sharp touch now and then,

very few really cold days. My windows are gay with hyacinths and lilies

of the valley; and though, as I have said, I don’t admire the smell of

hyacinths in the spring when it seems wanting in youth and chastity

next to that of other flowers, I am glad enough now to bury my nose in

their heavy sweetness. In December one cannot afford to be fastidious;

besides, one is actually less fastidious about everything in the

winter. The keen air braces soul as well as body into robustness, and

the food and the perfume disliked in the summer are perfectly welcome

then.

I am very busy preparing for Christmas, but have often locked myself up

in a room alone, shutting out my unfinished duties, to study the flower

catalogues and make my lists of seeds and shrubs and trees for the

spring. It is a fascinating occupation, and acquires an additional

charm when you know you ought to be doing something else, that

Christmas is at the door, that children and servants and farm hands

depend on you for their pleasure, and that, if you don’t see to the

decoration of the trees and house, and the buying of the presents,

nobody else will. The hours fly by shut up with those catalogues and

with Duty snarling on the other side of the door. I don’t like

Duty—everything in the least disagreeable is always sure to be one’s

duty. Why cannot it be my duty to make lists and plans for the dear

garden? “And so it _is_,” I insisted to the Man of Wrath, when he

protested against what he called wasting my time upstairs. “No,” he

replied sagely; “your garden is not your duty, because it is your

Pleasure.”

What a comfort it is to have such wells of wisdom constantly at my

disposal! Anybody can have a husband, but to few is it given to have a

sage, and the combination of both is as rare as it is useful. Indeed,

in its practical utility the only thing I ever saw to equal it is a

sofa my neighbour has bought as a Christmas surprise for her husband,

and which she showed me the last time I called there—a beautiful

invention, as she explained, combining a bedstead, a sofa, and a chest

of drawers, and into which you put your clothes, and on top of which

you put yourself, and if anybody calls in the middle of the night and

you happen to be using the drawing-room as a bedroom, you just pop the

bedclothes inside, and there you are discovered sitting on your sofa

and looking for all the world as though you had been expecting visitors

for hours.

“Pray, does he wear pyjamas?” I inquired.

But she had never heard of pyjamas.

It takes a long time to make my spring lists. I want to have a border

all yellow, every shade of yellow from fieriest orange to nearly white,

and the amount of work and studying of gardening books it costs me will

only be appreciated by beginners like myself. I have been weeks

planning it, and it is not nearly finished. I want it to be a

succession of glories from May till the frosts, and the chief feature

is to be the number of “ardent marigolds”—flowers that I very tenderly

love—and nasturtiums. The nasturtiums are to be of every sort and

shade, and are to climb and creep and grow in bushes, and show their

lovely flowers and leaves to the best advantage. Then there are to be

eschscholtzias, dahlias, sunflowers, zinnias, scabiosa, portulaca,

yellow violas, yellow stocks, yellow sweet-peas, yellow

lupins—everything that is yellow or that has a yellow variety. The

place I have chosen for it is a long, wide border in the sun, at the

foot of a grassy slope crowned with lilacs and pines, and facing

southeast. You go through a little pine wood, and, turning a corner,

are to come suddenly upon this bit of captured morning glory. I want it

to be blinding in its brightness after the dark, cool path through the

wood.

That is the idea. Depression seizes me when I reflect upon the probable

difference between the idea and its realisation. I am ignorant, and the

gardener is, I do believe, still more so; for he was forcing some

tulips, and they have all shrivelled up and died, and he says he cannot

imagine why. Besides, he is in love with the cook, and is going to

marry her after Christmas, and refuses to enter into any of my plans

with the enthusiasm they deserve, but sits with vacant eye dreamily

chopping wood from morning till night to keep the beloved one’s kitchen

fire well supplied. I cannot understand any one preferring cooks to

marigolds; those future marigolds, shadowy as they are, and whose seeds

are still sleeping at the seedsman’s, have shone through my winter days

like golden lamps.

I wish with all my heart I were a man, for of course the first thing I

should do would be to buy a spade and go and garden, and then I should

have the delight of doing everything for my flowers with my own hands

and need not waste time explaining what I want done to somebody else.

It is dull work giving orders and trying to describe the bright visions

of one’s brain to a person who has no visions and no brain, and who

thinks a yellow bed should be calceolarias edged with blue.

I have taken care in choosing my yellow plants to put down only those

humble ones that are easily pleased and grateful for little, for my

soil is by no means all that it might be, and to most plants the

climate is rather trying. I feel really grateful to any flower that is

sturdy and willing enough to flourish here. Pansies seem to like the

place and so do sweet-peas; pinks don’t, and after much coaxing gave

hardly any flowers last summer. Nearly all the roses were a success, in

spite of the sandy soil, except the tea-rose Adam, which was covered

with buds ready to open, when they suddenly turned brown and died, and

three standard Dr. Grills which stood in a row and simply sulked. I had

been very excited about Dr. Grill, his description in the catalogues

being specially fascinating, and no doubt I deserved the snubbing I

got. “Never be excited, my dears, about _anything_,” shall be the

advice I will give the three babies when the time comes to take them

out to parties, “or, if you are, don’t show it. If by nature you are

volcanoes, at least be only smouldering ones. Don’t look pleased, don’t

look interested, don’t, above all things, look eager. Calm indifference

should be written on every feature of your faces. Never show that you

like any one person, or any one thing. Be cool, languid, and reserved.

If you don’t do as your mother tells you and are just gushing, frisky,

young idiots, snubs will be your portion. If you do as she tells you,

you’ll marry princes and live happily ever after.”

Dr. Grill must be a German rose. In this part of the world the more you

are pleased to see a person the less is he pleased to see you; whereas,

if you are disagreeable, he will grow pleasant visibly, his countenance

expanding into wider amiability the more your own is stiff and sour.

But I was not prepared for that sort of thing in a rose, and was

disgusted with Dr. Grill. He had the best place in the garden—warm,

sunny, and sheltered; his holes were prepared with the tenderest care;

he was given the most dainty mixture of compost, clay, and manure; he

was watered assiduously all through the drought when more willing

flowers got nothing; and he refused to do anything but look black and

shrivel. He did not die, but neither did he live—he just existed; and

at the end of the summer not one of him had a scrap more shoot or leaf

than when he was first put in in April. It would have been better if he

had died straight away, for then I should have known what to do; as it

is, there he is still occupying the best place, wrapped up carefully

for the winter, excluding kinder roses, and probably intending to

repeat the same conduct next year. Well, trials are the portion of

mankind, and gardeners have their share, and in any case it is better

to be tried by plants than persons, seeing that with plants you know

that it is you who are in the wrong, and with persons it is always the

other way about—and who is there among us who has not felt the pangs of

injured innocence, and known them to be grievous?

I have two visitors staying with me, though I have done nothing to

provoke such an infliction, and had been looking forward to a happy

little Christmas alone with the Man of Wrath and the babies. Fate

decreed otherwise. Quite regularly, if I look forward to anything, Fate

steps in and decrees otherwise; I don’t know why it should, but it

does. I had not even invited these good ladies—like greatness on the

modest, they were thrust upon me. One is Irais, the sweet singer of the

summer, whom I love as she deserves, but of whom I certainly thought I

had seen the last for at least a year, when she wrote and asked if I

would have her over Christmas, as her husband was out of sorts, and she

didn’t like him in that state. Neither do I like sick husbands, so,

full of sympathy, I begged her to come, and here she is. And the other

is Minora.

Why I have to have Minora I don’t know, for I was not even aware of her

existence a fortnight ago. Then coming down cheerfully one morning to

breakfast—it was the very day after my return from England—I found a

letter from an English friend, who up till then had been perfectly

innocuous, asking me to befriend Minora. I read the letter aloud for

the benefit of the Man of Wrath, who was eating _Spickgans_, a delicacy

much sought after in these parts. “Do, my dear Elizabeth,” wrote my

friend, “take some notice of the poor thing. She is studying art in

Dresden, and has nowhere literally to go for Christmas. She is very

ambitious and hardworking—”

“Then,” interrupted the Man of Wrath, “she is not pretty. Only ugly

girls work hard.”

“—and she is really very clever—”

“I do not like clever girls, they are so stupid,” again interrupted the

Man of Wrath.

“—and unless some kind creature like yourself takes pity on her she

will be very lonely.”

“Then let her be lonely.”

“Her mother is my oldest friend, and would be greatly distressed to

think that her daughter should be alone in a foreign town at such a

season.”

“I do not mind the distress of the mother.”

“Oh, dear me,” I exclaimed impatiently, “I shall have to ask her to

come!”

“If you _should_ be inclined,” the letter went on, “to play the good

Samaritan, dear Elizabeth, I am positive you would find Minora a

bright, intelligent companion—”

“Minora?” questioned the Man of Wrath.

The April baby, who has had a nursery governess of an altogether

alarmingly zealous type attached to her person for the last six weeks,

looked up from her bread and milk.

“It sounds like islands,” she remarked pensively.

The governess coughed.

“Majora, Minora, Alderney, and Sark,” explained her pupil.

I looked at her severely.

“If you are not careful, April,” I said, “you’ll be a genius when you

grow up and disgrace your parents.”

Miss Jones looked as though she did not like Germans. I am afraid she

despises us because she thinks we are foreigners—an attitude of mind

quite British and wholly to her credit; but we, on the other hand,

regard _her_ as a foreigner, which, of course, makes things

complicated.

“Shall I really have to have this strange girl?” I asked, addressing

nobody in particular and not expecting a reply.

“You need not have her,” said the Man of Wrath composedly, “but you

will. You will write to-day and cordially invite her, and when she has

been here twenty-four hours you will quarrel with her. I know you, my

dear.”

“Quarrel! I? With a little art-student?”

Miss Jones cast down her eyes. She is perpetually scenting a scene, and

is always ready to bring whole batteries of discretion and tact and

good taste to bear on us, and seems to know we are disputing in an

unseemly manner when we would never dream it ourselves but for the

warning of her downcast eyes. I would take my courage in both hands and

ask her to go, for besides this superfluity of discreet behaviour she

is, although only nursery, much too zealous, and inclined to be always

teaching and never playing; but, unfortunately, the April baby adores

her and is sure there never was any one so beautiful before. She comes

every day with fresh accounts of the splendours of her wardrobe, and

feeling descriptions of her umbrellas and hats; and Miss Jones looks

offended and purses up her lips. In common with most governesses, she

has a little dark down on her upper lip, and the April baby appeared

one day at dinner with her own decorated in faithful imitation, having

achieved it after much struggling, with the aid of a lead pencil and

unbounded love. Miss Jones put her in the corner for impertinence. I

wonder why governesses are so unpleasant. The Man of Wrath says it is

because they are not married. Without venturing to differ entirely from

the opinion of experience, I would add that the strain of continually

having to set an example must surely be very great. It is much easier,

and often more pleasant, to be a warning than an example, and

governesses are but women, and women are sometimes foolish, and when

you want to be foolish it must be annoying to have to be wise.

Minora and Irais arrived yesterday together; or rather, when the

carriage drove up, Irais got out of it alone, and informed me that

there was a strange girl on a bicycle a little way behind. I sent back

the carriage to pick her up, for it was dusk and the roads are

terrible.

“But why do you have strange girls here at all?” asked Irais rather

peevishly, taking off her hat in the library before the fire, and

otherwise making herself very much at home; “I don’t like them. I’m not

sure that they’re not worse than husbands who are out of order. Who is

she? She would bicycle from the station, and is, I am sure, the first

woman who has done it. The little boys threw stones at her.”

“Oh, my dear, that only shows the ignorance of the little boys. Never

mind her. Let us have tea in peace before she comes.”

“But we should be much happier without her,” she grumbled. “Weren’t we

happy enough in the summer, Elizabeth—just you and I?”

“Yes, indeed we were,” I answered heartily, putting my arms round her.

The flame of my affection for Irais burns very brightly on the day of

her arrival; besides, this time I have prudently provided against her

sinning with the salt-cellars by ordering them to be handed round like

vegetable dishes. We had finished tea and she had gone up to her room

to dress before Minora and her bicycle were got here. I hurried out to

meet her, feeling sorry for her, plunged into a circle of strangers at

such a very personal season as Christmas. But she was not very shy;

indeed, she was less shy than I was, and lingered in the hall, giving

the servants directions to wipe the snow off the tyres of her machine

before she lent an attentive ear to my welcoming remarks.

“I couldn’t make your man understand me at the station,” she said at

last, when her mind was at rest about her bicycle; “I asked him how far

it was, and what the roads were like, and he only smiled. Is he German?

But of course he is—how odd that he didn’t understand. You speak

English very well,—very well indeed, do you know.” By this time we were

in the library, and she stood on the hearth-rug warming her back while

I poured her out some tea.

“What a quaint room,” she remarked, looking round, “and the hall is so

curious too. Very old, isn’t it? There’s a lot of copy here.”

The Man of Wrath, who had been in the hall on her arrival and had come

in with us, began to look about on the carpet. “Copy?” he inquired,

“Where’s copy?”

“Oh—material, you know, for a book. I’m just jotting down what strikes

me in your country, and when I have time shall throw it into book

form.” She spoke very loud, as English people always do to foreigners.

“My dear,” I said breathlessly to Irais, when I had got into her room

and shut the door and Minora was safely in hers, “what do you think—she

writes books!”

“What—the bicycling girl?”

“Yes—Minora—imagine it!”

We stood and looked at each other with awestruck faces.

“How dreadful!” murmured Irais. “I never met a young girl who did that

before.”

“She says this place is full of copy.”

“Full of what?”

“That’s what you make books with.”

“Oh, my dear, this is worse than I expected! A strange girl is always a

bore among good friends, but one can generally manage her. But a girl

who writes books—why, it isn’t respectable! And you can’t snub that

sort of people; they’re unsnubbable.”

“Oh, but we’ll try!” I cried, with such heartiness that we both

laughed.

The hall and the library struck Minora most; indeed, she lingered so

long after dinner in the hall, which is cold, that the Man of Wrath put

on his fur coat by way of a gentle hint. His hints are always gentle.

She wanted to hear the whole story about the chapel and the nuns and

Gustavus Adolphus, and pulling out a fat note-book began to take down

what I said. I at once relapsed into silence.

“Well?” she said.

“That’s all.”

“Oh, but you’ve only just begun.”

“It doesn’t go any further. Won’t you come into the library?”

In the library she again took up her stand before the fire and warmed

herself, and we sat in a row and were cold. She has a wonderfully good

profile, which is irritating. The wind, however, is tempered to the

shorn lamb by her eyes being set too closely together.

Irais lit a cigarette, and leaning back in her chair, contemplated her

critically beneath her long eyelashes. “You are writing a book?” she

asked presently.

“Well—yes, I suppose I may say that I am. Just my impressions, you

know, of your country. Anything that strikes me as curious or amusing—I

jot it down, and when I have time shall work it up into something, I

daresay.”

“Are you not studying painting?”

“Yes, but I can’t study that for ever. We have an English proverb:

‘Life is short and Art is long’—too long, I sometimes think—and writing

is a great relaxation when I am tired.”

“What shall you call it?”

“Oh, I thought of calling it _Journeyings in Germany_. It sounds well,

and would be correct. Or _Jottings from German Journeyings_,—I haven’t

quite decided yet which.”

“By the author of _Prowls in Pomerania_, you might add,” suggested

Irais.

“And _Drivel from Dresden_,” said I.

“And _Bosh from Berlin_,” added Irais.

Minora stared. “I don’t think those two last ones would do,” she said,

“because it is not to be a facetious book. But your first one is rather

a good title,” she added, looking at Irais and drawing out her

note-book. “I think I’ll just jot that down.”

“If you jot down all we say and then publish it, will it still be your

book?” asked Irais.

But Minora was so busy scribbling that she did not hear.

“And have _you_ no suggestions to make, Sage?” asked Irais, turning to

the Man of Wrath, who was blowing out clouds of smoke in silence.

“Oh, do you call him Sage?” cried Minora; “and always in English?”

Irais and I looked at each other. We knew what we did call him, and

were afraid Minora would in time ferret it out and enter it in her

note-book. The Man of Wrath looked none too well pleased to be alluded

to under his very nose by our new guest as “him.”

“Husbands are always sages,” said I gravely.

“Though sages are not always husbands,” said Irais with equal gravity.

“Sages and husbands—sage and husbands—” she went on musingly, “what

does that remind you of, Miss Minora?”

“Oh, I know,—how stupid of me!” cried Minora eagerly, her pencil in

mid-air and her brain clutching at the elusive recollection, “sage

and,—why,—yes,—no,—yes, of course—oh,” disappointedly, “but that’s

vulgar—I can’t put it in.”

“What is vulgar?” I asked.

“She thinks sage and onions is vulgar,” said Irais languidly; “but it

isn’t, it is very good.” She got up and walked to the piano, and,

sitting down, began, after a little wandering over the keys, to sing.

“Do you play?” I asked Minora.

“Yes, but I am afraid I am rather out of practice.”

I said no more. I know what _that_ sort of playing is.

When we were lighting our bedroom candles Minora began suddenly to

speak in an unknown tongue. We stared. “What is the matter with her?”

murmured Irais.

“I thought, perhaps,” said Minora in English, “you might prefer to talk

German, and as it is all the same to me what I talk—”

“Oh, pray don’t trouble,” said Irais. “We like airing our English—don’t

we, Elizabeth?”

“I don’t want my German to get rusty though,” said Minora; “I shouldn’t

like to forget it.”

“Oh, but isn’t there an English song,” said Irais, twisting round her

neck as she preceded us upstairs, “‘’Tis folly to remember, ’tis wisdom

to forget’?”

“You are not nervous sleeping alone, I hope,” I said hastily.

“What room is she in?” asked Irais.

“No. 12.”

“Oh!—do you believe in ghosts?”

Minora turned pale.

“What nonsense,” said I; “we have no ghosts here. Good-night. If you

want anything, mind you ring.”

“And if you see anything curious in that room,” called Irais from her

bedroom door, “mind you jot it down.”

_December_ 27_th_—It is the fashion, I believe, to regard Christmas as

a bore of rather a gross description, and as a time when you are

invited to over-eat yourself, and pretend to be merry without just

cause. As a matter of fact, it is one of the prettiest and most poetic

institutions possible, if observed in the proper manner, and after

having been more or less unpleasant to everybody for a whole year, it

is a blessing to be forced on that one day to be amiable, and it is

certainly delightful to be able to give presents without being haunted

by the conviction that you are spoiling the recipient, and will suffer

for it afterward. Servants are only big children, and are made just as

happy as children by little presents and nice things to eat, and, for

days beforehand, every time the three babies go into the garden they

expect to meet the Christ Child with His arms full of gifts. They

firmly believe that it is thus their presents are brought, and it is

such a charming idea that Christmas would be worth celebrating for its

sake alone.

As great secrecy is observed, the preparations devolve entirely on me,

and it is not very easy work, with so many people in our own house and

on each of the farms, and all the children, big and little, expecting

their share of happiness. The library is uninhabitable for several days

before and after, as it is there that we have the trees and presents.

All down one side are the trees, and the other three sides are lined

with tables, a separate one for each person in the house. When the

trees are lighted, and stand in their radiance shining down on the

happy faces, I forget all the trouble it has been, and the number of

times I have had to run up and down stairs, and the various aches in

head and feet, and enjoy myself as much as anybody. First the June baby

is ushered in, then the others and ourselves according to age, then the

servants, then come the head inspector and his family, the other

inspectors from the different farms, the mamsells, the bookkeepers and

secretaries, and then all the children, troops and troops of them—the

big ones leading the little ones by the hand and carrying the babies in

their arms, and the mothers peeping round the door. As many as can get

in stand in front of the trees, and sing two or three carols; then they

are given their presents, and go off triumphantly, making room for the

next batch. My three babies sang lustily too, whether they happened to

know what was being sung or not. They had on white dresses in honour of

the occasion, and the June baby was even arrayed in a low-necked and

short-sleeved garment, after the manner of Teutonic infants, whatever

the state of the thermometer. Her arms are like miniature

prize-fighter’s arms—I never saw such things; they are the pride and

joy of her little nurse, who had tied them up with blue ribbons, and

kept on kissing them. I shall certainly not be able to take her to

balls when she grows up, if she goes on having arms like that.

When they came to say good-night, they were all very pale and subdued.

The April baby had an exhausted-looking Japanese doll with her, which

she said she was taking to bed, not because she liked him, but because

she was so sorry for him, he seemed so very tired. They kissed me

absently, and went away, only the April baby glancing at the trees as

she passed and making them a curtesy.

“Good-bye, trees,” I heard her say; and then she made the Japanese doll

bow to them, which he did, in a very languid and blasé fashion.

“_You’ll_ never see such trees again,” she told him, giving him a

vindictive shake, “for you’ll be brokened _long_ before next time.”

She went out, but came back as though she had forgotten something.

“Thank the _Christkind_ so _much_, Mummy, won’t you, for all the lovely

things He brought us. I suppose you’re writing to Him now, isn’t you?”

I cannot see that there was anything gross about our Christmas, and we

were perfectly merry without any need to pretend, and for at least two

days it brought us a little nearer together, and made us kind.

Happiness is so wholesome; it invigorates and warms me into piety far

more effectually than any amount of trials and griefs, and an

unexpected pleasure is the surest means of bringing me to my knees. In

spite of the protestations of some peculiarly constructed persons that

they are the better for trials, I don’t believe it. Such things must

sour us, just as happiness must sweeten us, and make us kinder, and

more gentle. And will anybody affirm that it behoves us to be more

thankful for trials than for blessings? We were meant to be happy, and

to accept all the happiness offered with thankfulness—indeed, we are

none of us ever thankful enough, and yet we each get so much, so very

much, more than we deserve. I know a woman—she stayed with me last

summer—who rejoices grimly when those she loves suffer. She believes

that it is our lot, and that it braces us and does us good, and she

would shield no one from even unnecessary pain; she weeps with the

sufferer, but is convinced it is all for the best. Well, let her

continue in her dreary beliefs; she has no garden to teach her the

beauty and the happiness of holiness, nor does she in the least desire

to possess one; her convictions have the sad gray colouring of the

dingy streets and houses she lives amongst—the sad colour of humanity

in masses. Submission to what people call their “lot” is simply

ignoble. If your lot makes you cry and be wretched, get rid of it and

take another; strike out for yourself; don’t listen to the shrieks of

your relations, to their gibes or their entreaties; don’t let your own

microscopic set prescribe your goings-out and comings-in; don’t be

afraid of public opinion in the shape of the neighbour in the next

house, when all the world is before you new and shining, and everything

is possible, if you will only be energetic and independent and seize

opportunity by the scruff of the neck.

“To hear you talk,” said Irais, “no one would ever imagine that you

dream away your days in a garden with a book, and that you never in

your life seized anything by the scruff of its neck. And what is

scruff? I hope I have not got any on me.” And she craned her neck

before the glass.

She and Minora were going to help me decorate the trees, but very soon

Irais wandered off to the piano, and Minora was tired and took up a

book; so I called in Miss Jones and the babies—it was Miss Jones’s last

public appearance, as I shall relate—and after working for the best

part of two days they were finished, and looked like lovely ladies in

widespreading, sparkling petticoats, holding up their skirts with

glittering fingers. Minora wrote a long description of them for a

chapter of her book which is headed _Noel_,—I saw that much, because

she left it open on the table while she went to talk to Miss Jones.

They were fast friends from the very first, and though it is said to be

natural to take to one’s own countrymen, I am unable altogether to

sympathise with such a reason for sudden affection.

“I wonder what they talk about?” I said to Irais yesterday, when there

was no getting Minora to come to tea, so deeply was she engaged in

conversation with Miss Jones.

“Oh, my dear, how can I tell? Lovers, I suppose, or else they think

they are clever, and then they talk rubbish.”

“Well, of course, Minora thinks she is clever.”

“I suppose she does. What does it matter what she thinks? Why does your

governess look so gloomy? When I see her at luncheon I always imagine

she must have just heard that somebody is dead. But she can’t hear that

every day. What is the matter with her?”

“I don’t think she feels quite as proper as she looks,” I said

doubtfully; I was for ever trying to account for Miss Jones’s

expression.

“But that must be rather nice,” said Irais. “It would be awful for her

if she felt exactly the same as she looks.”

At that moment the door leading into the schoolroom opened softly, and

the April baby, tired of playing, came in and sat down at my feet,

leaving the door open; and this is what we heard Miss Jones saying—

“Parents are seldom wise, and the strain the conscientious place upon

themselves to appear so before their children and governess must be

terrible. Nor are clergymen more pious than other men, yet they have

continually to pose before their flock as such. As for governesses,

Miss Minora, I know what I am saying when I affirm that there is

nothing more intolerable than to have to be polite, and even humble, to

persons whose weaknesses and follies are glaringly apparent in every

word they utter, and to be forced by the presence of children and

employers to a dignity of manner in no way corresponding to one’s

feelings. The grave father of a family, who was probably one of the

least respectable of bachelors, is an interesting study at his own

table, where he is constrained to assume airs of infallibility merely

because his children are looking at him. The fact of his being a parent

does not endow him with any supreme and sudden virtue; and I can assure

you that among the eyes fixed upon him, not the least critical and

amused are those of the humble person who fills the post of governess.”

“Oh, Miss Jones, how lovely!” we heard Minora say in accents of

rapture, while we sat transfixed with horror at these sentiments. “Do

you mind if I put that down in my book? You say it all so beautifully.”

“Without a few hours of relaxation,” continued Miss Jones, “of private

indemnification for the toilsome virtues displayed in public, who could

wade through days of correct behaviour? There would be no reaction, no

room for better impulses, no place for repentance. Parents, priests,

and governesses would be in the situation of a stout lady who never has

a quiet moment in which she can take off her corsets.”

“My dear, what a firebrand!” whispered Irais. I got up and went in.

They were sitting on the sofa, Minora with clasped hands, gazing

admiringly into Miss Jones’s face, which wore a very different

expression from the one of sour and unwilling propriety I have been

used to seeing.

“May I ask you to come to tea?” I said to Minora. “And I should like to

have the children a little while.”

She got up very reluctantly, but I waited with the door open until she

had gone in and the two babies had followed. They had been playing at

stuffing each other’s ears with pieces of newspaper while Miss Jones

provided Minora with noble thoughts for her work, and had to be

tortured afterward with tweezers. I said nothing to Minora, but kept

her with us till dinner-time, and this morning we went for a long

sleigh-drive. When we came in to lunch there was no Miss Jones.

“Is Miss Jones ill?” asked Minora.

“She is gone,” I said.

“Gone?”

“Did you never hear of such things as sick mothers?” asked Irais

blandly; and we talked resolutely of something else.

All the afternoon Minora has moped. She had found a kindred spirit, and

it has been ruthlessly torn from her arms as kindred spirits so often

are. It is enough to make her mope, and it is not her fault, poor

thing, that she should have preferred the society of a Miss Jones to

that of Irais and myself.

At dinner Irais surveyed her with her head on one side. “You look so

pale,” she said; “are you not well?”

Minora raised her eyes heavily, with the patient air of one who likes

to be thought a sufferer. “I have a slight headache,” she replied

gently.

“I hope you are not going to be ill,” said Irais with great concern,

“because there is only a cow-doctor to be had here, and though he means

well, I believe he is rather rough.” Minora was plainly startled. “But

what do you do if you are ill?” she asked.

“Oh, we are never ill,” said I; “the very knowledge that there would be

no one to cure us seems to keep us healthy.”

“And if any one takes to her bed,” said Irais, “Elizabeth always calls

in the cow-doctor.”

Minora was silent. She feels, I am sure, that she has got into a part

of the world peopled solely by barbarians, and that the only civilised

creature besides herself has departed and left her at our mercy.

Whatever her reflections may be her symptoms are visibly abating.

_January_ 1_st_.—The service on New Year’s Eve is the only one in the

whole year that in the least impresses me in our little church, and

then the very bareness and ugliness of the place and the ceremonial

produce an effect that a snug service in a well-lit church never would.

Last night we took Irais and Minora, and drove the three lonely miles

in a sleigh. It was pitch-dark, and blowing great guns. We sat wrapped

up to our eyes in furs, and as mute as a funeral procession.

“We are going to the burial of our last year’s sins,” said Irais, as we

started; and there certainly was a funereal sort of feeling in the air.

Up in our gallery pew we tried to decipher our chorales by the light of

the spluttering tallow candles stuck in holes in the woodwork, the

flames wildly blown about by the draughts. The wind banged against the

windows in great gusts, screaming louder than the organ, and

threatening to blow out the agitated lights together. The parson in his

gloomy pulpit, surrounded by a framework of dusty carved angels, took

on an awful appearance of menacing Authority as he raised his voice to

make himself heard above the clatter. Sitting there in the dark, I felt

very small, and solitary, and defenceless, alone in a great, big, black

world. The church was as cold as a tomb; some of the candles guttered

and went out; the parson in his black robe spoke of death and judgment;

I thought I heard a child’s voice screaming, and could hardly believe

it was only the wind, and felt uneasy and full of forebodings; all my

faith and philosophy deserted me, and I had a horrid feeling that I

should probably be well punished, though for what I had no precise

idea. If it had not been so dark, and if the wind had not howled so

despairingly, I should have paid little attention to the threats

issuing from the pulpit; but, as it was, I fell to making good

resolutions. This is always a bad sign,—only those who break them make

them; and if you simply do as a matter of course that which is right as

it comes, any preparatory resolving to do so becomes completely

superfluous. I have for some years past left off making them on New

Year’s Eve, and only the gale happening as it did reduced me to doing

so last night; for I have long since discovered that, though the year

and the resolutions may be new, I myself am not, and it is worse than

useless putting new wine into old bottles.

“But I am not an old bottle,” said Irais indignantly, when I held forth

to her to the above effect a few hours later in the library, restored

to all my philosophy by the warmth and light, “and I find my

resolutions carry me very nicely into the spring. I revise them at the

end of each month, and strike out the unnecessary ones. By the end of

April they have been so severely revised that there are none left.”

“There, you see I am right; if you were not an old bottle your new

contents would gradually arrange themselves amiably as a part of you,

and the practice of your resolutions would lose its bitterness by

becoming a habit.”

She shook her head. “Such things never lose their bitterness,” she

said, “and that is why I don’t let them cling to me right into the

summer. When May comes, I give myself up to jollity with all the rest

of the world, and am too busy being happy to bother about anything I

may have resolved when the days were cold and dark.”

“And that is just why I love you,” I thought. She often says what I

feel.

“I wonder,” she went on after a pause, “whether men ever make

resolutions?”

“I don’t think they do. Only women indulge in such luxuries. It is a

nice sort of feeling, when you have nothing else to do, giving way to

endless grief and penitence, and steeping yourself to the eyes in

contrition; but it is silly. Why cry over things that are done? Why do

naughty things at all, if you are going to repent afterward? Nobody is

naughty unless they like being naughty; and nobody ever really repents

unless they are afraid they are going to be found out.”

“By ‘nobody’ of course you mean women,” said Irais.

“Naturally; the terms are synonymous. Besides, men generally have the

courage of their opinions.”

“I hope you are listening, Miss Minora,” said Irais in the amiably

polite tone she assumes whenever she speaks to that young person.

It was getting on towards midnight, and we were sitting round the fire,

waiting for the New Year, and sipping _Glühwein_, prepared at a small

table by the Man of Wrath. It was hot, and sweet, and rather nasty, but

it is proper to drink it on this one night, so of course we did.

Minora does not like either Irais or myself. We very soon discovered

that, and laugh about it when we are alone together. I can understand

her disliking Irais, but she must be a perverse creature not to like

me. Irais has poked fun at her, and I have been, I hope, very kind; yet

we are bracketed together in her black books. It is also apparent that

she looks upon the Man of Wrath as an interesting example of an

ill-used and misunderstood husband, and she is disposed to take him

under her wing, and defend him on all occasions against us. He never

speaks to her; he is at all times a man of few words, but, as far as

Minora is concerned, he might have no tongue at all, and sits

sphinx-like and impenetrable while she takes us to task about some

remark of a profane nature that we may have addressed to him. One

night, some days after her arrival, she developed a skittishness of

manner which has since disappeared, and tried to be playful with him;

but you might as well try to be playful with a graven image. The wife

of one of the servants had just produced a boy, the first after a

series of five daughters, and at dinner we drank the health of all

parties concerned, the Man of Wrath making the happy father drink a

glass off at one gulp, his heels well together in military fashion.

Minora thought the incident typical of German manners, and not only

made notes about it, but joined heartily in the health-drinking, and

afterward grew skittish.

She proposed, first of all, to teach us a dance called, I think, the

Washington Post, and which was, she said, much danced in England; and,

to induce us to learn, she played the tune to us on the piano. We

remained untouched by its beauties, each buried in an easy-chair

toasting our toes at the fire. Amongst those toes were those of the Man

of Wrath, who sat peaceably reading a book and smoking. Minora

volunteered to show us the steps, and as we still did not move, danced

solitary behind our chairs. Irais did not even turn her head to look,

and I was the only one amiable or polite enough to do so. Do I deserve

to be placed in Minora’s list of disagreeable people side by side with

Irais? Certainly not. Yet I most surely am.

“It wants the music, of course,” observed Minora breathlessly, darting

in and out between the chairs, apparently addressing me, but glancing

at the Man of Wrath.

No answer from anybody.

“It is _such_ a pretty dance,” she panted again, after a few more

gyrations.

No answer.

“And is all the rage at home.”

No answer.

“Do let me teach you. Won’t _you_ try, Herr Sage?”

She went up to him and dropped him a little curtesy. It is thus she

always addresses him, entirely oblivious to the fact, so patent to

every one else, that he resents it.

“Oh come, put away that tiresome old book,” she went on gaily, as he

did not move; “I am certain it is only some dry agricultural work that

you just nod over. Dancing is much better for you.” Irais and I looked

at one another quite frightened. I am sure we both turned pale when the

unhappy girl actually laid hold forcibly of his book, and, with a

playful little shriek, ran away with it into the next room, hugging it

to her bosom and looking back roguishly over her shoulder at him as she

ran. There was an awful pause. We hardly dared raise our eyes. Then the

Man of Wrath got up slowly, knocked the ashes off the end of his

cigar, looked at his watch, and went out at the opposite door into his

own rooms, where he stayed for the rest of the evening. She has never,

I must say, been skittish since.

“I hope you are listening, Miss Minora,” said Irais, “because this sort

of conversation is likely to do you good.”

“I always listen when people talk sensibly,” replied Minora, stirring

her grog.

Irais glanced at her with slightly doubtful eyebrows. “Do you agree

with our hostess’s description of women?” she asked after a pause.

“As nobodies? No, of course I do not.”

“Yet she is right. In the eye of the law we are literally nobodies in

our country. Did you know that women are forbidden to go to political

meetings here?”

“Really?” Out came the note-book.

“The law expressly forbids the attendance at such meetings of women,

children, and idiots.”

“Children and idiots—I understand that,” said Minora; “but women—and

classed with children and idiots?”

“Classed with children and idiots,” repeated Irais, gravely nodding her

head. “Did you know that the law forbids females of any age to ride on

the top of omnibuses or tramcars?”

“Not really?”

“Do you know why?”

“I can’t imagine.”

“Because in going up and down the stairs those inside might perhaps

catch a glimpse of the stocking covering their ankles.”

“But what—”

“Did you know that the morals of the German public are in such a shaky

condition that a glimpse of that sort would be fatal to them?”

“But I don’t see how a stocking—”

“With stripes round it,” said Irais.

“And darns in it,” I added.

“—could possibly be pernicious?”

“‘The Pernicious Stocking; or, Thoughts on the Ethics of Petticoats,’”

said Irais. “Put that down as the name of your next book on Germany.”

“I never know,” complained Minora, letting her note-book fall, “whether

you are in earnest or not.”

“Don’t you?” said Irais sweetly.

“Is it true,” appealed Minora to the Man of Wrath, busy with his lemons

in the background, “that your law classes women with children and

idiots?”

“Certainly,” he answered promptly, “and a very proper classification,

too.”

We all looked blank. “That’s rude,” said I at last.

“Truth is always rude, my dear,” he replied complacently. Then he

added, “If I were commissioned to draw up a new legal code, and had

previously enjoyed the privilege, as I have been doing lately, of

listening to the conversation of you three young ladies, I should make

precisely the same classification.”

Even Minora was incensed at this.

“You are telling us in the most unvarnished manner that we are idiots,”

said Irais.

“Idiots? No, no, by no means. But children,—nice little agreeable

children. I very much like to hear you talk together. It is all so

young and fresh what you think and what you believe, and not of the

least consequence to any one.”

“Not of the least consequence?” cried Minora. “What we believe is of

very great consequence indeed to us.”

“Are you jeering at our beliefs?” inquired Irais sternly.

“Not for worlds. I would not on any account disturb or change your

pretty little beliefs. It is your chief charm that you always believe

every-thing. How desperate would our case be if young ladies only

believed facts, and never accepted another person’s assurance, but

preferred the evidence of their own eyes! They would have no illusions,

and a woman without illusions is the dreariest and most difficult thing

to manage possible.”

“Thing?” protested Irais.

The Man of Wrath, usually so silent, makes up for it from time to time

by holding forth at unnecessary length. He took up his stand now with

his back to the fire, and a glass of _Glühwein_ in his hand. Minora had

hardly heard his voice before, so quiet had he been since she came, and

sat with her pencil raised, ready to fix for ever the wisdom that

should flow from his lips.

“What would become of poetry if women became so sensible that they

turned a deaf ear to the poetic platitudes of love? That love does

indulge in platitudes I suppose you will admit.” He looked at Irais.

“Yes, they all say exactly the same thing,” she acknowledged.

“Who could murmur pretty speeches on the beauty of a common sacrifice,

if the listener’s want of imagination was such as to enable her only to

distinguish one victim in the picture, and that one herself?”

Minora took that down word for word,—much good may it do her.

“Who would be brave enough to affirm that if refused he will die, if

his assurances merely elicit a recommendation to diet himself, and take

plenty of outdoor exercise? Women are responsible for such lies,

because they believe them. Their amazing vanity makes them swallow

flattery so gross that it is an insult, and men will always be ready to

tell the precise number of lies that a woman is ready to listen to. Who

indulges more recklessly in glowing exaggerations than the lover who

hopes, and has not yet obtained? He will, like the nightingale, sing

with unceasing modulations, display all his talent, untiringly repeat

his sweetest notes, until he has what he wants, when his song, like the

nightingale’s, immediately ceases, never again to be heard.”

“Take that down,” murmured Irais aside to Minora—unnecessary advice,

for her pencil was scribbling as fast as it could.

“A woman’s vanity is so immeasurable that, after having had ninety-nine

object-lessons in the difference between promise and performance and

the emptiness of pretty speeches, the beginning of the hundredth will

find her lending the same willing and enchanted ear to the eloquence of

flattery as she did on the occasion of the first. What can the

exhortations of the strong-minded sister, who has never had these

experiences, do for such a woman? It is useless to tell her she is

man’s victim, that she is his plaything, that she is cheated,

down-trodden, kept under, laughed at, shabbily treated in every

way—that is not a true statement of the case. She is simply the victim

of her own vanity, and against that, against the belief in her own

fascinations, against the very part of herself that gives all the

colour to her life, who shall expect a woman to take up arms?”

“Are you so vain, Elizabeth?” inquired Irais with a shocked face, “and

had you lent a willing ear to the blandishments of ninety-nine before

you reached your final destiny?”

“I am one of the sensible ones, I suppose,” I replied, “for nobody ever

wanted me to listen to blandishments.”

Minora sighed.

“I like to hear you talk together about the position of women,” he went

on, “and wonder when you will realise that they hold exactly the

position they are fitted for. As soon as they are fit to occupy a

better, no power on earth will be able to keep them out of it.

Meanwhile, let me warn you that, as things now are, only strong-minded

women wish to see you the equals of men, and the strong-minded are

invariably plain. The pretty ones would rather see men their slaves

than their equals.”

“You know,” said Irais, frowning, “that I consider myself

strong-minded.”

“And never rise till lunch-time?”

Irais blushed. Although I don’t approve of such conduct, it is very

convenient in more ways than one; I get through my housekeeping

undisturbed, and whenever she is disposed to lecture me, I begin about

this habit of hers. Her conscience must be terribly stricken on the

point, for she is by no means as a rule given to meekness.

“A woman without vanity would be unattackable,” resumed the Man of

Wrath. “When a girl enters that downward path that leads to ruin, she

is led solely by her own vanity; for in these days of policemen no

young woman can be forced against her will from the path of virtue, and

the cries of the injured are never heard until the destroyer begins to

express his penitence for having destroyed. If his passion could remain

at white-heat and he could continue to feed her ear with the

protestations she loves, no principles of piety or virtue would disturb

the happiness of his companion; for a mournful experience teaches that

piety begins only where passion ends, and that principles are strongest

where temptations are most rare.”

“But what has all this to do with us?” I inquired severely.

“You were displeased at our law classing you as it does, and I merely

wish to justify it,” he answered. “Creatures who habitually say _yes_

to everything a man proposes, when no one can oblige them to say it,

and when it is so often fatal, are plainly not responsible beings.”

“I shall never say it to you again, my dear man,” I said.

“And not only _that_ fatal weakness,” he continued, “but what is there,

candidly, to distinguish you from children? You are older, but not

wiser,—really not so wise, for with years you lose the common sense you

had as children. Have you ever heard a group of women talking

reasonably together?”

“Yes—we do!” Irais and I cried in a breath.

“It has interested me,” went on the Man of Wrath, “in my idle moments,

to listen to their talk. It amused me to hear the malicious little

stories they told of their best friends who were absent, to note the

spiteful little digs they gave their best friends who were present, to

watch the utter incredulity with which they listened to the tale of

some other woman’s conquests, the radiant good faith they displayed in

connection with their own, the instant collapse into boredom, if some

topic of so-called general interest, by some extraordinary chance, were

introduced.”

“You must have belonged to a particularly nice set,” remarked Irais.

“And as for politics,” he said, “I have never heard them mentioned

among women.”

“Children and idiots are not interested in such things,” I said.

“And we are much too frightened of being put in prison,” said Irais.

“In prison?” echoed Minora.

“Don’t you know,” said Irais, turning to her “that if you talk about

such things here you run a great risk of being imprisoned?”

“But why?”

“But why? Because, though you yourself may have meant nothing but what

was innocent, your words may have suggested something less innocent to

the evil minds of your hearers; and then the law steps in, and calls it

_dolus eventualis_, and everybody says how dreadful, and off you go to

prison and are punished as you deserve to be.”

Minora looked mystified.

“That is not, however, your real reason for not discussing them,” said

the Man of Wrath; “they simply do not interest you. Or it may be, that

you do not consider your female friends’ opinions worth listening to,

for you certainly display an astonishing thirst for information when

male politicians are present. I have seen a pretty young woman, hardly

in her twenties, sitting a whole evening drinking in the doubtful

wisdom of an elderly political star, with every appearance of eager

interest. He was a bimetallic star, and was giving her whole

pamphletsful of information.”

“She wanted to make up to him for some reason,” said Irais, “and got

him to explain his hobby to her, and he was silly enough to be taken

in. Now which was the sillier in that case?”

She threw herself back in her chair and looked up defiantly, beating

her foot impatiently on the carpet.

“She wanted to be thought clever,” said the Man of Wrath. “What puzzled

me,” he went on musingly, “was that she went away apparently as serene

and happy as when she came. The explanation of the principles of

bimetallism produce, as a rule, a contrary effect.”

“Why, she hadn’t been listening,” cried Irais, “and your simple star

had been making a fine goose of himself the whole evening.

“Prattle, prattle, simple star,

Bimetallic, _wunderbar_.

Though you’re given to describe

Woman as a _dummes Weib_.

You yourself are sillier far,

Prattling, bimetallic star!”

“No doubt she had understood very little,” said the Man of Wrath,

taking no notice of this effusion.

“And no doubt the gentleman hadn’t understood much either.” Irais was

plainly irritated.

“Your opinion of woman,” said Minora in a very small voice, “is not a

high one. But, in the sick chamber, I suppose you agree that no one

could take her place?”

“If you are thinking of hospital-nurses,” I said, “I must tell you that

I believe he married chiefly that he might have a wife instead of a

strange woman to nurse him when he is sick.”

“But,” said Minora, bewildered at the way her illusions were being

knocked about, “the sick-room is surely the very place of all others in

which a woman’s gentleness and tact are most valuable.”

“Gentleness and tact?” repeated the Man of Wrath. “I have never met

those qualities in the professional nurse. According to my experience,

she is a disagreeable person who finds in private nursing exquisite

opportunities for asserting her superiority over ordinary and prostrate

mankind. I know of no more humiliating position for a man than to be in

bed having his feverish brow soothed by a sprucely-dressed strange

woman, bristling with starch and spotlessness. He would give half his

income for his clothes, and probably the other half if she would leave

him alone, and go away altogether. He feels her superiority through

every pore; he never before realised how absolutely inferior he is; he

is abjectly polite, and contemptibly conciliatory; if a friend comes to

see him, he eagerly praises her in case she should be listening behind

the screen; he cannot call his soul his own, and, what is far more

intolerable, neither is he sure that his body really belongs to him; he

has read of ministering angels and the light touch of a woman’s hand,

but the day on which he can ring for his servant and put on his socks

in private fills him with the same sort of wildness of joy that he felt

as a homesick schoolboy at the end of his first term.”

Minora was silent. Irais’s foot was livelier than ever. The Man of

Wrath stood smiling blandly down upon us. You can’t argue with a person

so utterly convinced of his infallibility that he won’t even get angry

with you; so we sat round and said nothing.

“If,” he went on, addressing Irais, who looked rebellious, “you doubt

the truth of my remarks, and still cling to the old poetic notion of

noble, self-sacrificing women tenderly helping the patient over the

rough places on the road to death or recovery, let me beg you to try

for yourself, next time any one in your house is ill, whether the

actual fact in any way corresponds to the picturesque belief. The angel

who is to alleviate our sufferings comes in such a questionable shape,

that to the unimaginative she appears merely as an extremely

self-confident young woman, wisely concerned first of all in securing

her personal comfort, much given to complaints about her food and to

helplessness where she should be helpful, possessing an extraordinary

capacity for fancying herself slighted, or not regarded as the superior

being she knows herself to be, morbidly anxious lest the servants

should, by some mistake, treat her with offensive cordiality, pettish

if the patient gives more trouble than she had expected, intensely

injured and disagreeable if he is made so courageous by his

wretchedness as to wake her during the night—an act of desperation of

which I was guilty once, and once only. Oh, these good women! What sane

man wants to have to do with angels? And especially do we object to

having them about us when we are sick and sorry, when we feel in every

fibre what poor things we are, and when all our fortitude is needed to

enable us to bear our temporary inferiority patiently, without being

forced besides to assume an attitude of eager and grovelling politeness

towards the angel in the house.”

There was a pause.

“I didn’t know you could talk so much, Sage,” said Irais at length.

“What would you have women do, then?” asked Minora meekly. Irais began

to beat her foot up and down again,—what did it matter what Men of

Wrath would have us do? “There are not,” continued Minora, blushing,

“husbands enough for every one, and the rest must do something.”

“Certainly,” replied the oracle. “Study the art of pleasing by dress

and manner as long as you are of an age to interest us, and above all,

let all women, pretty and plain, married and single, study the art of

cookery. If you are an artist in the kitchen you will always be

esteemed.”

I sat very still. Every German woman, even the wayward Irais, has

learned to cook; I seem to have been the only one who was naughty and

wouldn’t.

“Only be careful,” he went on, “in studying both arts, never to forget

the great truth that dinner precedes blandishments and not

blandishments dinner. A man must be made comfortable before he will

make love to you; and though it is true that if you offered him a

choice between _Spickgans_ and kisses, he would say he would take both,

yet he would invariably begin with the _Spickgans_, and allow the

kisses to wait.”

At this I got up, and Irais followed my example. “Your cynicism is

disgusting,” I said icily.

“You two are always exceptions to anything I may say,” he said, smiling

amiably.

He stooped and kissed Irais’s hand. She is inordinately vain of her

hands, and says her husband married her for their sake, which I can

quite believe. I am glad they are on her and not on Minora, for if

Minora had had them I should have been annoyed. Minora’s are bony, with

chilly-looking knuckles, ignored nails, and too much wrist. I feel very

well disposed towards her when my eye falls on them. She put one

forward now, evidently thinking it would be kissed too.

“Did you know,” said Irais, seeing the movement, “that it is the custom

here to kiss women’s hands?”

“But only married women’s,” I added, not desiring her to feel out of

it, “never young girls’.”

She drew it in again. “It is a pretty custom,” she said with a sigh;

and pensively inscribed it in her book.

_January_ 15_th_.—The bills for my roses and bulbs and other last

year’s horticultural indulgences were all on the table when I came down

to breakfast this morning. They rather frightened me. Gardening is

expensive, I find, when it has to be paid for out of one’s own private

pin-money. The Man of Wrath does not in the least want roses, or

flowering shrubs, or plantations, or new paths, and therefore, he asks,

why should he pay for them? So he does not and I do, and I have to make

up for it by not indulging all too riotously in new clothes, which is

no doubt very chastening. I certainly prefer buying new rose-trees to

new dresses, if I cannot comfortably have both; and I see a time coming

when the passion for my garden will have taken such a hold on me that I

shall not only entirely cease buying more clothes, but begin to sell

those that I already have. The garden is so big that everything has to

be bought wholesale; and I fear I shall not be able to go on much

longer with only one man and a stork, because the more I plant the more

there will be to water in the inevitable drought, and the watering is a

serious consideration when it means going backwards and forwards all

day long to a pump near the house, with a little water-cart. People

living in England, in almost perpetual mildness and moisture, don’t

really know what a drought is. If they have some weeks of cloudless

weather, it is generally preceded and followed by good rains; but we

have perhaps an hour’s shower every week, and then comes a month or six

weeks’ drought. The soil is very light, and dries so quickly that,

after the heaviest thunder-shower, I can walk over any of my paths in

my thin shoes; and to keep the garden even moderately damp it should

pour with rain regularly every day for three hours. My only means of

getting water is to go to the pump near the house, or to the little

stream that forms my eastern boundary, and the little stream dries up

too unless there has been rain, and is at the best of times difficult

to get at, having steep banks covered with forget-me-nots. I possess

one moist, peaty bit of ground, and that is to be planted with silver

birches in imitation of the Hirschwald, and is to be carpeted between

the birches with flaming azaleas. All the rest of my soil is sandy—the

soil for pines and acacias, but not the soil for roses; yet see what

love will do—there are more roses in my garden than any other flower!

Next spring the bare places are to be filled with trees that I have

ordered: pines behind the delicate acacias, and startling

mountain-ashes, oaks, copper-beeches, maples, larches,

juniper-trees—was it not Elijah who sat down to rest under a

juniper-tree? I have often wondered how he managed to get under it. It

is a compact little tree, not more than two to three yards high here,

and all closely squeezed up together. Perhaps they grew more

aggressively where he was. By the time the babies have grown old and

disagreeable it will be very pretty here, and then possibly they won’t

like it; and, if they have inherited the Man of Wrath’s indifference to

gardens, they will let it run wild and leave it to return to the state

in which I found it. Or perhaps their three husbands will refuse to

live in it, or to come to such a lonely place at all, and then of

course its fate is sealed. My only comfort is that husbands don’t

flourish in the desert, and that the three will have to wait a long

time before enough are found to go round. Mothers tell me that it is a

dreadful business finding one husband; how much more painful then to

have to look for three at once!—the babies are so nearly the same age

that they only just escaped being twins. But I won’t look. I can

imagine nothing more uncomfortable than a son-in-law, and besides, I

don’t think a husband is at all a good thing for a girl to have. I

shall do my best in the years at my disposal to train them so to love

the garden, and out-door life, and even farming, that, if they have a

spark of their mother in them, they will want and ask for nothing

better. My hope of success is however exceedingly small, and there is

probably a fearful period in store for me when I shall be taken every

day during the winter to the distant towns to balls—a poor old mother

shivering in broad daylight in her party gown, and being made to start

after an early lunch and not getting home till breakfast-time next

morning. Indeed, they have already developed an alarming desire to go

to “partings” as they call them, the April baby announcing her

intention of beginning to do so when she is twelve. “Are _you_ twelve,

Mummy?” she asked.

The gardener is leaving on the first of April, and I am trying to find

another. It is grievous changing so often—in two years I shall have had

three—because at each change a great part of my plants and plans

necessarily suffers. Seeds get lost, seedlings are not pricked out in

time, places already sown are planted with something else, and there is

confusion out of doors and despair in my heart. But he was to have

married the cook, and the cook saw a ghost and immediately left, and he

is going after her as soon as he can, and meanwhile is wasting visibly

away. What she saw was doors that are locked opening with a great

clatter all by themselves _on the hinge-side_, and then somebody

invisible cursed at her. These phenomena now go by the name of “the

ghost.” She asked to be allowed to leave at once, as she had never been

in a place where there was a ghost before. I suggested that she should

try and get used to it; but she thought it would be wasting time, and

she looked so ill that I let her go, and the garden has to suffer. I

don’t know why it should be given to cooks to see such interesting

things and withheld from me, but I have had two others since she left,

and they both have seen the ghost. Minora grows very silent as bed-time

approaches, and relents towards Irais and myself; and, after having

shown us all day how little she approves us, when the bedroom candles

are brought she quite begins to cling. She has once or twice anxiously

inquired whether Irais is sure she does not object to sleeping alone.

“If you are at all nervous, I will come and keep you company,” she

said; “I don’t mind at all, I assure you.”

But Irais is not to be taken in by such simple wiles, and has told me

she would rather sleep with fifty ghosts than with one Minora.

Since Miss Jones was so unexpectedly called away to her parent’s

bedside I have seen a good deal of the babies; and it is so nice

without a governess that I would put off engaging another for a year or

two, if it were not that I should in so doing come within the reach of

the arm of the law, which is what every German spends his life in

trying to avoid. The April baby will be six next month, and, after her

sixth birthday is passed, we are liable at any moment to receive a

visit from a school inspector, who will inquire curiously into the

state of her education, and, if it is not up to the required standard,

all sorts of fearful things might happen to the guilty parents,

probably beginning with fines, and going on _crescendo_ to dungeons if,

owing to gaps between governesses and difficulties in finding the right

one, we persisted in our evil courses. Shades of the prison-house begin

to close here upon the growing boy, and prisons compass the Teuton

about on every side all through life to such an extent that he has to

walk very delicately indeed if he would stay outside them and pay for

their maintenance. Cultured individuals do not, as a rule, neglect to

teach their offspring to read, and write, and say their prayers, and

are apt to resent the intrusion of an examining inspector into their

homes; but it does not much matter after all, and I daresay it is very

good for us to be worried; indeed, a philosopher of my acquaintance

declares that people who are not regularly and properly worried are

never any good for anything. In the eye of the law we are all sinners,

and every man is held to be guilty until he has proved that he is

innocent.

Minora has seen so much of the babies that, after vainly trying to get

out of their way for several days, she thought it better to resign

herself, and make the best of it by regarding them as copy, and using

them to fill a chapter in her book. So she took to dogging their

footsteps wherever they went, attended their uprisings and their lyings

down, engaged them, if she could, in intelligent conversation, went

with them into the garden to study their ways when they were sleighing,

drawn by a big dog, and generally made their lives a burden to them.

This went on for three days, and then she settled down to write the

result with the Man of Wrath’s typewriter, borrowed whenever her notes

for any chapter have reached the state of ripeness necessary for the

process she describes as “throwing into form.” She writes everything

with a typewriter, even her private letters.

“Don’t forget to put in something about a mother’s knee,” said Irais;

“you can’t write effectively about children without that.”

“Oh, of course I shall mention that,” replied Minora.

“And pink toes,” I added. “There are always toes, and they are never

anything but pink.”

“I have that somewhere,” said Minora, turning over her notes.

“But, after all, babies are not a German speciality,” said Irais, “and

I don’t quite see why you should bring them into a book of German

travels. Elizabeth’s babies have each got the fashionable number of

arms and legs, and are exactly the same as English ones.”

“Oh, but they can’t be _just_ the same, you know,” said Minora, looking

worried. “It must make a difference living here in this place, and

eating such odd things, and never having a doctor, and never being ill.

Children who have never had measles and those things can’t be quite the

same as other children; it must all be in their systems and can’t get

out for some reason or other. And a child brought up on chicken and

rice-pudding must be different to a child that eats _Spickgans_ and

liver sausages. And they _are_ different; I can’t tell in what way, but

they certainly are; and I think if I steadily describe them from the

materials I have collected the last three days, I may perhaps hit on

the points of difference.”

“Why bother about points of difference?” asked Irais. “I should write

some little thing, bringing in the usual parts of the picture, such as

knees and toes, and make it mildly pathetic.”

“But it is by no means an easy thing for me to do,” said Minora

plaintively; “I have so little experience of children.”

“Then why write it at all?” asked that sensible person Elizabeth.

“I have as little experience as you,” said Irais, “because I have no

children; but if you don’t yearn after startling originality, nothing

is easier than to write bits about them. I believe I could do a dozen

in an hour.”

She sat down at the writing-table, took up an old letter, and scribbled

for about five minutes. “There,” she said, throwing it to Minora, “you

may have it—pink toes and all complete.”

Minora put on her eye-glasses and read aloud:

“When my baby shuts her eyes and sings her hymns at bed-time my stale

and battered soul is filled with awe. All sorts of vague memories crowd

into my mind—memories of my own mother and myself—how many years

ago!—of the sweet helplessness of being gathered up half asleep in her

arms, and undressed, and put in my cot, without being wakened; of the

angels I believed in; of little children coming straight from heaven,

and still being surrounded, so long as they were good, by the shadow of

white wings,—all the dear poetic nonsense learned, just as my baby is

learning it, at her mother’s knee. She has not an idea of the beauty of

the charming things she is told, and stares wide-eyed, with heavenly

eyes, while her mother talks of the heaven she has so lately come from,

and is relieved and comforted by the interrupting bread and milk. At

two years old she does not understand angels, and does understand bread

and milk; at five she has vague notions about them, and prefers bread

and milk; at ten both bread and milk and angels have been left behind

in the nursery, and she has already found out that they are luxuries

not necessary to her everyday life. In later years she may be

disinclined to accept truths second-hand, insist on thinking for

herself, be earnest in her desire to shake off exploded traditions, be

untiring in her efforts to live according to a high moral standard and

to be strong, and pure, and good—”

“Like tea,” explained Irais.

“—yet will she never, with all her virtues, possess one-thousandth part

of the charm that clung about her when she sang, with quiet eyelids,

her first reluctant hymns, kneeling on her mother’s knees. I love to

come in at bed-time and sit in the window in the setting sunshine

watching the mysteries of her going to bed. Her mother tubs her, for

she is far too precious to be touched by any nurse, and then she is

rolled up in a big bath towel, and only her little pink toes peep out;

and when she is powdered, and combed, and tied up in her night-dress,

and all her curls are on end, and her ears glowing, she is knelt down

on her mother’s lap, a little bundle of fragrant flesh, and her face

reflects the quiet of her mother’s face as she goes through her evening

prayer for pity and for peace.”

“How very curious!” said Minora, when she had finished. “That is

exactly what I was going to say.”

“Oh, then I have saved you the trouble of putting it together; you can

copy that if you like.”

“But have you a stale soul, Miss Minora?” I asked.

“Well, do you know, I rather think that is a good touch,” she replied;

“it will make people really think a man wrote the book. You know I am

going to take a man’s name.”

“That is precisely what I imagined,” said Irais. “You will call

yourself John Jones, or George Potts, or some such sternly commonplace

name, to emphasise your uncompromising attitude towards all feminine

weaknesses, and no one will be taken in.”

“I really think, Elizabeth,” said Irais to me later, when the click of

Minora’s typewriter was heard hesitating in the next room, “that you

and I are writing her book for her. She takes down everything we say.

Why does she copy all that about the baby? I wonder why mothers’ knees

are supposed to be touching? I never learned anything at them, did you?

But then in my case they were only stepmother’s, and nobody ever sings

their praises.”

“My mother was always at parties,” I said; “and the nurse made me say

my prayers in French.”

“And as for tubs and powder,” went on Irais, “when I was a baby such

things were not the fashion. There were never any bathrooms, and no

tubs; our faces and hands were washed, and there was a foot-bath in the

room, and in the summer we had a bath and were put to bed afterwards

for fear we might catch cold. My stepmother didn’t worry much; she used

to wear pink dresses all over lace, and the older she got the prettier

the dresses got. When is she going?”

“Who? Minora? I haven’t asked her that.”

“Then I will. It is really bad for her art to be neglected like this.

She has been here an unconscionable time,—it must be nearly three

weeks.”

“Yes, she came the same day you did,” I said pleasantly.

Irais was silent. I hope she was reflecting that it is not worse to

neglect one’s art than one’s husband, and her husband is lying all this

time stretched on a bed of sickness, while she is spending her days so

agreeably with me. She has a way of forgetting that she has a home, or

any other business in the world than just to stay on chatting with me,

and reading, and singing, and laughing at any one there is to laugh at,

and kissing the babies, and tilting with the Man of Wrath. Naturally I

love her—she is so pretty that anybody with eyes in his head must love

her—but too much of anything is bad, and next month the passages and

offices are to be whitewashed, and people who have ever whitewashed

their houses inside know what nice places they are to live in while it

is being done; and there will be no dinner for Irais, and none of those

succulent salads full of caraway seeds that she so devotedly loves. I

shall begin to lead her thoughts gently back to her duties by inquiring

every day anxiously after her husband’s health. She is not very fond of

him, because he does not run and hold the door open for her every time

she gets up to leave the room; and though she has asked him to do so,

and told him how much she wishes he would, he still won’t. She stayed

once in a house where there was an Englishman, and his nimbleness in

regard to doors and chairs so impressed her that her husband has had no

peace since, and each time she has to go out of a room she is reminded

of her disregarded wishes, so that a shut door is to her symbolic of

the failure of her married life, and the very sight of one makes her

wonder why she was born; at least, that is what she told me once, in a

burst of confidence. He is quite a nice, harmless little man, pleasant

to talk to, good-tempered, and full of fun; but he thinks he is too old

to begin to learn new and uncomfortable ways, and he has that horror of

being made better by his wife that distinguishes so many righteous men,

and is shared by the Man of Wrath, who persists in holding his glass in

his left hand at meals, because if he did not (and I don’t believe he

particularly likes doing it) his relations might say that marriage has

improved him, and thus drive the iron into his soul. This habit

occasions an almost daily argument between one or other of the babies

and myself.

“April, hold your glass in your right hand.”

“But papa doesn’t.”

“When you are as old as papa you can do as you like.”

Which was embellished only yesterday by Minora adding impressively,

“And only think how strange it would look if _everybody_ held their

glasses so.”

April was greatly struck by the force of this proposition.

_January_ 28_th_.—It is very cold,—fifteen degrees of frost _Réaumur_,

but perfectly delicious, still, bright weather, and one feels jolly and

energetic and amiably disposed towards everybody. The two young ladies

are still here, but the air is so buoyant that even they don’t weigh on

me any longer, and besides, they have both announced their approaching

departure, so that after all I shall get my whitewashing done in peace,

and the house will have on its clean pinafore in time to welcome the

spring.

Minora has painted my portrait, and is going to present it as a parting

gift to the Man of Wrath; and the fact that I let her do it, and sat

meekly times innumerable, proves conclusively, I hope, that I am not

vain. When Irais first saw it she laughed till she cried, and at once

commissioned her to paint hers, so that she may take it away with her

and give it to her husband on his birthday, which happens to be early

in February. Indeed, if it were not for this birthday, I really think

she would have forgotten to go at all; but birthdays are great and

solemn festivals with us, never allowed to slip by unnoticed, and

always celebrated in the presence of a sympathetic crowd of relations

(gathered from far and near to tell you how well you are wearing, and

that nobody would ever dream, and that really it is wonderful), who

stand round a sort of sacrificial altar, on which your years are

offered up as a burnt-offering to the gods in the shape of lighted pink

and white candles, stuck in a very large, flat, jammy cake. The cake

with its candles is the chief feature, and on the table round it lie

the gifts each person present is more or less bound to give. As my

birthday falls in the winter I get mittens as well as blotting-books

and photograph-frames, and if it were in the summer I should get

photograph-frames and blotting-books and no mittens; but whatever the

present may be, and by whomsoever given, it has to be welcomed with the

noisiest gratitude, and loudest exclamations of joy, and such words as

_entzückend, reizend, herrlich, wundervoll_, and _süss_ repeated over

and over again, until the unfortunate _Geburtstagskind_ feels indeed

that another year has gone, and that she has grown older, and wiser,

and more tired of folly and of vain repetitions. A flag is hoisted, and

all the morning the rites are celebrated, the cake eaten, healths

drunk, speeches made, and hands nearly shaken off. The neighbouring

parsons drive up, and when nobody is looking their wives count the

candles in the cake; the active lady in the next _Schloss_ spares time

to send a pot of flowers, and to look up my age in the _Gotha

Almanach;_ a deputation comes from the farms headed by the chief

inspector in white kid gloves who invokes Heaven’s blessings on the

gracious lady’s head; and the babies are enchanted, and sit in a corner

trying on all the mittens. In the evening there is a dinner for the

relations and the chief local authorities, with more health-drinking

and speechifying, and the next morning, when I come downstairs thankful

to have done with it, I am confronted by the altar still in its place,

cake crumbs and candle-grease and all, because any hasty removal of it

would imply a most lamentable want of sentiment, deplorable in anybody,

but scandalous and disgusting in a tender female. All birthdays are

observed in this fashion, and not a few wise persons go for a short

trip just about the time theirs is due, and I think I shall imitate

them next year; only trips to the country or seaside in December are

not usually pleasant, and if I go to a town there are sure to be

relations in it, and then the cake will spring up mushroom-like from

the teeming soil of their affection.

I hope it has been made evident in these pages how superior Irais and

myself are to the ordinary weaknesses of mankind; if any further proof

were needed, it is furnished by the fact that we both, in defiance of

tradition, scorn this celebration of birthday rites. Years ago, when

first I knew her, and long before we were either of us married, I sent

her a little brass candlestick on her birthday; and when mine followed

a few months later, she sent me a note-book. No notes were written in

it, and on her next birthday I presented it to her; she thanked me

profusely in the customary manner, and when my turn came I received the

brass candlestick. Since then we alternately enjoy the possession of

each of these articles, and the present question is comfortably settled

once and for all, at a minimum of trouble and expense. We never mention

this little arrangement except at the proper time, when we send a

letter of fervid thanks.

This radiant weather, when mere living is a joy, and sitting still over

the fire out of the question, has been going on for more than a week.

Sleighing and skating have been our chief occupation, especially

skating, which is more than usually fascinating here, because the place

is intersected by small canals communicating with a lake and the river

belonging to the lake, and as everything is frozen black and hard, we

can skate for miles straight ahead without being obliged to turn round

and come back again,—at all times an annoying, and even mortifying,

proceeding. Irais skates beautifully: modesty is the only obstacle to

my saying the same of myself; but I may remark that all Germans skate

well, for the simple reason that every year of their lives, for three

or four months, they may do it as much as they like. Minora was

astonished and disconcerted by finding herself left behind, and

arriving at the place where tea meets us half an hour after we had

finished. In some places the banks of the canals are so high that only

our heads appear level with the fields, and it is, as Minora noted in

her book, a curious sight to see three female heads skimming along

apparently by themselves, and enjoying it tremendously. When the banks

are low, we appear to be gliding deliciously over the roughest ploughed

fields, with or without legs according to circumstances. Before we

start, I fix on the place where tea and a sleigh are to meet us, and we

drive home again; because skating against the wind is as detestable as

skating with it is delightful, and an unkind Nature arranges its

blowing without the smallest regard for our convenience. Yesterday, by

way of a change, we went for a picnic to the shores of the Baltic,

ice-bound at this season, and utterly desolate at our nearest point. I

have a weakness for picnics, especially in winter, when the mosquitoes

cease from troubling and the ant-hills are at rest; and of all my many

favourite picnic spots this one on the Baltic is the loveliest and

best. As it is a three-hours’ drive, the Man of Wrath is loud in his

lamentations when the special sort of weather comes which means, as

experience has taught him, this particular excursion. There must be

deep snow, hard frost, no wind, and a cloudless sky; and when, on

waking up, I see these conditions fulfilled, then it would need some

very potent reason to keep me from having out a sleigh and going off.

It is, I admit, a hard day for the horses; but why have horses if they

are not to take you where you want to go to, and at the time you want

to go? And why should not horses have hard days as well as everybody

else? The Man of Wrath loathes picnics, and has no eye for nature and

frozen seas, and is simply bored by a long drive through a forest that

does not belong to him; a single turnip on his own place is more

admirable in his eyes than the tallest, pinkest, straightest pine that

ever reared its snow-crowned head against the setting sunlight. Now

observe the superiority of woman, who sees that both are good, and

after having gazed at the pine and been made happy by its beauty, goes

home and placidly eats the turnip. He went once and only once to this

particular place, and made us feel so small by his _blasé_ behaviour

that I never invite him now. It is a beautiful spot, endless forest

stretching along the shore as far as the eye can reach; and after

driving through it for miles you come suddenly, at the end of an avenue

of arching trees, upon the glistening, oily sea, with the

orange-coloured sails of distant fishing-smacks shining in the

sunlight. Whenever I have been there it has been windless weather, and

the silence so profound that I could hear my pulses beating. The

humming of insects and the sudden scream of a jay are the only sounds

in summer, and in winter the stillness is the stillness of death.

Every paradise has its serpent, however, and this one is so infested by

mosquitoes during the season when picnics seem most natural, that those

of my visitors who have been taken there for a treat have invariably

lost their tempers, and made the quiet shores ring with their wailing

and lamentations. These despicable but irritating insects don’t seem to

have anything to do but to sit in multitudes on the sand, waiting for

any prey Providence may send them; and as soon as the carriage appears

they rise up in a cloud, and rush to meet us, almost dragging us out

bodily, and never leave us until we drive away again. The sudden view

of the sea from the mossy, pine-covered height directly above it where

we picnic; the wonderful stretch of lonely shore with the forest to the

water’s edge; the coloured sails in the blue distance; the freshness,

the brightness, the vastness—all is lost upon the picnickers, and made

worse than indifferent to them, by the perpetual necessity they are

under of fighting these horrid creatures. It is nice being the only

person who ever goes there or shows it to anybody, but if more people

went, perhaps the mosquitoes would be less lean, and hungry, and

pleased to see us. It has, however, the advantage of being a suitable

place to which to take refractory visitors when they have stayed too

long, or left my books out in the garden all night, or otherwise made

their presence a burden too grievous to be borne; then one fine hot

morning when they are all looking limp, I suddenly propose a picnic on

the Baltic. I have never known this proposal fail to be greeted with

exclamations of surprise and delight.

“The Baltic! You never told us you were within driving distance? How

_heavenly_ to get a breath of sea air on a day like this! The very

_thought_ puts new life into one! And how _delightful_ to see the

Baltic! Oh, _please_ take us!” And then I take them.

But on a brilliant winter’s day my conscience is as clear as the frosty

air itself, and yesterday morning we started off in the gayest of

spirits, even Minora being disposed to laugh immoderately on the least

provocation. Only our eyes were allowed to peep out from the fur and

woollen wrappings necessary to our heads if we would come back with our

ears and noses in the same places they were in when we started, and for

the first two miles the mirth created by each other’s strange

appearance was uproarious,—a fact I mention merely to show what an

effect dry, bright, intense cold produces on healthy bodies, and how

much better it is to go out in it and enjoy it than to stay indoors and

sulk. As we passed through the neighbouring village with cracking of

whip and jingling of bells, heads popped up at the windows to stare,

and the only living thing in the silent, sunny street was a melancholy

fowl with ruffled feathers, which looked at us reproachfully, as we

dashed with so much energy over the crackling snow.

“Oh, foolish bird!” Irais called out as we passed; “you’ll be indeed a

cold fowl if you stand there motionless, and every one prefers them hot

in weather like this!”

And then we all laughed exceedingly, as though the most splendid joke

had been made, and before we had done we were out of the village and in

the open country beyond, and could see my house and garden far away

behind, glittering in the sunshine; and in front of us lay the forest,

with its vistas of pines stretching away into infinity, and a drive

through it of fourteen miles before we reached the sea. It was a

hoar-frost day, and the forest was an enchanted forest leading into

fairyland, and though Irais and I have been there often before, and

always thought it beautiful, yet yesterday we stood under the final

arch of frosted trees, struck silent by the sheer loveliness of the

place. For a long way out the sea was frozen, and then there was a deep

blue line, and a cluster of motionless orange sails; at our feet a

narrow strip of pale yellow sand; right and left the line of sparkling

forest; and we ourselves standing in a world of white and diamond

traceries. The stillness of an eternal Sunday lay on the place like a

benediction.

Minora broke the silence by remarking that Dresden was pretty, but she

thought this beat it almost.

“I don’t quite see,” said Irais in a hushed voice, as though she were

in a holy place, “how the two can be compared.”

“Yes, Dresden is more convenient, of course,” replied Minora; after

which we turned away and thought we would keep her quiet by feeding

her, so we went back to the sleigh and had the horses taken out and

their cloths put on, and they were walked up and down a distant glade

while we sat in the sleigh and picnicked. It _is_ a hard day for the

horses,—nearly thirty miles there and back and no stable in the middle;

but they are so fat and spoiled that it cannot do them much harm

sometimes to taste the bitterness of life. I warmed soup in a little

apparatus I have for such occasions, which helped to take the

chilliness off the sandwiches,—this is the only unpleasant part of a

winter picnic, the clammy quality of the provisions just when you most

long for something very hot. Minora let her nose very carefully out of

its wrappings, took a mouthful, and covered it up quickly again. She

was nervous lest it should be frost-nipped, and truth compels me to add

that her nose is not a bad nose, and might even be pretty on anybody

else; but she does not know how to carry it, and there is an art in the

angle at which one’s nose is held just as in everything else, and

really noses were intended for something besides mere blowing.

It is the most difficult thing in the world to eat sandwiches with

immense fur and woollen gloves on, and I think we ate almost as much

fur as anything, and choked exceedingly during the process. Minora was

angry at this, and at last pulled off her glove, but quickly put it on

again.

“How very unpleasant,” she remarked after swallowing a large piece of

fur.

“It will wrap round your pipes, and keep them warm,” said Irais.

“Pipes!” echoed Minora, greatly disgusted by such vulgarity.

“I’m afraid I can’t help you,” I said, as she continued to choke and

splutter; “we are all in the same case, and I don’t know how to alter

it.”

“There are such things as forks, I suppose,” snapped Minora.

“That’s true,” said I, crushed by the obviousness of the remedy; but of

what use are forks if they are fifteen miles off? So Minora had to

continue to eat her gloves.

By the time we had finished, the sun was already low behind the trees

and the clouds beginning to flush a faint pink. The old coachman was

given sandwiches and soup, and while he led the horses up and down with

one hand and held his lunch in the other, we packed up—or, to be

correct, I packed, and the others looked on and gave me valuable

advice.

This coachman, Peter by name, is seventy years old, and was born on the

place, and has driven its occupants for fifty years, and I am nearly as

fond of him as I am of the sun-dial; indeed, I don’t know what I should

do without him, so entirely does he appear to understand and approve of

my tastes and wishes. No drive is too long or difficult for the horses

if I want to take it, no place impossible to reach if I want to go to

it, no weather or roads too bad to prevent my going out if I wish to:

to all my suggestions he responds with the readiest cheerfulness, and

smoothes away all objections raised by the Man of Wrath, who rewards

his alacrity in doing my pleasure by speaking of him as an _alter

Esel_. In the summer, on fine evenings, I love to drive late and alone

in the scented forests, and when I have reached a dark part stop, and

sit quite still, listening to the nightingales repeating their little

tune over and over again after interludes of gurgling, or if there are

no nightingales, listening to the marvellous silence, and letting its

blessedness descend into my very soul. The nightingales in the forests

about here all sing the same tune, and in the same key of (E flat).

I don’t know whether all nightingales do this, or if it is peculiar to

this particular spot. When they have sung it once, they clear their

throats a little, and hesitate, and then do it again, and it is the

prettiest little song in the world. How could I indulge my passion for

these drives with their pauses without Peter? He is so used to them

that he stops now at the right moment without having to be told, and he

is ready to drive me all night if I wish it, with no sign of anything

but cheerful willingness on his nice old face. The Man of Wrath

deplores these eccentric tastes, as he calls them, of mine; but has

given up trying to prevent my indulging them because, while he is

deploring in one part of the house, I have slipped out at a door in the

other, and am gone before he can catch me, and have reached and am lost

in the shadows of the forest by the time he has discovered that I am

nowhere to be found.

The brightness of Peter’s perfections are sullied however by one spot,

and that is, that as age creeps upon him, he not only cannot hold the

horses in if they don’t want to be held in, but he goes to sleep

sometimes on his box if I have him out too soon after lunch, and has

upset me twice within the last year—once last winter out of a sleigh,

and once this summer, when the horses shied at a bicycle, and bolted

into the ditch on one side of the _chaussée_ (German for high road),

and the bicycle was so terrified at the horses shying that it shied too

into the ditch on the other side, and the carriage was smashed, and the

bicycle was smashed, and we were all very unhappy, except Peter, who

never lost his pleasant smile, and looked so placid that my tongue

clave to the roof of my mouth when I tried to make it scold him.

“But I should think he ought to have been _thoroughly_ scolded on an

occasion like that,” said Minora, to whom I had been telling this story

as we wandered on the yellow sands while the horses were being put in

the sleigh; and she glanced nervously up at Peter, whose mild head was

visible between the bushes above us. “Shall we get home before dark?”

she asked.

The sun had altogether disappeared behind the pines and only the very

highest of the little clouds were still pink; out at sea the mists were

creeping up, and the sails of the fishing-smacks had turned a dull

brown; a flight of wild geese passed across the disc of the moon with

loud cacklings.

“Before dark?” echoed Irais, “I should think not. It is dark now nearly

in the forest, and we shall have the loveliest moonlight drive back.”

“But it is surely very dangerous to let a man who goes to sleep drive

you,” said Minora apprehensively.

“But he’s such an old dear,” I said.

“Yes, yes, no doubt,” she replied testily; “but there are wakeful old

dears to be had, and on a box they are preferable.”

Irais laughed. “You are growing quite amusing, Miss Minora,” she said.

“He isn’t on a box to-day,” said I; “and I never knew him to go to

sleep standing up behind us on a sleigh.” But Minora was not to be

appeased, and muttered something about seeing no fun in foolhardiness,

which shows how alarmed she was, for it was rude.

Peter, however, behaved beautifully on the way home, and Irais and I at

least were as happy as possible driving back, with all the glories of

the western sky flashing at us every now and then at the end of a long

avenue as we swiftly passed, and later on, when they had faded, myriads

of stars in the narrow black strip of sky over our heads. It was

bitterly cold, and Minora was silent, and not in the least inclined to

laugh with us as she had been six hours before.

“Have you enjoyed yourself, Miss Minora?’ inquired Irais, as we got out

of the forest on to the _chaussée_, and the lights of the village

before ours twinkled in the distance.

“How many degrees do you suppose there are now?” was Minora’s reply to

this question.

“Degrees?—Of frost? Oh, dear me, are you cold,” cried Irais

solicitously.

“Well, it isn’t exactly warm, is it?” said Minora sulkily; and Irais

pinched me. “Well, but think how much colder you would have been

without all that fur you ate for lunch inside you,” she said.

“And what a nice chapter you will be able to write about the Baltic,”

said I. “Why, it is practically certain that you are the first English

person who has ever been to just this part of it.”

“Isn’t there some English poem,” said Irais, “about being the first who

ever burst—”

“‘Into that silent sea,’” finished Minora hastily. “You can’t quote

that without its context, you know.”

“But I wasn’t going to,” said Irais meekly; “I only paused to breathe.

I must breathe, or perhaps I might die.”

The lights from my energetic friend’s _Schloss_ shone brightly down

upon us as we passed round the base of the hill on which it stands; she

is very proud of this hill, as well she may be, seeing that it is the

only one in the whole district.

“Do you never go there?” asked Minora, jerking her head in the

direction of the house.

“Sometimes. She is a very busy woman, and I should feel I was in the

way if I went often.”

“It would be interesting to see another North German interior,” said

Minora; “and I should be obliged if you would take me.”

“But I can’t fall upon her suddenly with a strange girl,” I protested;

“and we are not at all on such intimate terms as to justify my taking

all my visitors to see her.”

“What do you want to see another interior for?” asked Irais. “I can

tell you what it is like; and if you went nobody would speak to you,

and if you were to ask questions, and began to take notes, the good

lady would stare at you in the frankest amazement, and think Elizabeth

had brought a young lunatic out for an airing. _Everybody_ is not as

patient as Elizabeth,” added Irais, anxious to pay off old scores.

“I would do a great deal for you, Miss Minora,” I said, “but I can’t do

that.”

“If we went,” said Irais, “Elizabeth and I would be placed with great

ceremony on a sofa behind a large, polished oval table with a

crochet-mat in the centre—it _has_ got a crochet-mat in the centre,

hasn’t it?” I nodded. “And you would sit on one of the four little

podgy, buttony, tasselly red chairs that are ranged on the other side

of the table facing the sofa. They _are_ red, Elizabeth?” Again I

nodded. “The floor is painted yellow, and there is no carpet except a

rug in front of the sofa. The paper is dark chocolate colour, almost

black; that is in order that after years of use the dirt may not show,

and the room need not be done up. Dirt is like wickedness, you see,

Miss Minora—its being there never matters; it is only when it shows so

much as to be apparent to everybody that we are ashamed of it. At

intervals round the high walls are chairs, and cabinets with lamps on

them, and in one corner is a great white cold stove—or is it majolica?”

she asked, turning to me.

“No, it is white.”

“There are a great many lovely big windows, all ready to let in the air

and the sun, but they are as carefully covered with brown lace curtains

under heavy stuff ones as though a whole row of houses were just

opposite, with peering eyes at every window trying to look in, instead

of there only being fields, and trees, and birds. No fire, no sunlight,

no books, no flowers; but a consoling smell of red cabbage coming up

under the door, mixed, in due season, with soapsuds.”

“When did you go there?” asked Minora.

“Ah, when did I go there indeed? When did I not go there? I have been

calling there all my life.”

Minora’s eyes rolled doubtfully first at me then at Irais from the

depths of her head-wrappings; they are large eyes with long dark

eyelashes, and far be it from me to deny that each eye taken by itself

is fine, but they are put in all wrong.

“The only thing you would learn there,” went on Irais, “would be the

significance of sofa corners in Germany. If we three went there

together, I should be ushered into the right-hand corner of the sofa,

because it is the place of honour, and I am the greatest stranger;

Elizabeth would be invited to seat herself in the left-hand corner, as

next in importance; the hostess would sit near us in an arm-chair; and

you, as a person of no importance whatever, would either be left to sit

where you could, or would be put on a chair facing us, and with the

entire breadth of the table between us to mark the immense social gulf

that separates the married woman from the mere virgin. These sofa

corners make the drawing of nice distinctions possible in a way that

nothing else could. The world might come to an end, and create less

sensation in doing it, than you would, Miss Minora, if by any chance

you got into the right-hand corner of one. That you are put on a chair

on the other side of the table places you at once in the scale of

precedence, and exactly defines your social position, or rather your

complete want of a social position.” And Irais tilted her nose ever so

little heavenwards.

“Note it,” she added, “as the heading of your next chapter.”

“Note what?” asked Minora impatiently.

“Why, ‘The Subtle Significance of Sofas’, of course,” replied Irais.

“If,” she continued, as Minora made no reply appreciative of this

suggestion, “you were to call unexpectedly, the bad luck which pursues

the innocent would most likely make you hit on a washing-day, and the

distracted mistress of the house would keep you waiting in the cold

room so long while she changed her dress, that you would begin to fear

you were to be left to perish from want and hunger; and when she did

appear, would show by the bitterness of her welcoming smile the rage

that was boiling in her heart.”

“But what has the mistress of the house to do with washing?”

“What has she to do with washing? Oh, you sweet innocent—pardon my

familiarity, but such ignorance of country-life customs is very

touching in one who is writing a book about them.”

“Oh, I have no doubt I am very ignorant,” said Minora loftily.

“Seasons of washing,” explained Irais, “are seasons set apart by the

_Hausfrau_ to be kept holy. They only occur every two or three months,

and while they are going on the whole house is in an uproar, every

other consideration sacrificed, husband and children sunk into

insignificance, and no one approaching, or interfering with the

mistress of the house during these days of purification, but at their

peril.”

“You don’t really mean,” said Minora, “that you only wash your clothes

four times a year?”

“Yes, I do mean it,” replied Irais.

“Well, I think that is very disgusting,” said Minora emphatically.

Irais raised those pretty, delicate eyebrows of hers. “Then you must

take care and not marry a German,” she said.

“But what is the object of it?” went on Minora.

“Why, to clean the linen, I suppose.”

“Yes, yes, but why only at such long intervals?”

“It is an outward and visible sign of vast possessions in the shape of

linen. If you were to want to have your clothes washed every week, as

you do in England, you would be put down as a person who only has just

enough to last that length of time, and would be an object of general

contempt.”

“But I should be a clean object,” cried Minora, “and my house would not

be full of accumulated dirt.”

We said nothing—there was nothing to be said.

“It must be a happy land, that England of yours,” Irais remarked after

a while with a sigh—a beatific vision no doubt presenting itself to her

mind of a land full of washerwomen and agile gentlemen darting at

door-handles.

“It is a _clean_ land, at any rate,” replied Minora.

“_I_ don’t want to go and live in it,” I said—for we were driving up to

the house, and a memory of fogs and umbrellas came into my mind as I

looked up fondly at its dear old west front, and I felt that what I

want is to live and die just here, and that there never was such a

happy woman as Elizabeth.

_April_ 18_th_.—I have been so busy ever since Irais and Minora left

that I can hardly believe the spring is here, and the garden hurrying

on its green and flowered petticoat—only its petticoat as yet, for

though the underwood is a fairyland of tender little leaves, the trees

above are still quite bare.

February was gone before I well knew that it had come, so deeply was I

engaged in making hot-beds, and having them sown with petunias,

verbenas, and nicotina affinis; while no less than thirty are dedicated

solely to vegetables, it having been borne in upon me lately that

vegetables must be interesting things to grow, besides possessing solid

virtues not given to flowers, and that I might as well take the orchard

and kitchen garden under my wing. So I have rushed in with all the zeal

of utter inexperience, and my February evenings were spent poring over

gardening books, and my days in applying the freshly absorbed wisdom.

Who says that February is a dull, sad, slow month in the country? It

was of the cheerfullest, swiftest description here, and its mild days

enabled me to get on beautifully with the digging and manuring, and

filled my rooms with snowdrops. The longer I live the greater is my

respect and affection for manure in all its forms, and already, though

the year is so young, a considerable portion of its pin-money has been

spent on artificial manure. The Man of Wrath says he never met a young

woman who spent her money that way before; I remarked that it must be

nice to have an original wife; and he retorted that the word original

hardly described me, and that the word eccentric was the one required.

Very well, I suppose I am eccentric, since even my husband says so; but

if my eccentricities are of such a practical nature as to result later

in the biggest cauliflowers and tenderest lettuce in Prussia, why then

he ought to be the first to rise up and call me blessed.

I sent to England for vegetable-marrow seeds, as they are not grown

here, and people try and make boiled cucumbers take their place; but

boiled cucumbers are nasty things, and I don’t see why marrows should

not do here perfectly well. These, and primrose-roots, are the English

contributions to my garden. I brought over the roots in a tin box last

time I came from England, and am anxious to see whether they will

consent to live here. Certain it is that they don’t exist in the

Fatherland, so I can only conclude the winter kills them, for surely,

if such lovely things would grow, they never would have been

overlooked. Irais is deeply interested in the experiment; she reads so

many English books, and has heard so much about primroses, and they

have got so mixed up in her mind with leagues, and dames, and

Disraelis, that she longs to see this mysterious political flower, and

has made me promise to telegraph when it appears, and she will come

over. But they are not going to do anything this year, and I only hope

those cold days did not send them off to the Paradise of flowers. I am

afraid their first impression of Germany was a chilly one.

Irais writes about once a week, and inquires after the garden and the

babies, and announces her intention of coming back as soon as the

numerous relations staying with her have left,—“which they won’t do,”

she wrote the other day, “until the first frosts nip them off, when

they will disappear like belated dahlias—double ones of course, for

single dahlias are too charming to be compared to relations. I have

every sort of cousin and uncle and aunt here, and here they have been

ever since my husband’s birthday—not the same ones exactly, but I get

so confused that I never know where one ends and the other begins. My

husband goes off after breakfast to look at his crops, he says, and I

am left at their mercy. I wish I had crops to go and look at—I should

be grateful even for one, and would look at it from morning till night,

and quite stare it out of countenance, sooner than stay at home and

have the truth told me by enigmatic aunts. Do you know my Aunt Bertha?

she, in particular, spends her time propounding obscure questions for

my solution. I get so tired and worried trying to guess the answers,

which are always truths supposed to be good for me to hear. ‘Why do you

wear your hair on your forehead?’ she asks,—and that sets me off

wondering why I _do_ wear it on my forehead, and what she wants to know

for, or whether she does know and only wants to know if I will answer

truthfully. ‘I am sure I don’t know, aunt,’ I say meekly, after

puzzling over it for ever so long; ‘perhaps my maid knows. Shall I ring

and ask her?’ And then she informs me that I wear it so to hide an ugly

line she says I have down the middle of my forehead, and that betokens

a listless and discontented disposition. Well, if she knew, what did

she ask me for? Whenever I am with them they ask me riddles like that,

and I simply lead a _dog’s_ life. Oh, my dear, relations are like

drugs,—useful sometimes, and even pleasant, if taken in small

quantities and seldom, but dreadfully pernicious on the whole, and the

truly wise avoid them.”

From Minora I have only had one communication since her departure, in

which she thanked me for her pleasant visit, and said she was sending

me a bottle of English embrocation to rub on my bruises after skating;

that it was wonderful stuff, and she was sure I would like it; and that

it cost two marks, and would I send stamps. I pondered long over this.

Was it a parting hit, intended as revenge for our having laughed at

her? Was she personally interested in the sale of embrocation? Or was

it merely Minora’s idea of a graceful return for my hospitality? As for

bruises, nobody who skates decently regards it as a bruise-producing

exercise, and whenever there were any they were all on Minora; but she

did happen to turn round once, I remember, just as I was in the act of

tumbling down for the first and only time, and her delight was but

thinly veiled by her excessive solicitude and sympathy. I sent her the

stamps, received the bottle, and resolved to let her drop out of my

life; I had been a good Samaritan to her at the request of my friend,

but the best of Samaritans resents the offer of healing oil for his own

use. But why waste a thought on Minora at Easter, the real beginning of

the year in defiance of calendars. She belongs to the winter that is

past, to the darkness that is over, and has no part or lot in the life

I shall lead for the next six months. Oh, I could dance and sing for

joy that the spring is here! What a resurrection of beauty there is in

my garden, and of brightest hope in my heart! The whole of this radiant

Easter day I have spent out of doors, sitting at first among the

windflowers and celandines, and then, later, walking with the babies to

the Hirschwald, to see what the spring had been doing there; and the

afternoon was so hot that we lay a long time on the turf, blinking up

through the leafless branches of the silver birches at the soft, fat

little white clouds floating motionless in the blue. We had tea on the

grass in the sun, and when it began to grow late, and the babies were

in bed, and all the little wind-flowers folded up for the night, I

still wandered in the green paths, my heart full of happiest gratitude.

It makes one very humble to see oneself surrounded by such a wealth of

beauty and perfection _anonymously_ lavished, and to think of the

infinite meanness of our own grudging charities, and how displeased we

are if they are not promptly and properly appreciated. I do sincerely

trust that the benediction that is always awaiting me in my garden may

by degrees be more deserved, and that I may grow in grace, and

patience, and cheerfulness, just like the happy flowers I so much love.