Delphi Collected Works of Elizabeth von Arnim (Illustrated)

by Elizabeth Von Arnim

  ‘But I shouldn’t have liked the cushion and the needlework all day long.’

  ‘No, no,’ agreed the babies.

  ‘And I know what I would have done in Curly Locks’ place — I’d have let the young man go, and kept to the pigs.’

  ‘But the strawberries?’ insinuated May.

  ‘Ach ja!’ sighed April.

  ‘I’d have let the strawberries go too,’ said the mother; ‘anything rather than the hot cushion and the sewing.’

  ‘Ach nein!’ sighed April softly, shaking her head, better take, the strawberries.’ And the other two silently nodded their approval.

  ‘But we don’t know what Curly Locks decided to do,’ said, the mother, ‘for the rhyme doesn’t go any farther. Perhaps she did marry him, and is sitting to this day on her cushion, and has grown dreadfully fat through never moving and eating so much sugar and cream, and hasn’t even the energy to curl her hair any more. But perhaps she was wise, and kept to the pigs.’

  CURLY LOCKS.

  Curly Locks, Curly Locks, wilt thou be mine?

  Thou shalt not wash dishes nor yet feed the swine,

  But sit on a cushion and sew a fine seam,

  And feed upon strawberries, sugar, and cream.

  ‘Ach nein!’ gently disagreed the babies, ‘the strawberries is better.’

  The mother laughed. Strawberries did seem rather pleasant things just then, with the snow on the ground, and no prospect of them for months. ‘Curly Locks was a little dear, anyhow,’ she said, putting down her tune, ‘and I am sure she chose whatever was best.’

  ‘Ach ja!’ murmured the babies, ‘she chose the strawberries,’

  ‘Well, well,’ said the mother.

  This is the tune for Curly Locks: —

  There were only two rhymes left, and the mother took up the top one. It was Sing a Song of Sixpence. But the pie in it was a difficulty, because pies and pie-dishes don’t exist in Germany, and the babies had never seen one, and seemed, moreover, incapable of imagining one.

  ‘What’s a pie?’ asked June at once; and the mother began ‘to explain pies, — as she thought, with beautiful clearness. She explained pies in theory and pies in practice, their nature and uses; pies generalised and pies particularised, and of particularised pies particularly this pie, with its wonderful blackbirds who went on singing, undaunted by having been baked; and when she had finished, and was looking round for a gleam of interest, they sat stolidly gazing into the fire, and June merely said, But what’s a pie?’

  SING A SONG OF SIXPENCE.

  Sing a song of sixpence, a pocket full of rye,

  Four-and-twenty blackbirds baked in a pie;

  When the pie was open’d the birds began to sing,

  Was not that a dainty dish to set before a King.

  Then she went into details, expatiating eloquently on the joys of those pies so dear to English children, — gooseberry pie in the early summer, cherry pie later on, plum and apple pie still later, and at Christmas those peculiar pies that bear the name of mince.

  But the babies sat unmoved.

  Then she took down The Fairchild Family from her bookshelves, an old children’s book that your grandmothers used to read and whose pages bristle with pies, and she read out the descriptions of all the pies the Fairchild Family ate, still hoping to bring fire into the babies’ eyes and water into their mouths. The Fairchild Family ate a great many pies. As a rule they were made of raspberries and currants, and sometimes they were hot, and sometimes they were cold, and sometimes they were only apple; but the family was so fond of them that if one appeared on the table in front of him, Mr. Fairchild would cry out, on catching sight of it, ‘What blessings we have about us, even in this world!’ or something equally surprised and delighted. ‘They all sat down,’ read out the mother, with great expression and one eye on the babies, ‘they all sat down, full of joy, to eat roast fowl and some boiled bacon, with a nice cold currant and raspberry pie.’

  But the babies remained blank.

  ‘I shall send to England for a pie-dish, babies,’ she rashly promised, in her effort to get a spark of enthusiasm out of them, ‘and we’ll make all the pies I have told you about.’

  But the babies didn’t turn a hair.

  ‘Or, what would be still nicer,’ she went on, even more rashly, ‘I’ll take you all to England on purpose to eat pies!’

  But the babies sat like stones.

  The mother gave it up.

  This is the tune: —

  ‘The last one of all,’ said the mother, ’is to be sung by two babies only, for it is a duet. May can’t learn it to-night because of her cold, so April and June shall do it.’

  It was Where are you going to, my pretty maid? First the mother told them the story, and described how very pretty the pretty maid was, but how, directly the young man found she had no money, he wouldn’t marry her.

  ‘But why must she have some money?’ asked April.

  ‘I has got seven pfennings,’ said June, trying not to look proud.

  ‘First he says will she marry him, and then he says he doesn’t want to?’ asked April, wonderingly.

  ‘But mummy, was she one really milkmaid?’ asked May.

  ‘Yes, she was going milking when he met her.’

  ‘And so pretty?’

  ‘Oh, she was so pretty that the moment he saw her he wanted to marry her.’

  ‘I never did yet see one pretty milkmaid,’ remarked May.

  ‘Neither did I,’ confessed the mother; neither has any one else where the babies lived. Sometimes they used to go into the cow-sheds, and though there were long rows of cows stretching away as far as they could see, and a great many milkmaids all busy milking, no one could ever have called them pretty, however hard they tried. They were very strong, and very big, and wore short skirts reaching to their knees, and had bare legs and feet, and they milked very well, and were altogether estimable, but they weren’t pretty. Most of them were married, with large families, and were quite old; so that the gay little milkmaid tripping across the buttercups, with shoes and stockings on, and a face like a flower, was almost as difficult to impress on the babies’ imaginations as the pie had been.

  WHERE ARE YOU GOING TO, MY PRETTY MAID?

  Where are you going to, my pretty maid?

  I’m going a-milking, Sir, she said.

  May I go with you, my pretty maid?

  You’re kindly welcome, Sir, she said.

  Who is your father, my pretty maid?

  My father’s a farmer, Sir, she said.

  Say will you marry me, my pretty maid?

  Yes, if you please, kind Sir, she said.

  What is your fortune, my pretty maid?

  My face is my fortune, kind Sir, she said.

  Then I won’t marry you, my pretty maid!

  Nobody ask’d you, Sir, she said.

  ‘She wasn’t like the milkmaids here,’ explained the mother; ‘she lived in England, where the happy cats are, and the pies.’

  ‘And first he says will she marry him, and then he says he doesn’t want to?’ repeated April, to whom this conduct appeared extraordinary.

  ‘Oh, she didn’t care much, and only laughed at him when he went away.’

  ‘Does you like that man, mummy?’ asked June.

  ‘Not much,’ said the mother.

  ‘I too not much,’ said June with decision, ‘I too not much at all.’

  But June and the other two babies thought all male beings inferior creatures, because they had only met one boy in their lives, and they had been able to knock him down. Of course they saw distant boys from time to time, when they passed the end of the village street or were at the sea-side, but there was only one boy for them to play with, the families within reach happening to be made up of girls. This boy had come to tea with his mother on his first introduction into their midst, and after tea, and while the two mothers sat on a sofa watching their children, and each one thinking how much nicer hers were, the babies said, �
�Now we shall play.’

  ‘Come, boy,’ said June, seizing his arm as he showed no signs of moving, ‘come — does you hear? We shall play.’

  ‘I never play with little girls,’ said the boy.

  The babies stared. ‘Why not?’ they asked.

  ‘They’re much too stupid. They can’t be soldiers when they grow up, and can’t fight. I’m going to be a soldier, and fight everybody, and kill them too.’ And he marched up and down the room with his head up and his shoulders back, making bloodthirsty lunges at the babies as he passed.

  ‘Quite a little man you see,’ whispered the delighted mamma on the sofa.

  ‘I shall be one soldier too!’ exclaimed June, fired with enthusiasm: and she began to march by his side.

  ‘You can’t, you silly, you’re only a girl.’

  ‘Oh, that doesn’t matter!’ she cried, with her usual airiness.

  ‘Well you are a silly,’ said the boy, with immense contempt.

  ‘You is one silly!’ cried June, giving him a mighty push.

  He rolled over at once, for though he was bigger than she was, and older, he wasn’t half as compact and determined; and she lost no time in sitting on him and jumping up and down violently, — this being, as I have said, a favourite form of vengeance. And as no one can respect a person they have knocked down and jumped on, and as the conclusion was that all boys must be alike, the babies, especially June, thought them a decidedly inferior set.

  ‘Tuck up your dress, April,’ said the mother. ‘You shall be the young man, and June the pretty maid. Come, we’ll go to the piano and I’ll teach you to act it. May can look on and clap.’

  The babies wore blue dresses with blue knickerbockers underneath to match, and April had only to tuck up her skirt to look just like a boy whose curls haven’t been cut off. They all went to the piano, and the mother taught them the tune.

  Here it is: —

  It was the only tune of the six new ones that they were to learn that night, for it was already long past their bedtime. May sat on a sofa near, and applauded frantically. June made a very spirited milkmaid, and when the young man declared he wouldn’t marry her, began to box with him, and as he turned tail and fled, pursued him round and round the room, defiantly shrieking ‘“Nobody asked you, Sir,” she said,’ till she couldn’t go on for want of breath. The audience on the sofa was delighted, and clapped and cheered with all its might. The performance had to be given several times over, and the mother was as pleased as she could be that they liked to learn her tunes. You see they were babies who wanted very little to make them happy.

  Then Séraphine appeared in the doorway, and though she said nothing, looked such unutterable tubs and bedtime, that the mother, gathering all three together into her arms and giving them a final hug, told them they must go quickly, and promised to come and say good-night when they were in bed.

  ‘It’s English prayers to-night,’ said April, as they went away. ‘ Won’t you come when we says them, mummy?’

  ‘Yes, I’ll come. Be off now, my blessed darlings.’

  The mother put the tunes together when they had gone, and began to shut the piano. The babies had been taught so many prayers by Herr Schenk and Séraphine that they had had to be divided into three sets, and the German ones were said one night, and the French ones the next night, and the English ones the night after that. In Herr Schenk’s set there was a German hymn as well as the prayers, and in Séraphine’s set there was a plaintive little tune to a short prayer: only in the English set there was no tune, although amongst the prayers was Gentle Jesus, meek and mild.

  The mother, slowly shutting the piano, and putting things a little straight, thought of this, and came to the conclusion that to write one more tune wouldn’t make much difference to her, and, as it would be a hymn, it would finish off her week of tunewriting in a sweet and holy manner. And I don’t know how it was, but though she had spent so much time struggling with all the other tunes, and had had such difficulties with them, and had suffered such horrid pangs, the hymn tune was finished in five minutes, and by the time she went up to say good-night to the babies it was written out and ready for them to learn the next day.

  And so they did learn it the next day, and have sung it ever since on English prayer nights; and they look so good and angelic while they do it, kneeling in a row in their long nightgowns, with bowed heads and folded hands, that the mother sitting in the midst is sure they must be the dearest babies in the world. But as that is exactly what other mothers think of their babies, and as everybody can’t be right, I don’t suppose they can really be the dearest, although I know that they are very dear. This is the hymn tune: —

  And when the mother went up half an hour later, as she had promised, and tucked them up in their beds, they were so tired that they couldn’t keep their eyes open. ‘Good-night, you sweet babies,’ she said, stooping over each cot in turn, and kissing the sleepy baby in it.

  GENTLE JESUS, MEEK AND MILD.

  Gentle Jesus, meek and mild,

  Look upon a little child;

  Pity my simplicity,

  Suffer me to come to Thee,

  Gentle Jesus, meek and mild.

  Fain I would to Thee be brought,

  Dearest Lord, forbid it not;

  In the kingdom of Thy grace

  Grant a little child a place,

  Gentle Jesus, meek and mild.

  ‘Good-night, you sweet mummy,’ said the babies faintly.

  ‘We had fun, didn’t we?’

  ‘Oh but such fun!’ murmured the babies, with their eyes shut.

  ‘God bless you, precious babies.’

  ‘God bless you, pwecious mummy,’ — and then a voice out of the darkness added very slowly and drowsily ‘Sleep — well — mummykins — and dweam — about — one — pwetty — angel—’

  THE END

  The Travel Writing

  The Arnim’s family estate Nassenheide, Pomerania, where the author lived with her husband from 1896 to 1908 and where she wrote ‘Elizabeth and Her German Garden’ (1898)

  The author’s first husband, Count Henning August von Arnim-Schlagenthin, a Prussian aristocrat, whom she had met during an Italian tour with her father

  Elizabeth von Arnim with her husband, c. 1890

  THE ADVENTURES OF ELIZABETH IN RÜGEN

  This travel “journal” was published by Macmillan in 1904 in both America and Britain. Rügen is Germany’s largest island by area and part of the state of Mecklenburg-Western Pomerania. It is located off the Pomeranian coast in the Baltic Sea and by the time von Arnim wrote this book, it had been a very popular holiday destination for Germans for nearly a century, with attractive rolling countryside, busy resorts and white chalk cliffs similar to those at Dover, England. The reader is taken on an itinerary – eleven chapters, each for a different day’s “travel” – with von Arnim as companion. She makes the point early on that she had planned a walking holiday – “If you go to a place on anything but your own feet you are taken there too fast and miss a thousand delicate joys that were waiting for you by the wayside.” However, none of her friends would accompany her and convention prevented her from going alone, so she had to drive around the island in a carriage and pair after all, in the company of her quiet, elderly maid, Gertrud and a young coachman, August, who addresses von Arnim as “gracious one”. ‘Hail, thou isle of fairyland, filled with beckoning figures!’ murmurs von Arnim, ever the romantic, as she arrives on the island.

  What should have been a tranquil sightseeing holiday begins on day one with von Arnim and Gertrud accidentally abandoned by August on a lonely, dusty country lane. There is a typically charming scene with disingenuous locals and a flustered August attempting to put things right – the affluent Edwardian traveller’s subtle way of demonstrating their superiority to the reader whilst introducing humour into the narrative – rather like a Shakespearean comedic interlude. Gertrud does not escape her mistress’ patronising appraisals either: “I have observed tha
t sweet smells and clear light and the piping of birds, all the things that make life lovely have no effect whatever on Gertruds. They apparently neither smell, nor see, nor hear them. They are not merely unable to appreciate them, they actually do not know that they are there.” However, it is only fair to point out that this is not a unique contemporary perspective on the domestic servant of the day, many other writers perceived their servants with an affectionate paternalism.

  Thankfully, the holiday soon settles down and von Arnim enjoys sea bathing, lounging on the beach reading Wordsworth, excursions in a small boat out to sea and conversations with the respectful proprietors of local hostelries. Day three is more challenging – poor hotel accommodation and inclement weather bring von Arnim’s spirits down temporarily – but the following day is enlivened by a chance encounter with the author’s cousin, Charlotte, also holidaying on the island. Charlotte is an extremely bright, Oxford educated young woman, married to an eminent German professor and who espouses feminist values (and yet was also extremely rude about Gertrud, referring to her as stupid). They disagree about a number of issues, not least the fact that Charlotte was not at home looking after her elderly spouse, as von Arnim thought she should be; yet they also spend the next day together. Charlotte continues to be rude about Gertrud and deprecatory about von Arnim’s points of view and as the author gloomily ponders if she must, out of politeness, spend the rest of her holiday with her hectoring relative, she comes across a genial family of British tourists (the Harvey-Brownes) who provide some light relief.

  There are some lovely descriptive touches in the book that would not be out of place in a travelogue today: “If you love out-of-door beauty, wide stretches of sea and sky, mighty beeches, dense bracken, meadows radiant with flowers, chalky levels purple with gentians, solitude and economy, go and spend a summer at Vilm.” Odd snippets give us insights into the author herself – she reveals she cannot manage without a maid – “You can’t think how much I loathe buttoning boots,” she explains to Charlotte when exhorted to send Gertrud home and carry on without her. The reader finds out that von Arnim’s views on marriage and a woman’s place are largely conventional and that she has a good sense of the absurd, able to mock not only the bumbling British tourists but German visitors too and the officious public servants she encounters. By her own admission, von Arnim has not written a conventional travel guide to the island, as she is diverted by the people she comes across and writes much about them instead, but then it is more in character for her to concentrate on people and emotions than on landscape and reviews of inns; thankfully it has turned what could have been a dry account of the travels of the affluent, into an amusing and self-deprecating travelogue.