Vicki called out from her doorway — you could hear the least call this morning at an extraordinary distance — to ask if I were snowed up too much to come down as usual.
‘I’m coming down, and I’m making the path to do it with,’ I called back, shovelling with an energy that set my hair dancing about my ears.
She shouted back — her very shout was cheerful, and I did not need to see her face to know that today there would be no tears — that she too would make a path up to meet mine; and presently I heard the sounds of another joyful shovel.
Underneath, the ground was hard with frost; it had frozen violently for several hours before the snow came up on the huge purple wings of the north wind. The muddy roads, the soaked forest, the plaintive patter of the rain, were wiped out of existence between a sleeping and a waking. This was no world in which to lament. This was no place in which sighs were possible. The thought that a man’s marrying one or not could make so much as the faintest smudge across the bright hopefulness of life made me laugh aloud with healthiest derision. Oh, how my shovel rang against the frozen stones! The feathery snow was scattered broadcast at each stroke. My body glowed and tingled. My hair grew damp about my forehead. The sun smiled broadly down upon my back. Papa flung up his window to cheer me on, but shut it again with a slam before he had well got out his words. Johanna came for an instant to the door, peeped out, gasped that it was cold — unheimlich kalt was her strange expression: unheimlich=dismal, uncanny; think of it! — and shut the door as hurriedly as Papa had shut the window. An hour later two hot and smiling young women met together on the path they had shovelled, and straightened themselves up, and looked proudly at the results of their work, and laughed at each other’s scarlet faces and at the way their noses and chins were covered with tiny beads. ‘As if it were August and we’d been reaping,’ said Vicki; and the big girl laughed at this, and the small girl laughed at this, with an excessiveness that would have convinced a passer-by that somebody was being very droll.
But there was no passer-by. You don’t pass by if snow lies on the roads three feet deep. We are cut off entirely from Jena and shops. This letter won’t start for I haven’t an idea how long. Milk cannot come to us, and we cannot go to where there is a cow. I have flour enough to bake bread with for about ten days unless the Lindebergs should have none, in which case it will last less than five. The coal-hole is stored with cabbages and carrots, buried, with cunning circumvention of decay, in sand. Potatoes abound in earth-covered heaps out of doors. Apples abound in Johanna’s attic. We vegetarians come off well on occasions like this, for the absence of milk and butter does not afflict the already sorely afflicted, and of course the absence of meat leaves us completely cold.
Vicki and I have been mending a boy’s sled we found in the lumber room of their house, I suppose the sled used in his happier days by the Assessor now chained to a desk in Berlin, and with this we are going out after coffee this afternoon when the sky turns pale green and stars come out and blink at us, to the top of the road where it joins the forest, dragging the sled up as best we can over the frozen snow, and then, tightly clutching each other, and I expect not altogether in silence, we intend to career down again as far as the thing will career, flashing, we hope, past her mother’s gate at a speed that will prevent all interference. Perhaps we shall not be able to stop, and will be landed at last in the middle of the market-place in Jena. I’ll take this letter with me in case that happens, because then I can post it. Good-by. It’s going to be glorious. Don’t you wish you had a sled and a mountain too?
Yours in a great hurry,
ROSE-MARIE SCHMIDT.
LIX
Galgenberg, Dec. 9th.
Dear Mr. Anstruther, — We are still in sunshine and frost up here, and are all very happy, we three Schmidts — Johanna is the third — because Joey arrives to-morrow and we shall once more roll in money. I hasten to tell you this, for there were signs in your last two letters that you were taking our position to heart. It is wonderfully kind, I think, the way you are interested in our different little pains and pleasures. I am often more touched than I care to tell you by the sincerity of your sympathy with all we do, and feel very grateful for so true a friend. I was so glad you gave up coming to Jena on your way to Berlin, for it showed that you try to be reasonable, and then you know Professor Martens goes to Berlin himself every now and then to take sweet counsel with men like Harnack, so you will be sure to see him sooner or later, and see him comfortably, without a rush to catch a train. You say you did not come because I urged you not to, and that in all things you want to please me. Well, I would prefer to suppose you a follower of that plain-faced but excellent guide Common Sense. Still, being human, the less lofty and conscientious side of me does like to know there is some one who wishes to please me. I feel deliciously flattered — when I let myself think of it; nearly always I take care to think of something else — that a young man of your undoubted temporal and spiritual advantages should be desirous of pleasing an obscure person like me. What would Frau von Lindeberg say? Do you remember Shelley’s wife’s sister, the Miss Westbrook who brushed her hair so much, with her constant ‘Gracious Heavens, what would Miss Warne say?’ I feel inclined to exclaim the same thing about Frau von Lindeberg, but with an opposite meaning. And it is really very surprising that you should be so kind, for I have been a shrew to you often, and have been absorbed in my own affairs, and have not erred on the side of over-sympathy about yours. Some day, when we are both very old, perhaps you will get a few hours’ leave from the dowager duchess you’ll marry when you are forty, and will come and look at my pigs and my garden and sit with me before the fire and talk over our long friendship and all the long days of our life. And I, when I hear you are coming, shall be in a flutter, and will get out my best dress, and will fuss over things like asparagus and a salad, and tell the heated and awe-stricken maid that His Britannic Majesty’s Ambassador at the Best Place to be an Ambassador in in the World is coming to supper; and we shall feel how sweet it is to be old dear friends.
Meanwhile we are both very busy with the days we have got to now. Today, for instance, has been so violently active that every bone I possess is aching. I’ll tell you what happened, since you so earnestly assure me that all we do interests you. The snow is frozen so hard that far from being cut off as I had feared from shops and food there is the most glorious sledding road down to Jena; and at once on hearing of Joey’s imminence Vicki and I coasted down on the sled and I bought the book Papa has been wanting and a gigantic piece of beef. Then we persuaded a small but strong boy, a boy of open countenance and superior manners whom we met in the market-place, to drag the sled with the beef and the book up the hill again for us; and so we set out homeward, walking gayly one on each side of him, encouraging him with loud admiration of his prowess. ‘See,’ said I, when I knew a specially steep bit was coming, ‘see what a great thing it is to be able to draw so much so easily.’
A smirk and renewed efforts were the result of this speech at first; but the smirk grew smaller as the hill grew steeper, and the efforts dwindled to vanishing point with the higher windings of the road. At last there was no smirk at all, and at my sixth repetition of the encouragement he stopped dead. ‘If it is such a great thing,’ he said, wiping his youthful forehead with a patched sleeve, and looking at me with a precociousness I had not till then observed in his eyes, ‘why do you not do it yourself?’
Vicki and I stared at each other in silent wonder.
‘Because,’ I said, turning a reproachful gaze on him, ‘because, my dear little boy, I desire you to have the chance of earning the fifty pfennings we have promised to give you when we get to the top.’
He began to pull again, but no longer with any pride in his performance. Vicki and I walked in silence behind, and at the next steep bit, instead of repeating a form of words I felt had grown vain, I skilfully unhooked the parcel of meat hanging on the right-hand runner and carried it, and Vicki, always quick to follow m
y example, unhooked the biography of Goethe from the left-hand runner and carried that. The sled leaped forward, and for a space the boy climbed with greater vigor. Then came another long steep bit, and he flagged again.
‘Come, come,’ said I, ‘it is quite easy.’
He at once stopped and wiped his forehead. ‘If it is easy,’ he asked, ‘why do you not do it yourself?’
‘Because, my dear little boy,’ said I, trying to be patient, but meat is heavy, and I knew it to be raw, and I feared every moment to feel a dreadful dampness oozing through the paper, and I was out of breath, and no longer completely calm, ‘you engaged to pull it up for us, and having engaged to do it it is your duty to do it. I will not come between a boy and his duty.’
The boy looked at Vicki. ‘How she talks,’ he said.
Vicki and I again stared at each other in silent wonder, and while we were staring he pulled the sled sideways across the road and sat down.
‘Come, come,’ said I, striving after a brisk severity.
‘I am tired,’ he said, leaning his chin on his hand and studying first my face and then Vicki’s with a detached, impartial scrutiny.
‘We too are tired,’ said I, ‘and see, yet we carry the heavy parcels for you. The sled, empty, is quite light.’
‘Then why do you not pull it yourself?’ he asked again.
‘Anyhow,’ said Vicki, ‘while he sits there we needn’t hold these great things.’ And she put the volumes on the sled, and I let the meat drop on it, which it did with a horrible, soft, heavy thud.
The boy sat motionless.
‘Let him get his wind,’ said Vicki, turning away to look over the edge of the road at the view.
‘I’m afraid he’s a bad little boy,’ said I, following her and gazing too at the sparkling hills across the valley. ‘A bad little boy, encased in an outer semblance of innocence.’
‘He only wants his wind,’ said Vicki.
‘He shows no symptoms of not having got it,’ said I; for the boy was very calm, and his mouth was shut sweetly in a placid curve.
We waited, looking at the view, humanely patient as became two highly civilized persons. The boy got up after a few minutes and shook himself. ‘I am rested,’ he announced with a sudden return to the politeness that had charmed us in Jena.
‘It certainly was rather a long pull up,’ said I kindly, softened by his manner.
‘Yes,’ said he, ‘but I will not keep the ladies waiting longer.’
And he did not, for he whisked the sled round, sat himself upon it, and before we had in the least understood what was happening he and it and the books for Papa and the beef for Joey were darting down the hill, skimming along the track with the delicious swiftness none knew and appreciated better than we did. At the bend of the road he gave a joyful whoop and waved his cap. Then he disappeared.
Vicki and I stared at each other once more in silent wonder. ‘What an abandoned little boy,’ she gasped at last — he must have been almost in Jena by the time we were able to speak.
‘The poor beef,’ said I very ruefully, for it was a big piece and had cost vast sums.
‘Yes, and the books,’ said Vicki.
‘Yes, and the Assessor’s sled,’ said I.
There was nothing for it but to hurry down after him and seek out the authorities and set them in pursuit; and so we hurried as much as can be hurried over such a road, tired, silent, and hungry, and both secretly nettled to the point of madness at having been so easily circumvented by one small boy.
‘Little boys are more pestilential than almost anything I know,’ said Vicki, after a period of speechless crunching over the snow.
‘Far more than anything I know,’ said I.
‘I’m thankful I did not marry,’ said she.
‘So am I,’ said I.
‘The world’s much too full of them as it is,’ said she.
‘Much,’ said I.
‘Oh,’ she cried suddenly, stamping her foot, ‘if I could only get hold of him — wicked, wicked little wretch!’
‘What would you do?’ I asked, curious to see if her plans were at all like mine.
‘Gr — r — r — r — r,’ said Vicki, clenching all those parts of her, such as teeth and fists, that would clench.
‘Oh so would I!’ I cried.
We were almost at the bottom; the road was making its final bend; and, as we turned the corner, behold the boy, his cap off, his head bent, his shoulders straining at the rope, pulling the sled laboriously up again. And there was the beef hung on one runner, and there were the books hung on the other. We both stopped dead, arrested by this spectacle. He was almost upon us before he saw us, so intent was he on his business, his eyes on the ground, the sun shining on his yellow hair, the drops of labor rolling down his crimson cheeks.
‘What?’ he panted, pausing when he saw our four boots in a row in his path, and had looked up and recognized the rest of us, ‘what, am I there already?’
‘No,’ I cried in the voice of justified anger, ‘you are not there — you are here, at the very beginning of the mountain. Now what have you to say for yourself?’
‘Nothing,’ said he, grinning and wiping his face with his sleeve. ‘But it was a good ride.’
‘You have only just escaped the police and prison,’ I said, still louder. ‘We were on our way to hand you over to them.’
‘If I had been there to hand,’ said he, winking at Vicki, to whom he had apparently taken a fancy that was in no way encouraged.
‘You had stolen our sled and our parcels,’ I continued, glaring down on him.
‘Here they are. They are all here. What more do you want?’ said he. ‘How she talks,’ he added, turning to Vicki and thrusting out his underlip with an expression that could only mean disgust.
‘You are a very naughty little boy,’ said Vicki. ‘Give me the rope and be off.’
‘Give me my fifty pfennings.’
‘Your fifty pfennings?’ we exclaimed with one voice.
‘You promised me fifty pfennings.’
‘To pull the sled up to the top.’
‘I am ready to do it.’
‘Thank you. We have had enough. Let the rope go—’
‘And get home to your mother—’
‘And ask her to give you a thorough—’
‘A bargain is a bargain,’ said the boy, planting himself squarely in front of me, while I adjusted the rope over my shoulders and prepared to pull.
‘Now run away, you very naughty little boy,’ said I, pulling sideways to pass him by.
He stepped aside too, and faced me again. ‘You promised me fifty pfennings,’ he said.
‘To pull the sled up.’
‘I am willing to do it.’
‘Yes, and coast down again as soon as you have got to the top. Be off with you. We are not playing games.’
‘A promise is a promise,’ said the boy.
‘Vicki, remove him from my path,’ said I.
Vicki took him by the arm and gingerly drew him on one side, and I started up the hill, surprised to find what hard work it was.
‘I am coming too,’ said the boy.
‘Are you?’ said Vicki.
‘Yes. To fetch my fifty pfennings.’
We said no more. I couldn’t, because I was so breathlessly pulling, and Vicki marched by my side in indignant silence, with a jealous eye divided between the parcels and the boy. He, unencumbered, thrust his hands into his pockets and beguiled the way by shrilly whistling.
At each winding of the road when Vicki and I changed places he renewed his offer to fulfil his first bargain; but we, more and more angry as we grew hotter and hotter, refused with an ever increasing wrath.
‘Come, come,’ said he, when a very steep bit had forced me to pause and struggle for breath.
‘Come, come—’ and he imitated my earlier manner— ‘it is quite easy.’
I looked at him with what of majesty I could, and answered not a word.
At Vicki
’s gate he was still with us. ‘I will see you safely home,’ Vicki said to me when we got there.
‘This where you live?’ inquired the boy, peeping through the bars of the gate with cheerful interest. ‘Nice little house.’
We were silent.
‘I will see her home,’ he said to Vicki, ‘if you don’t want to. But she can surely take care of herself, a great girl like that?’
We were silent.
At my gate he was still with us. ‘This where she lives?’ he asked Vicki, again peeping through the bars with cheerful interest. ‘Funny little house.’
We were silent. In silence we opened the gate and dragged the sled in. He came too.
‘You cannot come in here,’ said Vicki. ‘This is private property.’
‘I only wish to fetch my fifty pfennings,’ said he. ‘It will save you trouble if I come to the door.’
We went in in silence, and together carried the sled inside, a thing we had not yet done, and took it with immense exertions into the parlor, and put it under the table, and tied it by each of its four corners to each of the table’s four legs.
‘There,’ said Vicki, scrambling to her feet again and looking at her knots with satisfaction, ‘that’s safe if anything is.’
Delphi Collected Works of Elizabeth von Arnim (Illustrated) Page 105