Delphi Collected Works of Elizabeth von Arnim (Illustrated)

by Elizabeth Von Arnim

  “How sorry I am,” she said, in her pretty, hesitating German, “that you should have been made unhappy the very first evening. Marie is a little wretch. Don’t let her stupidity make you miserable. You shall not see her again, I promise you.” And she patted Frau von Treumann’s arm. “But about Princess Ludwig, now,” she went on cheerfully, “she has been here some weeks and you soon learn to know a person you are with every day, and really I have found her nothing but good and kind.”

  “Ach, she is shameless — she recoils before no degradation!” burst out Frau von Treumann, suddenly removing her hands from her face. “The trouble she has given her relations! She delights in dragging her name in the dirt. She has tried to get places in the most impossible families, and made no attempt to hide what she was doing. She has broken the old Fürst’s heart. And she talks about it all, and has no shame, no decency — —”

  “But is it not admirable — —” began Anna.

  “She will gloat over me, and tell everyone that I am here in the same way as she is. If she is not ashamed for herself, do you think she will spare me?”

  “But why should you think there is anything to be ashamed of in coming to live with me and be my dear friend?”

  “No, there is nothing, so long as my motives in coming are known. But people talk so cruelly, and will distort the facts so gladly, and we have always held our heads so high. And now the Penheim!” She sobbed afresh.

  “I shall ask the princess not to write to anyone about your being here.”

  “Ach, I know her — she will do it all the same.”

  “No, I don’t think so. She does everything I ask. You see, she takes care of my house for me. She is not here in the same way that — that you and Baroness Elmreich are, and her interest is to stay here.”

  Frau von Treumann’s bowed head went up with a jerk. “Ach? She has found a place at last? She is your paid companion? Your housekeeper?”

  “Yes, and she is goodness itself, and I don’t believe she would be unkind and make mischief for worlds.”

  “Ach so!” said Frau von Treumann, “ach so-o-o-o!” — a long drawn out so of complete comprehension. Her tears ceased as if by magic. She dried her eyes. Yes, of course the Penheim would hold her tongue if Miss Estcourt ordered her to do so. She had heard all about her efforts to find places, and she would probably be very careful not to lose this one. The poor Penheim. So she was actually working for wages. What a come-down for a Dettingen! And the Dettingens had always treated the Treumanns as though they belonged merely to the kleine Adel. Well, well, each one in turn. She was the dear friend, and the Penheim was the housekeeper. Well, well.

  She sat up straight, smoothed her hair, and resumed her first manner of quiet dignity. “I am sorry that you should have witnessed my agitation,” she said, with a faint smile. “I am not easily betrayed into exhibitions of feeling, but there are limits to one’s endurance, there are certain things the bravest cannot bear.”

  “Yes,” said Anna.

  “And for a Treumann, social disgrace, any action that in the least soils our honour and makes us unable to hold up our heads, is worse than death.”

  “But I don’t see any disgrace.”

  “No, no, there is none so long as facts are not distorted. It is quite simple — you need friends and I am willing to be your friend. That was how my son looked at it. He said ‘Liebe Mama, she evidently needs friends and sympathy — why should you hesitate to make yourself of use? You must regard it as a good work.’ You would like my son; his brother officers adore him.”

  “Really?” said Anna.

  “He is so sensible, so reasonable; he is beloved and respected by the whole regiment. I will show you his photograph — ach, the trunks are still unstrapped.”

  “I’ll go and send someone — but not Marie,” said Anna, getting up quickly. She had no desire to see the photograph, and the son’s way of looking at things had considerably astonished her. “It must be nearly supper time. Would you not rather lie down and let me send you something here? Your head must ache after crying so much. You have baptised our new life with tears. I hope it is a good omen.”

  “Oh, I will come down. You will do as you promised, will you not, and forbid the Penheim to gossip?”

  “I shall tell the princess your wishes.”

  “Or, if she must gossip, let her tell the truth at least. If my son had not pressed me to come here I really do not think — —”

  Anna went slowly and meditatively down the passage to Fräulein Kuhräuber’s room. For a moment she thought of omitting this last visit altogether; she was afraid lest the Fräulein should be in some unlooked-for and perplexing condition of mind. Discouraged? Oh no; she was surely not discouraged already. How had the word come into her head? She quickened her steps. When she reached the door she remembered the cup and the sugar-tongs. Perhaps something in the bedroom was already broken, and the Fräulein would be disclosed sitting in the ruins in tears, for she was unexpectedly large, and the contents of her room were frail. But then woe of that sort was as easily assuaged as broken furniture was mended. It was the more complicated grief of Frau von Treumann that she felt unable to soothe. As to that, she preferred not to think about it at present, and barricaded her thoughts against its image with that consoling sentence, Tout comprendre c’est tout pardonner. It was a sentence she was fond of; but she had not expected that she would need its reassurance so soon.

  She opened the door, and the puckers smoothed themselves out of her forehead at once, for here, at last, was peace. There had been no difficulties here with bells, and straps, and Marie. The trunks had been opened and unpacked without assistance; and when Anna came in the contents were all put away and Fräulein Kuhräuber, washed and combed and in her Sunday blouse, was sitting in an easy chair by the window absorbed in a book. Satisfaction was written broadly on her face; content was expressed by every lazy line of her attitude. When she saw Anna, she got up and made a curtsey and beamed. The beams were instantly reflected in Anna’s face, and they beamed at each other.

  “Well,” said Anna, who felt perfectly at her ease with this member of her trio, “are you happy?”

  Fräulein Kuhräuber blushed, and beamed more than ever. She was far less shy of Anna than she was of those two terrible adelige Damen, her travelling companions; but at no time had she had much conversation. Hers had been a ruminative existence, for its uncertainty but rarely disturbed her. Had she not an excellent digestion, and a fixed belief that the righteous, of whom she was one, would never be forsaken? And are not these the primary conditions of happiness? Indeed, if everything else is wanting, these two ingredients by themselves are sufficient for the concoction of a very palatable life.

  “You have found an interesting book already?” Anna asked, pleased that the literature chosen with such care should have met with instant appreciation. She took it up to see what it was, but put it down again hastily, for it was the cookery book.

  “I read much,” observed Fräulein Kuhräuber.

  “Yes?” said Anna, a flicker of hope reviving in her heart. Perhaps the cookery book was an accident.

  “I know by heart more than a hundred recipes for sweet dishes alone.”

  “Really?” said Anna, the flicker expiring.

  “So you can have an idea of the number of books I have read.”

  “Here are a great many more for you to read.”

  “Ach ja, ach ja,” said Fräulein Kuhräuber, glancing doubtfully at the shelves; “but one must not waste too much time over it — there are other things in life. I read only useful books.”

  “Well, that is very praiseworthy,” said Anna, smiling. “If you like cookery books, I must get you some more.”

  “How good you are — how very, very good!” said the Fräulein, gazing at the charming figure before her with heartfelt admiration and gratitude. “This beautiful room — I cannot look at it enough. I cannot believe it is really for me — for me to sleep in and be in whenever I choose. Wh
at have I done to deserve all this?”

  What had she done, indeed? She had not even been unhappy, although of course she had had every opportunity of being so, sent from place to place, from one indignant Hausfrau to another, ever since she left school. But Anna, persuaded that she had rescued her from depths of unspeakable despair, was overjoyed by this speech. “Don’t talk about deserving,” she said tenderly. “You have had such a life that if you were to be happy now without stopping once for the next fifty years it would only be just and right.”

  Fräulein Kuhräuber’s approval of this sentiment was so entire that she seized Anna’s hand and kissed it fervently. Anna laughed while this was going on, and her eyes grew brighter. She had not wanted gratitude, but now that it had come it was very encouraging after all, and very warming. She put one arm impulsively round the Fräulein’s neck and kissed her, and this was practically the first kiss that lady had ever received, for the perfunctory embraces of reluctantly dutiful aunts can hardly be called by that pretty name.

  “Now,” said Anna, with a happy laugh, “we are going to be friends for ever. Come, let us go down. That was the supper bell.”

  And they went downstairs together, appearing in the doorway of the drawing-room arm in arm, as though they had loved each other for years.

  “As though they were twins,” muttered the baroness to Frau von Treumann, who shrugged one shoulder slightly by way of reply.

  CHAPTER XVI

  But in spite of this little outburst of gratitude and appreciation from Fräulein Kuhräuber, the first evening of the new life was a disappointment. The Fräulein, who entered the room so happily under the impression of that recent kiss, became awkward and uncomfortable the moment she caught sight of the others; lapsing, indeed, into a quite pitiful state of nervous flutter on being brought for the first time within the range of the princess’s critical and unsympathetic eye. Her experience had not included princesses, and, as she made a series of agitated curtseys, deeming one altogether insufficient for so great a lady, she felt as though that cold eye were piercing her through easily, and had already discovered the inmost recess of her soul, where lay, so carefully hidden, the memory of the postman. Every time the princess looked at her, a sudden vivid consciousness of the postman flamed up within her, utterly refusing to be extinguished by the soothing recollection that he had been angelic for thirty years. That obviously experienced eye and those pursed lips upset her so completely that she made no remark whatever during the meal that followed, but sat next to Anna and ate Leberwurst in a kind of uneasy dream; and she ate it with a degree of emphasis so unusual among the polite and so disastrous to the peace of the ultra-fastidious that Anna felt there really was some slight excuse for the frequent and lengthy stares that came from the other end of the table. “Yet she is an immortal soul — what does it matter how she eats Leberwurst?” said Anna to herself. “What do such trifles, such little mannerisms, really matter? I should indeed be a miserable creature if I let them annoy me.” But she turned her head away, nevertheless, and talked assiduously to Letty.

  There was no one else for her to talk to. Frau von Treumann and the baroness had seated themselves at once one on either side of the princess, and devoted their conversation entirely to her. In the drawing-room later on, the same thing happened, — the three German ladies clustering together near the sofa, and the three English being left somehow to themselves, except for Fräulein Kuhräuber, who clung to them. To avoid this division into what looked like hostile camps Anna pushed her chair to a place midway between the groups, and tried to join, though not very successfully, in the talk of each in turn. Outward calm prevailed in the room, subdued voices, the tranquillity of fancy-work, and the peace of albums; yet Anna could not avoid a chilled impression, a feeling as though each person present were distrustful of the others, and more or less on the defensive. Frau von Treumann, it is true, was graciousness itself to the princess, conversing with her constantly and amiably, and showing herself kind; but, on the other hand, the princess was hardly gracious to Frau von Treumann. An unbiassed observer would have said that she disapproved of Frau von Treumann, but was endeavouring to conceal her disapproval. She busied herself with her embroidery and talked as little as she could, receiving both the advances of Frau von Treumann and the attentions of the baroness with equal coldness.

  As for the baroness, her doubts as to Anna’s respectability were blown away completely and forever when, on opening the drawing-room door before supper, she had beheld no less a person than the geborene Dettingen seated on the sofa. The baroness had spent her life in a remote and tiny provincial town, but she knew the great Dettingen and Penheim families well by name, and a princess in her opinion was a princess, an altogether precious and admirable creature, whatever she might choose to do. Her scruples, then, were set at rest, but her ice as far as Anna was concerned showed no signs of thawing. All her amiability and her efforts to produce a good impression were lavished on the princess, who besides being by birth and marriage the grandest person the baroness had yet met, spoke her own tongue properly, had no dimples, and did not try to stroke her hand. She looked on with mingled awe and irritation at the easy manner in which Frau von Treumann treated this great lady. It almost seemed as though she were patronising her. Really these Treumanns were a brazen-faced race; audacious East Prussian Junkers, who thought themselves as good as or better than the best. And this one was not even a true Treumann, but an Ilmas, and of the inferior Kadenstein branch; and the baroness’s brother — that brother whose end was so abrupt — had been quartered once during the man[oe]uvres at Kadenstein, and had told her that it was a wretched place, with a fowl-run that wanted mending within a few yards of the front door, and that, the door standing open all day long, he had frequently met fowls walking about in the hall and passages. Yet remembering the brother’s story, and how there was no shadow of the sort resting at present on Frau von Treumann, though as she had a son there was no telling how long her shadowless state would last, she tried to ingratiate herself with that lady, who met her advances coolly, only warming into something like responsiveness when Fräulein Kuhräuber was in question.

  Fräulein Kuhräuber sat behind Letty and Miss Leech, as far away from the others as she could. She had a stocking in her hand, but she did not knit. She never knitted if she could avoid it, and was conscious that from want of practice her needles moved more slowly than is usual — so slowly, indeed, as to be conspicuous. Letty showed her photographs and was very kind to her, instinctively perceiving that here was someone who was as uneasy under the tall lady’s stares as she was herself. She privately thought her by far the best of the new arrivals, and wished she knew enough German to inquire into her views respecting Schiller; there was something in the Fräulein’s looks and manner that made her think they would agree about Schiller.

  Anna, too, ended by talking exclusively to this group. Her attempts to join in what the others were saying had been unsuccessful; and with a little twinge of disappointment, and a feeling of being for some unexplained reason curiously out of it, she turned to Fräulein Kuhräuber, and devoted herself more and more to her.

  “They are inseparables already,” remarked the baroness in a low voice to Frau von Treumann. “The Miss finds her congenial, it seems.” She could not forgive those doors she had gone through last.

  The princess looked up for a moment over the spectacles she wore when she worked, at Anna.

  “Fräulein Kuhräuber makes an excellent foil,” said Frau von Treumann. “Miss Estcourt looks quite ethereal next to her.”

  “Do you think her pretty?” asked the baroness.

  “She is very distinguished-looking.”

  A servant came in at that moment and announced Dellwig’s usual evening visit, and Anna got up and went out. They watched her as she walked down the long room, and when she had disappeared began to discuss her more at their ease, their rapid German being quite incomprehensible to Letty and Miss Leech.

  “Where has s
he gone?” asked the baroness.

  “She has gone to talk to her inspector,” said the princess.

  “Ach so,” said the baroness.

  “Ach so,” said Frau von Treumann.

  “Is the inspector young?” asked the baroness.

  “Oh no, quite old,” said the princess.

  “These English are a strange race,” said Frau von Treumann. “What German girl of that age would you find with so much energy and enterprise?”

  “Is she so very young?” inquired the baroness, with a look of mild surprise.

  “Why, she is plainly little more than a child,” said Frau von Treumann.

  “She is twenty-five,” said the princess.

  “Rather an old child,” observed the baroness.

  “She looks much younger. But twenty-five is surely young enough for this life, away from her own people,” said Frau von Treumann.

  “Yes — why does she lead it?” asked the baroness eagerly. “Can you tell us, Frau Prinzessin? Has she then quarrelled with all her friends?”