Fräulein Schmidt and Mr. AnstrutherVon Arnim, Elizabeth
General
Fräulein Schmidt and Mr. Anstruther
Von Arnim, Elizabeth
British -- Germany -- Fiction; Epistolary fiction; Germany -- Fiction; Love stories; Young women -- Fiction
She could not endure, and I, taught to see through her eyes, cannot
endure either, the chilly blend of whitewash and painted deal pews in
the midst of which you are required here once a week to magnify the
Lord. Our churches--all those I have seen--are either like vaults or
barns, the vault variety being slightly better and also more scarce.
Their aggressive ugliness, and cold, repellent service keeping the
congealed sinner at arm's length, nearly drove my mother into the Roman
Church, a place no previous Watson had ever wanted to go to. The
churches in Jena made her think with the tenderest regard of the old
picturesque pre-Lutheran days, of the light and color and emotions of
the Catholic services, and each time she was forced into one she said
she made a bigger stride toward Rome. 'Luther was a most mischievous
person,' she would say, glancing half defiantly through long eyelashes
at Papa. But he only chuckled. He doesn't mind about Luther. Yet in case
he did, in case some national susceptibility should have been hurt, she
would get up lazily--her movements were as lazy as her tongue was
quick--and take him by the ears and kiss him.
She died when she was thirty-five: sweet and wonderful to the last. Nor
did her beauty suffer in the least in the sudden illness that killed
her. 'A lily in a linen-clout She looked when they had laid her out,' as
your Meredith says; and on this day every year, this day of saints so
dear to us, my spirit is all the time in those long ago happy years with
her. I have no private altar in my room, no picture of a 'piteous
Christ'--Papa took that--and no white flowers in this drenched autumnal
place to show that I remember; nor do I read in the little books, except
with gentle wonderment that she should have found nourishment in them,
she who fed so constantly on the great poets. But I have gone each All
Saints' Day for ten years past to church in Jena in memory of her, and
tried by shutting my eyes to imagine I was in a beautiful place without
whitewash, or hideous, almost brutal, stained glass.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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