DOI Page / Citation link:
https://doi.org/10.11588/diglit.62134#0214
206
AN ART-STUDENT IN MUNICH.
string of blue-glass beads round the thinnest and most
yellow of poor old necks. Pity is it that Dickens never
saw her, for then, of a truth, she would have been im-
mortalised, with her oddity, her faithfulness, her good-
nature, and her crossness.
This winter the exclamations each evening of “ Immer so
fleissig! Immer so fleissig!” have by no means lessened; and
my nervous dread of them has only increased in a tenfold de-
gree. Our rule has become to put aside any occupation
we may be engaged upon just before the expected advent
of the good Fraulein, which is always about nine o’clock,
after which she and her sister lock themselves into their
rooms for the night, good early souls ! The best plan to
escape the nerve-torturing “ Immer so fleissig ! Immer
so fleissig !” is to lie upon the sofa with your head buried
in the pillow, as if asleep. Alas, dear old Fraulein, how
often have we been forced to practise this innocent deceit !
and as thy dear old feet have trod with hushed and stealthy
steps across and across our room, arranging any thing
that might be out of its place, and with anxious silence
thou hast set down upon a distant table our wondrous
“ tea-machine,”—our portable kitchen, in fact—by means
of which we often prepare a cup of chocolate or boil an
egg for our suppers; yes, as we have listened, smiling with
shaded faces, to thy stealthy footsteps, how have our hearts
smote us for even so small a piece of hypocrisy towards
one whose heart was full of such sterling goodness as is
thine!
But if, however beguiled by interest in our occupation,
we have forgotten the flight of time and the arrival of the
“ tea-machine,” then woe betide us ! Often have I more
than once heard Isabel stop short in some sweet Volks-
Lied, which she was singing for my especial delectation,
AN ART-STUDENT IN MUNICH.
string of blue-glass beads round the thinnest and most
yellow of poor old necks. Pity is it that Dickens never
saw her, for then, of a truth, she would have been im-
mortalised, with her oddity, her faithfulness, her good-
nature, and her crossness.
This winter the exclamations each evening of “ Immer so
fleissig! Immer so fleissig!” have by no means lessened; and
my nervous dread of them has only increased in a tenfold de-
gree. Our rule has become to put aside any occupation
we may be engaged upon just before the expected advent
of the good Fraulein, which is always about nine o’clock,
after which she and her sister lock themselves into their
rooms for the night, good early souls ! The best plan to
escape the nerve-torturing “ Immer so fleissig ! Immer
so fleissig !” is to lie upon the sofa with your head buried
in the pillow, as if asleep. Alas, dear old Fraulein, how
often have we been forced to practise this innocent deceit !
and as thy dear old feet have trod with hushed and stealthy
steps across and across our room, arranging any thing
that might be out of its place, and with anxious silence
thou hast set down upon a distant table our wondrous
“ tea-machine,”—our portable kitchen, in fact—by means
of which we often prepare a cup of chocolate or boil an
egg for our suppers; yes, as we have listened, smiling with
shaded faces, to thy stealthy footsteps, how have our hearts
smote us for even so small a piece of hypocrisy towards
one whose heart was full of such sterling goodness as is
thine!
But if, however beguiled by interest in our occupation,
we have forgotten the flight of time and the arrival of the
“ tea-machine,” then woe betide us ! Often have I more
than once heard Isabel stop short in some sweet Volks-
Lied, which she was singing for my especial delectation,