THE GRAY MOTHER
I will close this book with words far nobler and more graceful than any
I could pen which speak for the spirit which has brought to England,
from East and South and North and West the hundreds of thousands, the
millions who have taken up arms for her in this great trial of her
future life, her prestige and her honor and for the humanity, democracy
and civilization which history grants she has always championed.
I got it from an Anzac private crippled for life, as he lay on a
hospital cot in London, and he told me he had it from his father, a
veteran of the Boer War, who had treasured it from that time. It was a
clipping from the London Spectator, deeply yellowed in the passing of
nearly a score of years. And it reads:
THE GRAY MOTHER
(To an Old Gaelic Air)
From the Spectator
Lo, how they come to me,
Long through the night I call them,
Ah, how they turn to me.
East and South my children scatter,
North and West the world they wander.
Yet they come back to me,
Come with their brave hearts beating,
Longing to die for me,
Me, the gray, old, weary mother,
Throned amid the Northern waters,
Where they have died for me,
Died with their songs around me,
Girding my shores for me.
Narrow was my dwelling for them,
Homes they builded o’er the ocean,
Yet they leave all for me,
Hearing their mother calling,
Bringing their lives for me.
Far from South seas swiftly sailing,
Out from under stars I know not,
Come they to fight for me,
Sons of the sons I nurtured,
God keep them safe for me.
Long ago their fathers saved me,
Died for me among the heather.
Now they come back to me,
Come, in their children’s children
Brave of the brave for me.
In the wilds and waves they slumber,
Deep they slumber in the deserts,
Rise they from graves to me,
Graves where they lay forgotten,
Shades of the brave for me.
Yet my soul is veiled in sadness,
For I see them fall and perish,
Strewing the hills for me,
Claiming the world in dying,
Bought with their blood for me.
Hear the gray, old Northern mother,
Blessing now her dying children,--
God keep ye safe for me,
Christ watch ye in your sleeping,
Where ye have died for me.
And when God’s own slogan soundeth,
All the dead world’s dust awaking,
Ah, will ye look for me?
Bravely we’ll stand together
I and my sons with me.
L. MACLEAN WATT.
The most notable novel that has been published during the past year
is “SALT OF THE EARTH” by Mrs. Alfred Sidgwick. For months it has
consistently headed the lists of best selling novels and deservedly so,
for nothing has been written that shows the soul of Germany as this
remarkable book does.
“We are the Salt of the Earth. God has chosen us to regenerate the
world. We are the apostles of Progress,” said the Kaiser in his famous
speech at Potsdam. Mrs. Sidgwick has spent most of her life among
these “supermen”--studying, observing, assimilating. She is the most
competent person to write this type of novel and that she has done her
work well is best proven by the success of her book.
Here are a few specimen pages. “SALT OF THE EARTH” is for sale wherever
books are sold.
XI
All through the night it had been touch and go with Brenda. She had
undressed and gone to bed, but not to sleep. She had got up, half
dressed again, and sat at her open window staring at the silent summer
darkness of the garden. Suppose she did it! Suppose she stole out of
the house with the few pounds she possessed and sent a telegram to her
mother or left a note assuring her that she was alive and well, but
could not marry Lothar. It had been done before, and still the world
went round. But she would have to walk up and down London all night,
and probably be molested or taken up by the police; and the police
were so stupid and yet so knowing that they would probably find out
who she was and bring her back in time for the civil wedding which
was to take place at the nearest Registrar’s office at eleven. There
was no hurry. If she decided to go, six o’clock would be time enough,
just before the servants were up. The quiet coat and skirt she meant
to put on for the morning lay ready for her. Her wedding gown was in a
wardrobe with her veil and wreath of orange blossom. She was wearing
no myrtle. She knew that German brides invariably wore myrtle, but she
was English and wished to remain English. She had taken her country
for granted till now, when she was going to leave it for ever. All the
liberty and sweetness of life here she had taken as a matter of course,
and even joined in the laughter against England that seems amusing
while you live there enjoying all it gives. She had thought it would
be a pleasant adventure to set up house in a foreign land and taste
its strangeness; but she had not thought enough of the way back, a way
closed by marriage. She could never come back except as a visitor and
by permission of Lothar. He had promised her that she could come back
every year for some weeks, and unless she stole out of the house now at
the eleventh hour she would have to depend on his promise. Altogether
she would be dependent on him, it seemed--dependent on his pleasure and
displeasure, on his opinions, on his family. Her own family would be a
long way off henceforward. She lay down, half dressed, outside her bed,
weary, dispirited and in doubt. So her mother found her, fast asleep,
next morning. She had slept through the hour when she might have
escaped, slept fast and dreamlessly as she had not done for a week.
“It is ten o’clock,” said Mrs. Müller. “I would not allow them to wake
you. But now you’ve only just time to dress.”
“I meant to wake at six,” said Brenda, still dazed with sleep.
“What for?” said Mrs. Müller, whose hands were full of letters,
telegrams and parcels. Her question remained unanswered, but she did
not notice it because a maid came in with a breakfast tray and because
there were various things to look at and discuss. She was not quite
happy about her daughter’s marriage, but it never even occurred to her
that anything could stop it now.
Anyhow, nothing did stop it. At three o’clock Brenda came out of church
married, for better for worse, to Lothar, and at five o’clock she
departed with him in her father’s car. They were going to Dover that
night and to Paris to-morrow. The wedding had been a crowded one and
well arranged. Eight bridesmaids and two pages had followed Brenda to
the altar, a full choral service had accompanied her marriage vows,
her friends had given her an affectionate send off, and as she took a
last look at her old home she saw her own people in the foreground,
her father and mother, Jem, Violet and Thekla, and Thekla’s two little
girls, Mary and Barbara.
“_Gott sei Dank_, that’s over,” said Lothar. “Take off your veil,
little wife. It is impossible to kiss a woman properly through a veil.”
“People can see in,” said Brenda doubtfully.
“What do I care?” cried Lothar, and strained her fiercely to him.
That sort of thing went on all through the honeymoon, and Brenda
found it wearing. If Lothar wanted a veil off he said so without any
consideration for her, and if he wanted to put his arm round her he did
not mind who looked on. In fact, he walked her up and down the terrace
of a Swiss hotel so interlaced that she knew every one English must be
laughing at them; but she submitted rather than to risk an explosion
of temper. He had no control over his temper, she soon found; and
quite childish trifles roused it. Wherever they went, sound and fury
went with them, so that she dreaded a meal because it usually meant a
row with a waiter. She could see that every one who served him hated
him, and she knew that his arrogance was never served as well as, for
instance, her father’s considerate politeness. His behavior to her
was uxorious and tyrannical, a blend that could not please a girl as
detached and fastidious as Brenda. If she had been blindly in love
with him, she might have borne to be adored, scolded, kissed, bullied,
checked here and ordered there in a whirlwind of proprietary ardor.
But she never had been blindly in love, and marriage did not make her
so. There must be something wanting in one of them, she thought, some
magnetic quality in him that would have fascinated her, or some strain
of the elemental woman in her that would have surrendered to a mate
with a club. When it was time to go to Berlin she felt relieved. He
would be hard at work at once, he told her, and she would have many
lonely hours. She looked forward to them.
About their arrival in Berlin he preserved a resolute silence that
vexed her. He would not tell her whether they were to stay with his
parents or in a hotel or in rooms till their home was ready for them,
nor would he say in what quarter he thought of living or whether they
were to have a flat or what he called a villa. When she questioned him
about these matters he evaded her and enlarged on the perfect taste and
judgment exercised by Little Mamma and his sisters in domestic matters.
He said again and again that though Elsa’s husband was rich and Mina’s
comparatively poor, they were both so blessed in their wives that their
existence was one of unbroken comfort. In fact, they were men any man
must envy.
“If you model yourself on my sisters in all ways, you will make me
happy,” he said.
“When you talk like that you remind me that I want to be happy myself,”
said Brenda, who was finding unsuspected and disturbing wells of anger
in herself at times.
“A woman’s happiness lies in self-sacrifice and devotion to others. At
least with us it does. Our ideas ...”
“Your ideas about women are out of date,” said Brenda. “You will find
them all in our older poets.”
“You talk nonsense, my little treasure, and if you did not look so
pretty in that white _peignoir_ you would make me angry. My ideas about
women are the right ones. At any rate they will govern your conduct in
future. We have women in Berlin with what you call advanced opinions,
but no one pays the least attention to them. We do not even allow a
woman to attend a political meeting.”
“You allow her to do heavy field work. I have seen it.”
“Why not? A woman is there to serve men and rear children. Otherwise
the world could get on better without her. What does she do for the
world? She has no economic existence at all, and she cannot bear arms.
All she can do is to devote herself to others. My mamma and my sisters
are busy from morning till night and never think of themselves at all.”
Brenda naturally wondered whether Lothar’s sisters were going to be as
tiresome and officious as his mother, and she made up her mind that
she would try to live as far from them as possible. With this idea in
her mind, one wet afternoon she unfolded a map of Berlin that she had
with her and began finding the Bavarian quarter where she knew that the
Erdmanns lived.
“What are you doing?” said her husband when he came in and found her
employed in this way. “A map of Berlin! Where did you get it? In
London? Have they maps of Berlin in London? Do you understand how to
use a map? You see this long street, the Kurfürstendamm! That is where
we shall live. You have nothing to compare with it in London.”
“I should like to live right in the forest, outside the city,” said
Brenda.
“We shall live in the Kurfürstendamm,” said Lothar and would say no
more. It was not till they actually arrived in Berlin a week later,
and were received at the station by a family group with offerings of
flowers, that Brenda learned what hung over her. The group consisted
of Little Mamma, Elsa, Mina, Professor August Zorn and some children.
Brenda, alighting in a limp, weary condition, got a confused impression
of gushing embraces, critical glances, flowers, pigtails and a harsh
croaking voice that laid down the law even to Little Mamma. When the
group moved on, some of it got into a taxi and some said they would go
back, as they came, by tramcar. Brenda found herself in a large taxi
with Little Mamma, Lothar and Professor Zorn. She wondered why he came
in the taxi and let his wife and children go by car; and she decided
at a glance that she did not like him. She had never seen such a plain
little pompous irritable man. He had fat cheeks the color of tallow, a
button nose, beady black eyes, and a quick, fidgety manner. As he got
into the taxi he stumbled over Brenda’s dressing bag, and that upset
his temper sadly.
“The bag is much too big,” he said. “My wife has a small bag which she
can carry. It holds my things as well as hers. I hate impediments on a
journey.”
“_Gott sei Dank_, our travels are over,” said Lothar. “When one marries
one has to have a wedding journey, but ours has lasted too long. I’m
sick of hotels.”
“Where are we going?” said Brenda, who though it was time to know.
“Where does a young wife expect to go?” snapped August. “What a strange
question! To your husband’s home, of course.”
“But we have not chosen our home yet,” said Brenda.
“It has been chosen for you,” said Frau Erdmann solemnly. “You will
find everything ready, even to the roast in the oven and the cook to
dish it up. It has been hard work, but every day when I returned with
an aching head and agitated nerves I said to Wilhelm, ‘I do it for my
son and he will thank me.’”
“Little Mamma, I thank you from the bottom of my heart,” exclaimed
Lothar, and printed a resounding kiss somewhere near one of the sandy
wings that nearly covered his mother’s ears.
“Do you mean that you have taken a flat and put my furniture into it?”
said Brenda.
“‘My’ is a word never heard on the lips of a German wife,” said the
Professor. “You and all you bring with you are now the property of
Lothar.”
Brenda had not known many violent dislikes in her life, but she
conceived one now for the Professor, and as she thought he was behaving
offensively she ignored him and, turning to her mother-in-law, asked
again whether a flat had really been taken for them. But before Frau
Erdmann could reply August bounced to his feet, livid with fury, and
shouted to the driver to stop.
“What is it, August?” said Frau Erdmann. “Are you not well?”
The little man was actually spluttering with rage as he answered.
“I am evidently not good enough for the gracious one. When I speak
she does not answer. This is English Kultur. When a man of years and
learning addresses such a silly goose, she replies with a stare and
does not know enough to open her mouth. But there is a limit to what my
dignity can endure. Civility is my right and I insist on it. If Lothar
is under the slipper, it is not my affair. Such manners are typical.”
Brenda was aghast and looked at Lothar. She saw no promise of support
in his face, but only scowling impatience; while Frau Erdmann, after
waiting for him to speak, said: “I should have thought you would
expect Brenda to be polite to your relatives. My idea of good manners
is to reply amiably when I am addressed. August was quite right. It
is unbecoming in a young wife to speak as if anything in the house
belonged to her only.”
“It was quite accidental and shall never happen again,” said Brenda,
and then the taxi stopped at a tall house liberally decorated with
turrets and having on either side of the front door two colossal
figures made of red brick. A lift took the perturbed party to the
fourth floor, where on one of the doors Brenda saw a brass plate with
her husband’s name. A blowsy-looking maidservant wearing a tartan
skirt, a velveteen bodice, and a coral brooch appeared in answer to the
bell, bid them good day and invited them in. She looked hard at Brenda,
addressed Frau Erdmann as _gnädige Frau_, and said that she was all in
a flutter because the meat had only just come and would not be ready as
early as it should have been.
“Welcome, little wife, to our home,” said Lothar as they entered, but
he was out of humor and spoke constrainedly.
As Brenda crossed the threshold she saw that the passage was hung with
wreaths and garlands of green stuff, as if it had been Christmas, and
on the walls she saw slabs of wood on which proverbs and greetings were
done in rough poker work.
“All these Mina and the children have prepared,” Frau Erdmann pointed
out, and then, throwing open a door, she said in a proud voice, “The
dining-room!”
It really was a trying moment for Brenda, who had thought out her color
schemes with the greatest care and chosen all her furniture in relation
to the walls and carpets she meant to have as a setting. She wanted a
warm glowing dining-room with sun on the breakfast table, a Persian
carpet on the floor and curtains to go with the tawny pinks of it.
“The dining-room shall be either orange or rose, according to what I
find,” she said to her mother. “The drawing-room shall be creamy white
mostly and my bedroom green and blue. I know just how it will all look,
and you must soon come to see it.” And now--here was the dining-room
with the furniture she had chosen set against walls that looked as
if large brown chenille serpents were crawling over a sickly yellow
ground. The ceiling was in heavy shades of brown and gamboge to match
the walls, and the curtains were of thick chocolate reps with elaborate
upholstered canopies. Even the carpet was brown, and on the crookedly
set dinner table there was a vase of artificial flowers.
“Very practical,” said the Professor. “Very rich and elegant, too.
Little Mamma has taste. That one must allow. Elsa wanted light colors
here, I believe, but she need not consider expense at all. This brown
will last a lifetime and does not fade much. We have it ourselves in
our salon.”
He looked like it, thought Brenda, and followed Frau Erdmann through a
communicating door into the drawing-room, which had been distempered a
hard cold slate, neither blue nor gray.
“This room is not to my taste,” began Frau Erdmann, and Brenda said
unwarily that perhaps it could be altered and that she had thought of
having ivory white walls. Her Chesterfield and all her big comfortable
easy chairs were covered with an attractive flowery chintz and she had
found some fine pieces of old furniture for this room, one of which was
an inlaid French cabinet with good-sized drawers.
“I was not thinking of the walls,” said Frau Erdmann. “The walls are as
I chose them, and if they are not pleasing to you I am sorry. I did my
best, and more than that no one can do. But cotton chair covers in the
salon I should not have advised. In a bedroom, yes, but in a salon one
expects velvet or brocade. I should also have preferred a suite of new
furniture such as you can buy at several places in Berlin. Your chairs
are a shape that we consider quite out of fashion and your other pieces
do not match. The chest of drawers would look better in a bedroom in
my opinion, but Elsa seemed to think it should be placed here. She
has some ideas I do not hold with, but she agrees with me about these
cotton covers. I am afraid this room will make a bad impression, and
that is a pity, as you have your way to make amongst us. People will
think that you are trying to bring over English fashions. Even the
Empress Frederick found that it was a mistake to do that. We Berliners
are quite satisfied with our own taste in every way.”
Brenda did not reply to this torrent of expostulation, because her
spirits had fallen to zero. She knew Lothar well enough now to know
that he was thoroughly out of humor. August was eyeing her with
malevolent curiosity, and when the whole party moved on into her
bedroom she hardly knew whether she wanted to laugh or cry. For here
the walls and the carpet burst upon her in glaring red, a red that
was oppressive and detestable. The windows were tightly shut, the air
smelled stuffily of new wood, new paint and new blankets, and behind
her washstand some one had hung a great breadth of coarse straw-colored
canvas on which monkeys cut out of black cloth had been stitched by
machine.
“What fascinating monkeys!” said Brenda, going up to them.
“They are the last word in artistic decoration,” said August, and
Brenda instantly wished they were not on her walls.
“I hope you are satisfied with everything,” said Frau Erdmann.
“But, Little Mamma, I am more than satisfied,” cried Lothar. “When I
think of all the trouble you have saved us and the fatigue you have
undergone at your age, I cannot thank you enough.”
Brenda had gone to one of the windows which she found looked out at a
courtyard, surrounded by tall houses. She knew enough of Continental
life to know that a room with such an outlook would be noisy all day
and most of the night, and that the only way of securing privacy was by
keeping curtains closely drawn. As she stood there her husband came up
to her and spoke in a low voice that she knew had vials of wrath behind
it.
“My mother is waiting for you to thank her for all she has done,” he
said.
“I didn’t want it done.”
“Nevertheless, you will thank my mother for the trouble she has taken.”
With mechanical politeness Brenda turned to Frau Erdmann and said
something that might pass for thanks. The ensuing farewells were
strained, and when the husband and wife were left to themselves their
first words in their future home were words of discord. Brenda had been
trying to make up her mind to say little or nothing of the vexation she
felt, but Lothar stirred her anger at once.
“_Frauenlaunen?_ Women’s whims! I’ve no patience with them,” he began.
“I think you ought to have told me,” cried Brenda.
“Told you what?”
“Told me that you had commissioned your mother to take this flat and
choose these atrocious papers and carpets. I could have explained that
I wanted to choose my own.”
“August is right,” said Lothar. “There is too much ‘my’ in your point
of view. This is not your house. It is mine. You are in it because you
are my wife. If I am satisfied, nothing else matters.”
“I could not live with these walls. I shall have them all redone at my
own expense.”
“You will not have one done. I will not permit you to waste our joint
income in such a senseless way. You have married a man and not a
milksop, and the sooner you find it out the better.”
“But surely I am to have money of my own. My father said so.”
“It will be spent as I direct.”
“Well ... I hope we sha’n’t quarrel about money.”
Transcriber’s Notes
Punctuation, hyphenation, and spelling were made consistent when a
predominant preference was found in this book; otherwise they were not
changed.
Simple typographical errors were corrected; occasional unbalanced
quotation marks remedied.
Ambiguous hyphens at the ends of lines were retained.
An excerpt of a different book begins after page 301. To avoid duplicate
page numbers, a page range of 1120-1131 has been used in this eBook.