“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 Fraulein 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 Fraulein 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 twel
ve 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 20th. — 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-ros
es, 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.
Delphi Collected Works of Elizabeth von Arnim (Illustrated) Page 7
