Elizabeth And Her German Garden, Chapter 10

If you enjoyed The Enchanted April, now's the chance to listen to Elizabeth Von Arnim's famous and beautifully written memoir about her garden in Germany. In tonight's chapter, Minora, unable to avoid Elizabeth's children, decides to include them in her book, and Irais gets annoyed that Minora is still staying at Elizabeth's, even though she herself has been staying there just as long.

Please also find The Enchanted April narrated by me on Free Tracks.

Transcript

Hello there, It's Mandy here. Thanks for joining me tonight and welcome back to Elizabeth and Her German Garden by Elizabeth von Arnim. We last spoke of Elizabeth living in the United States and publishing her acclaimed last novel, Mr. Skeffington. But although she was supported by her second daughter, Libet, And her close friends, The publisher Nelson Doubleday and his wife, Elizabeth's fragile health suffered during her itinerant life in the United States. She died in South Carolina early in 1941. But back to her garden where she is still very much alive. And we've reached chapter 10. Before I go ahead, Please feel free to make yourself really comfortable. Settle down into your chair or into your bed. Relax your hands. Loosen your shoulders. And soften your jaw. That's wonderful. So if you're ready, Then I shall begin. January the 15th. 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 Wroth 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 can't 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 stalk, 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's 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've 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 Roth'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 around. Mothers tell me 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 the outdoor 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 and beginning to do so when she is 12. Are you 12 mummy? She asked The gardener is leaving on the 1st 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 she should try and get used to it but she thought that 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 bedtime approaches, And relents towards Irei and myself, And after having shown us all day how little she approves of us, When the bedroom candles are brought, She quite begins to cling. She has once or twice anxiously inquired whether Irei 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 Hire is not to be taken in by such simple wiles, And she told me she would rather sleep with fifty ghosts than with one menorah. Since Miss Jones was so unexpectedly called away to her parents' bedside, I have seen a good deal of the babies, And it's 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 reach of the arm of the law, Which is what every German spends his life trying to avoid. The April baby will be six next month. And after her sixth birthday is past, 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 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 dare say 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 good for anything. 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 best 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 slaying, 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 Roth'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 Irae. You can't write effectively about children without that. Oh of course i shall mention that replied menorah and pink toes i added there are always toes and they're never anything but pink I have that somewhere, Said Minora, Turning over her notes. But after all, Babies are not a German speciality, Said Irae, 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 old 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 spit gans and liver sausages. And they are different. I can't tell in exactly what way, But they certainly are. And I think if I steadily describe them from the materials I've collected, I may perhaps hit on the points of difference. Why bother about points of difference? Asked Iray. 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 Irae, 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 eyeglasses and read aloud. When my baby shuts her eyes and sings her hymns at bedtime, 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 walls. 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 10 both bread and milk and angels have been left behind in the nursery and she has found out they are luxuries not necessary to her everyday life. In later years, She may be disinclined to accept truth secondhand, 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 Irae, Yet will she never, With all her virtues possessed, 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 bedtime 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's 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 nightdress, 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 reading. That is exactly what I was going to say. Oh, Then I've 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'm going to take a man's name. That is precisely what I imagined, Said Irae. You will call yourself John Jones or George Potts or some such sternly commonplace name to emphasize your uncompromising attitude towards all feminine weaknesses and no one will be taken in. I really think, Elizabeth, Said Irei 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 did she copy all that about the baby? I wonder why mother's knees are supposed to be touching? I never learned anything at them, Did you? But then in my case they were only stepmothers 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 Aunty Ray, 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 footbath 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 that you did, I said pleasantly. Iray was silent. I hope she was reflecting that it is not worse to neglect one's art than to neglect one's husband and her husband is lying all this time stretched on a bed of sickness while she is spending days 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 anyone 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 Irei 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 a shut door to her is symbolic of the failure of her married life. And the very sight of one makes her wonder why she was even born. At least that's 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. This 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. To be continued.

Reviews

🌹🌲🌸🌳🌷💐🏡🌻🌴🌺
Makes me wish I could see her garden and walk its rows and pathways.
I fell asleep and need to listen again to give a proper review, but thank you anyway for your excellent reading, Mandy! I do enjoy listening and drifting off.