Felicitas with her grandparents, Henry and Louey Beauchamp
CONTENTS
NOTE
CHRISTINE
Katharine Mansfield, 1912
NOTE
My daughter Christine, who wrote me these letters, died at a hospital in Stuttgart on the morning of August 8th, 1914, of acute double pneumonia. I have kept the letters private for nearly three years, because, apart from the love in them that made them sacred things in days when we each still hoarded what we had of good, they seemed to me, who did not know the Germans and thought of them, as most people in England for a long while thought, without any bitterness and with a great inclination to explain away and excuse, too extreme and sweeping in their judgments. Now, as the years have passed, and each has been more full of actions on Germany’s part difficult to explain except in one way and impossible to excuse, I feel that these letters, giving a picture of the state of mind of the German public immediately before the War, and written by some one who went there enthusiastically ready to like everything and everybody, may have a certain value in helping to put together a small corner of the great picture of Germany which it will be necessary to keep clear and naked before us in the future if the world is to be saved.
I am publishing the letters just as they came to me, leaving out nothing. We no longer in these days belong to small circles, to limited little groups. We have been stripped of our secrecies and of our private hoards. We live in a great relationship. We share our griefs; and anything there is of love and happiness, any smallest expression of it, should be shared too. This is why I am leaving out nothing in the letters.
The war killed Christine, just as surely as if she had been a soldier in the trenches. I will not write of her great gift, which was extraordinary. That too has been lost to the world, broken and thrown away by the war.
I never saw her again. I had a telegram saying she was dead. I tried to go to Stuttgart, but was turned back at the frontier. The two last letters, the ones from Halle and from Wurzburg, reached me after I knew that she was dead.
ALICE CHOLMONDELEY,
London, May, 1917.
Publishers’ Note
The Publishers have considered it best to alter some of the personal names in the following pages.
CHRISTINE
Lutzowstrasse 49, Berlin, Thursday, May 28th, 1914.
My blessed little mother,
Here I am safe, and before I unpack or do a thing I’m writing you a little line of love. I sent a telegram at the station, so that you’ll know at once that nobody has eaten me on the way, as you seemed rather to fear. It is wonderful to be here, quite on my own, as if I were a young man starting his career. I feel quite solemn, it’s such a great new adventure, Kloster can’t see me till Saturday, but the moment I’ve had a bath and tidied up I shall get out my fiddle and see if I’ve forgotten how to play it between London and Berlin. If only I can be sure you aren’t going to be too lonely! Beloved mother, it will only be a year, or even less if I work fearfully hard and really get on, and once it is over a year is nothing. Oh, I know you’ll write and tell me you don’t mind a bit and rather like it, but you see your Chris hasn’t lived with you all her life for nothing; she knows you very well now, — at least, as much of your dear sacred self that you will show her. Of course I know you’re going to be brave and all that, but one can be very unhappy while one is being brave, and besides, one isn’t brave unless one is suffering. The worst of it is that we’re so poor, or you could have come with me and we’d have taken a house and set up housekeeping together for my year of study. Well, we won’t be poor for ever, little mother. I’m going to be your son, and husband, and everything else that loves and is devoted, and I’m going to earn both our livings for us, and take care of you forever. You’ve taken care of me till now, and now it’s my turn. You don’t suppose I’m a great hulking person of twenty two, and five foot ten high, and with this lucky facility in fiddling, for nothing? It’s a good thing it is summer now, or soon will be, and you can work away in your garden, for I know that is where you are happiest; and by the time it’s winter you’ll be used to my not being there, and besides there’ll be the spring to look forward to, and in the spring I come home, finished. Then I’ll start playing and making money, and we’ll have the little house we’ve dreamed of in London, as well as our cottage, and we’ll be happy ever after. And after all, it is really a beautiful arrangement that we only have each other in the world, because so we each get the other’s concentrated love. Else it would be spread out thin over a dozen husbands and brothers and people. But for all that I do wish dear Dad were still alive and with you.
This pension is the top fiat of a four-storied house, and there isn’t a lift, so I arrived breathless, besides being greatly battered and all crooked after my night sitting up in the train; and Frau Berg came and opened the door herself when I rang, and when she saw me she threw up two immense hands and exclaimed, “Herr Gott!”
“Nicht wahr?” I said, agreeing with her, for I knew I must be looking too awful.
She then said, while I stood holding on to my violin-case and umbrella and coat and a paper bag of ginger biscuits I had been solacing myself with in the watches of the night, that she hadn’t known when exactly to expect me, so she had decided not to expect me at all, for she had observed that the things you do not expect come to you, and the things you do expect do not; besides, she was a busy woman, and busy women waste no time expecting anything in any case; and then she said, “Come in.”
“Seien Sie willkommen, mein Fraulein,” she continued, with a sort of stern cordiality, when I was over the threshold, holding out both her hands in massive greeting; and as both mine were full she caught hold of what she could, and it was the bag of biscuits, and it burst.
“Herr Gott!” cried Frau Berg again, as they rattled away over the wooden floor of the passage, “Herr Gott, die schonen Kakes!” And she started after them; so I put down my things on a chair and started after them too, and would you believe it the biscuits came out of the corners positively cleaner than when they went in. The floor cleaned the biscuits instead of, as would have happened in London, the biscuits cleaning the floor, so you can be quite happy about its being a clean place.
It is a good thing I learned German in my youth, for even if it is so rusty at present that I can only say things like Nicht wahr, I can understand everything, and I’m sure I’ll get along very nicely for at least a week on the few words that somehow have stuck in my memory. I’ve discovered they are:
Nicht wahr, Wundervoll, Naturlich, Herrlich, Ich gratuliere, and Doch.
And the only one with the faintest approach to contentiousness, or acidity, or any of the qualities that don’t endear the stranger to the indigenous, is doch.
My bedroom looks very clean, and is roomy and comfortable, and I shall be able to work very happily in it, I’m sure. I can’t tell you how much excited I am at getting here and going to study under the great Kloster! You darling one, you beloved mother, stinting yourself, scraping your own life bare, so as to give me this chance. Won’t I work. And work. And work. And in a year — no, we won’t call it a year, we’ll say in a few months — I shall come back to you for good, carrying my sheaves with me. Oh, I hope there will be sheaves, — big ones, beautiful ones, to lay at your blessed feet! Now I’ll run down and post this. I saw a letter-box a few yards down the street. And then I’ll have a bath and go to bed for a few hours, I think. It is still only nine o’clock in the morning, so I have hours and hours of today before me, and can practise this afternoon and write to you again this evening. So good-bye for a few hours, my precious mother.
Your happy Chris.
May 28th. Evening.
It’s very funny here, but quite comfortable. You needn’t give a thought to my comforts, mother darling. There’s a lot to eat, and if I’m not in clover I’m certainly in feathers, — you should see the immense sackful of them in a dark red sateen bag on my bed! As you have been in Germany try
ing to get poor Dad well in all those Kurorten, you’ll understand how queer my bedroom looks, like a very solemn and gloomy drawingroom into which it has suddenly occurred to somebody to put a bed. It is a tall room: tall of ceiling, which is painted at the corners with blue clouds and pink cherubim — unmistakable Germans — and tall of door, of which there are three, and tall of window, of which there are two. The windows have long dark curtains of rep or something woolly, and long coffee-coloured lace curtains as well; and there’s a big green majolica stove in one corner; and there’s a dark brown wall-paper with gilt flowers on it; and an elaborate chandelier hanging from a coloured plaster rosette in the middle of the ceiling, all twisty and gilt, but it doesn’t light, — Wanda, the maid of all work, brings me a petroleum lamp with a green glass shade to it when it gets dusk. I’ve got a very short bed with a dark red sateen quilt on to which my sheet is buttoned a11 round, a pillow propped up so high on a wedge stuck under the mattress that I shall sleep sitting up almost straight, and then as a crowning glory the sack of feathers, which will do beautifully for holding me down when I’m having a nightmare. In a corner, with an even greater air of being an afterthought than the bed, there’s a very tiny washstand, and pinned on the wall behind it over the part of the wallpaper I might splash on Sunday mornings when I’m supposed really to wash, is a strip of grey linen with a motto worked on it in blue wool:
Eigener Heerd
Ist Goldes Werth
which is a rhyme if you take it in the proper spirit, and isn’t if you don’t. But I love the sentiment, don’t you? It seems peculiarly sound when one is in a room like this in a strange country. And what I’m here for and am going to work for is an eigener Heerd, with you and me one each side of it warming our happy toes on our very own fender. Oh, won’t it be too lovely, mother darling, to be together again in our very own home! Able to shut ourselves in, shut our front door in the face of the world, and just say to the world, “There now.”
There’s a little looking-glass on a nail up above the eigener Heerd motto, so high that if it hadn’t found its match in me I’d only be able to see my eyebrows in it. As it is, I do see as far as my chin. What goes on below that I shall never know while I continue to dwell in the Lutzowstrasse. Outside, a very long way down, for the house has high rooms right through and I’m at the top, trams pass almost constantly along the street, clanging their bells. They sound much more aggressive than other trams I have heard, or else it is because my ears are tired tonight. There are double windows, though, which will shut out the noise while I’m practising — and also shut it in. I mean to practise eight hours every day if Kloster will let me, — twelve if needs be, so I’ve made up my mind only to write to you on Sundays; for if I don’t make a stern rule like that I shall be writing to you every day, and then what would happen to the eight hours? I’m going to start them tomorrow, and try and get as ready as I can for the great man on Saturday. I’m fearfully nervous and afraid, for so much depends on it, and in spite of knowing that somehow from somewhere I’ve got a kind of gift for fiddling. Heaven knows where that little bit of luck came from, seeing that up to now, though you’re such a perfect listener, you haven’t developed any particular talent for playing anything, have you mother darling; and poor Dad positively preferred to be in a room where music wasn’t. Do you remember how he used to say he couldn’t think which end of a violin the noises came out of, and whichever it was he wished they wouldn’t? But what a mercy, what a real mercy and solution of our difficulties, that I’ve got this one thing that perhaps I shall be able to do really well, I do thank God on my knees for this.
There are four other boarders here, — three Germans and one Swede, and the Swede and two of the Germans are women; and five outside people come in for the midday dinner every day, all Germans, and four of them are men. They have what they call Abonnementskarten for their dinners, so much a month. Frau Berg keeps an Open Midday Table — it is written up on a board on the street railing — and charges 1 mark 25 pfennigs a dinner if a month’s worth of them is taken, and 1 mark 50 pfennigs if they’re taken singly. So everybody takes the month’s worth, and it is going to be rather fun, I think. Today I was solemnly presented to the diners, first collectively by Frau Berg as Unser junge englische Gast, Mees — no, I can’t write what she made of Cholmondeley, but some day I’ll pronounce it for you; and really it is hard on her that her one English guest, who might so easily have been Evans, or Dobbs, or something easy, should have a name that looks a yard long and sounds an inch short — and then each of them to me singly by name. They all made the most beautiful stiff bows. Some of them are students, I gathered; some, I imagine, are staying here because they have no homes, — wash-ups on the shores of life; some are clerks who come in for dinner from their offices near by; and one, the oldest of the men and the most deferred to, is a lawyer called Doctor something. I suppose my being a stranger made them silent, for they were all very silent and stiff, but they’ll get used to me quite soon I expect, for didn’t you once rebuke me because everybody gets used to me much too soon? Being the newest arrival I sat right at the end of the table in the darkness near the door, and looking along it towards the light it was really impressive, the concentration, the earnestness, the thoroughness, the skill, with which the two rows of guests dealt with things like gravy on their plates, — elusive, mobile things that are not caught without a struggle. Why, if I can manage to apply myself to fiddling with half that skill and patience I shall be back home again in six months!
I’m so sleepy, I must leave off and go to bed. I did sleep this morning, but only for an hour or two; I was too much excited, I think, at having really got here to be able to sleep. Now my eyes are shutting, but I do hate leaving off, for I’m not going to write again till Sunday, and that is two whole days further ahead, and you know my precious mother it’s the only time I shall feel near you, when I’m talking to you in letters. But I simply can’t keep my eyes open any longer, so goodnight and good-bye my own blessed one, till Sunday. All my heart’s love to you.
Your Chris.
We have supper at eight, and tonight it was cold herrings and fried potatoes and tea. Do you think after a supper like that I shall be able to dream of anybody like you?
Sunday, May 31st, 1914.
Precious mother,
I’ve been dying to write you at least six times a day since I posted my letter to you the day before yesterday, but rules are rules, aren’t they, especially if one makes them oneself, because then the poor little things are so very helpless, and have to be protected. I couldn’t have looked myself in the face if I’d started off by breaking my own rule, but I’ve been thinking of you and loving you all the time — oh, so much!
Well, I’m very happy. I’ll say that first, so as to relieve your darling mind. I’ve seen Kloster, and played to him, and he was fearfully kind and encouraging. He said very much what Ysaye said in London, and Joachim when I was little and played my first piece to him standing on the dining-room table in Eccleston Square and staring fascinated, while I played, at the hairs of his beard, because I’d never been as close as that to a beard before. So I’ve been walking on clouds with my chin well in the air, as who wouldn’t? Kloster is a little round, red, bald man, the baldest man I’ve ever seen; quite bald, with hardly any eyebrows, and clean-shaven as well. He’s the funniest little thing till you join him to a violin, and then — ! A year with him ought to do wonders for me. He says so too; and when I had finished playing — it was the G minor Bach — you know, — the one with the fugue beginning:
[Transcriber’s note: A Lilypond rendition of the music fragment can be found at the end of this e-text.]
he solemnly shook hands with me and said — what do you think he said?— “My Fraulein, when you came in I thought, ‘Behold yet one more well-washed, nice-looking, foolish, rich, nothing-at-all English Mees, who is going to waste my time and her money with lessons.’ I now perceive that I have to do with an artist. My Fraulein ich gratuliere.” And
he made me the funniest little solemn bow. I thought I’d die of pride.
I don’t know why he thought me rich, seeing how ancient all my clothes are, and especially my blue jersey, which is what I put on because I can play so comfortably in it; except that, as I’ve already noticed, people here seem persuaded that everybody English is rich, — anyhow that they have more money than is good for them. So I told him of our regrettable financial situation, and said if he didn’t mind looking at my jersey it would convey to him without further words how very necessary it is that I should make some money. And I told him I had a mother in just such another jersey, only it is a black one, and therefore somebody had to give her a new one before next winter, and there wasn’t anybody to do it except me.
He made me another little bow — (he talks English, so I could say a lot of things) — and he said, “My Fraulein, you need be in no anxiety. Your Frau Mamma will have her jersey. Those fingers of yours are full of that which turns instantly into gold.”
So now. What do you think of that, my precious one? He says I’ve got to turn to and work like a slave, practise with a sozusagen verteufelte Unermudlichkeit, as he put it, and if I rightly develop what he calls my unusual gift, — (I’m telling you exactly, and you know darling mother it isn’t silly vainness makes me repeat these things, — I’m past being vain; I’m just bewildered with gratitude that I should happen to be able to fiddle) — at the end of a year, he declares, I shall be playing all over Europe and earning enough to make both you and me never have to think of money again. Which will be a very blessed state to get to.
Delphi Collected Works of Elizabeth von Arnim (Illustrated) Page 175
