Elizabeth And Her German Garden: Chapter 11

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, Elizabeth explains that she likes nothing better than to picnic in the depths of winter and takes Irais and Minora on a sleigh ride to the frozen Baltic.

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

Transcript

Hello there, It's Mandy here. Welcome back to Elizabeth and her German Garden. By Elizabeth von Arnim. After the end of the Second World War, Elizabeth's ashes, In accordance with her wishes, Were taken by her second daughter, Leibet, To be interred with those of her brother, Sir Sidney Beauchamp, In the small churchyard of St Margaret's Church, Tyler's Green, Buckinghamshire, In England. Later, Liebeck was able to arrange for Elizabeth's hundreds of books to be distributed in the United States, England and elsewhere. Many are now housed in the Huntington Library in San Marino, California. Others are housed in the library of the University of Toulon, France. And apparently you can view the book catalogue online. Anyway, We've reached chapter 11, Which is the penultimate chapter of the book. And before I go ahead, Please feel free to make yourself really comfortable. Settle down into your chair or your bed. Relax your hands. Soften your shoulders. And drop your jaw. That's great. So if you're ready, Then I shall begin. January the 28th. It is very cold, 15 degrees of frost, 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 Irae first saw the portrait, She laughed until 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 around 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 into a very large, Flat, Jammy cake. The cake, With its candles, Is the chief feature, And on the table around it lie the gifts each person present is more or less bound to give you. 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, Reisend, Herrlich, Wundervoll, And süß, Repeated over and over again, Until the unfortunate birthday girl feels indeed that another year has gone, And that she has grown older, 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, Health strunk, 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 castle spares time to send a pot of flowers and to look up my age in the Gotha almanac. 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 next morning, When I come downstairs thankful to have done with it, I am confronted by the altar still in 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 Irae 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 notebook. 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. Slaying 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 the 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 around and come back again. At all times an annoying and even mortifying proceeding. Irae 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, Icebound 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 anthills 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 Wroth 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 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 at a 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 and 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. Creatures It is nice being the only person who ever goes there or shows it to anyone. 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're 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 woolen wrappings necessary to our heads if we would come back with our ears and noses in the same place 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, Eray called out as we passed, You'll be indeed a cold fowl if you stand there motionless, And everyone 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 14 miles before we reached the sea. It was a hoarfrost day. And the forest was an enchanted forest leading into fairyland. And though Irae 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. 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 Irei 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 30 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 warm soup in a little apparatus I have for such occasions, Which help 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 somebody 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. 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 wool 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 around your pipes and keep them warm, Said Eray. Pipes echoed menorah 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 away? 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 sundial. I don't know what I should do without him. So entirely does he appear to understand and approve of my tastes and wishes. 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 smooths away all objections raised by the man of rock. Who rewards his alacrity in doing my pleasure by speaking of him as an alter eson. 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 forest about here all sing the same tune and in the same key, E flat. I don't know whether all nightingales do this or if it is peculiar to this 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 up on 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 horse horses shied make it scold him. But I think he ought to have been thoroughly scolded on an occasion like that, " said Minora, To whom I had been telling the story as we wandered on the yellow sands while the horses were being put in the sleigh. And she glanced nervously 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 disk of the moon with loud cacklings. Before dark, Echoed DeRay, I should think not. It is dark now, Nearly, In the forest, And we shall have the loveliest moonlight drive back. But it's surely very dangerous to let a man who goes to sleep drive you, " said Minora apprehensively. "'But he's such an old deer, ' I said. "'Yes, Yes, No doubt, ' she replied testily. "'But there are wakeful old deers to be had, And on a box they are preferable. ' Irei laughed. You are growing quite amusing, Miss Minora, She said. He isn't on a box today, Said I, And I never knew him go to sleep standing up behind us on the 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. To be continued.

Reviews

Loving Elizabeth’s way of describing people and circumstances and things that are irritating and so on! Sorry to hear there’s only one more chapter! Thank you, Mandy for choosing this book and reading so well!