elizabeth and her german garden-第9部分

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kly；　and　burying　the　remains　of　my　lunch　under　the　gigantic　molehill　on　which　I　had　been　sitting；　asked　myself　nervously　what　I　proposed　to　do　next。　Should　I　walk　back　to　the　village；　go　to　the　Gasthof；　write　a　letter　craving　permission　to　call　on　my　cousins；　and　wait　there　till　an　answer　came？　　It　would　be　a　discreet　and　sober　course　to　pursue；　the　next　best　thing　to　having　written　before　leaving　home。　But　the　Gasthof　of　a　north　German　village　is　a　dreadful　place；　and　the　remembrance　of　one　in　which　I　had　taken　refuge　once　from　a　thunderstorm　was　still　so　vivid　that　nature　itself　cried　out　against　this　plan。　　The　mist；　if　anything；　was　growing　denser。　　I　knew　every　path　and　gate　in　the　place。　What　if　I　gave　up　all　hope　of　seeing　the　house；　and　went　through　the　little　door　in　the　wall　at　the　bottom　of　the　garden；　and　confined　myself　for　this　once　to　that？　In　such　weather　I　would　be　able　to　wander　round　as　I　pleased；　without　the　least　risk　of　being　seen　by　or　meeting　any　cousins；　and　it　was　after　all　the　garden　that　lay　nearest　my　heart。　What　a　delight　it　would　be　to　creep　into　it　unobserved；　and　revisit　all　the　corners　I　so　well　remembered；　and　slip　out　again　and　get　away　safely　without　any　need　of　explanations；　assurances；　protestations；　displays　of　affection；　without　any　need；　in　a　word；　of　that　exhausting　form　of　conversation；　so　dear　to　relations；　known　as　Redensarten！　The　mist　tempted　me。　　I　think　if　it　had　been　a　fine　day　I　would　have　gone　soberly　to　the　Gasthof　and　written　the　conciliatory　letter；　but　the　temptation　was　too　great；　it　was　altogether　irresistible；　and　in　ten　minutes　I　had　found　the　gate；　opened　it　with　some　difficulty；　and　was　standing　with　a　beating　heart　in　the　garden　of　my　childhood。

Now　I　wonder　whether　I　shall　ever　again　feel　thrills　of　the　same　potency　as　those　that　ran　through　me　at　that　moment。　First　of　all　I　was　trespassing；　which　is　in　itself　thrilling；　but　how　much　more　thrilling　when　you　are　trespassing　on　what　might　just　as　well　have　been　your　own　ground；　on　what　actually　was　for　years　your　own　ground；　and　when　you　are　in　deadly　peril　of　seeing　the　rightful　owners；　whom　you　have　never　met；　but　with　whom　you　have　quarrelled；　appear　round　the　corner；　and　of　hearing　them　remark　with　an　inquiring　and　awful　politeness　〃I　do　not　think　I　have　the　pleasure？〃　Then　the　place　was　unchanged。　I　was　standing　in　the　same　mysterious　tangle　of　damp　little　paths　that　had　always　been　just　there；　they　curled　away　on　either　side　among　the　shrubs；　with　the　brown　tracks　of　recent　footsteps　in　the　centre　of　their　green　stains；　just　as　they　did　in　my　day。　The　overgrown　lilac　bushes　still　met　above　my　head。　The　moisture　dripped　from　the　same　ledge　in　the　wall　on　to　the　sodden　leaves　beneath；　as　it　had　done　all　through　the　afternoons　of　all　those　past　Novembers。　　This　was　the　place；　this　damp　and　gloomy　tangle；　that　had　specially　belonged　to　me。　Nobody　ever　came　to　it；　for　in　winter　it　was　too　dreary；　and　in　summer　so　full　of　mosquitoes　that　only　a　Backfisch　indifferent　to　spots　could　have　borne　it。　　But　it　was　a　place　where　I　could　play　unobserved；　and　where　I　could　walk　up　and　down　uninterrupted　for　hours；　building　castles　in　the　air。　There　was　an　unwholesome　little　arbour　in　one　dark　corner；　much　frequented　by　the　larger　black　slug；　where　I　used　to　pass　glorious　afternoons　making　plans。　　I　was　for　ever　making　plans；　and　if　nothing　came　of　them；　what　did　it　matter？　The　mere　making　had　been　a　joy。　　To　me　this　out…of…the…way　corner　was　always　a　wonderful　and　a　mysterious　place；　where　my　castles　in　the　air　stood　close　together　in　radiant　rows；　and　where　the　strangest　and　most　splendid　adventures　befell　me；　for　the　hours　I　passed　in　it　and　the　people　I　met　in　it　were　all　enchanted。

Standing　there　and　looking　round　with　happy　eyes；　I　forgot　the　existence　of　the　cousins。　　I　could　have　cried　for　joy　at　being　there　again。　　It　was　the　home　of　my　fathers；　the　home　that　would　have　been　mine　if　I　had　been　a　boy；　the　home　that　was　mine　now　by　a　thousand　tender　and　happy　and　miserable　associations；　of　which　the　people　in　possession　could　not　dream。　　They　were　tenants；　but　it　was　my　home。　I　threw　my　arms　round　the　trunk　of　a　very　wet　fir　tree；　every　branch　of　which　I　remembered；　for　had　I　not　climbed　it；　and　fallen　from　it；　and　torn　and　bruised　myself　on　it　uncountable　numbers　of　times？　and　I　gave　it　such　a　hearty　kiss　that　my　nose　and　chin　were　smudged　into　one　green　stain；　and　still　I　did　not　care。　Far　from　caring；　it　filled　me　with　a　reckless；　Backfisch　pleasure　in　being　dirty；　a　delicious　feeling　that　I　had　not　had　for　years。　Alice　in　Wonderland；　after　she　had　drunk　the　contents　of　the　magic　bottle；　could　not　have　grown　smaller　more　suddenly　than　I　grew　younger　the　moment　I　passed　through　that　magic　door。　Bad　habits　cling　to　us；　however；　with　such　persistency　that　I　did　mechanically　pull　out　my　handkerchief　and　begin　to　rub　off　the　welcoming　smudge；　a　thing　I　never　would　have　dreamed　of　doing　in　the　glorious　old　days；　but　an　artful　scent　of　violets　clinging　to　the　handkerchief　brought　me　to　my　senses；　and　with　a　sudden　impulse　of　scorn；　the　fine　scorn　for　scent　of　every　honest　Backfisch；　I　rolled　it　up　into　a　ball　and　flung　it　away　into　the　bushes；　where　I　daresay　it　is　at　this　moment。　〃Away　with　you；〃　I　cried；　〃away　with　you；　symbol　of　conventionality；　of　slavery；　of　pandering　to　a　desire　to　pleaseaway　with　you；　miserable　little　lace…edged　rag！〃　　And　so　young　had　I　grown　within　the　last　few　minutes　that　I　did　not　even　feel　silly。

As　a　Backfisch　I　had　never　used　handkerchiefs　the　child　of　nature　scorns　to　blow　its　nosethough　for　decency's　sake　my　governess　insisted　on　giving　me　a　clean　one　of　vast　size　and　stubborn　texture　on　Sundays。　It　was　stowed　away　unfolded　in　the　remotest　corner　of　my　pocket；　where　it　was　gradually　pressed　into　a　beautiful　compactness　by　the　other　contents；　which　were　knives。　　After　a　while；　I　remember；　the　handkerchief　being　brought　to　light　on　Sundays　to　make　room　for　a　successor；　and　being　manifestly　perfectly　clean；　we　came　to　an　agreement　that　it　should　only　be　changed　on　the　first　and　third　Sundays　in　the　month；　on　condition　that　I　promised　to　turn　it　on　the　other　Sundays。　My　governess　said　that　the　outer　folds　became　soiled　from　the　mere　contact　with　the　other　things　in　my　pocket；　and　that　visitors　might　catch　sight　of　the　soiled　side　if　it　was　never　turned　when　I　wished　to　blow　my　nose　in　their　presence；　and　that　one　had　no　right　to　give　one's　visitors　shocks。　〃But　I　never　do　wish　〃　I　began　with　great　earnestness。　〃Unsinn；〃　said　my　governess；　cutting　me　short。

After　the　first　thrills　of　joy　at　being　there　again　had　gone；　the　profound　stillness　of　the　dripping　little　shrubbery　frightened　me。　　It　was　so　still　that　I　was　afraid　to　move；　so　still；　that　I　could　count　each　drop　of　moisture　falling　from　the　oozing　wall；　so　still；　that　when　I　held　my　breath　to　listen；　I　was　deafened　by　my　own　heart…beats。　I　made　a　step　forward　in　the　direction　where　the　arbour　ought　to　be；　and　the　rustling　and　jingling　of　my　clothes　terrified　me　into　immobility。　　The　house　was　only　two　hundred　yards　off；　and　if　any　one　had　been　about；　the　noise　I　had　already　made　opening　the　creaking　door　and　so　foolishly　apostrophising　my　handkerchief　must　have　been　noticed。　Suppose　an　inquiring　gardener；　or　a　restless　cousin；　should　presently　loom　through　the　fog；　bearing　down　upon　me？　Suppose　Fraulein　Wundermacher　should　pounce　upon　me　suddenly　from　behind；　coming　up　noiselessly　in　her　galoshes；　and　shatter　my　castles　with　her　customary　triumphant　〃Fetzt　halte　ich　dich　aber　fest！〃　　Why；　what　was　I　thinking　of？　Fraulein　Wundermacher；　so　big　and　masterful；　such　an　enemy　of　day…dreams；　such　a　friend　of　das　Praktische；　such　a　lover　of　creature　comforts；　had　died　long　ago；　had　been　succeeded　long　ago　by　others；　German　sometimes；　and　sometimes　English；　and　sometimes　at　intervals　French；　and　they　too　had　all　in　their　turn　vanished；　and　I　was　here　a　solitary　ghost。　〃Come；　Elizabeth；〃　said　I　to　myself　impatiently；　〃are　you　actually　growing　sentimental　over　your　governesses？　　If　you　think　you　are　a　ghost；　be　glad　at　least　that　you　are　a　solitary　one。　Would　you　like　the　ghosts　of　all　those　poor　women　you　tormented　to　rise　up　now　in　this　gloomy　place　against　you？　And　do　you　intend　to　stand　here　till　you　are　caught？〃　And　thus　exhorting　myself　to　action；　and　recognising　how　great　was　the　risk　I　ran　in　lingering；　I　started　down　the　little　path　leading　to　the　arbour　and　the　principal　part　of　the　garden；　going；　it　is　true；　on　tiptoe；　and　very　much　frightened　by　the　rustling　of　my　petticoats；　but　determined　to　see　what　I　had　come　to　see　and　not　to　be　scared　away　by　phantoms。

How　regretfully　did　I　think　at　that　moment　of　the　petticoats　of　my　youth；　so　short；　so　silent；　and　so　woollen！　And　how　convenient　the　canvas　shoes　were　with　the　india　rubber　soles；　for　creeping　about　without　making　a　sound！　　Thanks　to　them　I　could　always　run　swiftly　and　unheard　into　my　hiding…places；　and　stay　there　listening　to　the　garden　resounding　with　cries　of　〃Elizabeth！　　Elizabeth！　　Come　in　at　once　to　your　lessons！〃　Or；　at　a　different　period；　〃Ou　etes…vous　donc；　petite　sotte？〃　Or　at　yet　another　period；　〃Warte　nur；　wenn　ich　dich　erst　habe！〃　As　the　voices　came　round　one　corner；　I　whisked　in　my　noiseless　clothes　round　the　next；　and　it　was　only　Fraulein　Wundermacher；　a　person　of　resource；　who　discovered　that　all　she　needed　for　my　successful　circumvention　was　galoshes。　　She　purchased　a　pair；　wasted　no　breath　calling　me；　and　would　come　up　silently；　as　I　stood　lapped　in　a　false　security　lost　in　the　contemplation　of　a　squirrel　or　a　robin；　and　seize　me　by　the　shoulders　from　behind；　to　the　grievous　unhinging　of　my　nerves。　Stealing　along　in　the　fog；　I　looked　back　uneasily　once　or　twice；　so　vivid　was　this　disquieting　memory；　and　could　hardly　be　reassured　by　putting　up　my　hand　to　the　elaborate　twists　and　curls　that　compose　what　my　maid　calls　my　Frisur；　and　that　mark　the　gulf　lying　between　the　present　and　the　past；　for　it　had　happened　once　or　twice；　awful　to　relate　and　to　remember；　that　Fraulein　Wundermacher；　sooner　than　let　me　slip　through　her　fingers；　had　actually　caught　me　by　the　long　plait　of　hair　to　whose　other　end　I　was　attached　and　whose　English　name　I　had　been　told　was　pigtail；　just　a