Something like a crisis happened, after a painful scene in the
drawing-room downstairs, on a day when Brand had gone out to walk off a
sense of deadly depression which prevented all literary effort.
Several ladies had come to tea with Lady Brand and Ethel, and they
gazed at Elsa as though she were a strange and dangerous animal.
One of them, a thin and elderly schoolmistress, cross-questioned Elsa
as to her nationality.
“I suppose you are Swedish, my dear?” she said, sweetly.
“No,” said Elsa.
“Danish, then, no doubt?” continued Miss Clutter.
“I am German,” said Elsa.
That announcement had caused consternation among Lady Brand’s guests.
Two of the ladies departed almost immediately. The others stayed to see
how Miss Clutter would deal with this amazing situation.
She dealt with it firmly, and with the cold intelligence of a High
School mistress.
“How _very_ interesting!” she said, turning to Lady Brand. “Perhaps
your daughter-in-law will enlighten us a little about German
psychology, which we have found so puzzling. I should be so glad if
she could explain to us how the German people reconcile the sinking
of merchant ships, the unspeakable crime of the _Lusitania_ with any
belief in God, or even with the principles of our common humanity. It
is a mystery to me how the drowning of babies could be regarded as
legitimate warfare by a people proud of their civilisation.”
“Perhaps it would be better to avoid controversy, dear Miss Clutter,”
said Lady Brand, alarmed at the prospect of an “unpleasant” scene
which would be described in other drawing-rooms next day.
But Miss Clutter had adopted Ethel’s method of enquiry. She so much
wanted to know the German point of view. Certainly they must have a
point of view.
“Yes, it would be so interesting to know!” said another lady.
“Especially if we could believe it,” said another.
Elsa had been twisting and re-twisting a little lace handkerchief in
her lap. She was very pale, and tried to conceal a painful agitation
from all these hostile and enquiring ladies.
Then she spoke to them in a low, strained voice.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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