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In the Mountains
First published in 1920, the story is written in first person as a journal. Our narrator is a tired English woman who, after WWI, escapes ambiguous personal troubles in London and seeks refuge at her chalet among the Swiss Alps. As she starts to gain strength, two English women, also of ambiguous personal circumstances, show up literally on her doorstep. The hostess takes them in, and they embark on a strange and endearing path to helping each other.
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First published January 1, 1920
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577 people want to read
About the author
Elizabeth von Arnim
250 books673 followersElizabeth von Arnim, born Mary Annette Beauchamp, was an English novelist. Born in Australia, she married a German aristocrat, and her earliest works are set in Germany. Her first marriage made her Countess von Arnim-Schlagenthin and her second Elizabeth Russell, Countess Russell. After her first husband's death, she had a three-year affair with the writer H.G. Wells, then later married Earl Russell, elder brother of the Nobel prize-winner and philosopher Bertrand Russell. She was a cousin of the New Zealand-born writer Katherine Mansfield. Though known in early life as May, her first book introduced her to readers as Elizabeth, which she eventually became to friends and finally to family. Her writings are ascribed to Elizabeth von Arnim. She used the pseudonym Alice Cholmondeley for only one novel, Christine, published in 1917.
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Displaying 1 - 30 of 89 reviews
July 18, 2017
A virtually unknown novel by a very underrated author. Born in Australia, moved to England when she was three and is considered a British novelist. Her first husband was a Prussian Count and she lived in Germany, later buying a chalet in the Swiss mountains. She was a cousin to author Katherine Mansfield, and at some point had an affair with H.G. Wells. At the start of World War II she moved to the US and lived there until her death. She is buried in Charleston, S.C.
It was during her time in the Swiss mountains that she wrote this novel. The narrator has returned to her Swiss chalet to rest and recover from some unnamed hardship. Her days are boring until two poor English ladies show up and are invited to stay. Von Arnim creates the most appealing, likable characters that you will ever meet. There is nothing epic about this novel, but it is written so well and with a style that just puts a smile on my face.
It was during her time in the Swiss mountains that she wrote this novel. The narrator has returned to her Swiss chalet to rest and recover from some unnamed hardship. Her days are boring until two poor English ladies show up and are invited to stay. Von Arnim creates the most appealing, likable characters that you will ever meet. There is nothing epic about this novel, but it is written so well and with a style that just puts a smile on my face.
February 2, 2023
A small novel and very slow paced. I thought this might be a mini Thomas Mann Magic Mountain, but no. It is beautifully written and does have going for a stay in the Swiss Alps as therapeutic and wholesome. The two novels were written within a few years of each other. Von Arnim’s was published first. I wonder if Mann knew of this book? In any case, both deal in part with the sorrows caused by the Great War.
The narrator here is a woman and the mountains do bring healing. Two widows are introduced to the story and the narrator revels in her new friendships. As far as the story goes, there isn’t all that much but the narrator is entertaining throughout. I’d give the story three stars but the writing 4.
The narrator here is a woman and the mountains do bring healing. Two widows are introduced to the story and the narrator revels in her new friendships. As far as the story goes, there isn’t all that much but the narrator is entertaining throughout. I’d give the story three stars but the writing 4.
December 24, 2024
I'm a huge Von Arnim fan, so downloaded this one on my Kindle when I became aware of it through someone's review. It's one of her lesser known novels, but is full of her wicked humor and sense of absurdity.
A woman experiences unexplained tragedies both before and during WWI, so in 1920 goes back to her chalet in the Swiss mountains to be alone and heal her heart. One day she meets 2 women hiking. They are lost and exhausted so she invites them in for tea, then asks them to stay the night. This turns into an extended stay, and we slowly learn of their sad circumstances. The tensions between guests and hosts are on full display and is a source of much of the humor, plus the fact that Antoine and his wife, both live in servants and caretakers, are always one step ahead of their mistress in running the house and carefully ignoring her orders, always to her advantage.
As always, Elizabeth Von Arnim is entertaining in the best way, speaking to her readers intelligently and intimately, this time in the form of a journal. To the anonymous reviewer who alerted me to this one, thank you!
A woman experiences unexplained tragedies both before and during WWI, so in 1920 goes back to her chalet in the Swiss mountains to be alone and heal her heart. One day she meets 2 women hiking. They are lost and exhausted so she invites them in for tea, then asks them to stay the night. This turns into an extended stay, and we slowly learn of their sad circumstances. The tensions between guests and hosts are on full display and is a source of much of the humor, plus the fact that Antoine and his wife, both live in servants and caretakers, are always one step ahead of their mistress in running the house and carefully ignoring her orders, always to her advantage.
As always, Elizabeth Von Arnim is entertaining in the best way, speaking to her readers intelligently and intimately, this time in the form of a journal. To the anonymous reviewer who alerted me to this one, thank you!
March 1, 2025
From the very start this is an intense journey of grief and healing , of the very real sadness and loss caused by the Great War and of the way women must struggle to do more than just survive. Three months on the mountain , surrounded by nature heals in amazing and life affirming ways and the strangely unnamed narrator leads us on this journey. How autobiographical it is I’m not sure but the losses of friends and family seem real. The description of the blue shutters of the house each hiding someone who can never return was especially poignant.
The description of the sun set towards the end where the crocus are turned from stars to blown out candles or like a woman whose lover has left her, ‘smitten ,colourless ,dead things in a dead world’ leads to a treatise on the importance of love in life. Yet although it seems as if Dolly has cured the narrator of her avoidance of life because of her losses there is not to be more than a momentary glimpse of happiness. She is only cured in places , in other moments ‘great salt waves of memory wash every now and then and bite’. Yet she is emerging from the desolation of the start, and as her life continues with the two sisters’ visit , and their secrets shared and friendship forged it seems a happy ending can be finagled from sadness.
A lovely read.
The description of the sun set towards the end where the crocus are turned from stars to blown out candles or like a woman whose lover has left her, ‘smitten ,colourless ,dead things in a dead world’ leads to a treatise on the importance of love in life. Yet although it seems as if Dolly has cured the narrator of her avoidance of life because of her losses there is not to be more than a momentary glimpse of happiness. She is only cured in places , in other moments ‘great salt waves of memory wash every now and then and bite’. Yet she is emerging from the desolation of the start, and as her life continues with the two sisters’ visit , and their secrets shared and friendship forged it seems a happy ending can be finagled from sadness.
A lovely read.
January 9, 2024
I hardly read novels like this - dealing with WWI experience, but also with specific kind of bourgeois interiority - however once I saw description I hyperidentified: "Our narrator is a tired English woman who, after WWI, escapes ambiguous personal troubles in London and seeks refuge at her chalet among the Swiss Alps." Of course I pounced on it. I'm not really an English woman, but I am tired with ambiguous personal troubles aplenty. I don't have anything even remotely resembling chalet among the Swiss Alps to seek my refuge in, but rather a modest flat in an apartment complex, though located on the Green Hill so I guess I'm slowly getting uphill, so to say. But no amount of (self)ironizing prevented me from thoroughly enjoying this little novel. I'll be repeating the sentiment/sediment joke until my mouth go dry.
September 17, 2022
“Ho sempre saputo che questa casetta è fatta per la gentilezza e l’amore.”
Elizabeth torna nella sua casa estiva sulle Alpi svizzere, dopo un'assenza di cinque anni a causa della prima guerra mondiale.
È qui per riposarsi e riprendersi, cerca di tornare a un senso di normalità e all'inizio fa poco più che sedersi e contemplare.
“ciò che è successo mi ha sottratto la fiducia nella bontà. ”
Lentamente, inizia a guarire.
Comincia a notare la bellezza che la circonda, a trarre gioia dalle lettere e dai libri, a sentirsi di nuovo interessata alla vita.
Poi, il giorno del suo compleanno, riceve la visita di due donne inglesi , la signora Barnes e la signora Jewks giunte per caso allo chalet dopo una lunga passeggiata.
All’inizio restano il tempo di un tè, poi un pranzo, finché la loro permanenza si protrae per qualche settimana
È da qui la narrazione perde la staticità che caratterizza invece tutta la prima parte
Un’estate in montagna non ha il fascino di Un incantevole aprile e ha diverse pecche: si conosce poco della storia familiare della protagonista/narratrice della sua vita o di cosa le sia successo durante la guerra.
Soltanto che ha perso qualcuno a lei caro
Ho avuto l’impressione che questa “neutralità" sia stata voluta allo scopo di rappresentare qualunque altra donna che avesse vissuto in quel contesto, e perciò di più semplice identificazione con lei
Se non fosse stato per la versione Audible, la prima lentissima introspettiva parte mi stava scoraggiando
Tre stelle nel complesso, perché le donne della Von Armin sono sempre sorprendentemente ironiche intelligenti e schiette e per la descrizione delle montagne
Quelle sí, che sono incantevoli
Elizabeth torna nella sua casa estiva sulle Alpi svizzere, dopo un'assenza di cinque anni a causa della prima guerra mondiale.
È qui per riposarsi e riprendersi, cerca di tornare a un senso di normalità e all'inizio fa poco più che sedersi e contemplare.
“ciò che è successo mi ha sottratto la fiducia nella bontà. ”
Lentamente, inizia a guarire.
Comincia a notare la bellezza che la circonda, a trarre gioia dalle lettere e dai libri, a sentirsi di nuovo interessata alla vita.
Poi, il giorno del suo compleanno, riceve la visita di due donne inglesi , la signora Barnes e la signora Jewks giunte per caso allo chalet dopo una lunga passeggiata.
All’inizio restano il tempo di un tè, poi un pranzo, finché la loro permanenza si protrae per qualche settimana
È da qui la narrazione perde la staticità che caratterizza invece tutta la prima parte
Un’estate in montagna non ha il fascino di Un incantevole aprile e ha diverse pecche: si conosce poco della storia familiare della protagonista/narratrice della sua vita o di cosa le sia successo durante la guerra.
Soltanto che ha perso qualcuno a lei caro
Ho avuto l’impressione che questa “neutralità" sia stata voluta allo scopo di rappresentare qualunque altra donna che avesse vissuto in quel contesto, e perciò di più semplice identificazione con lei
Se non fosse stato per la versione Audible, la prima lentissima introspettiva parte mi stava scoraggiando
Tre stelle nel complesso, perché le donne della Von Armin sono sempre sorprendentemente ironiche intelligenti e schiette e per la descrizione delle montagne
Quelle sí, che sono incantevoli
May 21, 2023
Un libro sul dolore, e sul potere di risanamento dell'amore, dell'amicizia e della comprensione tra simili.
Perfetto sotto ogni aspetto.
E quanto mi sarebbe piaciuto passare un'estate sui monti svizzeri, nella casetta di Elizabeth von Arnim!
Nota a margine: mi stupisco sempre di quanto la vita della scrittrice venga rielaborata nei suoi romanzi, e sia sempre presente, di come riesca a mettere sulla carta, anche se in narrativa, i dolori che l'hanno accompagnata - e sono stati tanti e grandi. Forse era la sua via per la guarigione, e la invidio: anche se avesi lo stesso talento, non credo che potrei.
Perfetto sotto ogni aspetto.
E quanto mi sarebbe piaciuto passare un'estate sui monti svizzeri, nella casetta di Elizabeth von Arnim!
Nota a margine: mi stupisco sempre di quanto la vita della scrittrice venga rielaborata nei suoi romanzi, e sia sempre presente, di come riesca a mettere sulla carta, anche se in narrativa, i dolori che l'hanno accompagnata - e sono stati tanti e grandi. Forse era la sua via per la guarigione, e la invidio: anche se avesi lo stesso talento, non credo che potrei.
April 27, 2014
I was sceptical at the beginning of this book. The last book by EVA only got 2 stars from me, and I wasn't expecting much from this one as a consequence. But by page 3, I realized my mistake. I don't think I've ever read a book where the protagonist appeals so directly to the reader - certainly I've never seen it carried off with such skill and charm. It is almost impossible not to relate to her and feel like you want to be her friend. I looked at the reviews of this book afterwards and was impressed by how many people said they wished they could sit down with EVA and chat. Says a lot, I think.
The theme of healing and nature - especially in the first half of the book - reminded me of A Month in the Country - also a wonderful book.
Lovely. I feel like I have a new friend.
The theme of healing and nature - especially in the first half of the book - reminded me of A Month in the Country - also a wonderful book.
Lovely. I feel like I have a new friend.
February 4, 2015
“In the Mountains” by Elizabeth von Arnim, a Review (a LONG review)
Written, 1920.
We meet the narrator through her diary as she writes from her high Swiss mountain chalet. Set at the end of the first World War, our friend has fled London life for the solace and peace of mountains. “I want to be quiet now. I crawled up here this morning from the valley like a sick ant—struggled up to the little house on the mountainside that I haven’t seen since the first August of the war, and dropped down on the grass outside it, too tired even to be able to thank God that I had got home.”
For never specified reasons, our friend, the narrator (for the life of me I can’t recall if we ever learned her name…diarists don’t usually write their own names as they detail their lives, I suppose) has left her home and perhaps her family (like I said, details are murky), broken in spirit and looking for healing.
She relates that after doing virtually nothing but laying on the grass outside the chalet for a couple of weeks (she has servants, so she can do that) she feels that her breath is coming back and she might decide that life can become bearable again.
She reminisces, of all things, about meeting Henry James (and rereads a letter he wrote to her), wanders about the hills, feels cowed by her staid servants, is slightly interested in the dog and the farmyard, and writes in her diary. At this point she shares this thought as she has become closer to healed up:
“The only thing to do with one’s old sorrows is to tuck them up neatly in their shroud and turn one’s face away from their grave towards what is coming next.”
Soon after this, two women in black dresses and funny old-fashioned petticoats, English widows to be correct, show up at her door, having lost the trail on their way from what they hoped would be a cheap lodging house (but was no longer) in the mountains. It is late in the afternoon, much too late for them to safely make it back down the mountain so, rashly, our heroine invites them to stay.
These women, two sisters, are such interesting characters. Mrs. Barnes (Kitty), a fifty-ish, well-meaning but very buttoned-up woman and her sister Mrs. Jewks (or Juchs as we discover) (Dolly), a forty-ish, shy but charming. I love little details that make stories rich. Such a one (and even better that I know so many people who share this problem), as told by Mrs. Barnes, about her and her sister’s Christian names:
“‘Our dear parents, both long since dead,’ said Mrs. Barnes, adjusting her eyeglasses more comfortably on her nose, ‘didn’t seem to remember that we would ever grow old, for we weren’t even christened Katherine and Dorothy, to which we might have reverted when we ceased being girls, but we were Kitty and Dolly from the very beginning, and actually in that condition came away from the font.’”
What follows is rather a lovely story of friendship and healing with a little mystery (a very little) and romance (a very, very little) added.
I don’t think this author is widely read anymore. Sad. It’s true that I’m only just becoming acquainted with her and can’t make a definitive judgment on her caliber over all. However, I have read her works described as fluff and the like. I suppose that may be true in a sense, maybe. But, to me, an author who can tell a story almost about nothing but, by way of wit, tenderness, humanity and true observations about real life, a story that touches and entertains me, is not who or what I’d put in the fluff category.
This story is full of silly little details and a lot of nothing happening, but then you come across these gems that show you how the author really lived, observed, and loved. Try this one:
“We don’t know what we’ve got inside us each of disorder, of discomfort, of anxieties. Perhaps there is nothing: perhaps my friends are as tidy and quiet inside as out. Anyhow, up to now we have kept ourselves to ourselves, as Mrs. Barnes would say, and we make a most creditable show. Only I don’t believe that keeping oneself to oneself attitude. Life is too brief to waste any of it being slow in making friends. I have a theory—Mrs. Barnes isn’t the only one of us three who has theories—that reticence is a stuffy, hampering thing. Except about one’s extremest bitter grief which is, like one’s extremest joy of love, too deeply hidden away with God to be told of, one should be without reserves. And if one makes mistakes, as if the other person turns out to have been unworthy of being treated frankly and goes away and distorts, it can’t be helped,--one just takes the risk. For isn’t anything better than distrust, and the slowness and selfish fear of caution? Isn’t anything better than not doing one’s fellow creatures the honour of taking it for granted that they are, women and all, gentlemen? Besides, how lonely…”
Oh my goodness, isn’t that the truth? And how many of us out there aren’t earnestly endeavoring to hide or keep closed what, if shared, could and would touch and bless lives? Can we have too many people dear to our hearts? Can we have too many opportunities to touch hearts? I absolutely love the line “goes away and distorts.” It is so accurate, but as our dear narrator so wisely continues, such connections, moments of humanity bordering on godliness, are worth the “risk.”
"’Do you,’ she asked. ‘Do I what?’ ‘Hold with love.’ ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Whatever happens?’ ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Whatever its end is?’ ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘And I won’t even say yes and no, and the cautious Charlotte Bronte did when she was asked if she liked London. I won’t be cautious in love. I won’t look at all the reasons for saying no. It’s a glorious thing to have had. It’s splendid to have believed all one did believe.’ ‘Even when there never was a shred of justification for the belief?’ asked Dolly, watching me. ‘Yes,’ I said; and began passionately to pin my hat on, digging the pins into my head in my vehemence. ‘Yes. The thing is to believe. Not go round first cautiously on tiptoe so as to be sure before believing and trusting that your precious belief and trust are going to be safe. Safe! There’s no safety in love. You risk the whole of life. But the great thing is to risk—to believe, and to risk everything for your belief. And if there wasn’t anything there, if it was you all by yourself who imagined the beautiful kind things in the other one, the wonderful, generous, beautiful kind things, what does it matter? They weren’t there, but you for once were capable of imagining them. You were up among the stars for a little, you did touch heaven. And when you’ve had the tumble down again and you’re scrunched all to pieces and are just a miserable heap of blood and brokenness, where’s your grit that you should complain? Haven’t you seen wonders up there past all telling, and had supreme joys? It’s because you were up in heaven that your fall is so tremendous and hurts so. What you’ve got to do is not to be killed. You’ve got at all costs to stay alive, so that for the rest of your days you may go gratefully, giving thanks to God that once…you see,’ I finished suddenly, ‘I’m a great believer in saying thank you.’”
I’d certainly give something to know someone who actually talked like that (or be one myself)! I agree! Life is too short to be stingy with loving. I don’t mean promiscuity, you know; I mean actually being willing to entertain the fact that the person you are next to right now (no matter how normal or how abnormal or how good or how bad) is a being of light, a beautiful, eternal entity who could, if you let them, and without them actually doing a thing, touch your heart and open your mind and allow you to see what it must be like, just a little, to be God. Humans are incredible.
Our narrator does find soul healing up on her mountain. Would she have found it if she had been alone? Perhaps. Often, though, our healing happens because we have the opportunity to minister to others’ wounds and miseries and thereby find solace for our own.
“A little happiness—what wonders it works! Was there ever anything like it? This is a place of blessing. When I came up my mountain three months ago, alone and so miserable, no vision was vouchsafed me that I would go down it again one of four people, each of whom would leave the little house full of renewed life, of restored hope, of wholesome looking-forward, clarified, set on their feet, made useful once more in themselves and the world. After all, we’re none of us going to be wasted. Whatever there is of good in any of us isn’t after all going to be destroyed by circumstances and thrown aside as useless. When I am so foolish—if I am so foolish I should say, for I feel completely cured! as to begin thinking backwards again with anything but a benevolent calm, I shall instantly come out here and invite the most wretched of my friends to join me, and watch them and myself being made whole. The house, I think, ought to be rechristened. It ought to be called Chalet du Fleuve Jordan. But perhaps my guests mightn’t like that.”
(is that something like “The House of the River Jordan?”, I’m not sure. But it surely seemed that the people crossed into their own lands of Promise or were on their way by the end of this short novel.)
Our narrator later shares this wise reflection:
“Like the almond trees in the suburban gardens round London that flower when the winds are cruelest, the autumn crocuses seem too frail to face the cold nights we are having now; yet it is just when conditions are growing unkind that they come out. There they are, all over the mountain fields, flowering in greater profusion the further the month moves toward winter.”
Do I flower most profusely the more I’m pushed and tried? The colder it gets? I’m afraid not, but I’m learning.
At a few points in the novel the narrator talks to herself as if she’s writing to her older and more wise self. It was confusing for just a moment until I realized who the old lady was she was talking about and when I did realize, it was so adorable! I want to talk to myself that way. To realize that one day I’ll laugh at and yet sympathize with the frazzled, fearful woman I once was. It’s good to be reminded that most elderly people probably think this way and look back on their lives in this manner. I certainly do it already and wonder and chuckle at how worked up I’ve gotten about things that felt absolutely terrifying or shattering or even crippling at the time.
“Then today I remembered my old age, and the old lady waiting at the end of the years who will want to be amused, so I’ve begun again. I have an idea that what will really most amuse that old lady, that wrinkled philosophical old thing, will be all the times when I was being uncomfortable. She will be so very comfortable herself, so done with everything, so entirely an impartial looker-on, that the rebellions and contortions and woes of the creature who used to be herself will only make her laugh. She will be blithe in her security. Besides, she will know the sequel, she will know what came next, and will see, I daresay, how vain the expense of trouble and emotions was. ‘You silly little thing!’ I can imagine her exclaiming, ‘If only you had known how it all wasn’t going to matter!’ And she will laugh very heartily; for I am sure she will be a gay old lady.”
Love, love, love. Highly recommend to those who don’t need thrilling plot and or totally-purpose driven reading and who are willing to spend some time up in the mountains. I certainly did.
Written, 1920.
We meet the narrator through her diary as she writes from her high Swiss mountain chalet. Set at the end of the first World War, our friend has fled London life for the solace and peace of mountains. “I want to be quiet now. I crawled up here this morning from the valley like a sick ant—struggled up to the little house on the mountainside that I haven’t seen since the first August of the war, and dropped down on the grass outside it, too tired even to be able to thank God that I had got home.”
For never specified reasons, our friend, the narrator (for the life of me I can’t recall if we ever learned her name…diarists don’t usually write their own names as they detail their lives, I suppose) has left her home and perhaps her family (like I said, details are murky), broken in spirit and looking for healing.
She relates that after doing virtually nothing but laying on the grass outside the chalet for a couple of weeks (she has servants, so she can do that) she feels that her breath is coming back and she might decide that life can become bearable again.
She reminisces, of all things, about meeting Henry James (and rereads a letter he wrote to her), wanders about the hills, feels cowed by her staid servants, is slightly interested in the dog and the farmyard, and writes in her diary. At this point she shares this thought as she has become closer to healed up:
“The only thing to do with one’s old sorrows is to tuck them up neatly in their shroud and turn one’s face away from their grave towards what is coming next.”
Soon after this, two women in black dresses and funny old-fashioned petticoats, English widows to be correct, show up at her door, having lost the trail on their way from what they hoped would be a cheap lodging house (but was no longer) in the mountains. It is late in the afternoon, much too late for them to safely make it back down the mountain so, rashly, our heroine invites them to stay.
These women, two sisters, are such interesting characters. Mrs. Barnes (Kitty), a fifty-ish, well-meaning but very buttoned-up woman and her sister Mrs. Jewks (or Juchs as we discover) (Dolly), a forty-ish, shy but charming. I love little details that make stories rich. Such a one (and even better that I know so many people who share this problem), as told by Mrs. Barnes, about her and her sister’s Christian names:
“‘Our dear parents, both long since dead,’ said Mrs. Barnes, adjusting her eyeglasses more comfortably on her nose, ‘didn’t seem to remember that we would ever grow old, for we weren’t even christened Katherine and Dorothy, to which we might have reverted when we ceased being girls, but we were Kitty and Dolly from the very beginning, and actually in that condition came away from the font.’”
What follows is rather a lovely story of friendship and healing with a little mystery (a very little) and romance (a very, very little) added.
I don’t think this author is widely read anymore. Sad. It’s true that I’m only just becoming acquainted with her and can’t make a definitive judgment on her caliber over all. However, I have read her works described as fluff and the like. I suppose that may be true in a sense, maybe. But, to me, an author who can tell a story almost about nothing but, by way of wit, tenderness, humanity and true observations about real life, a story that touches and entertains me, is not who or what I’d put in the fluff category.
This story is full of silly little details and a lot of nothing happening, but then you come across these gems that show you how the author really lived, observed, and loved. Try this one:
“We don’t know what we’ve got inside us each of disorder, of discomfort, of anxieties. Perhaps there is nothing: perhaps my friends are as tidy and quiet inside as out. Anyhow, up to now we have kept ourselves to ourselves, as Mrs. Barnes would say, and we make a most creditable show. Only I don’t believe that keeping oneself to oneself attitude. Life is too brief to waste any of it being slow in making friends. I have a theory—Mrs. Barnes isn’t the only one of us three who has theories—that reticence is a stuffy, hampering thing. Except about one’s extremest bitter grief which is, like one’s extremest joy of love, too deeply hidden away with God to be told of, one should be without reserves. And if one makes mistakes, as if the other person turns out to have been unworthy of being treated frankly and goes away and distorts, it can’t be helped,--one just takes the risk. For isn’t anything better than distrust, and the slowness and selfish fear of caution? Isn’t anything better than not doing one’s fellow creatures the honour of taking it for granted that they are, women and all, gentlemen? Besides, how lonely…”
Oh my goodness, isn’t that the truth? And how many of us out there aren’t earnestly endeavoring to hide or keep closed what, if shared, could and would touch and bless lives? Can we have too many people dear to our hearts? Can we have too many opportunities to touch hearts? I absolutely love the line “goes away and distorts.” It is so accurate, but as our dear narrator so wisely continues, such connections, moments of humanity bordering on godliness, are worth the “risk.”
"’Do you,’ she asked. ‘Do I what?’ ‘Hold with love.’ ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Whatever happens?’ ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Whatever its end is?’ ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘And I won’t even say yes and no, and the cautious Charlotte Bronte did when she was asked if she liked London. I won’t be cautious in love. I won’t look at all the reasons for saying no. It’s a glorious thing to have had. It’s splendid to have believed all one did believe.’ ‘Even when there never was a shred of justification for the belief?’ asked Dolly, watching me. ‘Yes,’ I said; and began passionately to pin my hat on, digging the pins into my head in my vehemence. ‘Yes. The thing is to believe. Not go round first cautiously on tiptoe so as to be sure before believing and trusting that your precious belief and trust are going to be safe. Safe! There’s no safety in love. You risk the whole of life. But the great thing is to risk—to believe, and to risk everything for your belief. And if there wasn’t anything there, if it was you all by yourself who imagined the beautiful kind things in the other one, the wonderful, generous, beautiful kind things, what does it matter? They weren’t there, but you for once were capable of imagining them. You were up among the stars for a little, you did touch heaven. And when you’ve had the tumble down again and you’re scrunched all to pieces and are just a miserable heap of blood and brokenness, where’s your grit that you should complain? Haven’t you seen wonders up there past all telling, and had supreme joys? It’s because you were up in heaven that your fall is so tremendous and hurts so. What you’ve got to do is not to be killed. You’ve got at all costs to stay alive, so that for the rest of your days you may go gratefully, giving thanks to God that once…you see,’ I finished suddenly, ‘I’m a great believer in saying thank you.’”
I’d certainly give something to know someone who actually talked like that (or be one myself)! I agree! Life is too short to be stingy with loving. I don’t mean promiscuity, you know; I mean actually being willing to entertain the fact that the person you are next to right now (no matter how normal or how abnormal or how good or how bad) is a being of light, a beautiful, eternal entity who could, if you let them, and without them actually doing a thing, touch your heart and open your mind and allow you to see what it must be like, just a little, to be God. Humans are incredible.
Our narrator does find soul healing up on her mountain. Would she have found it if she had been alone? Perhaps. Often, though, our healing happens because we have the opportunity to minister to others’ wounds and miseries and thereby find solace for our own.
“A little happiness—what wonders it works! Was there ever anything like it? This is a place of blessing. When I came up my mountain three months ago, alone and so miserable, no vision was vouchsafed me that I would go down it again one of four people, each of whom would leave the little house full of renewed life, of restored hope, of wholesome looking-forward, clarified, set on their feet, made useful once more in themselves and the world. After all, we’re none of us going to be wasted. Whatever there is of good in any of us isn’t after all going to be destroyed by circumstances and thrown aside as useless. When I am so foolish—if I am so foolish I should say, for I feel completely cured! as to begin thinking backwards again with anything but a benevolent calm, I shall instantly come out here and invite the most wretched of my friends to join me, and watch them and myself being made whole. The house, I think, ought to be rechristened. It ought to be called Chalet du Fleuve Jordan. But perhaps my guests mightn’t like that.”
(is that something like “The House of the River Jordan?”, I’m not sure. But it surely seemed that the people crossed into their own lands of Promise or were on their way by the end of this short novel.)
Our narrator later shares this wise reflection:
“Like the almond trees in the suburban gardens round London that flower when the winds are cruelest, the autumn crocuses seem too frail to face the cold nights we are having now; yet it is just when conditions are growing unkind that they come out. There they are, all over the mountain fields, flowering in greater profusion the further the month moves toward winter.”
Do I flower most profusely the more I’m pushed and tried? The colder it gets? I’m afraid not, but I’m learning.
At a few points in the novel the narrator talks to herself as if she’s writing to her older and more wise self. It was confusing for just a moment until I realized who the old lady was she was talking about and when I did realize, it was so adorable! I want to talk to myself that way. To realize that one day I’ll laugh at and yet sympathize with the frazzled, fearful woman I once was. It’s good to be reminded that most elderly people probably think this way and look back on their lives in this manner. I certainly do it already and wonder and chuckle at how worked up I’ve gotten about things that felt absolutely terrifying or shattering or even crippling at the time.
“Then today I remembered my old age, and the old lady waiting at the end of the years who will want to be amused, so I’ve begun again. I have an idea that what will really most amuse that old lady, that wrinkled philosophical old thing, will be all the times when I was being uncomfortable. She will be so very comfortable herself, so done with everything, so entirely an impartial looker-on, that the rebellions and contortions and woes of the creature who used to be herself will only make her laugh. She will be blithe in her security. Besides, she will know the sequel, she will know what came next, and will see, I daresay, how vain the expense of trouble and emotions was. ‘You silly little thing!’ I can imagine her exclaiming, ‘If only you had known how it all wasn’t going to matter!’ And she will laugh very heartily; for I am sure she will be a gay old lady.”
Love, love, love. Highly recommend to those who don’t need thrilling plot and or totally-purpose driven reading and who are willing to spend some time up in the mountains. I certainly did.
February 12, 2020
Recensione originale: https://sonnenbarke.wordpress.com/202...
Questo libro, che in inglese è un'opera di pubblico dominio dal titolo In the Mountains scaricabile (ad esempio) da Project Gutenberg, in Italia è stato pubblicato prima da Bollati Boringhieri con il titolo Uno chalet tutto per me tradotto da Simona Garavelli, successivamente da Fazi con il titolo Un'estate in montagna tradotto da Sabina Terziani. Io l'ho letto in originale approfittando della possibilità di scaricarlo gratuitamente.
Di Elizabeth von Arnim avevo già letto altri quattro romanzi e questo libro non fa che confermare l'ottima impressione che ho di questa scrittrice, che secondo me meriterebbe di essere molto più conosciuta.
Questo romanzo è scritto sotto forma di diario, la protagonista e narratrice è una donna inglese di cui sappiamo solo che ha avuto un terribile dolore, ma non sappiamo di che tipo. Non conosciamo neppure il suo nome. Dopo la prima guerra mondiale, questa donna decide di ritirarsi per un periodo nella sua casa sulle Alpi svizzere, che i fedeli coniugi Antoine avevano curato per lei durante la guerra, seppure prendendosi qualche libertà (Madame aveva esplicitamente detto di non volere animali, ma gli Antoine hanno deciso comunque di prendere una mucca e delle galline, per non parlare del terribile maiale, fortunatamente però già ucciso all'arrivo di Madame). In questo ambiente bucolico, la donna pensa di potersi lasciare alle spalle il passato doloroso che non cessa di tormentarla, ma ovviamente non è facile. Scrive il diario per la vecchina che un giorno diventerà, affinché questa lei anziana possa avere una testimonianza di ciò che le è successo da giovane.
La protagonista finisce per annoiarsi e incupirsi sempre più, specie il giorno del suo compleanno, che passerà da sola, ma per fortuna proprio quel giorno compariranno quasi dal nulla due donne inglesi, con cui finirà per legare, invitandole a stare con lei.
Sostanzialmente potremmo dire che questo è un romanzo sull'amicizia, ma in effetti è anche molto più di questo. Moltissime sono le riflessioni sulla solitudine, sulla morale della buona educazione imperante che impone di essere sempre gentili ed educate e, come vedremo, questo porterà a delle situazioni del tutto ridicole. Le tre donne, e in special modo la protagonista e la cinquantenne Mrs. Barnes, cercano di non incomodarsi l'un l'altra, ma mentre la protagonista è uno spirito libero, Mrs. Barnes è rigidamente fedele all'etichetta e soprattutto non vuole essere di disturbo... finendo per esserlo davvero.
Essendo scritto sotto forma di diario, sono molte le riflessioni della protagonista, che come dicevo è uno spirito libero, controcorrente, probabilmente più avanti rispetto all'epoca. Una figura femminile di questo tipo è presente in tutti i romanzi di Elizabeth von Arnim, la quale probabilmente prendeva spunto da se stessa per queste sue protagoniste, essendo lei per prima uno spirito assolutamente anticonformista.
Molto più che negli altri romanzi di von Arnim che ho letto, ho trovato una sottile ironia e umorismo di fondo. Seppure questo aspetto sia presente in tutti i suoi romanzi, in questo si fa ancora più potente e spesso passa prepotentemente in primo piano. Penso che questa sia una delle caratteristiche più interessanti dei romanzi di von Arnim, che li rendono leggeri anche quando, in alcuni casi, la leggerezza serve a mascherare riflessioni più profonde sul conformismo richiesto dalla società inglese dell'epoca e contrastato da protagonista e autrice allo stesso modo.
Ho scoperto questa autrice per puro caso grazie a un ebook regalatomi da Il Libraio, dopodiché ho voluto approfondire la sua conoscenza, e posso assicurarvi che questo mio approfondimento non finirà qui perché questa scrittrice è davvero incantevole.
Questo libro, che in inglese è un'opera di pubblico dominio dal titolo In the Mountains scaricabile (ad esempio) da Project Gutenberg, in Italia è stato pubblicato prima da Bollati Boringhieri con il titolo Uno chalet tutto per me tradotto da Simona Garavelli, successivamente da Fazi con il titolo Un'estate in montagna tradotto da Sabina Terziani. Io l'ho letto in originale approfittando della possibilità di scaricarlo gratuitamente.
Di Elizabeth von Arnim avevo già letto altri quattro romanzi e questo libro non fa che confermare l'ottima impressione che ho di questa scrittrice, che secondo me meriterebbe di essere molto più conosciuta.
Questo romanzo è scritto sotto forma di diario, la protagonista e narratrice è una donna inglese di cui sappiamo solo che ha avuto un terribile dolore, ma non sappiamo di che tipo. Non conosciamo neppure il suo nome. Dopo la prima guerra mondiale, questa donna decide di ritirarsi per un periodo nella sua casa sulle Alpi svizzere, che i fedeli coniugi Antoine avevano curato per lei durante la guerra, seppure prendendosi qualche libertà (Madame aveva esplicitamente detto di non volere animali, ma gli Antoine hanno deciso comunque di prendere una mucca e delle galline, per non parlare del terribile maiale, fortunatamente però già ucciso all'arrivo di Madame). In questo ambiente bucolico, la donna pensa di potersi lasciare alle spalle il passato doloroso che non cessa di tormentarla, ma ovviamente non è facile. Scrive il diario per la vecchina che un giorno diventerà, affinché questa lei anziana possa avere una testimonianza di ciò che le è successo da giovane.
La protagonista finisce per annoiarsi e incupirsi sempre più, specie il giorno del suo compleanno, che passerà da sola, ma per fortuna proprio quel giorno compariranno quasi dal nulla due donne inglesi, con cui finirà per legare, invitandole a stare con lei.
Sostanzialmente potremmo dire che questo è un romanzo sull'amicizia, ma in effetti è anche molto più di questo. Moltissime sono le riflessioni sulla solitudine, sulla morale della buona educazione imperante che impone di essere sempre gentili ed educate e, come vedremo, questo porterà a delle situazioni del tutto ridicole. Le tre donne, e in special modo la protagonista e la cinquantenne Mrs. Barnes, cercano di non incomodarsi l'un l'altra, ma mentre la protagonista è uno spirito libero, Mrs. Barnes è rigidamente fedele all'etichetta e soprattutto non vuole essere di disturbo... finendo per esserlo davvero.
Essendo scritto sotto forma di diario, sono molte le riflessioni della protagonista, che come dicevo è uno spirito libero, controcorrente, probabilmente più avanti rispetto all'epoca. Una figura femminile di questo tipo è presente in tutti i romanzi di Elizabeth von Arnim, la quale probabilmente prendeva spunto da se stessa per queste sue protagoniste, essendo lei per prima uno spirito assolutamente anticonformista.
Molto più che negli altri romanzi di von Arnim che ho letto, ho trovato una sottile ironia e umorismo di fondo. Seppure questo aspetto sia presente in tutti i suoi romanzi, in questo si fa ancora più potente e spesso passa prepotentemente in primo piano. Penso che questa sia una delle caratteristiche più interessanti dei romanzi di von Arnim, che li rendono leggeri anche quando, in alcuni casi, la leggerezza serve a mascherare riflessioni più profonde sul conformismo richiesto dalla società inglese dell'epoca e contrastato da protagonista e autrice allo stesso modo.
Ho scoperto questa autrice per puro caso grazie a un ebook regalatomi da Il Libraio, dopodiché ho voluto approfondire la sua conoscenza, e posso assicurarvi che questo mio approfondimento non finirà qui perché questa scrittrice è davvero incantevole.
January 6, 2022
I've discovered Elizabeth von Arnim in 2021 and she has instantly become a new favourite author of mine. In The Mountains, although one of her lesser known works, was still a charming and pleasant read.
First of all, it was beautifully written. There were many parts which dealt with loss, solitude and heartbreak which really resonated with me. The sense of tragedy and loss of purpose after the horrors of the war was really well portrayed.
The setting was also beautiful. I don't like too many descriptions in books, but here they were so vivid, and gave such a perfect sense of the beauty and tranquillity of nature, that I really appreciated them.
The characterization of the main character and narrator was also really well done. From the very first pages I became attached to Elizabeth, I sympathized with her and I just wanted her to be happy again. It was satisfying seeing how her personality healed through the book, and how her old good humour, wit and optimism slowly came back. Her different relationships with Kitty and Dolly were also interesting and heartwarming.
The ending was maybe a little convenient, but it was also a perfect way to end the story.
First of all, it was beautifully written. There were many parts which dealt with loss, solitude and heartbreak which really resonated with me. The sense of tragedy and loss of purpose after the horrors of the war was really well portrayed.
The setting was also beautiful. I don't like too many descriptions in books, but here they were so vivid, and gave such a perfect sense of the beauty and tranquillity of nature, that I really appreciated them.
The characterization of the main character and narrator was also really well done. From the very first pages I became attached to Elizabeth, I sympathized with her and I just wanted her to be happy again. It was satisfying seeing how her personality healed through the book, and how her old good humour, wit and optimism slowly came back. Her different relationships with Kitty and Dolly were also interesting and heartwarming.
The ending was maybe a little convenient, but it was also a perfect way to end the story.
February 6, 2017
Elizabeth von Arnim born as Mary Annette Beauchamp in Austrailia.
In the Mountains is written as a diary or journal entries. The story is told by an English lady who escapes personal troubles in London and finds refuge at the chalet in the Swiss Alps. It takes her several weeks of lying in the grass, looking up into the sky, and loving her natural surrounding before she feels normal.
Her love of books in the chalet (of how I feel about books) she treats with respect. She calls them "Elder" not old books.
Dolly and Kitty show up one day on her doorstep. She takes them into her home and the three of them began to help each other. Dolly a free spirit and Kitty is the protector. All three hiding from something in their past.
I almost feel as if Dolly and Kitty are made up characters of her own personalities as the mesh so well together finding peace in each other.
She writes with a flowery flourish, toward the feminist side and contains some dry humor (probably the sign of the times).
In researching EVA they say that the Enchanted April is a prequel, Vera is a sequel, and Elizabeth and her German Garden is like a biography of her life.
In the Mountains is written as a diary or journal entries. The story is told by an English lady who escapes personal troubles in London and finds refuge at the chalet in the Swiss Alps. It takes her several weeks of lying in the grass, looking up into the sky, and loving her natural surrounding before she feels normal.
Her love of books in the chalet (of how I feel about books) she treats with respect. She calls them "Elder" not old books.
Dolly and Kitty show up one day on her doorstep. She takes them into her home and the three of them began to help each other. Dolly a free spirit and Kitty is the protector. All three hiding from something in their past.
I almost feel as if Dolly and Kitty are made up characters of her own personalities as the mesh so well together finding peace in each other.
She writes with a flowery flourish, toward the feminist side and contains some dry humor (probably the sign of the times).
In researching EVA they say that the Enchanted April is a prequel, Vera is a sequel, and Elizabeth and her German Garden is like a biography of her life.
September 2, 2014
I discovered Elizabeth von Arnim a long time ago, and read all of her books that I could find. Recently though her those books have been calling me back, asking me to read them all over again. But before I started pulling books out of the Virago bookcase I had a look at the library catalogue, just in case there was a book tucked away that I hadn’t read and didn’t own.
There was – In The Mountains!
The name rang a bell, but I didn’t look up any details, I just placed my order. One of the things I like about reading older books is that you can go into them with no foreknowledge and take the book exactly as it comes, with no preconceptions at all.
I was delighted when the book appeared on the reservations shelf to discover that it was a novel in the form of a journal. A format I love!
The keeper of the journal, whose name I was never to learn, had come to a family home in the Swiss mountains to rest and to recover from – or at least come to terms with – her losses during The Great War.
Exactly what – or who – she had lost, what she had suffered, was never quite put into words, but that she was grieving, that she was trying to come to terms with making a new start, was something I never doubted. I found that I understood.
Her journal read beautifully and quite naturally. Sometimes the words came in a rush, and sometimes she struggled to express herself.
“I wonder why I write all this. Is it because it is like talking to a friend at the end of the day, and telling him, who is interested and loves to hear, everything one has done? I suppose it is that; and that I want to pin down these queer days as they pass, – days so utterly like any I ever had before. I want to hold them a minute in my hand and look at them, before letting them drop away for ever …”
She found sustenance in the peace and beauty of her surroundings, in her books, and in writing in her journal. It was lovely to watch; I liked her, and I cared about her.
But as she grew stronger she began to feel lonely, and in need of a role in life. And that was when two Englishwoman, tired walkers, arrived on her doorstep. She eagerly invited them in, to rest and to take refreshments, and when she discovered that their lodgings were less than satisfactory, she prevailed upon them to stay with her.
The tone of the story changed, and I’m afraid I rather resented it. I wanted things to go on quietly, as they had before. But I was also curious. Why were two English sisters, who surely would have been happier at home, walking in the Swiss mountains? And why was the elder sister so very protective of the younger?
Their hostess was curious too, but she didn’t feel she could ask and they didn’t feel they could tell. But in time friendships grew, confidences were shared; she was able to help them and they were able to help her.
Some things were lost in the second part of the book. The journal that had been so believable became less so as conversations were reported verbatim. And I missed the contemplation of peace and beauty.
But wonderful though they are, peace and beauty alone cannot fill a life. And the coming of company did allow the author to make some telling points silly the rules of hospitality and good manners can be, about the importance of being needed, about the consequences of war, and about how we come to terms with loss, learn to somehow live with it, and carry on.
She did it with such understanding, warmth and charm.
And there were so many lovely moments and details.
“While I dress it is my habit to read. Some book is propped up open against the looking-glass, and sometimes, for one’s eyes can’t be everywhere at once, my hooks in consequence don’t get quite satisfactorily fastened. Indeed I would be very neat if I could, but there are other things … “
The book as a whole can’t quite live up to passages like that. It’s a little compromised by its structure, by the sharp change part-way through, by the need to come to an end where there should be not an end but simply a change.
But it is lovely nonetheless, and it has confirmed that I really must pull Elizabeth von Arnim’s other books out of that bookcase.
There was – In The Mountains!
The name rang a bell, but I didn’t look up any details, I just placed my order. One of the things I like about reading older books is that you can go into them with no foreknowledge and take the book exactly as it comes, with no preconceptions at all.
I was delighted when the book appeared on the reservations shelf to discover that it was a novel in the form of a journal. A format I love!
The keeper of the journal, whose name I was never to learn, had come to a family home in the Swiss mountains to rest and to recover from – or at least come to terms with – her losses during The Great War.
Exactly what – or who – she had lost, what she had suffered, was never quite put into words, but that she was grieving, that she was trying to come to terms with making a new start, was something I never doubted. I found that I understood.
Her journal read beautifully and quite naturally. Sometimes the words came in a rush, and sometimes she struggled to express herself.
“I wonder why I write all this. Is it because it is like talking to a friend at the end of the day, and telling him, who is interested and loves to hear, everything one has done? I suppose it is that; and that I want to pin down these queer days as they pass, – days so utterly like any I ever had before. I want to hold them a minute in my hand and look at them, before letting them drop away for ever …”
She found sustenance in the peace and beauty of her surroundings, in her books, and in writing in her journal. It was lovely to watch; I liked her, and I cared about her.
But as she grew stronger she began to feel lonely, and in need of a role in life. And that was when two Englishwoman, tired walkers, arrived on her doorstep. She eagerly invited them in, to rest and to take refreshments, and when she discovered that their lodgings were less than satisfactory, she prevailed upon them to stay with her.
The tone of the story changed, and I’m afraid I rather resented it. I wanted things to go on quietly, as they had before. But I was also curious. Why were two English sisters, who surely would have been happier at home, walking in the Swiss mountains? And why was the elder sister so very protective of the younger?
Their hostess was curious too, but she didn’t feel she could ask and they didn’t feel they could tell. But in time friendships grew, confidences were shared; she was able to help them and they were able to help her.
Some things were lost in the second part of the book. The journal that had been so believable became less so as conversations were reported verbatim. And I missed the contemplation of peace and beauty.
But wonderful though they are, peace and beauty alone cannot fill a life. And the coming of company did allow the author to make some telling points silly the rules of hospitality and good manners can be, about the importance of being needed, about the consequences of war, and about how we come to terms with loss, learn to somehow live with it, and carry on.
She did it with such understanding, warmth and charm.
And there were so many lovely moments and details.
“While I dress it is my habit to read. Some book is propped up open against the looking-glass, and sometimes, for one’s eyes can’t be everywhere at once, my hooks in consequence don’t get quite satisfactorily fastened. Indeed I would be very neat if I could, but there are other things … “
The book as a whole can’t quite live up to passages like that. It’s a little compromised by its structure, by the sharp change part-way through, by the need to come to an end where there should be not an end but simply a change.
But it is lovely nonetheless, and it has confirmed that I really must pull Elizabeth von Arnim’s other books out of that bookcase.
February 6, 2017
"La vita, ci dicono, si è sviluppata per gradi dal protozoo al filosofo, e questo sviluppo, ci assicurano, è senza dubbio un progresso. Purtroppo tutto questo ce lo assicura il filosofo, non il protozoo." (My translation from the Italian book: Life, we have been told, has developed gradually from the protozoon to the philosopher, and this development, we are garanteed, is progress without doubt. Pity it is the philosopher the one who guarantees us that, not the protozoon)
Isn't she lovely???
Isn't she lovely???
September 1, 2018
Lettura un po’ insipida, che ha molto da offrire in termini di emozioni suscitate dalle descrizioni della natura ma che per trama e personaggi lascia molto a desiderare. La protagonista soffre per una passata e indefinita delusione sentimentale la cui natura resterà misteriosa. Le due donne che si ritrova ad accogliere in casa paiono quasi caricature di personaggi verosimili, perché le loro caratteristiche sono esacerbate a tal punto da risultare poco credibili - riservatezza, affabilità, altruismo estremo, pudicizia, riuniti a formare un cocktail davvero detestabile proprio perché esagerati. Infine non ho proprio mandato giù l’instant love tra il vecchio zio della protagonista e la più giovane delle sue vedove: lui compare alla fine del romanzo, la donna capisce immediatamente le sue intenzioni in linea con la tendenza a ‘collezionare mariti’ e senza neanche scambiarsi più di qualche parola dopo pochi giorni avviene la proposta di matrimonio, ovviamente accettata.Boh, saranno stati altri tempi ma così mi pare davvero eccessivo. Le note positive invece sono la già citata capacità di descrivere i paesaggi incantati delle vallate alpine in estate - luoghi in cui mi sono subito proiettata con facilità essendo ormai più di due mesi che lavoro in un rifugio di alta quota -, la montagna presentata come luogo dove poter ritrovare la serenità e l’inserimento di brevi dialoghi in francese che per me che conosco bene la lingua hanno svolto il ruolo di piacevole variazione sul tema. Splendida la copertina, su tutto il resto il mio giudizio è però appena sufficiente.
March 12, 2025
Piacevolissimo questo libro della von Armin, come del resto tutti suoi da me letti in precedenza. All’autrice piace molto divagare e riflettere non solo sull’ambiente ma anche sull’umanità varia e quindi il soggiorno estivo della protagonista nel suo chalet svizzero è all’insegna del riposo e del recupero della serenità e dell’equilibro messi a dura prova dalla guerra appena conclusa. Ad un cero punto, quando in lei, già più serena e rilassata, si fa più chiaro il bisogno d’amore, il confronto intellettuale e umano, si affacciano al suo orizzonte due sorelle molto particolari, che lei ospiterà per il resto dell’estate. Si delinea allora un quadro molto ironico che in diversi passaggi ci fa sorridere. C’è un segreto custodito dalle due sorelle, che solo con l’arrivo dello zio Rudolph si riuscirà a svelare pienamente. Anzi il finale della vacanza riserverà molte sorprese. Ecco una storia di amore e di speranza, lontana da pregiudizi e dolori gratuiti!
February 5, 2019
Bello, molto malinconico nella prima parte ma non noioso se si conosce la vicenda privata dell'autrice. Dopo la metà prende vita ma non decolla del tutto.
Stelle: 3+
Di certo non conosco la noia allo stesso modo in cui sembrano conoscerla gli altri quando si ritrovano soli, quando vengono loro a mancare fonti di divertimento esterne; quanto alle persone noiose, persone incontestabilmente noiose, ebbene, in realtà non mi annoiano, mi interessano. Trovo meravigliosa la loro inconsapevolezza di essere noiose.
Perché dovrei preoccuparmi del marito di qualcun’altra? Una donna rispettabile si preoccupa solo del proprio. Tuttavia non conosco due argomenti più difficili da affrontare con tatto se non i tedeschi e i mariti; quando poi si sommano il coraggio mi viene meno.
«E a te?»
«A me cosa?»
«A te l’amore piace?»
«Sì» ho risposto.
«Qualunque cosa accada?»
«Sì» ho risposto.
«Quale ne sia la fine?»
«Sì» ho risposto. «E non voglio neppure dire sì e no, come ha fatto la cauta Charlotte Brontë quando le hanno chiesto se le piacesse Londra. Non voglio essere cauta in amore. Non voglio guardare a tutti i motivi per dire no. È una cosa meravigliosa da avere avuto. Ed è meraviglioso aver creduto in
tutto ciò in cui si è creduto».
«Anche quando non c’era mai stata alcuna reale giustificazione per credere?» ha indagato Dolly fissandomi.
«Sì» ho risposto; e ho cominciato a fissarmi il cappello in testa con gesti concitati, infilzandomi con gli spilloni per la foga. «Sì. L’importante è crederci. Non aggirarsi prima in punta di piedi e con infinita cautela, così da avere la certezza, prima di credere e confidare, che la tua preziosa convinzione, la tua preziosa fiducia, saranno al sicuro. Al sicuro! In amore non c’è sicurezza. Si rischia mettendo in gioco tutta la vita. Ma l’importante è rischiare… credere e rischiare tutto per quello in cui credi. Cosa importa se poi risulta che in realtà non c’era niente, che sei stata tu a immaginare nell’altro tutte quelle cose belle e gentili sul suo conto, le cose splendide, generose, belle e gentili? Quelle cose non c’erano, ma tu per una volta sei stata capace di immaginartele. Per un po’ di tempo sei stata su in alto tra le stelle, hai toccato il cielo con un dito. E una volta ripiombata giù a terra, ridotta a pezzi e trasformata in un miserevole ammasso di sangue e ossa rotte, con che coraggio dovresti lamentarti? Non hai forse visto meraviglie su in cielo, meraviglie inenarrabili, e avuto gioie supreme? È perché ti trovavi in paradiso che la tua caduta è stata così terrificante e dolorosa. Ma non devi lasciarti uccidere, devi restare viva a tutti i costi, così che per il resto dei tuoi giorni tu possa essere riconoscente e ringraziare Dio di aver vissuto un tempo
in cui… vedi» ho concluso d’un tratto, «io credo molto nella gratitudine».
Stelle: 3+
Di certo non conosco la noia allo stesso modo in cui sembrano conoscerla gli altri quando si ritrovano soli, quando vengono loro a mancare fonti di divertimento esterne; quanto alle persone noiose, persone incontestabilmente noiose, ebbene, in realtà non mi annoiano, mi interessano. Trovo meravigliosa la loro inconsapevolezza di essere noiose.
Perché dovrei preoccuparmi del marito di qualcun’altra? Una donna rispettabile si preoccupa solo del proprio. Tuttavia non conosco due argomenti più difficili da affrontare con tatto se non i tedeschi e i mariti; quando poi si sommano il coraggio mi viene meno.
«E a te?»
«A me cosa?»
«A te l’amore piace?»
«Sì» ho risposto.
«Qualunque cosa accada?»
«Sì» ho risposto.
«Quale ne sia la fine?»
«Sì» ho risposto. «E non voglio neppure dire sì e no, come ha fatto la cauta Charlotte Brontë quando le hanno chiesto se le piacesse Londra. Non voglio essere cauta in amore. Non voglio guardare a tutti i motivi per dire no. È una cosa meravigliosa da avere avuto. Ed è meraviglioso aver creduto in
tutto ciò in cui si è creduto».
«Anche quando non c’era mai stata alcuna reale giustificazione per credere?» ha indagato Dolly fissandomi.
«Sì» ho risposto; e ho cominciato a fissarmi il cappello in testa con gesti concitati, infilzandomi con gli spilloni per la foga. «Sì. L’importante è crederci. Non aggirarsi prima in punta di piedi e con infinita cautela, così da avere la certezza, prima di credere e confidare, che la tua preziosa convinzione, la tua preziosa fiducia, saranno al sicuro. Al sicuro! In amore non c’è sicurezza. Si rischia mettendo in gioco tutta la vita. Ma l’importante è rischiare… credere e rischiare tutto per quello in cui credi. Cosa importa se poi risulta che in realtà non c’era niente, che sei stata tu a immaginare nell’altro tutte quelle cose belle e gentili sul suo conto, le cose splendide, generose, belle e gentili? Quelle cose non c’erano, ma tu per una volta sei stata capace di immaginartele. Per un po’ di tempo sei stata su in alto tra le stelle, hai toccato il cielo con un dito. E una volta ripiombata giù a terra, ridotta a pezzi e trasformata in un miserevole ammasso di sangue e ossa rotte, con che coraggio dovresti lamentarti? Non hai forse visto meraviglie su in cielo, meraviglie inenarrabili, e avuto gioie supreme? È perché ti trovavi in paradiso che la tua caduta è stata così terrificante e dolorosa. Ma non devi lasciarti uccidere, devi restare viva a tutti i costi, così che per il resto dei tuoi giorni tu possa essere riconoscente e ringraziare Dio di aver vissuto un tempo
in cui… vedi» ho concluso d’un tratto, «io credo molto nella gratitudine».
August 24, 2018
Un classico meraviglioso, scritto in maniera divina! Una storia di rinascita e resurrezione. Siamo nel 1919 Elizabeth arriva al suo Chalet, il suo rifugio di montagna, sfinita e frastornata, dopo tutti gli avvenimenti che le sono accaduti cerca la pace interiore attraverso gli occhi e l'anima. Cerca di creare il suo angolo di stabilità e attraverso la scrittura sfoga la sua vita che è caduta all'improvviso in un baratro profondo; da qui la sua rinascita, lentamente come un mantra attraverso il sapore del vento e le carezze delle foglie. Elizabeth ritrova molti personaggi misteriosi che a loro modo le donano un pizzico di vita e di surreale libertà.
Una storia bella, con una scrittura articolata e elegante. Semplice nella sua sintassi ma elaborata e precisa. Un classico di altri tempi che non ha nulla a che vedere con i moderni stili di scrittura.
Redatto sotto forma di diario ci immergiamo completamente nella vita di Elizabeth, romantica e vera con una storia di vita vissuta e ribaltata. Uno stile impeccabile con personaggi che rimangono nel cuore!
Una storia bella, con una scrittura articolata e elegante. Semplice nella sua sintassi ma elaborata e precisa. Un classico di altri tempi che non ha nulla a che vedere con i moderni stili di scrittura.
Redatto sotto forma di diario ci immergiamo completamente nella vita di Elizabeth, romantica e vera con una storia di vita vissuta e ribaltata. Uno stile impeccabile con personaggi che rimangono nel cuore!
May 19, 2020
Breve racconto piacevole, leggero, solo apparentemente frivolo, che contiene brani acuti e lampanti contro il patriottismo, il razzismo, la guerra, e con guizzi di brillante e puro arnimismo (non saprei come definire il particolarissimo credo, o stile esistenziale, di questa autrice); lo spunto, infatti, autobiografico ma rielaborato, di ritrarre una donna inglese che ha sposato un tedesco e che, nel 1919, vedova di guerra, non può vivere né in Germania né in Inghilterra, perché disprezzata da entrambe le parti, ed è costretta a riparare in Svizzera senza un soldo per sopravvivere, era un’ottima idea per un romanzo. Peccato che sia sprecata in un racconto breve, e guastata da un finale frettoloso, troppo semplice e troppo lieto.
January 3, 2016
Elizabeth von Arnim's heart is so completely MY heart. How she portrayed it on paper so perfectly time after time--that's the amazing part. The practical, prudent part of me says four stars, but my heart says five.
Want to read
October 16, 2018Free download available at Project Gutenberg.
February 24, 2011
After what I think is my favorite Von Arnim so far, Fraulein Schmidt and Mr Anstruther, this one was a bit anti-climactic. But it's Von Arnim, so still very good.
The premise is a tired English woman (I'm not sure if we ever know her name) after WWI escapes some personal troubles in London (we never know exactly what) and goes to her house among the Swiss mountains that has been vacant during the whole of the war. It is the start of summer, and at first our narrator spends her time sporadically writing in her journal (which we are reading) and lying in the grass, trying to get back her energy to face the world again. As she gains strength, she starts to notice that she is lonely, and almost immediately two English women, also of ambiguous personal circumstances, show up literally on her doorstep. The hostess takes them in, and they embark on a strange and endearing path to helping each other.
The plot has a lot in common with other Von Arnim novels--I would say something like a sequel to Vera and Fraulein Schmidt and a prequel to The Enchanted April. I do highly recommend this for other Von Arnim fans since there seem to be more and more of us out there. Others may like this one for it's original narrative technique and highly readable prose.
This should be just out at Gutenberg and soon out at Girlebooks--the text was a proofreading project I did with Marc at freeliterature.org.
The premise is a tired English woman (I'm not sure if we ever know her name) after WWI escapes some personal troubles in London (we never know exactly what) and goes to her house among the Swiss mountains that has been vacant during the whole of the war. It is the start of summer, and at first our narrator spends her time sporadically writing in her journal (which we are reading) and lying in the grass, trying to get back her energy to face the world again. As she gains strength, she starts to notice that she is lonely, and almost immediately two English women, also of ambiguous personal circumstances, show up literally on her doorstep. The hostess takes them in, and they embark on a strange and endearing path to helping each other.
The plot has a lot in common with other Von Arnim novels--I would say something like a sequel to Vera and Fraulein Schmidt and a prequel to The Enchanted April. I do highly recommend this for other Von Arnim fans since there seem to be more and more of us out there. Others may like this one for it's original narrative technique and highly readable prose.
This should be just out at Gutenberg and soon out at Girlebooks--the text was a proofreading project I did with Marc at freeliterature.org.
May 6, 2024
Well, this is perhaps not truly a 5-star Elizabeth Von Arnim book. If I had read it at any other time, it would have been a 4 star book. But as I read this I was so gladdened, so joyous, so, so... I was brimming with Elizabeth Von Arnim, I was completely soaked like a sponge in Elizabeth Von Arnimness, and who knew that I was in such great need of such a book? Pure luck, that I picked it up and read it when I did. I sometimes forget that she wrote Vera, which is one of the most powerful books on misogyny I have ever read, one of the most powerful books relating a horrible relationship between a man and a woman who loves him and does not see what she is getting into, does not see him, does not see that he is One of Those Men, that one must stay away from them, the horror, the emotional abuse is so horrible and so well described... I forget, but then I remember. She also wrote the Pastor's Wife, so she Knows... she really Knows... oh, and her man of wrath in her garden...
Uplift and joy and mountains and silliness and words that are so, so lovely... Thank you...
Uplift and joy and mountains and silliness and words that are so, so lovely... Thank you...
December 25, 2017
I have read a number of Von Arnim’s books and always enjoy them. In the Mountains was no exception. Whilst in a sense nothing much really happens, I still found it captivating throughout. And Von Arnim skilfully paints characters. There were times when I, just like the narrator, felt that I would scream or do some violence to Mrs Barnes if she did not lift her silence in regards to Dolly, or leave the latter alone with others to allow them to have a real conversation with her. Thankfully, whenever I was at the point that I thought I could not take any more, something would happen to alleviate the pressure. If you’ve read any other of von Arnim’s books and enjoyed them, I highly recommend also trying In the Mountains.
August 8, 2018
Sono molto contenta di aver ripreso questo romanzo autobiografico di Elizabeth von Arnim scritto sotto forma di diario. In principio non ero riuscita a reggere lo stato d'animo di Elizabeth, provata dai tanti lutti per la Prima Guerra Mondiale, quando anch'io leggevo per superare i miei lutti.
Ma, una volta superata la triste prima parte - che comunque è allietata dalle bellezze dei paesaggi montani delle Alpi Svizzere - il romanzo diventa un piccolo bijoux, con i suoi pochi ma ben definiti personaggi, ciascuno con la propria personalità unica. In particolare, ho adorato Mrs. Barnes, l'insopportabile despota che sconfigge tutti a suon di cortesie, ridendo di gusto quando la povera Elizabeth era costretta a morire di freddo all'arrivo dell'autunno per non offendere le due ospiti - ma più Mrs. Barnes che Mrs. Jewks - che non tolleravano si accendesse il camino solo per loro.
«Madame devrait faire faire un peu de feu dans la halle» ha commentato. «Ces dames auront bien froid».
«Ces dames non vogliono che lo accenda» ho cercato di spiegare con il francese più appassionato che mi è riuscito di mettere insieme. «Ces dames mi implorano di non accenderlo. Ces dames si rifiutano di accendere il fuoco. Ces dames sono ferocemente contrarie ad accendere il fuoco. La determinazione di ces dames a non voler accendere il fuoco finirà per uccidermi».
E, nella magica atmosfera delle Alpi Svizzere, prima Elizabeth e poi suo zio dimenticheranno i sentimenti anti-tedeschi per abbracciare un imparziale spirito internazionale come la cara Dolly.
Ma, una volta superata la triste prima parte - che comunque è allietata dalle bellezze dei paesaggi montani delle Alpi Svizzere - il romanzo diventa un piccolo bijoux, con i suoi pochi ma ben definiti personaggi, ciascuno con la propria personalità unica. In particolare, ho adorato Mrs. Barnes, l'insopportabile despota che sconfigge tutti a suon di cortesie, ridendo di gusto quando la povera Elizabeth era costretta a morire di freddo all'arrivo dell'autunno per non offendere le due ospiti - ma più Mrs. Barnes che Mrs. Jewks - che non tolleravano si accendesse il camino solo per loro.
«Madame devrait faire faire un peu de feu dans la halle» ha commentato. «Ces dames auront bien froid».
«Ces dames non vogliono che lo accenda» ho cercato di spiegare con il francese più appassionato che mi è riuscito di mettere insieme. «Ces dames mi implorano di non accenderlo. Ces dames si rifiutano di accendere il fuoco. Ces dames sono ferocemente contrarie ad accendere il fuoco. La determinazione di ces dames a non voler accendere il fuoco finirà per uccidermi».
E, nella magica atmosfera delle Alpi Svizzere, prima Elizabeth e poi suo zio dimenticheranno i sentimenti anti-tedeschi per abbracciare un imparziale spirito internazionale come la cara Dolly.
August 1, 2022
Da tempo mi ero ripromessa di leggere altro di Elizabeth von Armin e non mi sono affatto pentita. Adoro il suo modo di scrivere, la sua schiettezza e ironia, la trovo così mentalmente moderna per l’epoca.
Questo romanzo, molto autobiografico, è stato un toccasana piacevole in queste calde giornate d’estate.
Elisabeth torna a soggiornare nel suo chalet tra le montagne svizzere. È mentalmente stanca e sfinita perché devastata dagli orrori della guerra e dalle perdite importanti che ha subito, prima fra tutte quella di sua figlia. Come un animale ferito cerca riparo nella solitudine e nella natura; apatica sembra destinata ad arrendersi alla tristezza. Ma il giorno del suo compleanno, due donne inglesi giungono per caso allo chalet. Da quel momento tutto sembra cambiare e la speranza pian piano si riaccende.
Un romanzo divertente ma allo stesso tempo profondo, vale la pena di leggerlo.
Questo romanzo, molto autobiografico, è stato un toccasana piacevole in queste calde giornate d’estate.
Elisabeth torna a soggiornare nel suo chalet tra le montagne svizzere. È mentalmente stanca e sfinita perché devastata dagli orrori della guerra e dalle perdite importanti che ha subito, prima fra tutte quella di sua figlia. Come un animale ferito cerca riparo nella solitudine e nella natura; apatica sembra destinata ad arrendersi alla tristezza. Ma il giorno del suo compleanno, due donne inglesi giungono per caso allo chalet. Da quel momento tutto sembra cambiare e la speranza pian piano si riaccende.
Un romanzo divertente ma allo stesso tempo profondo, vale la pena di leggerlo.
October 8, 2023
Mi tengo bassa come stelle perché nonostante mi sia piaciuto soprattutto per l'ambientazione e il messaggio che vuole mandare, ho trovato alcuni punti noiosi e la storia d'amore (se così si può chiamare) evitabile.
August 25, 2025
I didn't really care for the plot (rather thin anyways), but I could have read 300 more pages of the protagonist's journal entries.
I can't think of anything better than a chalet full of books, high in the mountains and surrounded by beauty, to heal one's wounded soul ✨️
This gets all the stars!
I can't think of anything better than a chalet full of books, high in the mountains and surrounded by beauty, to heal one's wounded soul ✨️
This gets all the stars!
July 25, 2022
This is one of those novels where not much happens really (and I'm still not sure what happened in the past to the narrator, exactly), but I love the narrator's voice so much that I was happy and cozy and charmed the whole time while reading it. Since I felt the same about The Enchanted April, which I have read at least three times, I am convinced Elizabeth von Arnim and I would have been great friends if not for how we are separated by a hundred years.
August 9, 2018
A book about three English women in Switzerland after WWI, who seem to be so bent on not offending each other that they make themselves miserable. They are trapped until, surprise(!) a man comes along and rescues them from this impossible situation.
Ah, Elizabeth, I expected better of you.
Ah, Elizabeth, I expected better of you.
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