Elizabeth and Her German Garden

December 22nd.—­Up to now we have had a beautiful winter.  Clear skies, frost, little wind, and, except for a sharp touch now and then, very few really cold days.  My windows are gay with hyacinths and lilies of the valley; and though, as I have said, I don’t admire the smell of hyacinths in the spring when it seems wanting in youth and chastity next to that of other flowers, I am glad enough now to bury my nose in their heavy sweetness.  In December one cannot afford to be fastidious; besides, one is actually less fastidious about everything in the winter.  The keen air braces soul as well as body into robustness, and the food and the perfume disliked in the summer are perfectly welcome then.

I am very busy preparing for Christmas, but have often locked myself up in a room alone, shutting out my unfinished duties, to study the flower catalogues and make my lists of seeds and shrubs and trees for the spring.  It is a fascinating occupation, and acquires an additional charm when you know you ought to be doing something else, that Christmas is at the door, that children and servants and farm hands depend on you for their pleasure, and that, if you don’t see to the decoration of the trees and house, and the buying of the presents, nobody else will.  The hours fly by shut up with those catalogues and with Duty snarling on the other side of the door.  I don’t like Duty—­ everything in the least disagreeable is always sure to be one’s duty.  Why cannot it be my duty to make lists and plans for the dear garden?  “And so it is,” I insisted to the Man of Wrath, when he protested against what he called wasting my time upstairs.  “No,” he replied sagely; “your garden is not your duty, because it is your Pleasure.”

What a comfort it is to have such wells of wisdom constantly at my disposal!  Anybody can have a husband, but to few is it given to have a sage, and the combination of both is as rare as it is useful.  Indeed, in its practical utility the only thing I ever saw to equal it is a sofa my neighbour has bought as a Christmas surprise for her husband, and which she showed me the last time I called there—­a beautiful invention, as she explained, combining a bedstead, a sofa, and a chest of drawers, and into which you put your clothes, and on top of which you put yourself, and if anybody calls in the middle of the night and you happen to be using the drawing-room as a bedroom, you just pop the bedclothes inside, and there you are discovered sitting on your sofa and looking for all the world as though you had been expecting visitors for hours.

“Pray, does he wear pyjamas?” I inquired.

But she had never heard of pyjamas.

It takes a long time to make my spring lists.  I want to have a border all yellow, every shade of yellow from fieriest orange to nearly white, and the amount of work and studying of gardening books it costs me will only be appreciated by beginners like myself.  I have been weeks planning it, and it is not nearly finished.  I want it to be a succession of glories from May till the frosts, and the chief feature is to be the number of “ardent marigolds”—­ flowers that I very tenderly love—­and nasturtiums.  The nasturtiums are to be of every sort and shade, and are to climb and creep and grow in bushes, and show their lovely flowers and leaves to the best advantage.  Then there are to be eschscholtzias, dahlias, sunflowers, zinnias, scabiosa, portulaca, yellow violas, yellow stocks, yellow sweet-peas, yellow lupins—­everything that is yellow or that has a yellow variety.  The place I have chosen for it is a long, wide border in the sun, at the foot of a grassy slope crowned with lilacs and pines, and facing southeast.  You go through a little pine wood, and, turning a corner, are to come suddenly upon this bit of captured morning glory.  I want it to be blinding in its brightness after the dark, cool path through the wood.

That is the idea.  Depression seizes me when I reflect upon the probable difference between the idea and its realisation.  I am ignorant, and the gardener is, I do believe, still more so; for he was forcing some tulips, and they have all shrivelled up and died, and he says he cannot imagine why.  Besides, he is in love with the cook, and is going to marry her after Christmas, and refuses to enter into any of my plans with the enthusiasm they deserve, but sits with vacant eye dreamily chopping wood from morning till night to keep the beloved one’s kitchen fire well supplied.  I cannot understand any one preferring cooks to marigolds; those future marigolds, shadowy as they are, and whose seeds are still sleeping at the seedsman’s, have shone through my winter days like golden lamps.

I wish with all my heart I were a man, for of course the first thing I should do would be to buy a spade and go and garden, and then I should have the delight of doing everything for my flowers with my own hands and need not waste time explaining what I want done to somebody else.  It is dull work giving orders and trying to describe the bright visions of one’s brain to a person who has no visions and no brain, and who thinks a yellow bed should be calceolarias edged with blue.

I have taken care in choosing my yellow plants to put down only those humble ones that are easily pleased and grateful for little, for my soil is by no means all that it might be, and to most plants the climate is rather trying.  I feel really grateful to any flower that is sturdy and willing enough to flourish here.  Pansies seem to like the place and so do sweet-peas; pinks don’t, and after much coaxing gave hardly any flowers last summer.  Nearly all the roses were a success, in spite of the sandy soil, except the tea-rose Adam, which was covered with buds ready to open, when they suddenly turned brown and died, and three standard Dr. Grills which stood in a row and simply sulked.  I had been very excited about Dr. Grill, his description in the catalogues being specially fascinating, and no doubt I deserved the snubbing I got.  “Never be excited, my dears, about anything,” shall be the advice I will give the three babies when the time comes to take them out to parties, “or, if you are, don’t show it.  If by nature you are volcanoes, at least be only smouldering ones.  Don’t look pleased, don’t look interested, don’t, above all things, look eager.  Calm indifference should be written on every feature of your faces.  Never show that you like any one person, or any one thing.  Be cool, languid, and reserved.  If you don’t do as your mother tells you and are just gushing, frisky, young idiots, snubs will be your portion.  If you do as she tells you, you’ll marry princes and live happily ever after.”

Dr. Grill must be a German rose.  In this part of the world the more you are pleased to see a person the less is he pleased to see you; whereas, if you are disagreeable, he will grow pleasant visibly, his countenance expanding into wider amiability the more your own is stiff and sour.  But I was not Prepared for that sort of thing in a rose, and was disgusted with Dr. Grill.  He had the best place in the garden—­warm, sunny, and sheltered; his holes were prepared with the tenderest care; he was given the most dainty mixture of compost, clay, and manure; he was watered assiduously all through the drought when more willing flowers got nothing; and he refused to do anything but look black and shrivel.  He did not die, but neither did he live—­he just existed; and at the end of the summer not one of him had a scrap more shoot or leaf than when he was first put in in April.  It would have been better if he had died straight away, for then I should have known what to do; as it is, there he is still occupying the best place, wrapped up carefully for the winter, excluding kinder roses, and probably intending to repeat the same conduct next year.  Well, trials are the portion of mankind, and gardeners have their share, and in any case it is better to be tried by plants than persons, seeing that with plants you know that it is you who are in the wrong, and with persons it is always the other way about—­and who is there among us who has not felt the pangs of injured innocence, and known them to be grievous?

I have two visitors staying with me, though I have done nothing to provoke such an infliction, and had been looking forward to a happy little Christmas alone with the Man of Wrath and the babies.  Fate decreed otherwise.  Quite regularly, if I look forward to anything, Fate steps in and decrees otherwise; I don’t know why it should, but it does.  I had not even invited these good ladies—­like greatness on the modest, they were thrust upon me.  One is Irais, the sweet singer of the summer, whom I love as she deserves, but of whom I certainly thought I had seen the last for at least a year, when she wrote and asked if I would have her over Christmas, as her husband was out of sorts, and she didn’t like him in that state.  Neither do I like sick husbands, so, full of sympathy, I begged her to come, and here she is.  And the other is Minora.

Why I have to have Minora I don’t know, for I was not even aware of her existence a fortnight ago.  Then coming down cheerfully one morning to breakfast—­ it was the very day after my return from England—­ I found a letter from an English friend, who up till then had been perfectly innocuous, asking me to befriend Minora.  I read the letter aloud for the benefit of the Man of Wrath, who was eating Spickgans, a delicacy much sought after in these parts.  “Do, my dear Elizabeth,” wrote my friend, “take some notice of the poor thing.  She is studying art in Dresden, and has nowhere literally to go for Christmas.  She is very ambitious and hardworking—­”

“Then,” interrupted the Man of Wrath,” she is not pretty.  “Only ugly girls work hard.”

“—­and she is really very clever—­”

“I do not like clever girls, they are so stupid,” again interrupted the Man of Wrath.

“—­and unless some kind creature like yourself takes pity on her she will be very lonely.”

“Then let her be lonely.”

“Her mother is my oldest friend, and would be greatly distressed to think that her daughter should be alone in a foreign town at such a season.”

“I do not mind the distress of the mother.”

“Oh, dear me,” I exclaimed impatiently, “I shall have to ask her to come!”

“If you should be inclined,” the letter went on, “to play the good Samaritan, dear Elizabeth, I am positive you would find Minora a bright, intelligent companion—­”

“Minora?” questioned the Man of Wrath.

The April baby, who has had a nursery governess of an altogether alarmingly zealous type attached to her person for the last six weeks, looked up from her bread and milk.

“It sounds like islands,” she remarked pensively.

The governess coughed.

“Majora, Minora, Alderney, and Sark,” explained her pupil.

I looked at her severely.

“If you are not careful, April,” I said, “you’ll be a genius when you grow up and disgrace your parents.”

Miss Jones looked as though she did not like Germans.  I am afraid she despises us because she thinks we are foreigners—­ an attitude of mind quite British and wholly to her credit; but we, on the other hand, regard her as a foreigner, which, of course, makes things complicated.

“Shall I really have to have this strange girl?”
I asked, addressing nobody in particular and not expecting a reply.

“You need not have her,” said the Man of Wrath composedly, “but you will.  You will write to-day and cordially invite her, and when she has been here twenty-four hours you will quarrel with her.  I know you, my dear.”

“Quarrel!  I?  With a little art-student?” Miss Jones cast down her eyes.  She is perpetually scenting a scene, and is always ready to bring whole batteries of discretion and tact and good taste to bear on us, and seems to know we are disputing in an unseemly manner when we would never dream it ourselves but for the warning of her downcast eyes.  I would take my courage in both hands and ask her to go, for besides this superfluity of discreet behaviour she is, although only nursery, much too zealous, and inclined to be always teaching and never playing; but, unfortunately, the April baby adores her and is sure there never was any one so beautiful before.  She comes every day with fresh accounts of the splendours of her wardrobe, and feeling descriptions of her umbrellas and hats; and Miss Jones looks offended and purses up her lips.  In common with most governesses, she has a little dark down on her upper lip, and the April baby appeared one day at dinner with her own decorated in faithful imitation, having achieved it after much struggling, with the aid of a lead pencil and unbounded love.  Miss Jones put her in the corner for impertinence.  I wonder why governesses are so unpleasant.  The Man of Wrath says it is because they are not married.  Without venturing to differ entirely from the opinion of experience, I would add that the strain of continually having to set an example must surely be very great.  It is much easier, and often more pleasant, to be a warning than an example, and governesses are but women, and women are sometimes foolish, and when you want to be foolish it must be annoying to have to be wise.

Minora and Irais arrived yesterday together; or rather, when the carriage drove up, Irais got out of it alone, and informed me that there was a strange girl on a bicycle a little way behind.  I sent back the carriage to pick her up, for it was dusk and the roads are terrible.

“But why do you have strange girls here at all?” asked Irais rather peevishly, taking off her hat in the library before the fire, and otherwise making herself very much at home; “I don’t like them.  I’m not sure that they’re not worse than husbands who are out of order.  Who is she?  She would bicycle from the station, and is, I am sure, the first woman who has done it.  The little boys threw stones at her.”

“Oh, my dear, that only shows the ignorance of the little boys.  Never mind her.  Let us have tea in peace before she comes.”  “But we should be much happier without her,” she grumbled.  “Weren’t we happy enough in the summer, Elizabeth—­just you and I? “

“Yes, indeed we were,” I answered heartily, putting my arms round her.  The flame of my affection for Irais burns very brightly on the day of her arrival; besides, this time I have prudently provided against her sinning with the salt-cellars by ordering them to be handed round like vegetable dishes.  We had finished tea and she had gone up to her room to dress before Minora and her bicycle were got here.  I hurried out to meet her, feeling sorry for her, plunged into a circle of strangers at such a very personal season as Christmas.  But she was not very shy; indeed, she was less shy than I was, and lingered in the hall, giving the servants directions to wipe the snow off the tyres of her machine before she lent an attentive ear to my welcoming remarks.

“I couldn’t make your man understand me at the station,” she said at last, when her mind was at rest about her bicycle; “I asked him how far it was, and what the roads were like, and he only smiled.  Is he German?  But of course he is—­ how odd that he didn’t understand.  You speak English very well,—­ very well indeed, do you know.”  By this time we were in the library, and she stood on the hearth-rug warming her back while I poured her out some tea.

“What a quaint room,” she remarked, looking round, “and the hall is so curious too.  Very old, isn’t it?  There’s a lot of copy here.”

The Man of Wrath, who had been in the hall on her arrival and had come in with us, began to look about on the carpet.  “Copy” he inquired, “Where’s copy? “

“Oh—­material, you know, for a book.  I’m just jotting down what strikes me in your country, and when I have time shall throw it into book form.”  She spoke very loud, as English people always do to foreigners.

“My dear,” I said breathlessly to Irais, when I had got into her room and shut the door and Minora was safely in hers, “what do you think—­ she writes books!”

“What—­the bicycling girl?”

“Yes—­Minora—­imagine it!”

We stood and looked at each other with awestruck faces.

“How dreadful!” murmured Irais.  “I never met a young girl who did that before.”

“She says this place is full of copy.” 
“Full of what? “

“That’s what you make books with.”

“Oh, my dear, this is worse than I expected!  A strange girl is always a bore among good friends, but one can generally manage her.  But a girl who writes books—­why, it isn’t respectable!  And you can’t snub that sort of people; they’re unsnubbable.”

“Oh, but we’ll try!” I cried, with such heartiness that we both laughed.

The hall and the library struck Minora most; indeed, she lingered so long after dinner in the hall, which is cold, that the Man of Wrath put on his fur coat by way of a gentle hint.  His hints are always gentle.

She wanted to hear the whole story about the chapel and the nuns and Gustavus Adolphus, and pulling out a fat note-book began to take down what I said.  I at once relapsed into silence.

“Well?” she said.

“That’s all.”

“Oh, but you’ve only just begun.”

“It doesn’t go any further.  Won’t you come into the library? “

In the library she again took up her stand before the fire and warmed herself, and we sat in a row and were cold.  She has a wonderfully good profile, which is irritating.  The wind, however, is tempered to the shorn lamb by her eyes being set too closely together.

Irais lit a cigarette, and leaning back in her chair, contemplated her critically beneath her long eyelashes.  “You are writing a book?” she asked presently.

“Well—­yes, I suppose I may say that I am.  Just my impressions, you know, of your country.  Anything that strikes me as curious or amusing—­I jot it down, and when I have time shall work it up into something, I daresay.”

“Are you not studying painting? “

“Yes, but I can’t study that for ever.  We have an English proverb:  ’Life is short and Art is long’—­too long, I sometimes think—­ and writing is a great relaxation when I am tired.”

“What shall you call it?”

“Oh, I thought of calling it Journeyings in Germany. 
It sounds well, and would be correct.  Or Jottings from
German Journeyings,—­I haven’t quite decided yet which.”

“By the author of Prowls in Pomerania, you might add,” suggested Irais.

“And Drivel from Dresden,” said I.

“And Bosh from Berlin,” added Irais.

Minora stared.  “I don’t think those two last ones would do,” she said, “because it is not to be a facetious book.  But your first one is rather a good title,” she added, looking at Irais and drawing out her note-book.  “I think I’ll just jot that down.”

“If you jot down all we say and then publish it, will it still be your book?” asked Irais.

But Minora was so busy scribbling that she did not hear.

“And have you no suggestions to make, Sage?” asked Irais, turning to the Man of Wrath, who was blowing out clouds of smoke in silence.

“Oh, do you call him Sage?” cried Minora; “and always in English?”

Irais and I looked at each other.  We knew what we did call him, and were afraid Minora would in time ferret it out and enter it in her note-book.  The Man of Wrath looked none too well pleased to be alluded to under his very nose by our new guest as “him.”

“Husbands are always sages,” said I gravely.

“Though sages are not always husbands,” said Irais with equal gravity.  “Sages and husbands—­sage and husbands—­” she went on musingly, “what does that remind you of, Miss Minora?”

“Oh, I know,—­how stupid of me!” cried Minora eagerly, her pencil in mid-air and her brain clutching at the elusive recollection, “sage and,—­ why,—­yes,—­no,—­yes, of course—­oh,” disappointedly, “but that’s vulgar—­ I can’t put it in.”

“What is vulgar?” I asked.

“She thinks sage and onions is vulgar,” said Irais languidly; “but it isn’t, it is very good.”  She got up and walked to the piano, and, sitting down, began, after a little wandering over the keys, to sing.

“Do you play?” I asked Minora.

“Yes, but I am afraid I am rather out of practice.”

I said no more.  I know what that sort of playing is.

“When we were lighting our bedroom candles Minora began suddenly to speak in an unknown tongue.  We stared.  “What is the matter with her?” murmured Irais.

“I thought, perhaps,” said Minora in English, you might prefer to talk German, and as it is all the same to me what I talk—­” “Oh, pray don’t trouble,” said Irais.  “We like airing our English—­ don’t we, Elizabeth?”

“I don’t want my German to get rusty though,” said Minora; “I shouldn’t like to forget it.”

“Oh, but isn’t there an English song,” said Irais, twisting round her neck as she preceded us upstairs, “’’Tis folly to remember, ’tis wisdom to forget’?”

“You are not nervous sleeping alone, I hope,” I said hastily.

“What room is she in?” asked Irais.

“No. 12.”

“Oh!—­do you believe in ghosts?”

Minora turned pale.

“What nonsense,” said I; “we have no ghosts here. 
Good-night.  If you want anything, mind you ring.”

“And if you see anything curious in that room,” called Irais from her bedroom door, “mind you jot it down.”