In Bavaria

by Katherine Mansfield

  “Do you know,” said a voice, “there is a man who lives in the Luftbad next door? He buries himself up to the armpits in mud and refuses to believe in the Trinity.”

  The umbrellas are the saving grace of the Luftbad. Now, when I go, I take my husband’s “storm” gamp and sit in a corner, hiding behind it.

  Not that I am in the least ashamed of my legs.

  At “Lehmann’s”

  — 1910 —

  Certainly Sabina did not find life slow. She was on the trot from early morning until late at night. At five o’clock she tumbled out of bed, buttoned on her clothes, wearing a long-sleeved alpaca pinafore over her black frock, and groped her way downstairs into the kitchen.

  Anna, the cook, had grown so fat during the summer that she adored her bed because she did not have to wear her corsets there, but could spread as much as she liked, roll about on the great mattress, calling upon Jesus and Holy Mary and Blessed Anthony himself that her life was not fit for a pig in a cellar.

  Sabina was new to her work. Pink colour still flew in her cheeks; there was a little dimple on the left side of her mouth that even when she was most serious, most absorbed, popped out and gave her away. And Anna blessed that dimple. It meant an extra half-hour in bed for her; it made Sabina light the fire, turn out the kitchen and wash endless cups and saucers that had been left over from the evening before. Hans, the scullery boy, did not come until seven. He was the son of the butcher — a mean, undersized child very much like one of his father’s sausages, Sabina thought. His red face was covered with pimples, and his nails indescribably filthy. When Herr Lehmann himself told Hans to get a hairpin and clean them he said they were stained from birth because his mother had always got so inky doing the accounts — and Sabina believed him and pitied him.

  Winter had come very early to Mindelbau. By the end of October the streets were banked waist-high with snow, and the greater number of the “Cure Guests”, sick unto death of cold water and herbs, had departed in nothing approaching peace. So the large salon was shut at Lehmann’s and the breakfast room was all the accommodation the café afforded. Here the floor had to be washed over, the tables rubbed, coffee-cups set out each with its little china platter of sugar, and newspapers and magazines hung on their hooks along the walls before Herr Lehmann appeared at seven-thirty and opened business.

  As a rule his wife served in the shop leading into the café, but she had chosen the quiet season to have a baby, and, a big woman at the best of times, she had grown so enormous in the process that her husband told her she looked unappetising, and had better remain upstairs and sew.

  Sabina took on the extra work without any thought of extra pay. She loved to stand behind the counter, cutting up slices of Anna’s marvellous chocolate-spotted confections, or doing up packets of sugar almonds in pink and blue striped bags.

  “You’ll get varicose veins, like me,” said Anna. “That’s what the Frau’s got too. No wonder the baby doesn’t come! All her swelling’s got into her legs.” And Hans was immensely interested.

  During the morning business was comparatively slack. Sabina answered the shop bell, attended to a few customers who drank a liqueur to warm their stomachs before the midday meal, and ran upstairs now and again to ask the Frau if she wanted anything. But in the afternoon six or seven choice spirits played cards, and everybody who was anybody drank tea or coffee.

  “Sabina … Sabina.…”

  She flew from one table to the other, counting out handfuls of small change, giving orders to Anna through the “slide”, helping the men with their heavy coats, always with that magical child air about her, that delightful sense of perpetually attending a party.

  “How is the Frau Lehmann?” the women would whisper.

  “She feels rather low, but as well as can be expected,” Sabina would answer, nodding confidentially.

  Frau Lehmann’s bad time was approaching. Anna and her friends referred to it as her “journey to Rome”, and Sabina longed to ask questions, yet, being ashamed of her ignorance, was silent, trying to puzzle it out for herself. She knew practically nothing except that the Frau had a baby inside her, which had to come out — very painful indeed. One could not have one without a husband — that she also realised. But what had the man got to do with it? So she wondered as she sat mending tea towels in the evening, head bent over her work, light shining on her brown curls. Birth — what was it? wondered Sabina. Death — such a simple thing. She had a little picture of her dead grandmother dressed in a black silk frock, tired hands clasping the crucifix that dragged between her flattened breasts, mouth curiously tight, yet almost secretly smiling. But the grandmother had been born once — that was the important fact.

  As she sat there one evening, thinking, the Young Man entered the café, and called for a glass of port wine. Sabina rose slowly. The long day and the hot room made her feel a little languid, but as she poured out the wine she felt the Young Man’s eyes fixed on her, looked down at him and dimpled.

  “It’s cold out,” she said, corking the bottle.

  The Young Man ran his hands through his snow-powdered hair and laughed.

  “I wouldn’t call it exactly tropical,” he said. “But you’re very snug in here — look as though you’ve been asleep.”

  Very languid felt Sabina in the hot room, and the Young Man’s voice was strong and deep. She thought she had never seen anybody who looked so strong — as though he could take up the table in one hand — and his restless gaze wandering over her face and figure gave her a curious thrill deep in her body, half pleasure, half pain.… She wanted to stand there, close beside him, while he drank his wine. A little silence followed. Then he took a book out of his pocket, and Sabina went back to her sewing. Sitting there in the corner, she listened to the sound of the leaves being turned and the loud ticking of the clock that hung over the gilt mirror. She wanted to look at him again — there was a something about him, in his deep voice, even in the way his clothes fitted. From the room above she heard the heavy, dragging sound of Frau Lehmann’s footsteps, and again the old thoughts worried Sabina. If she herself should one day look like that — feel like that! Yet it would be very sweet to have a little baby to dress and jump up and down.

  “Fräulein — what’s your name — what are you smiling at?” called the Young Man.

  She blushed and looked up, hands quiet in her lap, looked across the empty tables and shook her head.

  “Come here, and I’ll show you a picture,” he commanded.

  She went and stood beside him. He opened the book, and Sabina saw a coloured sketch of a naked girl sitting on the edge of a great, crumpled bed, a man’s opera hat on the back of her head.

  He put his hand over the body, leaving only the face exposed, then scrutinised Sabina closely.

  “Well?”

  “What do you mean?” she asked, knowing perfectly well.

  “Why, it might be your own photograph — the face, I mean — that’s as far as I can judge.”

  “But the hair’s done differently,” said Sabina, laughing. She threw back her head, and the laughter bubbled in her round white throat.

  “It’s rather a nice picture, don’t you think?” he asked. But she was looking at a curious ring he wore on the hand that covered the girl’s body, and only nodded.

  “Ever seen anything like it before?”

  “Oh, there’s plenty of those funny ones in the illustrated papers.”

  “How would you like to have your picture taken that way?”

  “Me? I’d never let anybody see it. Besides, I haven’t got a hat like that!”

  “That’s easily remedied.”

  Again a little silence, broken by Anna throwing up the slide.

  Sabina ran into the kitchen.

  “Here, take this milk and egg up to the Frau,” said Anna. “Who’ve you got in there?”

  “Got such a funny man! I think he’s a little gone here,” tapping her forehead.

  Upstairs in the ugly room the
Frau sat sewing, a black shawl round her shoulders, her feet encased in red woollen slippers. The girl put the milk on a table by her, then stood, polishing a spoon on her apron.

  “Nothing else?”

  “Na,” said the Frau, heaving up in her chair. “Where’s my man?”

  “He’s playing cards over at Snipold’s. Do you want him?”

  “Dear heaven, leave him alone. I’m nothing. I don’t matter.… And the whole day waiting here.”

  Her hand shook as she wiped the rim of the glass with her fat finger.

  “Shall I help you to bed?”

  “You go downstairs, leave me alone. Tell Anna not to let Hans grub the sugar — give him one on the ear.”

  “Ugly — ugly — ugly,” muttered Sabina, returning to the café where the Young Man stood coat-buttoned, ready for departure.

  “I’ll come again to-morrow,” said he. “Don’t twist your hair back so tightly: it will lose all its curl.”

  “Well, you are a funny one,” she said. “Good night.”

  By the time Sabina was ready for bed Anna was snoring. She brushed out her long hair and gathered it in her hands.… Perhaps it would be a pity if it lost all its curl. Then she looked down at her straight chemise, and drawing it off, sat down on the side of the bed.

  “I wish,” she whispered, smiling sleepily, “there was a great big looking-glass in this room.”

  Lying down in the darkness, she hugged her little body.

  “I wouldn’t be the Frau for one hundred marks — not for a thousand marks. To look like that.”

  And half dreaming, she imagined herself heaving up in her chair with the port wine bottle in her hand as the Young Man entered the café.

  Cold and dark the next morning. Sabina woke, tired, feeling as though something heavy had been pressing under her heart all night. There was a sound of footsteps shuffling along the passage. Herr Lehmann! She must have overslept herself. Yes, he was rattling the door-handle.

  “One moment, one moment,” she called, dragging on her stockings.

  “Bina, tell Anna to go to the Frau — but quickly. I must ride for the nurse.”

  “Yes, yes!” she cried. “Has it come?”

  But he had gone, and she ran over to Anna and shook her by the shoulder.

  “The Frau — the baby — Herr Lehmann for the nurse,” she stuttered.

  “Name of God!” said Anna, flinging herself out of bed.

  No complaints to-day. Importance — enthusiasm in Anna’s whole bearing.

  “You run downstairs and light the oven. Put on a pan of water” — speaking to an imaginary sufferer as she fastened her blouse — “Yes, yes, I know — we must be worse before we are better — I’m coming — patience.”

  It was dark all that day. Lights were turned on immediately the café opened, and business was very brisk. Anna, turned out of the Frau’s room by the nurse, refused to work, and sat in a corner nursing herself, listening to sounds overhead. Hans was more sympathetic than Sabina. He also forsook work, and stood by the window, picking his nose.

  “But why must I do everything?” said Sabina, washing glasses. “I can’t help the Frau; she oughtn’t to take such a time about it.”

  “Listen,” said Anna, “they’ve moved her into the back bedroom above here, so as not to disturb the people. That was a groan — that one!”

  “Two small beers,” shouted Herr Lehmann through the slide.

  “One moment, one moment.”

  At eight o’clock the café was deserted. Sabina sat down in the corner without her sewing. Nothing seemed to have happened to the Frau. A doctor had come — that was all.

  “Ach,” said Sabina. “I think no more of it. I listen no more. Ach, I would like to go away — I hate this talk. I will not hear it. No, it is too much.” She leaned both elbows on the table, cupped her face in her hands and pouted.

  But the outer door suddenly opening, she sprang to her feet and laughed. It was the Young Man again. He ordered more port, and brought no book this time.

  “Don’t go and sit miles away,” he grumbled. “I want to be amused. And here, take my coat. Can’t you dry it somewhere? — snowing again.”

  “There’s a warm place — the ladies’ cloak-room,” she said. “I’ll take it in there — just by the kitchen.”

  She felt better, and quite happy again.

  “I’ll come with you,” he said. “I’ll see where you put it.”

  And that did not seem at all extraordinary. She laughed and beckoned to him.

  “In here,” she cried. “Feel how warm. I’ll put more wood on that oven. It doesn’t matter, they’re all busy upstairs.”

  She knelt down on the floor, and thrust the wood into the oven, laughing at her own wicked extravagance.

  The Frau was forgotten, the stupid day was forgotten. Here was someone beside her laughing, too. They were together in the little warm room stealing Herr Lehmann’s wood. It seemed the most exciting adventure in the world. She wanted to go on laughing — or burst out crying — or — or — catch hold of the Young Man.

  “What a fire,” she shrieked, stretching out her hands.

  “Here’s a hand; pull up,” said the Young Man. “There now, you’ll catch it to-morrow.”

  They stood opposite to each other, hands still clinging. And again that strange tremor thrilled Sabina.

  “Look here,” he said roughly, “are you a child, or are you playing at being one?”

  “I — I—”

  Laughter ceased. She looked up at him once, then down at the floor, and began breathing like a frightened little animal.

  He pulled her closer still and kissed her mouth. “Na, what are you doing — what are you doing?” she whispered.

  He let go her hands, he placed his on her breasts, and the room seemed to swim round Sabina. Suddenly, from the room above, a frightful, tearing shriek.

  She wrenched herself away, tightened herself, drew herself up.

  “Who did that — who made that noise?”

  In the silence the thin wailing of a baby.

  “Achk!” shrieked Sabina, rushing from the room.

  Frau Brechenmacher Attends a Wedding

  — 1910 —

  Getting ready was a terrible business. After supper Frau Brechenmacher packed four of the five babies to bed, allowing Rosa to stay with her and help to polish the buttons of Herr Brechenmacher’s uniform. Then she ran over his best shirt with a hot iron, polished his boots, and put a stitch or two into his black satin necktie.

  “Rosa,” she said, “fetch my dress and hang it in front of the stove to get the creases out. Now, mind, you must look after the children and not sit up later than half-past eight, and not touch the lamp — you know what will happen if you do.”

  “Yes, mamma,” said Rosa, who was nine and felt old enough to manage a thousand lamps. “But let me stay up — the ‘Bub’ may wake and want some milk.”

  “Half-past eight!” said the Frau. “I’ll make the father tell you too.”

  Rosa drew down the corners of her mouth.

  “But … but …”

  “Here comes the father. You go into the bedroom and fetch my blue silk handkerchief. You can wear my black shawl while I’m out — there now!”

  Rosa dragged it off her mother’s shoulders and wound it carefully round her own, tying the two ends in a knot at the back. After all, she reflected, if she had to go to bed at half-past eight she would keep the shawl on. Which resolution comforted her absolutely.

  “Now, then, where are my clothes?” cried Herr Brechenmacher, hanging his empty letter-bag behind the door and stamping the snow out of his boots. “Nothing ready, of course, and everybody at the wedding by this time. I heard the music as I passed. What are you doing? You’re not dressed. You can’t go like that.”

  “Here they are — all ready for you on the table, and some warm water in the tin basin. Dip your head in. Rosa, give your father the towel. Everything ready except the trousers. I haven’t had ti
me to shorten them. You must tuck the ends into your boots until we get there.”

  “Nu,” said the Herr, “there isn’t room to turn. I want the light. You go and dress in the passage.”

  “Here, come and fasten this buckle,” called Herr Brechenmacher. He stood in the kitchen puffing himself out, the buttons on his blue uniform shining with an enthusiasm which nothing but official buttons could possibly possess. “How do I look?”

  “Wonderful,” replied the little Frau, straining at the waist buckle and giving him a little pull here, a little tug there. “Rosa, come and look at your father.”

  Herr Brechenmacher strode up and down the kitchen, was helped on with his coat, then waited while the Frau lighted the lantern.

  “Now, then — finished at last! Come along.”

  “The lamp, Rosa,” warned the Frau, slamming the front door behind them.

  Snow had not fallen all day; the frozen ground was slippery as an icepond. She had not been out of the house for weeks past, and the day had so flurried her that she felt muddled and stupid — felt that Rosa had pushed her out of the house and her man was running away from her.

  “Wait, wait!” she cried.

  “No. I’ll get my feet damp — you hurry.”

  It was easier when they came into the village. There were fences to cling to, and leading from the railway station to the Gasthaus a little path of cinders had been strewn for the benefit of the wedding guests.

  The Gasthaus was very festive. Lights shone out from every window, wreaths of fir twigs hung from the ledges. Branches decorated the front doors, which swung open, and in the hall the landlord voiced his superiority by bullying the waitresses, who ran about continually with glasses of beer, trays of cups and saucers, and bottles of wine.

  “Up the stairs — up the stairs!” boomed the landlord. “Leave your coats on the landing.”

  Herr Brechenmacher, completely overawed by this grand manner, so far forgot his rights as a husband as to beg his wife’s pardon for jostling her against the banisters in his efforts to get ahead of everybody else.