Elizabeth And Her German Garden - Part 7

May you enjoy this reading of the beloved 1898 novel, "Elizabeth and Her German Garden"! This was the debut novel of Marie Annette Beauchamp, better known as Elizabeth Von Armin.

It is a charming, sweet, satirical story of a wife and mother attempting to nurture a flower garden on her husband's old family estate in Germany.

The book is semi-autobiographical in nature...and was in fact published anonymously at first, as the author feared that her husband - a German count - wouldn't approve of the content! The book however proved to be extremely popular, with 20 re-printings in the first year alone, and eventually, the book was attributed to the author herself!

Transcript

Hello there.

Thank you so much for joining me for this continued reading of Elizabeth and Her German Garden.

Perhaps you've heard the preceding parts,

Perhaps not,

It doesn't really matter either way.

If you do want to hear the prior parts of the story,

You can find them in the playlist of the name Elizabeth and Her German Garden.

So this book was from 1898 by the author known as Elizabeth von Amann and it's a very charming,

Sweet story of a wife and mother trying to nurture a garden in Germany.

Before we move on with the story here,

Let's just take a moment to have a nice deep exhale and let go of the day,

Letting go of whichever baggage we might be bringing along with us.

For right now,

There's nowhere else that we have to be and nothing else that we have to be doing.

So we can just relax,

Get ourselves comfortable and enjoy the charming story of Elizabeth and Her German Garden.

December the 7th.

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.

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,

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 forever.

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.

And shivered.

The library is not used by the man of Roth.

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 onto my most cherished bit of garden,

The bit round the sundial,

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 sundial 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 R.

Parson,

In the intervals between looking around 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.

R.

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 Hausfrau's,

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 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 goods.

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 peddler 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 forever engaged in desperate efforts to practice what they preach,

Then which,

As we all know,

Nothing is more difficult.

He works in his parish with 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.

Joy December the 22nd 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 hyacinth 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 farmhands 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 too 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 aeschyltias,

Dahlias,

Sunflowers,

Zinnias,

Scabiosa,

Portulaca,

Yellow violas,

Yellow starks,

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 shriveled 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 a vacant eye dreamily chopping wood from morning till night to keep the beloved one's kitchen fire well supplied.

I cannot understand anyone preferring cooks to marigolds.

Those future marigolds,

Shadowy as they are,

And whose seeds are still sleeping at the seedsmen's,

Have shone 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 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 calciolarias 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 doctor 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 inhumanity?

Injured innocents,

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 Ares,

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 Menorah.

Why I have to have Menorah,

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 I found a letter from an English friend,

Who up till then had been perfectly innocuous,

Asking me to befriend Menorah.

I read the letter aloud for the benefit of the man of Roth,

Who was eating spiccans,

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 Roth,

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 Roth.

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 Menorah a bright,

Intelligent companion.

Menorah?

Questioned the man of Roth.

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,

Menorah,

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 holy 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 Roth composedly.

But you will.

You will write today and cordially invite her.

And when she has been here twenty four hours,

You will quarrel with her.

I know you,

My dear.

Quarrel?

Aye,

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 anyone 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 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.

Menorah and Ereus arrived yesterday together.

Or rather,

When the carriage drove up,

Ereus 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 Ereus 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 around her.

The flame of my affection for Ereus 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 Menorah 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 Roth,

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,

She'll throw it into book form.

She spoke very loud,

As English people always do to foreigners.

My dear,

I said breathlessly to Ereus,

When I had got into her room and shut the door,

And Menorah was safely in hers,

What do you think?

She writes books.

What?

The bicycling girl?

Yes,

Menorah.

Imagine it.

We stood and looked at each other with awestruck faces.

How dreadful,

Murmured Ereus.

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 Menorah most.

Indeed,

She lingered so long after dinner in the hall,

Which is cold,

That the man of Wroth 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 notebook,

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.

Ereus 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 dare say.

Are you not studying painting?

Yes,

But I can't study that forever.

However,

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'm 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 Ereus,

And Drivel from Dresden,

Said I,

And Bosch from Berlin,

Added Ereus.

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 Ereus and drawing out her notebook.

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 Ereus,

But Minora was so busy scribbling that she did not hear.

And have you no suggestions to make,

Sage?

Asked Ereus,

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.

Ereus 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 notebook.

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 Ereus 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 the elusive recollection.

Sage and- why,

Yes,

No,

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 Ereus 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 Ereus.

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 Ereus.

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 Ereus,

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.

Hastily?

What room is she in,

Asked Ereus.

Number 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 Ereus from her bedroom door,

Mind you jot it down.

Reviews

So many rambles— again can’t imagine being so into gardens but not doing the work of them, but it is common, I suppose. I love her style though! Thanks for reading!❤️🙏🏼