“The best way to act,” said the parson, when he had exhausted the greater part of his raptures, “will be to advertise in a newspaper of a Christian character.”
“But not in my name,” said Anna.
“No, no, we must be discreet — we must be very discreet. The advertisement must be drawn up with skill. I will make, simultaneously, inquiries among my colleagues in the holy office, but there must also be an advertisement. What would the gracious Miss’s opinion be of the desirability of referring all applicants, in the first instance, to me?”
“Why, I think it would be an excellent plan, if you do not mind the trouble.”
“Trouble! Joy fills me at the thought of taking part in this good work. Little did I think that our poor corner of the fatherland was to become a holy place, a blessed refuge for the world-worn, a nook fragrant with charity — —”
“No, not charity,” interposed Anna.
“Whose perfume,” continued the parson, determined to finish his sentence, “whose perfume will ascend day and night to the attentive heavens. But such are the celestial surprises Providence keeps in reserve and springs upon us when we least expect it.”
“Yes,” said Anna. “But what shall we put in the advertisement?”
“Ach ja, the advertisement. In the contemplation of this beautiful scheme I forget the advertisement.” And again the moisture of ecstasy suffused his eyes, and again he clasped his hands and gazed at her with his head on one side, almost as though the young lady herself were the beautiful scheme.
Anna got up and went to the writing-table to fetch a pencil and a sheet of paper, anxious to keep him to the point; and the parson watching the graceful white figure was more than ever struck by her resemblance to his idea of angels. He did not consider how easy it was to look like a being from another world, a creature purified of every earthly grossness, to eyes accustomed to behold the redundant exuberance of his own excellent wife.
She brought the paper, and sat down again at the table on which the lamp stood. “How does one write any sort of advertisement in German?” she said. “I could not write one for a housemaid. And this one must be done so carefully.”
“Very true; for, alas, even ladies are sometimes not all that they profess to be. Sad that in a Christian country there should be impostors. Doubly sad that there should be any of the female sex.”
“Very sad,” said Anna, smiling. “You must tell me which are the impostors among those that answer.”
“Ach, it will not be easy,” said the parson, whose experience of ladies was limited, and who began to see that he was taking upon himself responsibilities that threatened to become grave. Suppose he recommended an applicant who afterwards departed with the gracious Miss’s spoons in her bag? “Ach, it will not be easy,” he said, shaking his head.
“Oh, well,” said Anna, “we must risk the impostors. There may not be any at all. How would you begin?”
The parson threw himself back in his chair, folded his hands, cast up his eyes to the ceiling, and meditated. Anna waited, pencil in hand, ready to write at his dictation. Frau Manske at the other end of the room was straining her ears to hear what was going on, but Miss Leech, desirous both of entertaining her and of practising her German, would not cease from her spasmodic talk, even expecting her mistakes to be corrected. And there were no refreshments, no glasses of cooling beer being handed round, no liquid consolation of any sort, not even seltzer water. She regarded her evening as a failure.
“A Christian lady of noble sentiments,” dictated the parson, apparently reading the words off the ceiling, “offers a home in her house — —”
“Is this the advertisement?” asked Anna.
“ — offers a home in her house — —”
“I don’t quite like the beginning,” hesitated Anna. “I would rather leave out about the noble sentiments.”
“As the gracious one pleases. Modesty can never be anything but an ornament. ‘A Christian lady — —’”
“But why a Christian lady? Why not simply a lady? Are there, then, heathen ladies about, that you insist on the Christian?”
“Worse, worse than heathen,” replied the parson, sitting up straight, and fixing eyeballs suddenly grown fiery on her; and his voice fell to a hissing whisper, in strange contrast to his previous honeyed tones. “The heathen live in far-off lands, where they keep quiet till our missionaries gather them into the Church’s fold — but here, here in our midst, here everywhere, taking the money from our pockets, nay, the very bread from our mouths, are the Jews.”
Impossible to describe the tone of fear and hatred with which this word was pronounced.
Anna gazed at him, mystified. “The Jews?” she echoed. One of her greatest friends at home was a Jew, a delightful person, the mere recollection of whom made her smile, so witty and charming and kind was he. And of Jews in general she could not remember to have heard anything at all.
“But not only money from our pockets and bread from our mouths,” continued the parson, leaning forward, his light grey eyes opened to their widest extent, and speaking in a whisper that made her flesh begin the process known as creeping, “but blood — blood from our veins.”
“Blood from your veins?” she repeated faintly. It sounded horrid. It offended her ears. It had nothing to do with the advertisement. The strange light in his eyes made her think of fanaticism, cruelty, and the Middle Ages. The mildest of men in general, as she found later on, rabidness seized him at the mere mention of Jews.
“Blood,” he hissed, “from the veins of Christians, for the performance of their unholy rites. Did the gracious one never hear of ritual murders?”
“No,” said Anna, shrinking back, the nearer he leaned towards her, “never in my life. Don’t tell me now, for it — it sounds interesting. I should like to hear about it all another time. ‘A Christian lady offers her home,’” she went on quickly, scribbling that much down, and then looking at him inquiringly.
“Ach ja,” he said in his natural voice, leaning back in his chair and reducing his eyes to their normal size, “I forgot again the advertisement. ‘A Christian lady offers her home to others of her sex and station who are without means — —’”
“And without friends, and without hope,” added Anna, writing.
“Gut, gut, sehr gut.”
“She has room in her house in the country,” Anna went on, writing as she spoke, “for twelve such ladies, and will be glad to share with them all that she possesses of fortune and happiness.”
“Gut, gut, sehr gut.”
“Is the German correct?”
“Quite correct. I would add, ‘Strictest inquiries will be made before acceptance of any application by Herr Pastor Manske of Lohm, to whom all letters are to be addressed. Applicants must be ladies of good family, who have fallen on evil days by the will of God.’”
Anna wrote this down as far as “days,” after which she put a full stop.
“It pleases me not entirely,” said Manske, musing; “the language is not sufficiently noble. Noble schemes should be alluded to in noble words.”
“But not in an advertisement.”
“Why not? We ought not to hide our good thoughts from our fellows, but rather open our hearts, pour out our feelings, spend freely all that we have in us of virtue and piety, for the edification and exhilaration of others.”
“But not in an advertisement. I don’t want to exhilarate the public.”
“And why not exhilarate the public, dear Miss? Is it not composed of units of like passions to ourselves? Units on the way to heaven, units bowed down by the same sorrows, cheered by the same hopes, torn asunder by the same temptations as the gracious one and myself?” And immediately he launched forth into a flood of eloquence about units; for in Germany sermons are all extempore, and the clergy, from constant practice, acquire a fatal fluency of speech, bursting out in the week on the least provocation into preaching, and not by any known means to be stopped.
“Oh — word
s, words, words!” thought Anna, waiting till he should have finished. His wife, hearing the well-known rapid speech of his inspired moments, glowed with pride. “My Adolf surpasses himself,” she thought; “the Miss must wonder.”
The Miss did wonder. She sat and wondered, her elbows on the arms of the chair, her finger tips joined together, and her eyes fixed on her finger tips. She did not like to look at him, because, knowing how different was the effect produced on her to that which he of course imagined, she was sorry for him.
“It is so good of you to help me,” she said with gentle irrelevance when the longed-for pause at length came. “There was something else that I wanted to consult you about. I must look for a companion — an elderly German lady, who will help me in the housekeeping.”
“Yes, yes, I comprehend. But would not the twelve be sufficient companions, and helps in the housekeeping?”
“No, because I would not like them to think that I want anything done for me in return for their home. I want them to do exactly what makes them happiest. They will all have had sad lives, and must waste no more time in doing things they don’t quite like.”
“Ah — noble, noble,” murmured the parson, quite as unpractical as Anna, and fascinated by the very vagueness of her plan of benevolence.
“The companion I wish to find would be another sort of person, and would help me in return for a salary.”
“Certainly, I comprehend.”
“I thought perhaps you would tell me how to advertise for such a person?”
“Surely, surely. My wife has a sister — —”
He paused. Anna looked up quickly. She had not reckoned with the possibility of his wife’s having sisters.
“Lieber Schatz,” he called to his wife, “what does thy sister Helena do now?”
Frau Manske got up and came over to them with the alacrity of relief. “What dost thou say, dear Adolf?” she asked, laying her hand on his shoulder. He took it in his, stroked it, kissed it, and finally put his arm round her waist and held it there while he talked; all to the exceeding joy of Letty, to whom such proceedings had the charm of absolute freshness.
“Thy sister Helena — is she at present in the parental house?” he asked, looking up at her fondly, warmed into an affection even greater than ordinary by the circumstance of having spectators.
Frau Manske was not sure. She would write and inquire. Anna proposed that she should sit down, but the parson playfully held her closer. “This is my guardian angel,” he explained, smiling beatifically at her, “the faithful mother of my children, now grown up and gone their several ways. Does the gracious Miss remember the immortal lines of Schiller, ‘Ehret die Frauen, sie flechten und weben himmlische Rosen in’s irdische Leben’? Such has been the occupation of this dear wife, only interrupted by her occasional visits to bathing resorts, since the day, more than twenty-five years ago, when she consented to tread with me the path leading heavenwards. Not a day has there been, except when she was at the seaside, without its roses.”
“Oh,” said Anna. She felt that the remark was not at the height of the situation, and added, “How — how interesting.” This also struck her as inadequate; but all further inspiration failing her, she was reduced to the silent sympathy of smiles.
“Ten children did the Lord bless us with,” continued the parson, expanding into confidences, “and six it was His will again to remove.”
“The drains—” murmured Frau Manske.
“Yes, truly the drains in the town where we lived then were bad, very bad. But one must not question the wisdom of Providence.”
“No, but one might mend — —” Anna stopped, feeling that under some circumstances even the mending of drains might be impious. She had heard so much about piety and Providence within the last two hours that she was confused, and was no longer clear as to the exact limit of conduct beyond which a flying in the face of Providence might be said to begin.
But the parson, clasping his wife to his side, paid no heed to anything she might be saying, for he was already well on in a detailed account of the personal appearance, habits, and career of his four remaining children, and dwelt so fondly on each in turn that he forgot sister Helena and the second advertisement; and when he had explained all their numerous excellencies and harmless idiosyncrasies, including their preferences in matters of food and drink, he abruptly quitted this topic, and proceeded to expound Anna’s scheme to his wife, who had listened with ill-concealed impatience to the first part of his discourse, consumed as she was with curiosity to hear what it was that Anna had confided to him.
So Anna had to listen to the raptures all over again. The eager interest of the wife disturbed her. She doubted whether Frau Manske had any real sympathy with her plan. Her inquisitiveness was unquestionable; but Anna felt that opening her heart to the parson and opening it to his wife were two different things. Though he was wordy, he was certainly enthusiastic; his wife, on the other hand, appeared to be chiefly interested in the question of cost. “The cost will be colossal,” she said, surveying Anna from head to foot. “But the gracious Miss is rich,” she added.
Anna began to examine her finger tips again.
On the way home through the dark fields, after having criticised each dish of the dinner and expressed the opinion that the entertainment was not worthy of such a wealthy lady, Frau Manske observed to her husband that it was true, then, what she had always heard of the English, that they were peculiarly liable to prolonged attacks of craziness.
“Craziness! Thou callest this craziness? It is my wife, the wife of a pastor, that I hear applying such a word to so beautiful, so Christian, a scheme?”
“But the good money — to give it all away. Yes, it is very Christian, but it is also crazy.”
“Woman, shut thy mouth!” cried the parson, beside himself with indignation at hearing such sentiments from such lips.
Clearly Frau Manske was not at that moment engaged with her roses.
CHAPTER IX
The next morning early, Anna went over to the farm to ask Dellwig to lend her any newspapers he might have. She was anxious to advertise as soon as possible for a companion, and now that she knew of the existence of sister Helena, thought it better to write this advertisement without the parson’s aid, copying any other one of the sort that she might see in the papers. Until she had secured the services of a German lady who would tell her how to set about the reforms she intended making in her house, she was perfectly helpless. She wanted to put her home in order quickly, so that the twelve unhappy ones should not be kept waiting; and there were many things to be done. Servants, furniture, everything, was necessary, and she did not know where such things were to be had. She did not even know where washerwomen were obtainable, and Frau Dellwig never seemed to be at home when she sent for her, or went to her seeking information. On Good Friday, after Susie’s departure, she had sent a message to the farm desiring the attendance of the inspector’s wife, whom she wished to consult about the dinner to be prepared for the Manskes, all provisions apparently passing through Frau Dellwig’s hands; and she had been told that the lady was at church. On Saturday morning, disturbed by the emptiness of her larder and the imminence of her guests, she had gone herself to the farm, but was told that the lady was in the cow-sheds — in which cow-shed nobody exactly knew. Anna had been forced to ask Dellwig about the food. On Sunday she took Letty with her, abashed by the whisperings and starings she had had to endure when she went alone. Nor on this occasion did she see the inspector’s wife, and she began to wonder what had become of her.
The Dellwigs’ wrath and amazement when they found that the parson and his wife had been invited to dinner and they themselves left out was indescribable. Never had such an insult been offered them. They had always been the first people of their class in the place, always held their heads up and condescended to the clergy, always been helped first at table, gone first through doors, sat in the right-hand corners of sofas. If he was furious, she was still more so, fille
d with venom and hatred unutterable for the innocent, but it must be added overjoyed, Frau Manske; and though her own interest demanded it, she was altogether unable to bring herself to meet Anna for the purpose, as she knew, of being consulted about the menu to be offered to the wretched upstart. Indeed, Frau Dellwig’s position was similar to that painful one in which Susie found herself when her influential London acquaintance left her out of the invitations to the wedding; on which occasion, as we know, Susie had been constrained to flee to Germany in order to escape the comments of her friends. Frau Dellwig could not flee anywhere. She was obliged to stay where she was and bear it as best she might, humiliated in the eyes of the whole neighbourhood, an object of derision to her very milkmaids. Philosophers smile at such trials; but to persons who are not philosophers, and at Kleinwalde these were in the majority, they are more difficult to endure than any family bereavement. There is no dignity about them, and friends, instead of sympathising, rejoice more or less openly according to the degree of their civilisation. The degree of civilisation among Frau Dellwig’s friends was not great, and the rejoicings on the next Sunday when they all met would be but ill-concealed; there was no escape from them, they had to be faced, and the malicious condolences accepted with what countenance she could. Instead of making sausages, therefore, she shut herself in her bedroom and wept.
And so it came about that the unconscious Anna, whose one desire was to live at peace with her neighbours, made two enemies within two days. “All women,” said Dellwig to his wife, “high and low, are alike. Unless they have a husband to keep them in their right places, they become religious and run after pastors. Manske has wormed himself in very cleverly, truly very cleverly. But we will worm him out again with equal cleverness. As for his wife, what canst thou expect from so great a fool?”
Delphi Collected Works of Elizabeth von Arnim (Illustrated) Page 36
