From Minora I have only had one communication since her departure, in which she thanked me for her pleasant visit, and said she was sending me a bottle of English embrocation to rub on my bruises after skating; that it was wonderful stuff, and she was sure I would like it; and that it cost two marks, and would I send stamps. I pondered long over this. Was it a parting hit, intended as revenge for our having laughed at her? Was she personally interested in the sale of embrocation? Or was it merely Minora’s idea of a graceful return for my hospitality? As for bruises, nobody who skates decently regards it as a bruise-producing exercise, and whenever there were any they were all on Minora; but she did happen to turn round once, I remember, just as I was in the act of tumbling down for the first and only time, and her delight was but thinly veiled by her excessive solicitude and sympathy. I sent her the stamps, received the bottle, and resolved to let her drop out of my life; I had been a good Samaritan to her at the request of my friend, but the best of Samaritans resents the offer of healing oil for his own use. But why waste a thought on Minora at Easter, the real beginning of the year in defiance of calendars. She belongs to the winter that is past, to the darkness that is over, and has no part or lot in the life I shall lead for the next six months. Oh, I could dance and sing for joy that the spring is here! What a resurrection of beauty there is in my garden, and of brightest hope in my heart! The whole of this radiant Easter day I have spent out of doors, sitting at first among the windflowers and celandines, and then, later, walking with the babies to the Hirschwald, to see what the spring had been doing there; and the afternoon was so hot that we lay a long time on the turf, blinking up through the leafless branches of the silver birches at the soft, fat little white clouds floating motionless in the blue. We had tea on the grass in the sun, and when it began to grow late, and the babies were in bed, and all the little wind-flowers folded up for the night, I still wandered in the green paths, my heart full of happiest gratitude. It makes one very humble to see oneself surrounded by such a wealth of beauty and perfection anonymously lavished, and to think of the infinite meanness of our own grudging charities, and how displeased we are if they are not promptly and properly appreciated. I do sincerely trust that the benediction that is always awaiting me in my garden may by degrees be more deserved, and that I may grow in grace, and patience, and cheerfulness, just like the happy flowers I so much love.
THE SOLITARY SUMMER
The sequel to Elizabeth and her German Garden was published in 1899 by Macmillan, with the American edition possibly a year later. As with the previous book, it is arranged in diary format, starting in May.
“I want to be alone for the whole summer,” says Elizabeth, the heroine of the story, at the beginning of the book. Her husband, referred to as The Man of Wrath, points out in a rather paternalistic manner the various drawbacks of such solitude, but does not stop her going ahead with her plan. This novel seems to be as much about the books Elizabeth reads during her solitary summer, as about her garden. We learn that Keats is for woodland moments; Goethe and Wilhelm Meister for the garden proper; Walt Whitman for evening reading when seated by the rose beds. Some writers, like Boswell, are reserved for indoors; in this case, in the library. Elizabeth’s extensive collection of gardening books is dipped into on a regular basis, especially those that describe the development of a garden such as Elizabeth is creating. The reader also learns of Elizabeth’s favourite flowers: roses and sweet peas.
Elizabeth’s solitude is of a strange type. She is not alone at all; her husband and three children are all in the house at Nassenheide with her, as are the servants, but clearly the idea is that she shall not be bothered with the everyday challenges that such a household would naturally generate. She and her husband have a gentle rivalry as to whether she will cope with so much of her own company; The Man of Wrath, knowing his wife’s mood is lowered by persistent rain, taps the barometer hopefully, wishing a rainy season would arrive so that Elizabeth will abandon her scheme. In fact, we get to know Elizabeth’s husband much better in this sequel – he is unsentimental, paternalistic and opinionated, but not without kindness to his wife and children. As with the previous book, the three children, known as April, May and June, are represented in sentimental vignettes, which often centre around subjects related to God, Heaven and the Bible, but they also get into scrapes – such as the morning their English nanny, Séraphine, is careless enough to let them play at a neighbour’s garden pond and one of the children falls in, causing Elizabeth great panic and worry. Thankfully, these children are not pale faced, insipid Edwardian angels, but sturdy, playful creatures that play with broken toys and are allowed to run about the garden, getting suitably grubby and so they are appealing in their own way.
The reader also learns how the local farm hands live when Elizabeth visits them. As with women in Britain at that time, cleanliness, orderliness and in the case of the German farm hand’s wife, having the best feather bedding were rituals of respectability; in working class English streets, she who had the best scrubbed kitchen table or door step was the most highly regarded by her neighbours, whereas in Elizabeth’s vicinity, the feather bedding was the benchmark for the most respected hausfrau. Despite this, the practice of a young couple having a child before marriage seems completely accepted, to the horror of the local parson, the scorn of local townsfolk and the unease of Elizabeth – even the highly regarded housewife with her fine feather bedding was not the least perturbed by her eldest child becoming caught up in this custom and was convinced that the father of the child would do the right thing by her daughter because it was simply the way things were in that area at that time.
There is an overall tendency in the novel to depict local working people as superstitious and backward-looking — we learn of a baby who failed to thrive and died, because the overly careful mother refused to ever take the child outside — but that is not unusual for a work of creative non-fiction of this period. Elizabeth’s gentle critique is not confined to them, however and is also turned on the soldiers that flooded the area on manoeuvres in the late Summer, taking over every available spare room and breaking the hearts of many local girls.
In this book we also witness Elizabeth philosophising about a wide range of subjects, from the labouring classes in the area to the eating of goose meat and what she would do if left without any money. Thus the narrative proves to be quite varied, perhaps more so than the prequel and as such widens the scope of what we learn about Elizabeth and von Arnim herself considerably. Although Elizabeth and her German Garden tends to outshine its sequel, they complement each other extremely well and it is recommended that both are read to get the best out of them.
The first edition’s title page
To the man of wrath
With some apologies and much love
THE SOLITARY SUMMER.
May
May 2nd. — Last night after dinner, when we were in the garden, I said, “I want to be alone for a whole summer, and get to the very dregs of life. I want to be as idle as I can, so that my soul may have time to grow. Nobody shall be invited to stay with me, and if any one calls they will be told that I am out, or away, or sick. I shall spend the months in the garden, and on the plain, and in the forests. I shall watch the things that happen in my garden, and see where I have made mistakes. On wet days I will go into the thickest parts of the forests, where the pine needles are everlastingly dry, and when the sun shines I’ll lie on the heath and see how the broom flares against the clouds. I shall be perpetually happy, because there will be no one to worry me. Out there on the plain there is silence, and where there is silence I have discovered there is peace.”
“Mind you do not get your feet damp,” said the Man of Wrath, removing his cigar.
It was the evening of May Day, and the spring had taken hold of me body and soul. The sky was full of stars, and the garden of scents, and the borders of wallflowers and sweet, sly pansies. All day there had been a breeze, and all day slow masses of white clouds had bee
n sailing across the blue. Now it was so still, so motionless, so breathless, that it seemed as though a quiet hand had been laid on the garden, soothing and hushing it into silence.
The Man of Wrath sat at the foot of the verandah steps in that placid after-dinner mood which suffers fools, if not gladly, at least indulgently, and I stood in front of him, leaning against the sun-dial.
“Shall you take a book with you?” he asked.
“Yes, I shall,” I replied, slightly nettled by his tone. “I am quite ready to admit that though the fields and flowers are always ready to teach, I am not always in the mood to learn, and sometimes my eyes are incapable of seeing things that at other times are quite plain.”
“And then you read?”
“And then I read. Well, dear Sage, what of that?”
But he smoked in silence, and seemed suddenly absorbed by the stars.
“See,” he said, after a pause, during which I stood looking at him and wishing he would use longer sentences, and he looked at the sky and did not think about me at all, “see how bright the stars are to-night. Almost as though it might freeze.”
“It isn’t going to freeze, and I won’t look at anything until you have told me what you think of my idea. Wouldn’t a whole lovely summer, quite alone, be delightful? Wouldn’t it be perfect to get up every morning for weeks and feel that you belong to yourself and to nobody else?” And I went over to him and put a hand on each shoulder and gave him a little shake, for he persisted in gazing at the stars just as though I had not been there. “Please, Man of Wrath, say something long for once,” I entreated; “you haven’t said a good long sentence for a week.”
He slowly brought his gaze from the stars down to me and smiled. Then he drew me on to his knee.
“Don’t get affectionate,” I urged; “it is words, not deeds, that I want. But I’ll stay here if you’ll talk.”
“Well then, I will talk. What am I to say? You know you do as you please, and I never interfere with you. If you do not want to have any one here this summer you will not have any one, but you will find it a very long summer.”
“No, I won’t.”
“And if you lie on the heath all day, people will think you are mad.”
“What do I care what people think?”
“No, that is true. But you will catch cold, and your little nose will swell.”
“Let it swell.”
“And when it is hot you will be sunburnt and your skin spoilt.”
“I don’t mind my skin.”
“And you will be dull.”
“Dull?”
It often amuses me to reflect how very little the Man of Wrath really knows me. Here we have been three years buried in the country, and I as happy as a bird the whole time. I say as a bird, because other people have used the simile to describe absolute cheerfulness, although I do not believe birds are any happier than any one else, and they quarrel disgracefully. I have been as happy then, we will say, as the best of birds, and have had seasons of solitude at intervals before now during which dull is the last word to describe my state of mind. Everybody, it is true, would not like it, and I had some visitors here a fortnight ago who left after staying about a week and clearly not enjoying themselves. They found it dull, I know, but that of course was their own fault; how can you make a person happy against his will? You can knock a great deal into him in the way of learning and what the schools call extras, but if you try for ever you will not knock any happiness into a being who has not got it in him to be happy. The only result probably would be that you knock your own out of yourself. Obviously happiness must come from within, and not from without; and judging from my past experience and my present sensations, I should say that I have a store just now within me more than sufficient to fill five quiet months.
“I wonder,” I remarked after a pause, during which I began to suspect that I too must belong to the serried ranks of the femmes incomprises, “why you think I shall be dull. The garden is always beautiful, and I am nearly always in the mood to enjoy it. Not quite always, I must confess, for when those Schmidts were here” (their name was not Schmidt, but what does that matter?) “I grew almost to hate it. Whenever I went into it there they were, dragging themselves about with faces full of indignant resignation. Do you suppose they saw one of those blue hepaticas overflowing the shrubberies? And when I drove with them into the woods, where the fairies were so busy just then hanging the branches with little green jewels, they talked about Berlin the whole time, and the good savouries their new chef makes.”
“Well, my dear, no doubt they missed their savouries. Your garden, I acknowledge, is growing very pretty, but your cook is bad. Poor Schmidt sometimes looked quite ill at dinner, and the beauty of your floral arrangements in no way made up for the inferior quality of the food. Send her away.”
“Send her away? Be thankful you have her. A bad cook is more effectual a great deal than Kissingen and Carlsbad and Homburg rolled into one, and very much cheaper. As long as I have her, my dear man, you will be comparatively thin and amiable. Poor Schmidt, as you call him, eats too much of those delectable savouries, and then looks at his wife and wonders why he married her. Don’t let me catch you doing that.”
“I do not think it is very likely,” said the Man of Wrath; but whether he meant it prettily, or whether he was merely thinking of the improbability of his ever eating too much of the local savouries, I cannot tell. I object, however, to discussing cooks in the garden on a starlight night, so I got off his knee and proposed that we should stroll round a little.
It was such a sweet evening, such a fitting close to a beautiful May Day, and the flowers shone in the twilight like pale stars, and the air was full of fragrance, and I envied the bats fluttering through such a bath of scent, with the real stars above and the pansy stars beneath, and themselves so fashioned that even if they wanted to they could not make a noise and disturb the prevailing peace. A great deal that is poetical has been written by English people about May Day, and the impression left on the foreign mind is an impression of posies, and garlands, and village greens, and youths and maidens much be-ribboned, and lambs, and general friskiness. I was in England once on a May Day, and we sat over the fire shivering and listening blankly to the north- east wind tearing down the street and the rattling of the hail against the windows, and the friends with whom I was staying said it was very often so, and that they had never seen any lambs and ribbons. We Germans attach no poetical significance to it at all, and yet we well might, for it is almost invariably beautiful; and as for garlands, I wonder how many villages full of young people could have been provided with them out of my garden, and nothing be missed. It is to-day a garden of wallflowers, and I think I have every colour and sort in cultivation. The borders under the south windows of the house, so empty and melancholy this time last year, are crammed with them, and are finished off in front by a broad strip from end to end of yellow and white pansies. The tea rose beds round the sun-dial facing these borders are sheets of white, and golden, and purple, and wine-red pansies, with the dainty red shoots of the tea roses presiding delicately in their midst. The verandah steps leading down into this pansy paradise have boxes of white, and pink, and yellow tulips all the way up on each side, and on the lawn, behind the roses, are two big beds of every coloured tulip rising above a carpet of forget-me-nots. How very much more charming different-coloured tulips are together than tulips in one colour by itself! Last year, on the recommendation of sundry writers about gardens, I tried beds of scarlet tulips and forget-me-nots. They were pretty enough; but I wish those writers could see my beds of mixed tulips. I never saw anything so sweetly, delicately gay. The only ones I exclude are the rose-coloured ones; but scarlet, gold, delicate pink, and white are all there, and the effect is infinitely enchanting. The forget-me-nots grow taller as the tulips go off, and will presently tenderly engulf them altogether, and so hide the shame of their decay in their kindly little arms. They will be left there, clouds of gentle blue, until t
he tulips are well withered, and then they will be taken away to make room for the scarlet geraniums that are to occupy these two beds in the summer and flare in the sun as much as they like. I love an occasional mass of fiery colour, and these two will make the lilies look even whiter and more breathless that are to stand sentinel round the semicircle containing the precious tea roses.
Delphi Collected Works of Elizabeth von Arnim (Illustrated) Page 15
