Wanda was very kind, and brought me some secret coffee and bread and butter to my room when I told her I had walked at least ten miles and was too tired to go into supper. She cried out “Herr Je!” — which I’m afraid is short for Lord Jesus, and is an exclamation dear to her — and seized the coffee pot at once and started heating it up. I remembered afterwards that German miles are three times the size of English ones, so no wonder she said Herr Je. But just think: I haven’t seen a single boarder for a whole day. I do feel so much refreshed.
You know I told you in my last letter I was going to lunch with the Koseritzes on Monday, and so I did, and the chief thing that happened there, was that I was shy. Imagine it. So shy that I blushed and dropped things. For years I haven’t thought of what I looked like when I’ve been with other people, because for years other people have been so absorbingly interesting that I forgot I was there too; but at the Koseritzes I suddenly found myself remembering, greatly to my horror, that I have a face, and that it goes about with me wherever I go, and that parts of it are — well, I don’t like them. And I remembered that my hair had been done in a hurry, and that the fingers of my left hand have four hard lumps on their tips where they press the strings of my fiddle, and that they’re very ugly, but then one can’t have things both ways, can one. Also I became aware of my clothes, and we know how fatal that is when they are weak clothes like mine, don’t we, little mother? You used to exhort me to put them on with care and concentration, and then leave them to God. Such sound advice! And I’ve followed it so long that I do completely forget them; but last Monday I didn’t. They were urged on my notice by Grafin Koseritz’s daughter, whose eyes ran over me from head to foot and then back again when I came in. She was the neatest thing — aus dem Ei gegossen, as they express perfect correctness of appearance. I suddenly knew, what I have always suspected, that I was blowsy, — blowsy and loose-jointed, with legs that are too long and not the right sort of feet. I hated my Beethovenkopf and all its hair. I wanted to have less hair, and for it to be drawn neatly high off my face and brushed and waved in beautiful regular lines. And I wanted a spotless lacy blouse, and a string of pearls round my throat, and a perfectly made blue serge skirt without mud on it, — it was raining, and I had walked. Do you know what I felt like? A goodnatured thing. The sort of creature people say generously about afterwards, “Oh, but she’s so goodnatured.”
Grafin Koseritz was terribly kind to me, and that made me shyer than ever, for I knew she was trying to put me at my ease, and you can imagine how shy that made me. I blushed and dropped things, and the more I blushed and dropped things the kinder she was. And all the time my contemporary, Helena, looked at me with the same calm eyes. She has a completely emotionless face. I saw no trace of a passion for music or for anything else in it. She made no approaches of any sort to me, she just calmly looked at me. Her mother talked with the extreme vivacity of the hostess who has a difficult party on hand. There was a silent governess between two children. Junkerlets still in the school-room, who stared uninterruptedly at me and seemed unsuccessfully endeavouring to place me; there was a young lady cousin who talked during the whole meal in an undertone to Helena; and there was Graf Koseritz, an abstracted man who came in late, muttered something vague on being introduced to me and told I was a new genius Kloster had unearthed, sat down to his meal from which he did not look up again, and was monosyllabic when his wife tried to draw him in and make the conversation appear general. And all the time, while lending an ear to her cousin’s murmur of talk, Helena’s calm eyes lingered on one portion after the other of your poor vulnerable Chris.
Actually I found myself hoping hotly that I hadn’t forgotten to wash my ears that morning in the melee of getting up. I have to wash myself in bits, one at a time, because at Frau Berg’s I’m only given a very small tin tub, the bath being used for keeping extra bedding in. It is difficult and distracting, and sometimes one forgets little things like ears, little extra things like that; and when Helena’s calm eyes, which appeared to have no sort of flicker in them, or hesitation, or blink, settled on one of my ears and hung there motionless, I became so much unnerved that I upset the spoon out of the whipped-cream dish that was just being served to me, on to the floor. It was a parquet floor, and the spoon made such a noise, and the cream made such a mess. I was so wretched, because I had already upset a pepper thing earlier in the meal, and spilt some water. The white-gloved butler advanced in a sort of stately goose-step with another spoon, which he placed on the dish being handed to me, and a third menial of lesser splendour but also white-gloved brought a cloth and wiped up the mess, and the Grafin became more terribly and volubly kind than ever. Helena’s eyes never wavered. They were still on my ear. A little more and I would have reached that state the goaded shy get to when they suddenly in their agony say more striking things than the boldest would dream of saying, but Herr von Inster came in.
He is the young man I told you about who played my accompaniment the other night. We had got to the coffee, and the servants were gone, and the Graf had lit a cigar and was gazing in deep abstraction at the tablecloth while the Grafin assured me of his keen interest in music and its interpretation by the young and promising, and Helena’s eyes were resting on a spot there is on my only really nice blouse, — I can’t think how it got there, mother darling, and I’m fearfully sorry, and I’ve tried to get it out with benzin and stuff, but it is better to wear a blouse with spots on it than not to wear a blouse at all, isn’t it. I had pinned some flowers on it too, to hide it, and so they did at first, but they were fading and hanging down, and there was the spot, and Helena found it. Well, Herr von Inster came in, and put us all right. He looks like nothing but a smart young officer, very beautiful and slim in his Garde-Uhlan uniform, but he is really a lot of other things besides. He is the Koseritz’s cousin, and Helena says Du to him. He was very polite, said the right things to everybody, explained he had had his luncheon, but thought, as he was passing, he would look in. He would not deny, be said, that he had heard I was coming — he made me a little bow across the table and smiled — and that he had hopes I might perhaps be persuaded to play.
Not having a fiddle I couldn’t do that. I wish I could have, for I’m instantly natural and happy when I get playing; but the Grafin said she hoped I would play to some of her friends one evening as soon as she could arrange it, — friends interested in youthful geniuses, as she put it.
I said I would love to, and that it was so kind of her, but privately I thought I would inquire of Kloster first; for if her friends are all as deeply interested in music as the Graf and Helena, then I would be doing better and more profitably by going to bed at ten o’clock as usual, rather than emerge bedizened from my lair to go and flaunt in these haunts of splendid virtue.
After Herr von Inster came I began faintly to enjoy myself, for he talked all round, and greatly and obviously relieved his aunt by doing so. Helena let go of my ear and looked at him. Once she very nearly smiled. The other girl left off murmuring, and talked about things I could talk about too, such as England and Germany — they’re never tired of that — and Strauss and Debussy. Only the Graf sat mute, his eyes fixed on the tablecloth.
“My husband is dying to hear you play,” said the Grafin, when he got up presently to go back to his work. “Absolutely dying,” she said, recklessly padding out the leanness of his very bald good-bye to me.
He said nothing even to that. He just went. He didn’t seem to be dying.
Herr von luster walked back with me. He is very agreeable-looking, with kind eyes that are both shrewd and sad. He talks English very well, and so did everybody at the Koseritzes who talked at all. He is pathetically keen on music. Kloster says he would have been a really great player, but being a Junker settles him for ever. It is tragic to be forced out of one’s natural bent, and he says he hates soldiering. People in the street were very polite, and made way for me because I was with an officer. I wasn’t pushed off the pavement once.
; Good night my own mother. I’ve had a happy week. I put my arms round you and kiss you with all that I have of love.
Your Chris.
Wanda came in in great excitement to fetch my tray just now, and said a prince has been assassinated. She heard the Herrschaften saying so at supper. She thought they said it was an Austrian, but whatever prince it was it was Majestatsbeleidigung to get killing him, and she marvelled how any one had dared. Then Frau Berg herself came to tell me. By this time I was in bed, — pig-tailed, and ready to go to sleep. She was tremendously excited, and I felt a cold shiver down my back watching her. She was so much excited that I caught it from her and was excited too. Well, it is very dreadful the way these king-people get bombed out of life. She said it was the Austrian heir to the throne and his wife, both of them. But of course you’ll know all about it by the time you get this. She didn’t know any details, but there had been extra editions of the Sunday papers, and she said it would mean war.
“War?” I echoed.
“War,” she repeated; and began to tread heavily about the room saying, “War. War.”
“But who with?” I asked, watching her fascinated, sitting up in bed holding on to my knees.
“It will come,” said Frau Berg, treading about like some huge Judaic prophetess who sniffs blood. “It must come. There will be no quiet in the world till blood has been let.”
“But what blood?” I asked, rather tremulously, for her voice and behaviour curdled me.
“The blood of all those evil-doers who are responsible,” she said; and she paused a moment at the foot of my bed and folded her arms across her chest — they could hardly reach, and the word chest sounds much too flat — and added, “Of whom there are many.”
Then she began to walk about again, and each time a foot went down the room shook. “All, all need punishing,” she said as she walked. “There will be, there must be, punishment for this. Great and terrible. Blood will, blood must flow in streams before such a crime can be regarded as washed out. Such evil-doers must be emptied of all their blood.”
And then luckily she went away, for I was beginning to freeze to the sheets with horror.
I got out of bed to write this. You’ll be shocked too, I know. The way royalties are snuffed out one after the other! How glad I am I’m not one and you’re not one, and we can live safely and fruitfully outside the range of bombs. Poor things. It is very horrible. Yet they never seem to abdicate or want not to be royalties, so that I suppose they think it worth it on the whole. But Frau Berg was terrible. What a bloodthirsty woman. I wonder if the other boarders will talk like that. I do pray not, for I hate the very word blood. And why does she say there’ll be war? They will catch the murderers and punish them as they’ve done before, and there’ll be an end of it. There wasn’t war when the Empress of Austria was killed, or the King and Queen of Servia. I think Frau Berg wanted to make me creep. She has a fixed idea that English people are every one of them much too comfortable, and should at all costs be made to know what being uncomfortable is like. For their good, I suppose.
Berlin, Tuesday, June 30th, 1914.
Darling mother,
How splendid that you’re going to Switzerland next month with the Cunliffes. I do think it is glorious, and it will make you so strong for the winter. And think how much nearer you’ll be to me! I always suspected Mrs. Cunliffe of being secretly an angel, and now I know it. Your letter has just come and I simply had to tell you how glad I am.
Chris.
This isn’t a letter, it’s a cry of joy.
Berlin, Sunday, July 5th, 1914.
My blessed little mother,
It has been so hot this week. We’ve been sweltering up here under the roof. If you are having it anything like this at Chertsey the sooner you persuade the Cunliffes to leave for Switzerland the better. Just the sight of snow on the mountains out of your window would keep you cool. You know I told you my bedroom looks onto the Lutzowstrasse and the sun beats on it nearly all day, and flies in great numbers have taken to coming up here and listening to me play, and it is difficult to practise satisfactorily while they walk about enraptured on my neck. I can’t swish them away, because both my hands are busy. I wish I had a tail.
Frau Berg says there never used to be flies in this room, and suggests with some sternness that I brought them with me, — the eggs, I suppose, in my luggage. She is inclined to deny that they’re here at all, on the ground chiefly that nothing so irregular as a fly out of its proper place, which is, she says, a manure heap, is possible in Germany. It is too well managed, is Germany, she says. I said I supposed she knew that because she had seen it in the newspapers. I was snappy, you see. The hot weather makes me disposed, I’m afraid, to impatience with Frau Berg. She is so large, and she seems to soak up what air there is, and whenever she has sat on a chair it keeps warm afterwards for hours. If only some clever American with inventions rioting in his brain would come here and adapt her to being an electric fan! I want one so badly, and she would be beautiful whirling round, and would make an immense volume of air, I’m sure.
Well, darling one, you see I’m peevish. It’s because I’m so hot, and it doesn’t get cool at night. And the food is so hot too and so greasy, and the pallid young man with the red mouth who sits opposite me at dinner melts visibly and continuously all the time, and Wanda coming round with the dishes is like the coming of a blast of hot air. Kloster says I’m working too much, and wants me to practise less. I said I didn’t see that practising less would make Wanda and the young man cooler. I did try it one day when my head ached, and you’ve no idea what a long day it seemed. So empty. Nothing to do. Only Berlin. And one feels more alone in Berlin than anywhere in the world, I think. Kloster says it’s because I’m working too much, but I don’t see how working less would make Berlin more companionable. Of course I’m not a bit alone really, for there is Kloster, who takes a very real and lively interest in me and is the most delightful of men, and there is Herr von Inster, who has been twice to see me since that day I lunched at his aunt’s, and everybody in this house talks to me now, — more to me, I think, than to any other of the boarders, because I’m English and they seem to want to educate me out of it. And Hilda Seeberg has actually got as far in friendship as a cautious invitation to have chocolate with her one afternoon some day in the future at Wertheim’s; and the pallid young man has suggested showing me the Hohenzollern museum some Sunday, where he can explain to me, by means of relics, the glorious history of that high family, as he put it; and Frau Berg, though she looks like some massive Satan, isn’t really satanic I expect; and Dr. Krummlaut says every day as he comes into the diningroom rubbing his hands and passes my chair, “Na, was macht England?” which is a sign he is being gracious. It is only a feeling, this of being completely alone. But I’ve got it, and the longer I’m here and the better I know people the greater it becomes. It’s an uneasiness. I feel as if my spirit were alone, — the real, ultimate and only bit of me that is me and that matters.
If I go on like this you too, my little mother, will begin echoing Kloster and tell me that I’m working too much. Dear England. Dear, dear England. To find out how much one loves England all one has to do is to come to Germany.
Of course they talk of nothing else at every meal here now but the Archduke’s murder. It’s the impudence of the Servians that chiefly makes them gasp. That they should dare! Dr. Krummlaut says they never would have dared if they hadn’t been instigated to this deed of atrocious blasphemy by Russia, — Russia bursting with envy of the Germanic powers and encouraging every affront to them. The whole table, except the Swede who eats steadily on, sees red at the word affront. Frau Berg reiterates that the world needs blood-letting before there can be any real calm again, but it isn’t German blood she wants to let. Germany is surrounded by enormously wicked people, I gather, all swollen with envy, hatred and malice, and all of gigantic size. In the middle of these monsters browses Germany, very white and woolly-haired and loveable, a little
lamb among the nations, artlessly only wanting to love and be loved, weak physically compared to its towering neighbours, but strong in simplicity and the knowledge of its gute Recht. And when they say these things they all turn to me for endorsement and approval — they’ve given up seeking response from the Swede, because she only eats — and I hastily run over my best words and pick out the most suitable one, which is generally herrlich, or else ich gratuliere. The gigantic, the really cosmic cynicism I fling into it glances off their comfortable thick skins unnoticed.
I think Kloster is right, and they haven’t grown up yet. People like the Koseritzes, people of the world, don’t show how young they are in the way these middle-class Germans do, but I daresay they are just the same really. They have the greediness of children too, — I don’t mean in things to eat, though they have that too, and take the violent interest of ten years old in what there’ll be for dinner — I mean greed for other people’s possessions. In all their talk, all their expoundings of deutsche Idealen, I have found no trace of consideration for others, or even of any sort of recognition that other nations too may have rights and virtues. I asked Kloster whether I hadn’t chanced on a little group of people who were exceptions in their way of looking at life, and he said No, they were perfectly typical of the Prussians, and that the other classes, upper and lower, thought in the same way, the difference lying only in their manner of expressing it.
Delphi Collected Works of Elizabeth von Arnim (Illustrated) Page 179