'I believe it is,' admitted Papa.
'And ironmongers there may be different from ironmongers here.'
'It is at least conceivable.'
'Tell me, what status has an ironmonger in England?'
'What status?'
'In society.'
'Ah, that I know not. I went over there seven and twenty years ago for the purpose of marrying, and I met no ironmongers. Not consciously, that is.'
'Would they--would they be above the set in which you then found yourself, or would they--' she tried to conceal a shiver--'be below it.'
'I know not. I know nothing of society either there or here. But I do know that money, there as here, is very mighty. It is, I should say, merely a question of having enough.'
'And has he enough?'
'The man, madam, is I believe perilously near becoming that miserable and isolated creature a millionaire. God help the unfortunate Joey.'
'But why? Why should God help him? Why is he unfortunate? Does not he get any share?'
'Any share? He gets it all. He is the only child. Now I put it to you, what chance is there for an unhappy youth with no brains-'
'Oh, I must really go. I have taken up an unwarrantable amount of your time. Thank you so very much, dear Herr Schmidt--no, no, do not disturb yourself I beg--your daughter will show me the way--'
'But,' cried Papa, vainly trying to detain this determinedly retreating figure, 'about his character, his morals--we have not yet touched--'
'Ah yes--so kind--I will not keep you now. Another time perhaps--'
And Frau von Lindeberg got herself out of the room and out of the house.
Scarcely did she say good-by to me, in so great and sudden a fever was she to be gone; but she did turn on the doorstep and give me a curiously intense look. It began at my eyes, travelled upward to my hair, down across my face, and from there over my whole body to my toes. It was a very odd look. It was the most burningly critical look that has ever shrivelled my flesh.
Now what do you think of this enormous long letter? It has made me quite cheerful just writing it, and I was not very cheerful when I began. I hope the reading of it will do you as much good. Good-by. Write and tell me you are happy.
Yours sincerely,
ROSE-MARIE SCHMIDT.
Do, do try to be happy!
LXIII
Galgenberg, Dec. 22d.
Dear Mr. Anstruther,--The house is quite good enough for me, I assure you--the 'setting' I think you call it, suggesting with pleasant flattery that there is something precious to be set. It only has the bruised sort of color you noticed when its background is white with snow. In summer against the green it looks as white as you please; but a thing must be white indeed to look so in the midst of our present spotlessness. And it is not damp if there are fires enough. And the rooms are not too small for me--poky was the adjective you applied to the dear little things. And I am never lonely. And Joey is very nice, even though he doesn't quite talk in blank verse. I feel a sort of shame when you make so much of me, when you persist in telling me that the outer conditions of my life are unworthy. It makes me feel so base, such a poor thing. Sometimes I half believe you must be poking fun. Anyhow I don't know what you would be at; do you wish me to turn up my nose at my surroundings? And do you see any good that it would do? And the details you go into! That coffee-pot you saw and are so plaintive about came to grief only the day before your visit, and will, in due season, be replaced by another. Meanwhile it doesn't hurt coffee to be poured out of a broken spout, and it doesn't hurt us to drink it after it has passed through this humiliation. On the contrary, we receive it thankfully into cups, and remain perfectly unruffled. You say, and really you say it in a kind of agony, that the broken spout, you are sure, is symbolic of much that is invisible in my life. You say--in effect, though your words are choicer--that if you had your way my life would be set about with no spouts that were not whole. If you had your way? Mr. Anstruther, it is a mercy that in this one matter you have not got it. What an extremely discontented creature I would become if I spent my days embedded in the luxury you, by a curious perverseness, think should be piled around me. I would gasp ill-natured epigrams from morning till night. I would wring my hands, and rend the air with cries of _cui bono_. The broken spout is a brisk reminder of the transitoriness of coffee-pots and of life. It sets me hurrying about my business, which is first to replace it, and then by every possible ingenuity to make the most of the passing moment. The passing moment is what you should keep your eye on, my young friend. It is a slippery, flighty thing; but, properly pounced upon, lends itself fruitfully to squeezing. The upshot of your last letter is, I gather, that for some strange reason, some extremity of perverseness, you would have me walk in silk attire, and do it in halls made of marble. It suffocates me only to think of it. I love my freedom and forest trampings, my short skirts and swinging arms. I want the wind to blow on me, and the sun to burn me, and the mud to spatter me. Away with caskets, and settings, and frames! I am not a picture, or a jewel, whatever your poetic eye, misled by a sly and tricky Muse, persists in seeing. It would be quite a good plan, and of distinctly tonic properties, for you to write to Frau von Lindeberg and beg her to describe me. She, it is certain, would do it very accurately, untroubled by the deceptions of any Muse.
How kind of you to ask me what I would like for Christmas, and how funny of you to ask if you might not give me a trinket. I laughed over that, for did I not write to you three days ago and give you an account of my conversation with Joey on the subject of trinkets at Christmas? Is it possible you do not read my letters? Is it possible that, having read them, you forget them so immediately? Is it possible that proverbs lie, and the sauce appropriate to the goose is not also appropriate to the gander? Give me a book. There is no present I care about but that. And if it happened to be a volume in the dark blue binding edition of Stevenson to add to my row of him I would be both pleased and grateful.
Joey asked me what I wanted, so he is getting me the _Travels with a Donkey_. Will you give me _Virginibus Puerisque_?
Yours sincerely,
ROSE-MARIE SCHMIDT.
If you'd rather, you may give me a new coffee-pot instead.
Later.
But only an earthenware one, like the one that so much upset you.
LXIV
Galgenberg, Dec. 26th.
Dear Mr. Anstruther,--We had a most cheerful Christmas, and I hope you did too. I sent you my blessing lurking in the pages of Frenssen's new and very wonderful book which ought to have reached you in time to put under your tree. I hope you did have a tree, and were properly festive?
The Stevenson arrived, and I found it among my other presents, tied up by Johanna with a bit of scarlet tape. Everything here at Christmas is tied up with scarlet, or blue, or pink tape, and your Stevenson lent itself admirably to the treatment. Thank you very much for it, and also for the little coffee set. I don't know whether I ought to keep that, it is so very pretty and dainty and beyond my deserts, but--it would break if I packed it and sent it back again, wouldn't it? so I will keep it, and drink your health out of the little cup with its garlands of tiny flower-like shepherdesses.
The audacious Joey did give Vicki jewelry, and a necklace if you please, the prettiest and obviously the costliest thing you can imagine. What happened then was in exact fulfilment of my prophecy; Vicki gasped with joy and admiration, he tells me, and before she had well done her gasp Frau von Lindeberg, with, as I gather, a sort of stately regret, took the case out of her hands, shut it with a snap, and returned it to Joey.
'No,' said Frau von Lindeberg.
'What's wrong with it?' Joey says he asked.
'Too grand for my little girl,' said Frau von Lindeberg. 'We are but humble folk.' And she tossed her head, said Joey.
'Ah--Dammerlitz,' I muttered, nodding with a complete comprehension.
'What?' exclaimed Joey, starting and looking greatly astonished.
'Go on,' said I.
'But I say,' said Joey, in tones of shocked protest.
'What do you say?' I asked.
'Why, how you must hate her,' said Joey, quite awestruck, and staring at me as though he saw me for the first time.
'Hate her?' I asked, surprised, 'Why do you think I hate her?'
He whistled, still staring at me.
'Why do you think I hate her?' I asked again, patient as I always try to be with him.
He murmured something about as soon expecting it of a bishop.