April 18th.--I have been so busy ever since Irais and Minora left
that I can hardly believe the spring is here, and the garden hurrying
on its green and flowered petticoat--only its petticoat as yet,
for though the underwood is a fairyland of tender little leaves,
the trees above are still quite bare.
February was gone before I well knew that it had come,
so deeply was I engaged in making hot-beds, and having
them sown with petunias, verbenas, and nicotina affinis;
while no less than thirty are dedicated solely to vegetables,
it having been borne in upon me lately that vegetables
must be interesting things to grow, besides possessing
solid virtues not given to flowers, and that I might as
well take the orchard and kitchen garden under my wing.
So I have rushed in with all the zeal of utter inexperience,
and my February evenings were spent poring over gardening books,
and my days in applying the freshly absorbed wisdom.
Who says that February is a dull, sad, slow month in the country?
It was of the cheerfullest, swiftest description here,
and its mild days enabled me to get on beautifully with
the digging and manuring, and filled my rooms with snowdrops.
The longer I live the greater is my respect and affection
for manure in all its forms, and already, though the year
is so young, a considerable portion of its pin-money has been
spent on artificial manure. The Man of Wrath says
he never met a young woman who spent her money that way before;
I remarked that it must be nice to have an original wife;
and he retorted that the word original hardly described me,
and that the word eccentric was the one required. Very well,
I suppose I am eccentric, since even my husband says so;
but if my eccentricities are of such a practical nature
as to result later in the biggest cauliflowers and tenderest
lettuce in Prussia, why then he ought to be the first to rise
up and call me blessed.
I sent to England for vegetable-marrow seeds, as they
are not grown here, and people try and make boiled cucumbers
take their place; but boiled cucumbers are nasty things,
and I don't see why marrows should not do here perfectly well.
These, and primrose-roots, are the English contributions to my garden.
I brought over the roots in a tin box last time I came from England,
and am anxious to see whether they will consent to live here.
Certain it is that they don't exist in the Fatherland, so I can
only conclude the winter kills them, for surely, if such lovely
things would grow, they never would have been overlooked.
Irais is deeply interested in the experiment; she reads so many
English books, and has heard so much about primroses, and they have
got so mixed up in her mind with leagues, and dames, and Disraelis,
that she longs to see this mysterious political flower, and has made
me promise to telegraph when it appears, and she will come over.
Bur they are not going to do anything this year, and I only hope
those cold days did not send them off to the Paradise of flowers.
I am afraid their first impression of Germany was a chilly one.
Irais writes about once a week, and inquires after the garden
and the babies, and announces her intention of coming back as soon as
the numerous relations staying with her have left,--"which they won't do,"
she wrote the other day, "until the first frosts nip them off,
when they will disappear like belated dahlias--double ones of course,
for single dahlias are too charming to be compared to relations.
I have every sort of cousin and uncle and aunt here, and here they have
been ever since my husband's birthday--not the same ones exactly, but I
get so confused that I never know where one ends and the other begins.
My husband goes off after breakfast to look at his crops, he says,
and I am left at their mercy. I wish I had crops to go and look at--
I should be grateful even for one, and would look at it from morning
till night, and quite stare it out of countenance, sooner than stay
at home and have the truth told me by enigmatic aunts. Do you know
my Aunt Bertha? she, in particular, spends her time propounding obscure
questions for my solution. I get so tired and worried trying to guess
the answers, which are always truths supposed to be good for me to hear.
'Why do you wear your hair on your forehead?' she asks,--and that sets me off
wondering why I do wear it on my forehead, and what she wants to know for,
or whether she does know and only wants to know if I will answer truthfully.
'I am sure I don't know, aunt,' I say meekly, after puzzling over it
for ever so long; 'perhaps my maid knows. Shall I ring and ask her?'
And then she informs me that I wear it so to hide an ugly line she says
I have down the middle of my forehead, and that betokens a listless and
discontented disposition. Well, if she knew, what did she ask me for?
Whenever I am with them they ask me riddles like that, and I simply lead
a dog's life. Oh, my dear, relations are like drugs,--useful sometimes,
and even pleasant, if taken in small quantities and seldom, but dreadfully
pernicious on the whole, and the truly wise avoid them."
From Minora I have only had one communication since her departure,
in which she thanked me for her pleasant visit, and said she was sending
me a bottle of English embrocation to rub on my bruises after skating;
that it was wonderful stuff, and she was sure I would like it; and that it
cost two marks, and would I send stamps. I pondered long over this.
Was it a parting hit, intended as revenge for our having laughed at her?
Was she personally interested in the sale of embrocation? Or was it merely
Minora's idea of a graceful return for my hospitality? As for bruises,
nobody who skates decently regards it as a bruise-producing exercise,
and whenever there were any they were all on Minora; but she did happen
to turn round once, I remember, just as I was in the act of tumbling
down for the first and only time, and her delight was but thinly veiled
by her excessive solicitude and sympathy. I sent her the stamps,
received the bottle, and resolved to let her drop out of my life;
I had been a good Samaritan to her at the request of my friend,
but the best of Samaritans resents the offer of healing oil for his
But why waste a thought on Minora at Easter,
the real beginning of the year in defiance of calendars.
She belongs to the winter that is past, to the darkness
that is over, and has no part or lot in the life I shall lead
for the next six months. Oh, I could dance and sing for joy
that the spring is here! What a resurrection of beauty
there is in my garden, and of brightest hope in my heart!
The whole of this radiant Easter day I have spent out of doors,
sitting at first among the windflowers and celandines,
and then, later, walking with the babies to the Hirschwald,
to see what the spring had been doing there; and the afternoon
was so hot that we lay a long time on the turf, blinking up
through the leafless branches of the silver birches at the soft,
fat little white clouds floating motionless in the blue.
We had tea on the grass in the sun, and when it began to grow late,
and the babies were in bed, and all the little wind-flowers
folded up for the night, I still wandered in the green paths,
my heart full of happiest gratitude. It makes one very humble
to see oneself surrounded by such a wealth of beauty and
perfection anonymously lavished, and to think of the infinite
meanness of our own grudging charities, and how displeased we
are if they are not promptly and properly appreciated.
I do sincerely trust that the benediction that is always
awaiting me in my garden may by degrees be more deserved,
and that I may grow in grace, and patience, and cheerfulness,
just like the happy flowers I so much love.