In a German Pension | Page 9

raise
enthusiasm in the heart of the average British husband. I decided to
wreck my virgin conception and send him down somewhere off Cape
Horn.
Then the dinner-gong sounded.
"Come up to my room afterwards," said Frau Fischer. "There is still
much that I must ask you."
She squeezed my hand, but I did not squeeze back.

5. FRAU BRECHENMACHER ATTENDS A WEDDING.

Getting ready was a terrible business. After supper Frau
Brechenmacher packed four of the five babies to bed, allowing Rosa to
stay with her and help to polish the buttons of Herr Brechenmacher's
uniform. Then she ran over his best shirt with a hot iron, polished his
boots, and put a stitch or two into his black satin necktie.
"Rosa," she said, "fetch my dress and hang it in front of the stove to get
the creases out. Now, mind, you must look after the children and not sit
up later than half-past eight, and not touch the lamp--you know what
will happen if you do."
"Yes, Mamma," said Rosa, who was nine and felt old enough to
manage a thousand lamps. "But let me stay up--the 'Bub' may wake and
want some milk."
"Half-past eight!" said the Frau. "I'll make the father tell you too."
Rosa drew down the corners of her mouth.
"But...but..."
"Here comes the father. You go into the bedroom and fetch my blue
silk handkerchief. You can wear my black shawl while I'm out--there
now!"
Rosa dragged it off her mother's shoulders and wound it carefully
round her own, tying the two ends in a knot at the back. After all, she
reflected, if she had to go to bed at half past eight she would keep the
shawl on. Which resolution comforted her absolutely.
"Now, then, where are my clothes?" cried Herr Brechenmacher,
hanging his empty letter-bag behind the door and stamping the snow
out of his boots. "Nothing ready, of course, and everybody at the
wedding by this time. I heard the music as I passed. What are you
doing? You're not dressed. You can't go like that."
"Here they are--all ready for you on the table, and some warm water in
the tin basin. Dip your head in. Rosa, give your father the towel.

Everything ready except the trousers. I haven't had time to shorten them.
You must tuck the ends into your boots until we get there."
"Nu," said the Herr, "there isn't room to turn. I want the light. You go
and dress in the passage."
Dressing in the dark was nothing to Frau Brechenmacher. She hooked
her skirt and bodice, fastened her handkerchief round her neck with a
beautiful brooch that had four medals to the Virgin dangling from it,
and then drew on her cloak and hood.
"Here, come and fasten this buckle," called Herr Brechenmacher. He
stood in the kitchen puffing himself out, the buttons on his blue
uniform shining with an enthusiasm which nothing but official buttons
could possibly possess. "How do I look?"
"Wonderful," replied the little Frau, straining at the waist buckle and
giving him a little pull here, a little tug there. "Rosa, come and look at
your father."
Herr Brechenmacher strode up and down the kitchen, was helped on
with his coat, then waited while the Frau lighted the lantern.
"Now, then--finished at last! Come along."
"The lamp, Rosa," warned the Frau, slamming the front door behind
them.
Snow had not fallen all day; the frozen ground was slippery as an
icepond. She had not been out of the house for weeks past, and the day
had so flurried her that she felt muddled and stupid--felt that Rosa had
pushed her out of the house and her man was running away from her.
"Wait, wait!" she cried.
"No. I'll get my feet damp--you hurry."
It was easier when they came into the village. There were fences to
cling to, and leading from the railway station to the Gasthaus a little

path of cinders had been strewn for the benefit of the wedding guests.
The Gasthaus was very festive. Lights shone out from every window,
wreaths of fir twigs hung from the ledges. Branches decorated the front
doors, which swung open, and in the hall the landlord voiced his
superiority by bullying the waitresses, who ran about continually with
glasses of beer, trays of cups and saucers, and bottles of wine.
"Up the stairs--up the stairs!" boomed the landlord. "Leave your coats
on the landing."
Herr Brechenmacher, completely overawed by this grand manner, so
far forgot his rights as a husband as to beg his wife's pardon for jostling
her against the banisters in his efforts to get ahead of everybody else.
Herr Brechenmacher's colleagues greeted him with acclamation as he
entered the door of the Festsaal, and the Frau straightened her