‘No,’ said I. ‘Not in kitchens. A highly improper thing to do.’
He threw it into the dustbin. ‘I say,’ he said again.
‘Well, what?’ said I, again.
‘What do you think—what do you think——’
He paused. I waited. As he didn’t go on I thought he had done.
‘What do I think?’ I said. ‘You’d be staggered if I told you, it’s such a lot, and it’s so terrific.’
‘What do you think,’ repeated Joey, taking no heed of me, but, with his hands in his pockets, kicking a fallen apple aimlessly about on the floor, ‘what do you think the little girl’d like for Christmas and that, don’t you know?’
I stopped peeling and gazed at him, knife and apple suspended in mid-air.
‘The little girl?’ I inquired. ‘Do you mean Johanna?’
Joey stared. Then he grinned at me monstrously.
‘You bet,’ was his cryptic reply.
‘What am I to bet?’ I asked patiently.
Joey gave the fallen apple a kick. Looking down, I observed that it was the biggest and the best, and stooped to rescue it.
‘It’s not pretty,’ said I, rebuking him, ‘to kick even an apple when it’s down.’
‘Oh, I say,’ said Joey, impatiently, ‘do be sensible. There never was any gettin’ much sense out of you, I remember. And you’re only pretendin’. You know I mean Vicki.’
‘Vicki?’
He had the grace to blush. ‘Well, Fräulein What’s her name. You can’t expect any one decent to get the hang of these names of yours. They ain’t got any hang, so how’s one to get it? What’d she like for Christmas? Don’t you all kick up a mighty fuss here over Christmas? Trees and presents and that? Plummier plum-pudding than we have, and mincier mince-pies; what?’
‘If you think you will get even one plum-pudding or mince-pie,’ said I, thoughtfully peeling, ‘you are gravely mistaken. The national dish is carp boiled in beer.’
Joey looked really revolted. ‘What?’ he cried, not liking to credit his senses.
‘Carp boiled in beer,’ I repeated distinctly. ‘It is what I’m going to give you on Christmas Day.’
‘No, you’re not,’ he said hastily.
‘Yes, I am,’ I insisted. ‘And before it and after it you will be required, in accordance with German custom, to sing chorales.’
‘I’d like to see myself doin’ it. You’ll have to sing ’em alone. I’m invited to feed down there.’
And he jerked his head towards that portion of the kitchen wall beyond which, if you passed through it and the intervening coal-hole and garden and orchard, you would come to the dwelling of the Lindebergs.
‘Oh,’ said I; and looked at him thoughtfully.
‘Yes,’ said he, trying to meet my look with an equal calm, but conspicuously failing. ‘That bein’ so,’ he went on hurriedly, ‘and my droppin’, so to speak, into the middle of somebody’s Christmas tree and that, it seems to me only decent to give the little girl somethin’. What shall I get her? Somethin’ to put on, I suppose. A brooch, or a pin, what?’
‘Or a ring,’ said I, thoughtfully peeling.
‘A ring? What, can one—oh, I say, don’t let’s waste time rottin’——’
And glancing up through cautious eyelashes I saw he was very red.
‘It’d be easy enough if it was you,’ he said revengefully.
‘What would?’
‘Hittin’ on what you’d like.’
‘Would it!’
‘All you’d want to do the trick would be a dictionary.’
‘Now, Mr Collins, that’s unkind,’ said I, laying down my knife.
He began to grin again. ‘It’s true,’ he insisted.
‘It suggests such an immeasurable stuffiness,’ I complained.
‘It isn’t my fault,’ said he, grinning.
‘But perhaps I deserve it because I mentioned a ring. Let me tell you, as man to man, that you must buy no brooches for Vicki.’
‘A pin, then?’
‘No pins.’
‘A necklace, then?’
‘Nothing of the sort. What would her parents say? Give her chocolates, a bunch of roses, perhaps a book—but nothing more. If you do you’ll get into a nice scrape.’
Joey looked at me. ‘What sort of scrape?’ he asked curiously.
‘Gracious heavens, don’t you see? Are you such a supreme goose? My poor young man, the parents would immediately ask you your intentions.’
‘Oh, would they?’ said Joey, in his turn becoming thoughtful; and after a moment he said again, ‘Oh, would they?’
‘It’s as certain as anything I know,’ said I.
‘Oh, is it?’ said Joey, still thoughtful.
‘It’s a catastrophe young men very properly dread,’ said I.
‘Oh, do they?’ said Joey, sunk in thought.
‘Well, if you’re not listening——’ And I shrugged my shoulders, and went on with my peeling.
He pulled his cap out of the pocket into which it had been stuffed, and began to put it on, tugging it first over one ear and then over the other in a deep abstraction.
‘You’re in my kitchen,’ I observed.
‘Sorry,’ he said, snatching it off. ‘I forgot. You always make me feel as if I were out of doors.’
‘How very odd,’ said I, interested and slightly flattered.
‘Ain’t it. East wind, you know—decidedly breezy, not to say nippin’. Well, I must be goin’.’
‘I think so too,’ said I, coldly.
‘Don’t be dull while I’m away,’ said Joey; and departed with a nod.
But he put in his head again the next moment. ‘I say, Miss Schmidt——’
‘Well, what?’
‘You think I ought to stick to chocolates, then?’
‘If you don’t there’ll be extraordinary complications,’ said I.
‘You’re sure of that?’
‘Positive.’
‘You’d swear it?’
I threw down my knife and apple. ‘Now, what’s the matter with the boy!’ I exclaimed impatiently. ‘Do I ever swear?’
‘But if you did you would?’
‘Swear what?’
‘That a bit of jewellery would bring the complications about?’
‘Oh—dense, dense, dense! Of course it would. You’d be surprised at the number and size of them. You can’t be too careful. Give her a hymn-book.’
Joey gave a loud whoop.
‘Well, it’s safe,’ said I, severely, ‘and it appeals to parents.’
‘You bet,’ said Joey, screwing his face into a limitlessly audacious wink.
‘I wish,’ said I, very plaintively, ‘that I knew exactly what it is I am to bet. You constantly tell me to do so, but never add the necessary directions.’
‘Oh, I’m goin’,’ was Joey’s irrelevant reply; and his head popped out as suddenly as it had popped in.
Or shall I tell you—I am anxious to make this letter long enough to please you—about Frau von Lindeberg, who spent two days elaborately cutting Joey, the two first days of his appearance in their house as lodger, persuaded, I suppose, that no one even remotely and by business connected with the Schmidts could be anything but undesirable, and how, meeting him in the passage, or on his way through the garden to us, the iciest stare was all she felt justified in giving him in return for his friendly grin, and how on the third day she suddenly melted, and stopped and spoke pleasantly to the poor solitary, commiserating with his situation as a stranger in a foreign country, and suggesting the alleviation to his loneliness of frequent visits to them? No one knows the first cause of this melting. I think she must have heard through her servant of the number and texture of those pink and blue silk handkerchiefs, of his amazing piles of new and costly shirts, of the obvious solidity of the silver on everything of his that has a back or a stopper or a handle or a knob. Anyhow, on that third morning she came up and called on us, asking particularly for Papa.
&nbs
p; ‘I particularly wished,’ she said to me, spreading herself out as she did the last time on the sofa, ‘to see your good father on a matter of some importance.’
‘I’ll go and call him,’ said I, concealing my conviction that though I might call he would not come.
And he would not. ‘What, interrupt my work?’ he cried. ‘Is the woman mad?’
I went back and made excuses. They were very lame ones, and Frau von Lindeberg instantly brushed them aside.
‘I will go to him,’ she said, getting up. ‘Your excellent father will not refuse me, I am sure.’
Papa was sitting in his slippers before the stove, doing nothing, as far as I could see, except very comfortably reading the new book about Goethe.
‘I am sorry to disturb so busy a man,’ said Frau von Lindeberg, bearing down with smiles on this picture of peace.
Papa sprang up, and, seeing there was no escape, pretended to be quite pleased to see her. He offered her his chair, he prayed for indulgence towards his slippers, and, sitting down facing her, inquired in what way he could be of service.
‘I want to know something about the young Englishman who occupies a room in our house,’ said Frau von Lindeberg, without losing time. ‘You understand that it is not only natural but incumbent on a parent to wish for information in regard to a person dwelling under the same roof.’
‘I can give every information,’ said Papa, readily. ‘His name in English is Collins. In German it is Esel.’
‘Oh, really!’ said Frau von Lindeberg, taken aback.
‘It is, madam,’ said Papa, looking very pleasant, as became a man in his own house confronted by a female visitor. ‘We have rechristened him. And no array of words with which I am acquainted will express the exactness of his resemblance to that useful but unintelligent beast.’
‘Oh, really!’ said Frau von Lindeberg, not yet recovered.
‘The ass, madam, is conspicuous for the narrowness of its understanding. So is Mr Collins. The ass is exasperating to persons of normal brains. So is Mr Collins. The ass is lazy in regard to work, and obstinate. So is Mr Collins. The ass is totally indifferent to study. So is Mr Collins. The ass has never heard of Goethe. Neither has Mr Collins. The ass is useful to the poor. So is Mr Collins. The ass, indeed, is the poor man’s most precious possession. So, emphatically, is Mr Collins.’
‘Oh, really!’ said Frau von Lindeberg again.
‘Is there anything more you wish to know?’ Papa inquired politely, for she seemed unable immediately to go on.
She cleared her throat. ‘In what way—in what way is he useful?’ she asked.
‘Madam, he pays.’
‘Yes—of course, of course. You cannot’—she smiled—‘be expected to teach him German for nothing.’
‘Far from doing that, I teach him German for a good deal.’
‘Is he—do you know anything about his relations? You understand,’ she added, ‘that it is not altogether pleasant for a private family like ours to have a strange young man living under the same roof.’
‘Understand?’ cried Papa. ‘I understand it so thoroughly that I most positively refused to have him under this one.’
‘Ah—yes,’ said Frau von Lindeberg, a Dammerlitz expression coming into her face. ‘The cases are not—are not quite—pray tell me, who and what is his father?’
‘A respectable man, madam, I should judge.’
‘Respectable? And besides respectable?’
‘Eminently worthy, I should say, from his letters.’
‘Ah yes. And—and anything else?’
‘Honourable too, I fancy. Indeed, I have not a doubt.’
‘Is he of any family?’
‘He is of his own family, madam.’
‘Ah yes. And did you—did you say he was well off?’
‘He is apparently revoltingly rich.’
An electric shock seemed to make Frau von Lindeberg catch her breath.
‘Oh, really,’ she then said evenly. ‘Did he inherit his wealth?’
‘Made it, madam. He is an ironmonger.’
Another electric shock made Frau von Lindeberg catch her breath again. Then she again said—‘Oh, really!’
There was a pause.
‘England,’ she said, after a moment, ‘is different from Germany.’
‘I believe it is,’ admitted Papa.
‘And ironmongers there may be different from ironmongers here.’
‘It is at least conceivable.’
‘Tell me, what status has an ironmonger in England?’
‘What status?’
‘In society.’
‘Ah, that I know not. I went over there seven and twenty years ago for the purpose of marrying, and I met no ironmongers. Not consciously, that is.’
‘Would they—would they be above the set in which you then found yourself, or would they——’ she tried to conceal a shiver—‘be below it?’
‘I know not. I know nothing of society either there or here. But I do know that money, there as here, is very mighty. It is, I should say, merely a question of having enough.’
‘And has he enough?’
‘The man, madam, is, I believe, perilously near becoming that miserable and isolated creature a millionaire. God help the unfortunate Joey.’
‘But why? Why should God help him? Why is he unfortunate? Does not he get any share?’
‘Any share? He gets it all. He is the only child. Now, I put it to you, what chance is there for an unhappy youth with no brains——’
‘Oh, I must really go! I have taken up an unwarrantable amount of your time. Thank you so very much, dear Herr Schmidt—no, no, do not disturb yourself, I beg—your daughter will show me the way——’
‘But,’ cried Papa, vainly trying to detain this determinedly retreating figure, ‘about his character, his morals—we have not yet touched——’
‘Ah yes—so kind—I will not keep you now. Another time, perhaps——’
And Frau von Lindeberg got herself out of the room and out of the house. Scarcely did she say good-bye to me, in so great and sudden a fever was she to be gone; but she did turn on the doorstep and give me a curiously intense look. It began at my eyes, travelled upwards to my hair, down across my face, and from there over my whole body to my toes. It was a very odd look. It was the most burningly critical look that has ever shrivelled my flesh.
Now, what do you think of this enormous long letter? It has made me quite cheerful just writing it, and I was not very cheerful when I began. I hope the reading of it will do you as much good. Good-bye. Write and tell me you are happy.
Yours sincerely,
ROSE-MARIE SCHMIDT.
Do, do try to be happy!
LXIII
Galgenberg, Dec. 22.
DEAR MR ANSTRUTHER,—The house is quite good enough for me, I assure you—the ‘setting,’ I think you call it, suggesting with pleasant flattery that there is something precious to be set. It only has the bruised sort of colour you noticed when its background is white with snow. In summer against the green it looks as white as you please; but a thing must be white indeed to look so in the midst of our present spotlessness. And it is not damp if there are fires enough. And the rooms are not too small for me—‘poky’ was the adjective you applied to the dear little things. And I am never lonely. And Joey is very nice, even though he doesn’t quite talk in blank verse. I feel a sort of shame when you make so much of me, when you persist in telling me that the outer conditions of my life are unworthy. It makes me feel so base, such a poor thing. Sometimes I half believe you must be poking fun. Anyhow, I don’t know what you would be at; do you wish me to turn up my nose at my surroundings? And do you see any good that it would do? And the details you go into! That coffee-pot you saw and are so plaintive about came to grief only the day before your visit, and will, in due season, be replaced by another. Meanwhile it doesn’t hurt coffee to be poured out of a broken spout, and it doesn’t hurt us to drink it after it has passed through this humil
iation. On the contrary, we receive it thankfully into cups, and remain perfectly unruffled. You say, and really you say it in a kind of agony, that the broken spout, you are sure, is symbolic of much that is invisible in my life. You say—in effect, though your words are choicer—that if you had your way my life would be set about with no spouts that were not whole. If you had your way? Mr Anstruther, it is a mercy that in this one matter you have not got it. What an extremely discontented creature I would become if I spent my days embedded in the luxury you, by a curious perverseness, think should be piled around me. I would gasp ill-natured epigrams from morning till night. I would wring my hands, and rend the air with cries of cui bono. The broken spout is a brisk reminder of the transitoriness of coffee-pots and of life. It sets me hurrying about my business, which is first to replace it, and then by every possible ingenuity to make the most of the passing moment. The passing moment is what you should keep your eye on, my young friend. It is a slippery, flighty thing; but, properly pounced upon, lends itself fruitfully to squeezing. The upshot of your last letter is, I gather, that for some strange reason, some extremity of perverseness, you would have me walk in silk attire, and do it in halls made of marble. It suffocates me only to think of it. I love my freedom and forest trampings, my short skirts and swinging arms. I want the wind to blow on me, and the sun to burn me, and the mud to spatter me. Away with caskets and settings and frames! I am not a picture or a jewel, whatever your poetic eye, misled by a sly and tricky Muse, persists in seeing. It would be quite a good plan, and of distinctly tonic properties, for you to write to Frau von Lindeberg and beg her to describe me. She, it is certain, would do it very accurately, untroubled by the deceptions of any muse.
How kind of you to ask me what I would like for Christmas, and how funny of you to ask if you might not give me a trinket. I laughed over that, for did I not write to you three days ago and give you an account of my conversation with Joey on the subject of trinkets at Christmas? Is it possible you do not read my letters? Is it possible that, having read them, you forget them so immediately? Is it possible that proverbs lie, and the sauce appropriate to the goose is not also appropriate to the gander? Give me a book. There is no present I care about but that. And if it happened to be a volume in the dark blue binding edition of Stevenson to add to my row of him, I would be both pleased and grateful. Joey asked me what I wanted, so he is getting me the Travels with a Donkey. Will you give me Virginibus Puerisque?
Fraulein Schmidt and Mr Anstruther Page 23