Arnim Elizabeth and Her German Garden

1. Auflage 2015
ISBN: 978-1-5183-3786-4
Verlag: Krill Press
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: 0 - No protection

E-Book, Englisch, 194 Seiten

Elizabeth von Arnim was a British author and Countess best known for writing semi-autobiographical works that served as satirical commentaries of European society during her time.

Autoren/Hrsg.

Arnim, Elizabeth von

Leseproben

“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 27th—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 blase 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...