In a German Pension. Katherine Mansfield

In a German Pension - Katherine Mansfield

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       Katherine Mansfield

      In a German Pension

      Published by Good Press, 2019

       [email protected]

      EAN 4057664643742


       2. THE BARON


       4. FRAU FISCHER



       7. AT “LEHMANN’S”

       8. THE LUFT BAD

       9. A BIRTHDAY




       13. A BLAZE

       Table of Contents

      Bread soup was placed upon the table.

      “Ah,” said the Herr Rat, leaning upon the table as he peered into the tureen, “that is what I need. My ‘magen’ has not been in order for several days. Bread soup, and just the right consistency. I am a good cook myself”—he turned to me.

      “How interesting,” I said, attempting to infuse just the right amount of enthusiasm into my voice.

      “Oh yes—when one is not married it is necessary. As for me, I have had all I wanted from women without marriage.” He tucked his napkin into his collar and blew upon his soup as he spoke. “Now at nine o’clock I make myself an English breakfast, but not much. Four slices of bread, two eggs, two slices of cold ham, one plate of soup, two cups of tea—that is nothing to you.”

      He asserted the fact so vehemently that I had not the courage to refute it.

      All eyes were suddenly turned upon me. I felt I was bearing the burden of the nation’s preposterous breakfast—I who drank a cup of coffee while buttoning my blouse in the morning.

      “Nothing at all,” cried Herr Hoffmann from Berlin. “Ach, when I was in England in the morning I used to eat.”

      He turned up his eyes and his moustache, wiping the soup drippings from his coat and waistcoat.

      “Do they really eat so much?” asked Fräulein Stiegelauer. “Soup and baker’s bread and pig’s flesh, and tea and coffee and stewed fruit, and honey and eggs, and cold fish and kidneys, and hot fish and liver? All the ladies eat, too, especially the ladies.”

      “Certainly. I myself have noticed it, when I was living in a hotel in Leicester Square,” cried the Herr Rat. “It was a good hotel, but they could not make tea—now—”

      “Ah, that’s one thing I can do,” said I, laughing brightly. “I can make very good tea. The great secret is to warm the teapot.”

      “Warm the teapot,” interrupted the Herr Rat, pushing away his soup plate. “What do you warm the teapot for? Ha! ha! that’s very good! One does not eat the teapot, I suppose?”

      He fixed his cold blue eyes upon me with an expression which suggested a thousand premeditated invasions.

      “So that is the great secret of your English tea? All you do is to warm the teapot.”

      I wanted to say that was only the preliminary canter, but could not translate it, and so was silent.

      The servant brought in veal, with “sauerkraut” and potatoes.

      “I eat sauerkraut with great pleasure,” said the Traveller from North Germany, “but now I have eaten so much of it that I cannot retain it. I am immediately forced to—”

      “A beautiful day,” I cried, turning to Fräulein Stiegelauer. “Did you get up early?”

      “At five o’clock I walked for ten minutes in the wet grass. Again in bed. At half-past five I fell asleep, and woke at seven, when I made an ‘overbody’ washing! Again in bed. At eight o’clock I had a cold-water poultice, and at half past eight I drank a cup of mint tea. At nine I drank some malt coffee, and began my ‘cure.’ Pass me the sauerkraut, please. You do not eat it?”

      “No, thank you. I still find it a little strong.”

      “Is it true,” asked the Widow, picking her teeth with a hairpin as she spoke, “that you are a vegetarian?”

      “Why, yes; I have not eaten meat for three years.”

      “Im—possible! Have you any family?”


      “There now, you see, that’s what you’re coming to! Who ever heard of having children upon vegetables? It is not possible. But you never have large families in England now; I suppose you are too busy with your suffragetting. Now I have had nine children, and they are all alive, thank God. Fine, healthy babies—though after the first one was born I had to—”

      “How wonderful!” I cried.

      “Wonderful,” said the Widow contemptuously, replacing the hairpin in the knob which was balanced on the top of her head. “Not at all! A friend of mine had four at the same time. Her husband was so pleased he gave a supper-party and had them placed on the table. Of course she was very proud.”

      “Germany,” boomed the Traveller, biting round a potato which he had speared with his knife, “is the home of the Family.”

      Followed an appreciative silence.

      The dishes were changed for beef, red currants and spinach. They wiped their forks upon black bread and started again.

      “How long are you remaining here?” asked the Herr Rat.

      “I do not know exactly. I must be back in London in September.”

      “Of course you will visit München?”

      “I am afraid I shall not have time. You see, it is important not to break into my ‘cure.’ ”

      “But you must go to München. You have not seen Germany if you have not been to München. All the Exhibitions, all the Art and Soul life of Germany are in München. There is the Wagner Festival in August, and Mozart and a Japanese collection of pictures—and there is the beer! You do not know what good beer is until you

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