Read Online Christopher and Columbus by Elizabeth von Arnim - Free Book Online
Authors: Elizabeth von Arnim
Ads: Link
was very like what the tone in the
kingdom of heaven must be in its simple politeness. "And so
you see," said Anna-Rose, who was fond of philosophizing in
season and out of season, and particularly out of season, "how
good comes out of evil."
She made this observation about four o'clock in the
afternoon to Anna-Felicitas in an interval of absence on the part
of Mr. Twist--such, the amiable stranger had told them, was his
name--who had gone to see about tea being brought up to them; and
Anna-Felicitas, able by now to sit up and take notice, the hours of
fresh air having done their work, smiled the ready, watery,
foolishly happy smile of the convalescent. It was so nice not to
feel ill; it was so nice not to have to be saved. If she had been
able to talk much, she would have philosophized too, about the
number and size of one's negative blessings--all the things one
hasn't got, all the very horrid things; why, there's no end
to them once you begin to count up, she thought, waterily happy,
and yet people grumble.
Anna-Felicitas was in that cleaned-out, beatific, convalescent
mood in which one is sure one will never grumble again. She smiled
at anybody who happened to pass by and catch her eye. She would
have smiled just like that, with just that friendly, boneless
familiarity at the devil if he had appeared, or even at Uncle
Arthur himself.
The twins, as a result of the submarine's activities, were
having the pleasantest day they had had for months. It was the
realization of this that caused Anna-Rose's remark about good
coming out of evil. The background, she could not but perceive, was
a very odd one for their pleasantest day for months--a rolling
steamer and a cold wind flicking at them round the corner; but
backgrounds, she pointed out to Anna-Felicitas, who smiled her
agreement broadly and instantly, are negligible things: it is what
goes on in front of them that matters. Of what earthly use, for
instance, had been those splendid summer afternoons in the perfect
woods and gardens that so beautifully framed in Uncle Arthur?
No use, agreed Anna-Felicitas, smiling fatuously.
In the middle of them was Uncle Arthur. You always got to him in
the end.
Anna-Felicitas nodded and shook her head and was all feeble
agreement.
She and Anna-Felicitas had been more hopelessly miserable,
Anna-Rose remarked, wandering about the loveliness that belonged to
him than they could ever have dreamed was possible. She reminded
Anna-Felicitas how they used to rub their eyes to try and see more
clearly, for surely these means of happiness, these elaborate
arrangements for it all round them, couldn't be for nothing?
There must be some of it somewhere, if only they could discover
where? And there was none. Not a trace of it. Not even the faintest
little swish of its skirts.
Anna-Rose left off talking, and became lost in memories. For a
long time, she remembered, she had told herself it was her
mother's death blotting the light out of life, but one day
Anna-Felicitas said aloud that it was Uncle Arthur, and Anna-Rose
knew it was true. Their mother's death was something so tender,
so beautiful, that terrible as it was to them to be left without
her they yet felt raised up by it somehow, raised on to a higher
level than where they had been before, closer in their hearts to
real things, to real values. But Uncle Arthur came into possession
of their lives as a consequence of that death, and he had towered
up between them and every glimpse of the sun. Suddenly there was no
such thing as freedom and laughter. Suddenly everything one said
and did was wrong. "And you needn't think,"
Anna-Felicitas had said wisely, "that he's like that
because we're Germans--or
seem
to be Germans," she amended. "It's
because he's Uncle Arthur. Look at Aunt Alice.
She's
not a German. And yet look at her."
And Anna-Rose had looked at Aunt Alice, though only in her
mind's eye, for at that moment the twins were three miles away
in a wood picnicking, and Aunt Alice was at
kingdom of heaven must be in its simple politeness. "And so
you see," said Anna-Rose, who was fond of philosophizing in
season and out of season, and particularly out of season, "how
good comes out of evil."
She made this observation about four o'clock in the
afternoon to Anna-Felicitas in an interval of absence on the part
of Mr. Twist--such, the amiable stranger had told them, was his
name--who had gone to see about tea being brought up to them; and
Anna-Felicitas, able by now to sit up and take notice, the hours of
fresh air having done their work, smiled the ready, watery,
foolishly happy smile of the convalescent. It was so nice not to
feel ill; it was so nice not to have to be saved. If she had been
able to talk much, she would have philosophized too, about the
number and size of one's negative blessings--all the things one
hasn't got, all the very horrid things; why, there's no end
to them once you begin to count up, she thought, waterily happy,
and yet people grumble.
Anna-Felicitas was in that cleaned-out, beatific, convalescent
mood in which one is sure one will never grumble again. She smiled
at anybody who happened to pass by and catch her eye. She would
have smiled just like that, with just that friendly, boneless
familiarity at the devil if he had appeared, or even at Uncle
Arthur himself.
The twins, as a result of the submarine's activities, were
having the pleasantest day they had had for months. It was the
realization of this that caused Anna-Rose's remark about good
coming out of evil. The background, she could not but perceive, was
a very odd one for their pleasantest day for months--a rolling
steamer and a cold wind flicking at them round the corner; but
backgrounds, she pointed out to Anna-Felicitas, who smiled her
agreement broadly and instantly, are negligible things: it is what
goes on in front of them that matters. Of what earthly use, for
instance, had been those splendid summer afternoons in the perfect
woods and gardens that so beautifully framed in Uncle Arthur?
No use, agreed Anna-Felicitas, smiling fatuously.
In the middle of them was Uncle Arthur. You always got to him in
the end.
Anna-Felicitas nodded and shook her head and was all feeble
agreement.
She and Anna-Felicitas had been more hopelessly miserable,
Anna-Rose remarked, wandering about the loveliness that belonged to
him than they could ever have dreamed was possible. She reminded
Anna-Felicitas how they used to rub their eyes to try and see more
clearly, for surely these means of happiness, these elaborate
arrangements for it all round them, couldn't be for nothing?
There must be some of it somewhere, if only they could discover
where? And there was none. Not a trace of it. Not even the faintest
little swish of its skirts.
Anna-Rose left off talking, and became lost in memories. For a
long time, she remembered, she had told herself it was her
mother's death blotting the light out of life, but one day
Anna-Felicitas said aloud that it was Uncle Arthur, and Anna-Rose
knew it was true. Their mother's death was something so tender,
so beautiful, that terrible as it was to them to be left without
her they yet felt raised up by it somehow, raised on to a higher
level than where they had been before, closer in their hearts to
real things, to real values. But Uncle Arthur came into possession
of their lives as a consequence of that death, and he had towered
up between them and every glimpse of the sun. Suddenly there was no
such thing as freedom and laughter. Suddenly everything one said
and did was wrong. "And you needn't think,"
Anna-Felicitas had said wisely, "that he's like that
because we're Germans--or
seem
to be Germans," she amended. "It's
because he's Uncle Arthur. Look at Aunt Alice.
She's
not a German. And yet look at her."
And Anna-Rose had looked at Aunt Alice, though only in her
mind's eye, for at that moment the twins were three miles away
in a wood picnicking, and Aunt Alice was at
Similar Books
