IT IS THE UNEXPECTED THAT ALWAYS HAPPENS.

Otago Witness, Issue 3148, 15 July 1914, Page 72

IT IS THE UNEXPECTED THAT ALWAYS HAPPENS.

By K. J. G.

A PAGE I ACM THE LIFE OF AN ALIEN.

First of all you must know that I am a foreigner, moreover that I come from a country situated in Southern Europe. After my marriage in London seven years ago my husband brought me out to New Zealand, where ever since I am endeavouring to settle down, and whether 1 do this with good or bad grace I will leave to be related by those who know me. However, one thing I will confess to you — I am often, oh so often, homesick. I suppose youT “matter-of-fact”—or shall I say “well-balanced”?—Britishers smile at the word “homesickness”; but let me tell you that in my race all feelings are actually alive with the intensity of temperament. So when you feel a lukewarm regret at being far from home, we witn all the passion of Eastern blood (of which we possess a goodly share) would ache in body and soul —what to you means a sensation of vague regret, * might mean to one of my race abject misery. I will, however, proceed with my story. When I first came out here my English was very far from being perfect, though I am assured that it was very charming. I take it, therefore, that' since I have learned to speak a better English I am no longer charming. So much then for the vanishing eafthly possessions. My broken English gave me a good deal of discomfort. In those days, when in a confidential chat with my own husband, I often had to have recourse to the dictionary ; a conversation with a stranger would sometimes be almost painful. Somebody would address a number of questions to me, the answer to which invariably would be, ‘I beg your pardon? I do not understand you.” This again would result in the repetition of the original question, but this time in,, a raised voice. It is queer how people used to shout at me in those days because I did not understand them, although my hearing faculties were in perfect condition, and queerer still that all their painful efforts to shout themselves hoarse resulted only in making my complexion not unlike a newly boiled lobster, and in eliciting from me a succession of shrugs of my shoulders, gesticulations of my arms, and all sorts of extraordinary faces. Often, indeed, in my agitation I would jump up and down like a “Jack in the box,” and at last when all these and sundry other things would fail me, I would give up in desperate, helpless agony, which expressed itself in a meek, “I am sorry, but I do not understand you.” What a hostess ; and thanks be to Providence that under the circumstances I am no longer charming! In shops, too, I was sometimes in a sorry plight. I would select a ..shop assistant whom I fancied to be endowed with a fair rpnount of patience, and then some such conversation as follows would take place:— “I want something, please, but I do not know what you call it.” Assistant (looking at me blankly) : “What is it for?” I: “For a skirt.” Assistant: “Some material?” I; “No, no material.” Assistant (puzzled): “Some braid perhaps ?” . I: “Braid? What is braid?” Assistant (bringing out a box of braid) : “Do you want something of this kind?” I (agitatedly): “No, not this. It is little, white, shiny things, and much on paper.” Assistant (brightening up): “Safety pins?” I (beginning to get hot in the face): ‘‘Not safety pins ; cold like safety pins, but little round things.” Assistant (excitedly): “Buttons?” I (dejectedly) : “Not buttons.” Assistant:' “Hooks.” I (delightedly): “Yes, yes hooks, but it is not hooks, it is round, and you press it and it makes click, click.” Assistant (puzzled and desperate, but suddenly brightening): “Dome fasteners?” I (almost on the verge of tears): “Oh, I do not know what that is.” Assistant (showing me some of the mentioned articles) : “These?” I (excitedly, delightedly, almost embracing her) : “Yes, yes it is—-it is ! What do you call it?” Assistant: “Dome Fasteners.” I (repeating it after her and making a mental note of it—then with a relieved sigh): “And now, please, I want some pins—pins with holes in them.” Assistant (with a twinkle): “You mean needles?” I (getting hot again): “I suppose you call them needles. I want them to sew with, and I also want some other needles with little heads on them.” Assistant (by this time smiling broadly) : “Pins?” I (mentally) : “What a funny language. I ask for pins and she says needles, then I ask for needles and she says pins.” ( Aloud): “Pins or needles, I do not know. Some things with heads on.” Assistant: “Anything else to-day?” I; “No thank you, it is enough” (and enough it was for one day)., It was about this time that a vague feeling of hatred for all that was English began to stir in my soul. I often felt (indeed, I still feel sometimes) that I would like to lock everything that is English into a drawer, out of sight for a time at least; but the magic locker was not forthcoming. The longing to hear and speak my native tongue was taking hold of me with painful intensity. By degrees, however, when the mist of perpetual misunderstanding began to lift from my bewildered mind, I became more reconciled to my surroundings. Nevertheless, I was threatening my husband all these years that I would fall on to the neck of the first man, woman, or child who would speak my mother tongue to me. But the years passed, and I had no chance to car; “

out my threat. Once or twice through the years I heard of some bird of passage passing through, but I always managed to miss him or her.

One day, however, about four years ago, my husband came home with the news of a countryman of mine, being in town. My excitement manifested itself in the most idiotic manner. At first I jumped up and down like a goat; then I boxed empty space most frantically ; next I hugged my husband, and I fain would have hugged the world; finally I threw myself on to my bed and broke out into a passionate torrent of tears. Yes, I cried with amazing abundance, and that for very joy. Behold me then w'ith a red nose, swollen eyes, and a general appearance of joyful misery. Later in the day my husband sallied forth to gather information of this countryman of mine, whom in my excitement I have already raised to the somewhat dangerously high pedestal of a paragon. But the higher the pedestal the more given to tottering! Mine, or rather my paragon’s, was doomed to an early downfall. My husband returned with the news that the stranger was a German. Oh! pfui!!!. I will not picture to you the manifestation of my disgust, for i fancy it was even more drastic than that of my joy. But you may as well know that I never quite forgave the whole German race for this disappointment. For the next few weeks I went about with an empty heart, an aching soul, and a somewhat unreasonable, hatred for the Kaiser’s innocent subjects. The years went by, and though I was and am an extremely happy wife, the “ Heimweh,” as the Germans would put it, has never quite disappeared, though at last 1 have given up all hope of ever meeting a native of my country. But the unexpected always happens! About three weeks ago I was disturbed in some pressing work during one morning by a ring at the door, and a few minutes later I found myself confronted by a young man of dark eyes and complexion, a smiling countenance, and polite manners, inquiring in broken English: “Is dees pleeze de place where Mrs X lives?”

I am somewhat of a cowardly nature, and when the element of protecting manhood is absent from home, I am positively afraid of any stranger coming to the place even in broad daylight. This particular stranger aroused my suspicion, perhaps because of his somewhat friendly smile or perhaps because of his polite manners. Therefore I held the door so that I could conveniently shut it in his * face should necessity arisb. My answer to his question was a somewhat ungracious yet expectant “ Yes,” the immediate result of which was a reassured smile broadening on his face and the tightening of my grasp on the door. “ May I please speek to her?” ‘‘l am Mrs X.” “ Oh, I liafe heard that Mrs X is a ’’ “ Yes, I ani,” said I, staring at him stupidly. “My name is M, apd I too come from ” And I? I just stared like a wooden image. My heart gave a sudden leap and then stood still—or, at least, so I thought, —my very soul became a vacuum. Suddenly my empty frame began to move, my cramped hold on the door relaxed, and with a far-sounding voice, which was like somebody else’s, I asked him to enter. Oh, the perversity of womankind! At last here I am standing face to face with a countryman of mine, and where is the warm-hearted, eager welcome which i was harbouring for him during all these years? Where is the threat, which my husband almost believed I would carry out in an excited moment? Indeed, where is my own self? For surely this puppet who is watching the stranger with critical curiosity cannot be I. During this first visit I was unable to utter more than one single word in my own language, and that only by a desperate effort, because he gave expression to his doubt that I was a country woman of his. After about ten minutes’ most unsatisfactory conversation he bowed himself out. Hardly was the door closed upon him when realisation rushed upon , me with a bewildering force. I had the impulse to call him back before he reached the gate, but conventional etiquette forbade me to do so. My husband upon his arrival home gave way to hilarious mirth when he learned of the happenings of the morning, and he was unsparing in his jokes at my expense; but I suspect that all this was only an ill-disguised joy at the circumstance that I had forgotten to sink into the arms of the stranger. Mr M. stayed in our little town for about ten days, during which time we saw him frequently. My shyness to speak my mother tongue soon wore off, and 1 had delightful chats about my beloved country, the capital of which is my own as well as his birthplace. And yet, all the time I looked upon him as if he were a foreigner even to me. His broken English was charming, his expressions rruaint; but I think I have become too British by this time to realise that once upon a time I to have nassed thro'neh that quaint stage of limited English.