Delphi Collected Works of Elizabeth von Arnim (Illustrated)

by Elizabeth Von Arnim

  Her interest could not have been keener if she had been a deputy herself with the existence of her party depending on it. She had her own views about it, all cut and dried; she explained her husband’s, which differed considerably; and she was anxious to hear mine. So anxious was she that she even forgot to smile when speaking to me — forgot, that is, that she was a woman and I a man able, if inclined, to admire her.

  I remember staring at her a moment in unfeigned astonishment, and then, leaning back in my chair, giving myself up to uncontrollable mirth.

  She watched me with surprise, which made me laugh still more. When I could speak she inquired whether any one at the table had said anything amusing, and seemed quite struck on my assuring her that it was she herself who was amusing.

  “I am?” said she; and a faint flush enhanced her prettiness.

  “Yes — you and the Education Bill together,” said I, again overcome with laughter. “It is indeed an amusing mixture. It is like,” I added, with happy readiness of compliment, “a rose in an inkpot.”

  “But is that amusing?” she asked, not in the least grateful for the flattery, and with a quite serious face.

  She had had her little lesson, however, and she did not again talk politics. Indeed, she did not again talk at all, but turned to the gentleman on her other side, and left me nothing to look at but a sweet little curl behind a sweet little ear.

  Now if she had been properly brought up to devote herself to the woman’s function of pleasing, how agreeably we could have discoursed together about that curl and that ear, and kindred topics, branching off into all sorts of flowery and seductive byways of compliment and insinuation, such as the well-trained young woman thoroughly enjoys and understands. I can only trust the lesson I gave her did her good. It certainly cured her of talking politics to me.

  Listening to the English pastor heating himself over the Licensing Bill which, with all politics, is surely as distinctly outside the pastoral province as it is outside the woman’s, I remembered this earlier success, and not caring to stand there unnoticed any longer thought I would repeat it. I therefore began to laugh, gently at first, as though tickled by my thoughts, then more heartily.

  They all stopped to look at me.

  “What is the joke, Baron?” asked Menzies-Legh, scowling up.

  “Forgive me. Pastor,” said I, taking off my hat and bowing — he for his part only stared— “but we are accustomed in my country (which, thank God, is Germany!) never to connect clergymen with politics, the inevitable wranghngs of which make them ill-suited as a study for men whose calling is purely that of peace. So firmly h this feeling rooted in our natures that it is as amusing to me to see a gentleman of your profession deeply interested in such questions as it would be to see — to see ‘‘

  I cast about for a simile, but nothing occurred to me at the moment (and they were all sitting waiting) than the rose and inkpot one, so I had to take that.

  And Mrs. Menzies-Legh, just as obtusely as the little bride of years ago, asked, “But is that amusing?”“

  Before I could reply Menzies-Legh got up and said he must write some letters; the pastor got up too and said he must hurry off to a class; and Lord Sigismund, as I approached the vacated chair next to him, and was about to drop into it, said he felt sure Menzies-Legh had no stamps, and he must go and lend him some.

  Looking up from the grass on which she still sat, Mrs. Menzies-Legh patted it and said, “Come and sit on this nice soft stuff, dear Baron. I think men are tiresome things, don’t you? Always rushing off somewhere. Tell me about the rose and the inkpot. I do see, I think, that they’re — they’re funny. Why did the vicar remind you of them? Come and sit on the grass and tell me.”

  But I had no desire to sit on grass with Mrs. Menzies-Legh, as though we were a row of turtle doves, so I merely said I did not like grass, and bowing slightly, walked away.

  CHAPTER XIV

  THE next day one of those unfortunate incidents happened which may, of course, happen to anybody, but really need not have happened just to me.

  We left our camp at twelve, after the usual feverish endeavour to start much earlier, the caravans as usual nearly capsizing getting out to the field, and breaking, also as usual, in their plungings several hitherto unbroken articles, and with the wind and dust in our faces and gray, lowering clouds over our heads we resumed our daily race after pleasure.

  The Sunday had been fine throughout, and there had been dew and stars at the end of it which, together with windlessness, made us expect a fine Monday. But it was nothing of the sort. Monday provided the conditions I always now associate with caravaning — a high wind, a threatening sky, clouds of dust, and a hard white road.

  The day began badly and continued badly, so that even writing about it at this distance I drop unconsciously into a fretful tone. Perhaps our dinner at the inn on the Sunday had been more than constitutions used to starvation could suddenly endure, or perhaps some of us may have eaten beyond the limits of discretion, remembering that another week was to pass before the next real meal, and these, becoming cross, had infected the rest; anyhow on Monday troubles seemed to accumulate, beginning with a bill from the farmer for the field and care of the horses of a most exorbitant nature, going on to the losing of various things in the hasty packing up, continuing with the hurting of Menzies-Legh’s foot owing to his folly in placing it where the advancing hoof of my horse was bound to go and with his being in consequence unable to do his proper share of work, and ending with the unfortunate incident I referred to above and shall presently relate.

  Menzies-Legh, indeed, was strangely irritable. Perhaps his foot hurt him, but he ought not to have minded that, considering, as I told him, it was nobody’s fault but his own. I was leading the horse at the moment, and saw Menzies-Legh’s foot but never dreamed he would not remove it in time, and you cannot, as I said to him, blame a dumb animal.

  “Certainly not,” agreed Menzies-Legh; but with a singular gloom.

  And when I saw the exorbitance of the bill I felt bound to point out to him that strict honesty did not seem to be characteristic of his countrymen, and to enlarge on the difference between them and my own, and that seemed to irritate him too, though he said nothing.

  Seeing this suppressed irritation I sought to remove it by reminding him of his wealth, and of how the rapacity of the various farmers would at the worst only mean for him one stove the less for one undeserving old woman the fewer; but even that did not cheer him — he was and remained in a bad temper. So that, vexed as I was myself at the expense of the holiday that was to have been so cheap, I could not prevent a temporary good-humour taking possession of me, which is the invariable effect produced on me by other people’s crossness. Even then, with his hurt foot, Menzies-Legh was such a slave to duty that while I was in the very act of talking the recollection of something he ought to do made him struggle up from the low chair and rugs in which his wife had carefully placed him, and limp away; and I saw no more of him for a long while beyond an occasional glimpse of his sallow visage at the window in front of his van, where he sat all day in silence driving his horse.

  Behold us, then, crawling along an ugly highroad with our mouths full of dust.

  The weather was alternately hot and cold, but uninterruptedly windy, and rain threatened to descend on us and actually did as the afternoon wore on. My hearers must remember that in caravaning afternoons wear on and mornings merge into them with no such thing as a real meal throughout their entire length. Long before this I had realized that plums were to be my portion: plums, or bananas, or very green apples, mitigated by a biscuit unless biscuits chanced to be scarce (in which case the ladies got them), at a time of day when the rest of Europe was sitting down comfortably to its luncheon; and I had learned to acquiesce in this as I acquiesced in all the other privations, for I saw for myself that it was impossible to arrange a cooked meal except before leaving or after arriving in camp. A reasonable man is silent before the impossible; still, plums
are poor things to march on. March on them, however, I had to, and Hunger (a most unpleasant and reverberating companion) came too, and marched with me every day.

  Well, I was often glad at this time that my poor Marie-Luise was spared her silver wedding journey, and that a more robust and far less deserving wife went through it in her stead. Marie-Luise was a most wifely wife, with no whalebone (if I may so express it) either about her clothes or her character. All was soft, womanly, overflowing. Touch her, and you left a dimple. Bring your pressure, even the slightest, to bear anywhere on her mind, and it immediately gave way.

  ‘‘But do you like that sort of thing?” asked Mrs. Menzies-Legh, to whom, as we plodded along that day, I was talking in this reminiscent strain for want of a better companion.

  Ahead walked Edelgard, visibly slimmer, younger, moving quickly and easily in her short skirt and new activity. It was this figure — hardly now at a distance to be distinguished from the figures of the scanty sisters — walking before me that made me think with tenderness of Marie-Luise. Edelgard was behaving badly, and when I told her so at night in our caravan she did not answer. At home she used to express immediate penitence; here she either said nothing, or said short things that reminded me of Mrs. Menzies-Legh, little odd sentences quite unlike her usual style and annoyingly difficult to reply to. And the more she behaved in this manner the more did my thoughts go back regretfully to my gentle and yielding first wife. Sometimes, I recollect, those twenty years with her had seemed long; but that was because, firstly, twenty years are long, and secondly, because we are none of us perfect, and thirdly, because a wife, unless she is careful, is apt to get on to one’s nerves. But how preferable is gentleness to an aggressive activity of mind and body. How annoying to see one’s wife striding on ahead with an ease I could not imitate and therefore in itself a slight on her husband. A man wants a wife who sits still, and not only still but on the same chair every day so that he knows where to find her should he happen to want anything. Marie-Luise was a very calm sitter; she never moved, except to follow the then Clothilde about. Only her hands moved, in a tireless guiding of the needle through those of my undergarments which had become defective.

  “But do you like that sort of thing?” asked Mrs. Menzies-Legh, unsympathetic as usual. Her gentle sister would have coo’d an interested Oh? and I would have felt soothed and understood.

  “Like what?” I asked rather peevishly, for it occurred to me at that moment as I watched the figures in front — my wife and Jellaby and Frau von Eckthum — that I had not had a word with the latter since the walk back from church more than twenty-four hours previously, and that her sister, on the other hand, seemed never to leave my side.

  “Calm sitters,” said Mrs. Menzies-Legh, “and dimples all over one’s mind wherever you touch it. I suppose when you used to remove the pressure they slowly filled out again. It rather makes one think of india-rubber, doesn’t it?”

  “A wife’s first duty is to be submissive,” said I, conscious that I had the Prayer-book behind me and waving side issues, such as india-rubber, resolutely aside.

  “Yes, yes,” agreed Mrs. Menzies-Legh, “but”

  “And I am thankful to say,” I continued quickly, for she was about to add something that I was sure was going to be aggressive, “I am thankful to say I was very fortunate in my Marie-Luise.”

  “And very fortunate in your Edelgard,” said she — they had got to Christian names the second day.

  “Of course,” said I.

  “She is a person everybody must love,” said she.

  “Undoubtedly,” said I.

  “So adaptable and quick,” continued the tactless lady.

  “You are very good,” said I, raising my Panama in stiff acknowledgment of these compliments.

  “And so unselfish,” said she.

  I bowed again, more stiffly than before.

  “Look how she cuts all the bread and butter.”

  I bowed again.

  “Look how she makes the coffee.”

  I bowed again.

  “Look how cheerful she is.”

  I bowed again.

  “And how clever, dear Baron.”

  Clever? That indeed was a new way of looking at poor Edelgard. I could not at this repress a smile of amusement. “I am gratified that you should have so good an opinion of my wife,” I said; and wished much to add, “But what is my wife to you that you should take it upon yourself to praise her? Is she not solely and exclusively my property? ‘‘

  Mrs. Menzies-Legh, however, was absolutely rebuke-proof, and had so many answers ready that I thought it better not to bring them upon me in crowds. I did though rather cleverly turn the tables upon her, and at the same time bring the conversation to a point which really interested me, by beginning to praise her sister.

  “It is good of you,” I said, “to commend my family. In return permit me to praise yours.”’

  “What — John?” she asked, with a quick look and something of a smile. (John was her ill-conditioned husband.) “Are you — do you like him so much?’’

  Now as I thought John a very poor thing indeed this question would have seemed difficult to answer to any one less ready.

  “Like,” said I, with conspicuously careful courtesy, “is not at all the word that describes my feelings toward your husband.”

  She looked at me sideways, then dropped her eyelashes. “Dear Baron,” she murmured, “how very—”

  “I was not, however,” I interrupted hastily, for I felt the ice would not bear much skating on, “ thinking of him. I was referring to your sister,”

  ‘‘Oh?” said she — almost like the charming relative herself.

  ‘‘She is of course, and as you know, delightful. But of all her delightfulness do you know what strikes me as most delightful?”

  “No,” said Mrs. Menzies-Legh, watching me with obvious interest.

  “Her conversation.”

  “Yes. She is a good talker,” she admitted.

  “What I call a perfect talker,” said I enthusiastically.

  “I know. Everybody says so.”

  “Never too much,” I said meaningly.

  “Oh?” said she. “You think so? I rather imagined “ She stopped.

  “So extremely sympathetic,” I continued.

  “And so amusing,” said she.

  “Amusing?” said I, slightly surprised, for I must say I had not till then considered it possible to be amusing on one single note, however flute-like.

  “Even more — really witty. Don’t you think so?”

  “Witty?” said I, with increased surprise.

  She looked at me and smiled. “You evidently have not found her so,” she said.

  “No. Nor do I care for wit in ladies. Your sister has been everything that is perfect — sympathetic, an interested listener, one who shares one’s opinions completely, and who never says a word more than is absolutely necessary; but thank goodness I have not yet observed her descend to the unwomanliness of wit.”

  Mrs. Menzies-Legh looked at me as though I were being funny. It was a way she had, and one which I particularly disliked; for surely few things are more offensive than to be treated as amusing when you are not. ‘‘Evidently,” said she, ‘‘you have a soothing and restraining influence over Betti, dear Baron. Has she, then, never made you laugh?”

  “Certainly not,’’ said I with conviction.

  “But look at Mr. Jellaby — do you see how he is laughing?”

  “At his own dull jokes, I should say,” I said, bestowing a momentary glance on the slouching figure in front. His face was turned toward Frau von Eckthum, and he was certainly laughing, and to an unbecoming extent.

  “Oh, not a bit. He is laughing at Betti.”

  “I have heard your sister,” said I emphatically, “talking in general company — such company, that is, as this tour affords — and she has done it invariably seriously, and rather poetically, but never has more than smiled herself, and never raised th
at doubtful tribute, a laugh.”

  “That,” said Mrs. Menzies-Legh, “was because you were there, dear Baron. I tell you, you soothe and restrain.”

  I bowed. “I am glad,” I said, “that I exert a good influence over the party.”

  “Oh, very,” said she, her eyelashes cast down. “But what does Betti talk to you about, then? The scenery?”

  “Your tactful sister, my dear lady, does not talk at all. Or rather, what she says consists entirely of one word, spoken indeed with so great a variety of expression that it expands into volumes. It is that that I admire so profoundly in her. If all ladies would take a lesson”

  “But — what word?” interrupted Mrs. Menzies-Legh, who had been listening with a growing astonishment on her face — astonishment, I suppose, that so near a relative should be also a person of tact and delicacy.

  “Your sister simply says Oh. It sounds a small thing, and slightly bald stated in this manner, yet all I can say is that if every woman”

  Mrs. Menzies-Legh, however, made a little exclamation and bent down hastily.

  “Dear Baron,” she said, “I’ve got a thorn or something in my shoe. I’ll wait for our caravan to come up, and get in and take it out. Auf Wiederseheny.

  And she fell behind.

  This was the first really agreeable conversation I had had with Mrs. Menzies-Legh. I walked on alone for some miles, turning it over with pleasure. It was of course pleasant to reflect that I alone of the party had a beneficial influence over her whom her sister was entitled to describe as Betti; and it was also pleasant (though only what was to be expected) that I should exercise a good influence over the entire party. “ Soothing”’ was Mrs. Menzies-Legh’s word. Well, what was happening was that these English people were being leavened hourly and ceaselessly with German yeast; and now that it had been put into so many words I did see that I soothed them, for I had observed that whenever I approached a knot of them, however loudly it had been laughing and talking it sank into a sudden calm — it was soothed, in fact — and presently dispersed about its various duties.