Well, she couldn’t think now. And here was the kitchen door; and here — yes, wasn’t that Klara, staring at her open-mouthed, arrested in the middle of emptying a bucket? Why did she stare at her? Did she then know?
“Allmächtiger Gott” exclaimed Klara, dropping the bucket.
Yes, evidently Klara knew, she thought, dragging her dusty feet across the kitchen into the passage, and allmächtiger Gott was what one said in Germany when one’s disgraced mistress came back, instead of guten Tag. Well, it didn’t matter. The dark little passage; one almost had to grope one’s way along it when the front door was shut. And it had not been aired apparently since she went away, and it was heavy and choked with kitchen smell. She supposed it must be this thickness of atmosphere that made her, on Robert’s doormat with her hand on the latch, feel suddenly so very like fainting. And it really was dark; surely it didn’t only seem dark because she suddenly couldn’t see? Alarmed, she remembered how she had fainted after her conscience-stricken journey back from Lucerne. Was she then to go through life making at intervals conscience-stricken journeys back, and fainting at the critical moment at their end?
In terror lest she should do it now if she waited a moment longer, and so twist things round in that dishonourable womanly way which commits the wrong and then bringing in the appeal of bodily weakness secures the comforting, secures, almost, the apology, she seized all her courage, swept its fragments together into a firm clutching, and opened the door.
Herr Dremmel was at his table, writing. He did not look up.
“Robert,” she said faintly, her back against the door, her hands behind her spread out and clinging to it, here I am.
Herr Dremmel continued writing. He was, to all appearances, absorbed; and his forehead, that hot afternoon, was covered with the drops of concentration.
“Robert,” she said at last again, in a voice that shook however hard she tried to keep it steady, “here I am.”
Herr Dremmel finished his sentence. Then he raised his head and looked at her.
Staring back at him in misery and fear, and yet beside the fear with a dreadful courage, she recognised the look. It was the look he had when he was collecting his attention, bringing it up from distant deep places to the surface, to herself. How strange that he should at this moment have to collect it, that it did not instantly spring at her, that she and the havoc she had brought into his life should not be soaked into every part of his consciousness!
“What did you say, Ingeborg?” he said, looking at her with that so recognisable look.
For all her study of him she felt she did not yet know Robert.
“I only said,” she stammered, “that I — that here — that here I was.”
He looked at her for a further space of silence. Then it flashed upon her that he was, dreadfully, pretending. He was acting. He was going to torment her before punishing her. He was going to be slowly cruel.
Herr Dremmel, as though he were gathering himself together — gathering himself, she thought watching him and growing cold at his uncanniness, for a horrible spring — inquired of her if she had walked.
“Yes,” said Ingeborg even more faintly, her eyes full of watchful fear.
He continued to look at her, but his hand while he did so felt about on the table for the pen he had laid down.
She recognized this look, too — amazing, horrible, how he could act — it was the one he had when, talking to somebody, a new illumination of the subject he was writing about came into his mind.
She felt sure now that the worst was going to happen to her; but first there was to be torture, a long playing about. These revealed depths of cunning cruelty in him, of talent for cleverest acting, froze her blood. Where was Robert, the man of large simplicities she believed she had known? It was a strange man, then, she had been living with? He had never, through all the years, been the one she thought she had married.
“Please-” she said, holding out both her hands, “Robert — don’t. Won’t you — won’t you be natural?”
He still looked at her in silence. Then he said with a sudden air of remembering, “Did you get your boots, Ingeborg?”
This was dreadful. That he should even talk about the boots! Throw in her face that paltry preliminary lying.
“You know I didn’t,” she said, tears of shame for him that he could be so cruel coming into her eyes.
Again Herr Dremmel looked at her as though collecting, as though endeavouring to remember and to find.
“I know?” he repeated, after a pause of reflective gazing during which Ingeborg had flushed vividly and gone white again, so much shocked was she at the glimpse she was getting into inhumanity. It was devilish, she thought. But Robert devilish? Her universe seemed tumbling about her ears.
“I think,” she said, lifting her head with the pride he ought to have felt and so evidently, so lamentably, didn’t, “one should give one’s punishment like a man.”
There was another pause, during which Herr Dremmel, with his eyes on hers, appeared to ruminate.
Then he said, “Did you have a pleasant time?”
This was fiendish. Even when acting, thought Ingeborg, there were depths of baseness the decent refused to portray.
“I think,” she said in a trembling voice, “if you wouldn’t mind leaving off pretending — oh,” she broke off, pressing her hands together, “what’s the good, Robert? What’s the good? Don’t let us waste time. Don’t make it worse, more hideous — you got my letter — you know all about it—”
“Your letter?” said Herr Dremmel.
She begged him, she entreated him to leave off pretending. “Don’t, don’t keep on like this,” she besought— “it’s such a dreadful way of doing it — it’s so unworthy—”
“Ingeborg,” said Herr Dremmel, “will you not cultivate calm? You have journeyed and you have walked, but you have done neither sufficiently to justify intemperateness. Perhaps, if you must be intemperate, you will have the goodness to go and be so in your own room. Then we shall neither of us disturb the other.”
“No,” said Ingeborg, wringing her hands, “no. I won’t go. I won’t go into any other room till you’ve finished with me.”
“But,” said Herr Dremmel, “I have finished with you. And I wish,” he added, pulling out his watch, “to have tea. I am driving to my fields at five o’clock.”
“Oh, Robert,” she begged, inexpressibly shocked, he meant to go on tormenting her then indefinitely? “please, please do whatever you’re going to do to me and get it over. Here I am only waiting to be punished—”
“Punished?” repeated Herr Dremmel.
“Why,” cried Ingeborg, her eyes bright with grief and shame for this steady persistence in baseness, “why, I don’t think you’re to punish me! You’re not fit to punish a decent woman. You’re contemptible!”
Herr Dremmel stared. “This,” he then said, “is abuse. At least,” he added, “it bears a close resemblance to that which in a reasonable human being would be abuse. However, Ingeborg, speech in you does not, as I have often observed, accurately represent meaning. I should rather say,” he amended, “a meaning.”
She moved across to the table to him, her eyes shining. He held his pen ready to go on writing so soon as she should be good enough to leave off interrupting.
“Robert,” she said, leaning with both hands on the table, her voice shaking, “I — I never thought I’d have to be ashamed of you. I could bear anything but having to be ashamed of you—”
“Perhaps, then, Ingeborg,” said Herr Dremmel, “you will have the goodness to go and be ashamed of me in your own room. Then we shall neither of us disturb the other.”
“You are being so horrible that you’re twisting things all wrong, and putting me in the position of having to forgive you when it’s you who’ve got to forgive me—”
“Pray, then, Ingeborg, go and forgive me in your own room. Then we shall neither of us—”
“You’re being cruel — oh, but it’
s unbelievable — you, my husband — you’re playing with me like a cat with a miserable mouse, a miserable, sorry mouse, something helpless that can’t do anything back and wouldn’t if it could — and see how you make me talk, when it’s you who ought to be talking! Do, do, Robert, begin to talk — begin to say things, do things, get it over. You’ve had my letter, you know perfectly what I did—”
“I have had no letter, Ingeborg.”
“How dreadful of you to say that!” she cried, her face full of horror at him. “When you know you have and you know I know you have — that letter I left for you — on this table—”
“I have seen no letter on this table.”
“But I put it here — I put it here—”
She lifted her hand to point out passionately the very spot to him; and underneath her hand was the letter.
Her heart gave one great bump and seemed to stop beating. The letter was where she had put it and was unopened.
She looked up at Herr Dremmel. She turned red; she turned white; she tasted the very extremity of shame. “I — beg your pardon,” she whispered.
Herr Dremmel wore a slight air of apology. “One omits, occasionally, to notice,” he said.
“Yes,” breathed Ingeborg.
She stood quite still, her eyes on his face.
He pulled out his watch. “Perhaps now, Ingeborg,” he said, “you will be so good as to see about tea. I am driving to my fields—”
“Yes,” breathed Ingeborg.
He bent over his work and began writing again.
She put out her hand and slowly took up the letter. Tradition, copious imbibing of the precepts of bishops, were impelling her towards that action frequently fatal to the permanent peace of families, the making of a clean breast.
“Do you — do you — do you want to—” she began tremblingly, half holding out the letter.
Then her voice failed; and her principles failed; and the precepts of a lifetime failed; and she put it in her pocket.
“It’s — stale,” she whispered, explaining.
But Herr Dremmel went on writing. He had forgotten the letter.
She turned away and went slowly towards the door.
In the middle of the room she hesitated, and looked back. “I — I’d like to kiss you,” she faltered.
But Herr Dremmel went on writing. He had forgotten Ingeborg.
THE END
CHRISTINE
First published in 1917 using the pseudonym Alice Cholmondley, Christine is regarded as an epistolary novel; that is, the narrative unfolds through the plot device of letters apparently sent by one of the characters. On release of the novel, it was genuinely assumed by the reviewer in the New York Times of 29 July 1917 that this was a debut work by a new writer, although other reviewers doubted the identity of the author and suggested the style, range of experiences and accomplishments of the writer did not sit easily with a first time author; a reviewer in the Athenaeum London (Book Review Digest) plainly stated the opinion that this was the work of von Arnim. Thus, it is probably fair to say that in literary circles, the true identity of the author was an open secret. Von Arnim’s daughter was later to state that Christine was her mother’s conscious contribution to the war effort, a more considered form of propaganda in her opinion than the strident propaganda that was being fed to the public at the time and one aimed at educated people rather than the ignorant and susceptible masses. Despite her rather narrow view of the book’s appeal, Christine was popular on both sides of the Atlantic and reached number 6 in the American best-seller lists for 1917.
The most striking aspect of this story is that it is said to be based, however loosely, on the life and death of von Arnim’s daughter, Felicitas, who had remained in Germany at the start of the First World War and died of pneumonia there in 1916. Felicitas had been sent to a school in Germany by her mother, because of her perceived bad behaviour. In the novel, the mother of Felicitas (that is, the author) seems to know Berlin well and witnessed the months before the war in Germany. In fact, von Arnim had not lived in Berlin at that time (she was there fifteen years earlier) and she was not in Germany at all just prior to the war. Also, in attempting to portray Germany as the “enemy”, despite her close associations with the country (or perhaps because of these and not wishing to be seen as some form of “collaborator”), she depicts German people of all ages as xenophobic and warmongering, a mindset which even the British press questioned, pointing out how courteous to the British the Germans had been even in the period just prior to declaration of war. It has since been revealed that von Arnim based her descriptions of pre-war Germany on the accounts of her housekeeper, Teppi. Von Arnim’s depiction of the German people is, however, qualified by the inclusion of a few Germans more temperate in their views and who have maintained their pre-war politeness and honour.
Comparisons have been made between this book and Katharine Mansfield’s In a German Pension (1911), as both works relate the challenges faced by a young woman trying to settle into everyday German life. It is likely that von Arnim did read Mansfield’s book, as they were related and had spent time together previously, until Mansfield had published derogatory remarks about her cousin, but what cannot be known is if the similarities were deliberate or unconscious. Another motive suggested by von Arnim’s biographers for the writing of the book, is the author’s deep guilt for sending her wayward daughter to Germany in the first place, putting her at risk at the start of the war and then her dying alone of pneumonia in a foreign country, far from her family. Suggestions have been made that von Arnim’s descriptions of the German people, which at times border on the vitriolic, are the result of displaced blame for the death of Felicitas.
The narrative has an unequivocal opening, stating plainly in an introduction that Christine is a young British girl “trapped” in Berlin on the outbreak of war in 1914 and that it is her grieving mother who has published Christine’s letters home, unedited and complete. It is a strong beginning related in short, dramatic sentences and it is little wonder that some readers truly believed that the letters and the narrative are real.
The first letter addresses Christine’s mother as “My Blessed Little Mother”; Christine then tells “Alice” about her arrival in Germany – “I can’t tell you how much excited I am at getting here” - and we soon learn that she has travelled abroad in order to study violin with Herr Kloster for the next year. After that, the twenty-two year old hopes to support both herself and her widowed mother by becoming a professional musician and use the proceeds to set them up in a nice little house in England. The letters build up into a vivid but highly subjective portrait of the German nation and its people. We learn that Germans are an odd combination of “extreme sentimentality” and “a brutal hardness”. The descriptions of German houses, in particular Christine’s bedroom in the boarding house she lives in, are interesting from a social history point of view and there are descriptions of manners, meals and other differences to Britain. All is not delight, however; Christine complains that she feels uncomfortable in the street and that people are very rude to her, whilst in the boarding house at dinner time, her fellow boarders are at great pains to point out the ghastly nature of the London slums and “The fingers that have been pointed at me down that table on account of the Boer war!”
Christine’s conversations with Germans also enlighten us about the people of that nation. “Everything being forbidden, there is nothing left but to sin”, admits Christine’s new male friend, Herr von Inster. We see the contrast between the image of the comfortable and kindly citizens of Germany and the love of war that was to lead to disaster. There are also surprisingly prescient remarks about England; a German pastor tells Christine “ [England’s] love of money, her materialism — these are her great dangers…I do not like to contemplate… a day when the sun of the British Empire, [which has] upheld the cause of religion with faithfulness and persistence for so long, shall be seen at last descending, to rise no more, in an engulfing ocean of ov
er-indulged appetites.”
This is a difficult book to avoid “spoilers” for, bearing in mind it centres on the advent of the First World War and the death of the main character, Christine, is stated by the author right at the beginning. Thus we know the two major outcomes already. Aspects of the language used do not sit easily today. It can be irritating to see Christine’s mother constantly addressed as “blessed” and “little mother”, which can seem very cloying to today’s reader, but in fact publications of the day often referred to women in such terms. Women’s magazines such as Lady’s Companion, habitually addressed their readers as “little wife” and “little mother”, well into the 1920’s and so von Arnim was simply following the rather patronising conventions of the times. The interest of the book lies in the impressions and opinions of the German people at a crucial time in their history, from the point of view of their future enemy.
This is a novel that does not fit neatly into von Arnim’s oeuvre. It is on the one hand deliberately serious and portrayed almost as journalism and yet the letters themselves are sentimental, excessively biased and may seem somewhat “over the top” to a modern reader. Writing Christine took its toll on von Arnim, as she embarked on the comedic novel Christopher and Columbus immediately after, more than likely as an antidote to the grim seriousness of the first work. Its very difference will appeal to the von Arnim enthusiast and the book’s role in the propaganda machine of the day is a fascinating diversion in the story of the author’s life and career. It is also an historical document in a way, detailing the national mood purportedly from both points of view. However one approaches it, it is one of her “must read” titles.
Delphi Collected Works of Elizabeth von Arnim (Illustrated) Page 174
