Иоганн Вольфганг фон Гёте
German Fiction
CHAPTER XI
The country excursion, which had been promised or at least discussed after the walk to Wilmersdorf, was now the favorite topic for several weeks, and whenever Botho came the question was, where to go? All possible places were mentioned: Erkner and Kranichberg, Schwilow and Baumgartenbrück, but all were too much frequented, and so it happened that at last Botho spoke of Hankel's Ablage, the beauty and solitude of which he had heard enthusiastically described. Lena agreed, for all she wanted was to get out into God's green world, as far as possible from the city and its doings, and to be with her lover. It really did not matter where.
The next Friday was decided upon for the excursion. "Agreed." And so they started by the Görlitz afternoon train for Hankel's Ablage, where they had engaged quarters for the night and meant to pass the next day very quietly.
There were very few coaches on the train, but even these were not very full, and so it happened that Botho and Lena found themselves alone. In the next coupe there was a good deal of talk, from which it was plainly to be heard that these were through passengers and not people meaning to stop over at Hankel's Ablage.
Lena was happy, and gave her hand to Botho and gazed silently at the landscape with its woods and meadows. At last she said: "But what will Frau Dörr say about our leaving her at home?"
"She needn't find it out."
"Mother will be sure to tell her,"
"Why, that is rather bad and yet we could not do any differently. Look here! It was well enough out in the fields the other day, because we were quite alone. But if we do find ourselves practically alone at Hankel's Ablage, yet we shall have a host and a hostess and perhaps a waiter from Berlin. And a waiter laughing quietly to himself or at least laughing inwardly, I cannot endure: he would spoil all my pleasure. Frau Dörr, when she is sitting by your mother or teaching the proprieties to old Dörr, is great fun, but not in public. Amongst people she is simply a comical figure and an embarrassment to us."
Towards five the train stopped at the edge of a wood… Actually no one but Botho and Lena got out, and the two walked leisurely and with frequent pauses to a tavern, which stood close to the Spree and about ten minutes' walk from the little station. This "Establishment," as it was described on a slanting signboard, had been originally a mere fisherman's cottage, which had very gradually, and more by addition than by rebuilding, been changed into a tavern. The view across the stream made up for all other deficiencies, so that the brilliant reputation which the place enjoyed among the initiated never for a moment seemed exaggerated. Lena, too, felt quite at home immediately, and went and sat in a sort of veranda-like room that had been built on, and that was half covered over by the branches of an old elm that stood between the house and the bank.
"Let us stay here," said she, "Just see the boats, two, three … and further out a whole fleet is coming. Yes, it was indeed a lucky thought that brought us here. Only see how they run back and forth on the boats and put their weight on the rudder. And yet it is all so silent. Oh, my own dear Botho, how beautiful it is and how I love you!"
Botho rejoiced to see Lena so happy. Something determined and almost severe that had always formed a part of; her character seemed to have disappeared and to have been replaced by a new gentleness, and this change seemed to make her perfectly happy. Presently mine host who had inherited the "Establishment" from his father and grandfather, came to take the orders of the "gentle folk," and especially to ascertain whether they intended to stay overnight, and when this question was answered in the affirmative, he begged them to decide upon their room. There were several at their disposal, but the gable room would probably suit them the best. It was, indeed, low studded, but was large and roomy and had the view across the Spree as far as the Müggelborg.
When his proposal had been accepted, the host went to attend to the necessary preparations, and Botho and Lena were left once more to enjoy to the full the happiness of being quietly alone together. A finch whose nest was in a low bush near by was swinging on a drooping twig of the elm, the swallows were darting here and there, and finally came a black hen followed by a whole brood of ducklings, passed the veranda, and strutted pompously out on a little wooden pier that was built far out over the water. But half way along this pier the hen stopped, while the ducklings plunged into the water and swam away.
Lena watched all this eagerly. "Just look, Botho, how the stream rushes through among the posts." But actually it was neither the pier nor the water flowing through, that attracted her attention, but the two boats that were moored there. She coquetted with the idea and indulged in various trifling questions and references, and only when Botho remained deaf to all this did she express herself more plainly and declare that she wanted to go boating.
"Women are incorrigible. Incorrigible in their light-mindedness. Think of that Easter Monday! Just a hair's breadth …"
"And I should have been drowned. Certainly. But that is only one side of the matter. There followed the acquaintance with a handsome man, you may be able to guess whom I mean. His name is Botho. I am sure you will not think of Easter Monday as an unlucky day? I am more amiable and more gallant than you."
"There, there… But can you row, Lena?"
"Of course I can. And I can steer and raise a sail too. Because I was near being drowned, you think I don't know anything? But it was the boy's fault, and for that matter, any one might be drowned."
And then they walked down the pier to the two boats, whose sails were reefed, while their pennants with their names embroidered on them fluttered from the masthead.
"Which shall we take," said Botho, "the Trout or the Hope?"
"Naturally, the Trout. What have we to do with Hope?" Botho understood well enough that Lena said that on purpose to tease him, for in spite of her delicacy of feeling, still as a true child of Berlin she took pleasure in witty little speeches. He excused this little fling, however, and helped her into the boat. Then he sprang in too. Just as he was about to cast off the host came down the pier bringing a jacket and a plaid, because it would grow cold as the sun went down. They thanked him and soon were in the middle of the stream, which was here scarcely three hundred paces wide, as it flowed among the islands and tongues of land. Lena used her oars only now and then, but even these few strokes sufficed to bring them very soon to a field overgrown with tall grass which served as a boatbuilder's yard, where at some little distance from them a new boat was being built and various old leaky ones were being caulked and repaired.
"We must go and see the boats," said Lena gaily, taking Botho's hand and urging him along, but before they could reach the boat builder's yard the sound of hammer and axe ceased and the bells began to ring, announcing the close of the day's work. So they turned aside, perhaps a hundred paces from the dockyard into a path which led diagonally across a field, to a pine wood. The reddish trunks of the trees glowed wonderfully in the light of the sinking sun, while their tops seemed floating in a bluish mist.
"I wish I could pick you a pretty bunch of flowers," said Botho, taking Lena's hand. "But look, there is just the grassy field, all grass and no flowers. Not one."
"But there are plenty. Only you do not see them, because you are too exacting."
"And even if I were, it is only for your sake."
"Now, no excuses. You shall see that I can find some."
And stooping down, she searched right and left saying: "Only look, here … and there … and here again. There are more here than in Dörr's garden; only you must have an eye for them." And she plucked the flowers diligently, stooping for them and picking weeds and grass with them, until in a very short time she had a quantity both of attractive blossoms and of useless weeds in her hands.
Meanwhile they had come to an old empty fisherman's hut, in front of which lay an upturned boat on a strip of sand strewn with pine cones from the neighboring wood.
"This is just right for us," said Botho: "we will sit down here. You must be tired. And now let me see what you have gathered. I don't believe you know yourself, and I shall have to play the botanist. Give them here. This is ranunculus, or buttercup, and this is mouse's ear. Some call it false forget-me-not. False, do you hear? And this one with the notched leaf is taraxacum, our good old dandelion, which the French use for salad. Well, I don't mind. But there is a distinction between a salad and a bouquet."
"Just give them back," laughed Lena. "You have no eye for such things, because you do not love them, and the eyes and love always belong together. First you said there were no flowers in the field, and now, when we find them, you will not admit that they are really flowers. But they are flowers, and pretty ones too. What will you bet that I can make you something pretty out of them."
"I am really curious to see what you will choose."
"Only those that you agree to. And now let us begin. Here is a forget-me-not, but no mouse's ear-forget-me-not, but a real one. Do you agree?"
"Yes."
"And this is speedwell, the prize of honor, a dainty little blossom. That is surely good enough for you. I do not even need to ask. And this big reddish brown one is the devil's paintbrush, and must have grown on purpose for you. Oh yes, laugh at it. And these," and she stooped to pick a couple of yellow blossoms, that were growing in the sand at her feet, "these are immortelles."
"Immortelles," said Botho. "They are old Frau Nimptsch's passion. Of course we must take those, we need them. And now we must tie up our little bouquet."
"Very well. But what shall we tie it with? We will wait till we find a strong grass blade."
"No, I will not wait so long. And a grass blade is not good enough for me, it is too thick and coarse. I want something fine. I know what, Lena, you have such beautiful long hair; pull out one and tie the bouquet with that."
"No," said she decidedly.
"No? And why not? Why not?"
"Because the proverb says 'hair binds.' And if I bind the flowers with it you too will be bound."
"But that is superstition. Frau Dörr says so."
"No, the good old soul told me herself. And whatever she has told me from my youth up, even if it seemed like superstition, I have always found it correct."
"Well, have it so. I will not contradict you. But I will not have the flowers tied with anything else but a strand of your hair. And you will not be so obstinate as to refuse me."
She looked at him, pulled a long hair from her head and wound it around the bunch of flowers. Then she said: "You chose it. Here, take it. Now you are bound."
He tried to laugh, but the seriousness with which Lena had been speaking, and especially the earnestness with which she had pronounced the last words, did not fail to leave an impression on his mind.
"It is growing cool," said he after a while. "The host was right to bring you a jacket and a plaid. Come, let us start."
And so they went back to the boat, and made haste to cross the stream.
Only now, as they were returning, and coming nearer and nearer, did they see how picturesquely the tavern was situated. The thatched roof sat like a grotesque high cap above the timbered building, whose four little front windows were just being lit for the evening. And at the same time a couple of lanterns were carried out to the veranda, and their weird-looking bands of light shone out across the water through the branches of the old elm, which in the darkness resembled some fantastically wrought grating.
Neither spoke. But the happiness of each seemed to depend upon the question how long their happiness was to last.
CHAPTER XII
It was already growing dark as they landed. "Let us take this table," said Botho, as they stepped on to the veranda again: "You will feel no draught here and I will order you some grog or a hot claret cup, shall I not? I see you are chilly."
He offered several other things, but Lena begged to be allowed to go up to her room, and said that by and by when he came up she would be perfectly well again. She only felt a trifle poorly and did not need anything and if she could only rest a little, it would pass off.
Therewith she excused herself and went up to the gable room which had been prepared in the meantime. The hostess, who was indulging in all sorts of mistaken conjectures, accompanied her, and immediately asked with much curiosity, "What really was the matter," and without waiting for an answer, she went right on: yes, it was always so with young women, she remembered that herself, and before her eldest was born (she now had four and would have had five, but the middle one had come too soon and did not live), she had had just such a time. It just rushed over one so, and one felt ready to die. But a cup of balm tea, that is to say, the genuine monastery balm, would give a quick relief and one would feel like a fish in the water and quite set up and merry and affectionate too. "Yes, yes, gracious lady, when one has four, without counting the little angel …"
Lena had some difficulty in concealing her embarrassment and asked, for the sake of saying something, for a cup of the monastery balm tea, of which she had already heard.
While this conversation was going on up in the gable room, Botho had taken a seat, not in the sheltered veranda, but at a primitive wooden table that was nailed on four posts in front of the veranda and afforded a fine view. He planned to take his evening meal here. He ordered fish, and as the "tench and dill" for which the tavern was famous was brought, the host came to ask what kind of wine the Herr Baron desired? (He gave him this title by mere chance.)
"I think," said Botho, "Brauneberger, or let us say rather Rudesheimer would suit the delicate fish best, and to show that the wine is good you must sit down with me as my guest and drink some of your own wine."
The host bowed smilingly and soon came back with a dusty bottle, while the maid, a pretty Wendin in a woolen gown and a black head-kerchief, brought the glasses on a tray.
"Now let us see," said Botho. "The bottle promises all sorts of good qualities. Too much dust and cobweb is always suspicious, but this … Ah, superb! This is the vintage of '70, is it not? And now we must drink, but to what? To the prosperity of Hankel Ablage."
The host was evidently delighted, and Botho, who saw what a good impression he was making, went on speaking in his own gentle and friendly way: "I find it charming here, and there is only one thing to be said against Hankel's Ablage: its name."
"Yes," agreed the host, "the name might be better and it is really unfortunate for us. And yet there is a reason for the name, Hankel's Ablage really was an Ablage, and so it is still called."
"Very good. But this brings us no further forward than before. Why is it called an Ablage? And what is an Ablage?"
"Well, it is as much as to say a place for loading and unloading. The whole stretch of land hereabouts (and he pointed backward) was, in fact, always one great domain, and was called under Old Fritz and even earlier under the warrior kings the domain Wusterhausen. And the thirty villages as well as the forest and moorland all belonged to it. Now you see the thirty villages naturally had to obtain and use many things, or what amounts to the same thing, they had to have egress and ingress, and for both they needed from the beginning a harbor or a place to buy and sell, and the only doubt would have been what place they should choose for the purpose. They actually chose this place; this bay became a harbor, a mart, an 'Ablage' for all that came and went, and since the fisher who lived here at that time was my grandfather Hankel, the place became 'Hankel's Ablage'."
"It is a pity," said Botho, "that this cannot be so well and clearly explained to everyone," and the host who felt encouraged by the interest shown was about to continue. But before he could begin, the cry of a bird was heard high in the air, and as Botho looked up curiously, he saw that two large, powerful birds, scarcely recognizable in the twilight, were flying above the water.
"Were those wild geese?"
"No, herons. The whole forest hereabouts is full of them. For that matter, it is a regular hunting ground. There are huge numbers of wild boar and deer and woodcock, and among the reeds and rushes here ducks, and snipe."
"Delightful," said Botho, in whom the hunter was waking up. "Do you know I envy you. After all, what is in a name? Ducks, snipe, woodcocks! One could almost wish to be in such pleasant circumstances also. Only it must be lonely here, too lonely."
The host smiled to himself and Botho, who noticed this, became curious and said: "You laugh. But is it not so? For half an hour I have heard nothing but the water gurgling under the pier, and just now the call of the herons. I call that lonely, however beautiful it may be. And now and then a couple of big sailboats glide by, but they are all alike, or at least they look very similar. And really each one seems to be a phantom ship. It is as still as death."
"Certainly," said the host. "But that is only as long as it lasts."
"How so?"
"Yes," repeated the host, "as long as it lasts. You speak of solitude, Herr Baron, and for days together it is truly lonely here. And it might be so for weeks. But scarcely has the ice broken up and the spring come when we have guests and the Berliner has arrived."
"When does he come?"
"Incredibly early. All in a moment there they are. See here, Herr Baron, while I, who am hardened to the weather, am still staying indoors because the east wind blows and the March sun scorches, the Berliner already sits out of doors, lays his summer overcoat on the chair and orders pale ale. For if only the sun shines the Berliner speaks of beautiful weather. It is all the same to him if there is inflammation of the lungs or diphtheria in every wind that blows. It is then that he best likes to play grace-hoops, and some are also fond of Boccia, and when they leave, quite blistered from the reflected sunlight, my heart really aches for them, for there is not one among them whose skin will not peel off at least by the following day."
Botho laughed. "Yes, indeed, the Berliners! And that reminds me, your Spree hereabouts must be the place where the oarsmen and yachtsmen meet to hold their regattas."
"Certainly," said the host. "But that is not saying very much. If there are a good many, there may be fifty or perhaps a hundred. And then all is still again, and the water sports are over for weeks and months. No, club members are comfortable to deal with; by comparison they are endurable. But in June when the steamers come, it is bad. And then it will continue all summer, or at any rate a long, long time …"
"I believe you," said Botho.
"Then a telegram comes every evening. 'Early to-morrow morning at nine o'clock we shall arrive by the steamer Alse. Party to spend the day. 240 persons.' And then follow the names of those who have gotten up the affair. It does well enough for once. But the trouble is, it lasts so long. For how do such parties spend their time? They are out in the woods and fields until it is growing dark, and then comes their dinner, and then they dance till eleven. Now you will say, 'That is nothing much,' and it would not be anything much if the following day were a holiday. But the second day is like the first, and the third is like the second. Every evening at about eleven a steamer leaves with two hundred and forty persons and every morning at nine a steamer arrives with just as many on board. And between whiles everything must be cleared away and tidied up. And so the night passes in airing, polishing and scrubbing, and when the last corner is clean the next boat load is already arriving. Naturally, everything has its good side, and when one counts up his receipts towards midnight one knows what he has been toiling for. 'From nothing you get nothing,' says the proverb and it is quite true, and if I were to fill all the punch bowls that have been drunk here I should have to get a Heidelberg tun. It brings something in, certainly, and is quite right and proper. But according as one moves forward he also moves backward and pays with the best that he has, with his life and health. For what is life without sleep?"
"True, I already see," said Botho, "no happiness is complete. But then comes winter, and then you can sleep like the seven sleepers."
"Yes, if it does not happen to be New Year's or Twelfth Night or Carnival. And these holidays come oftener than the calendar shows. You ought to see the life here when they arrive in sleighs or on skates from all the ten villages, and gather in the great hall that I have built on. Then we don't see one citified face among them, and the Berliners leave us in peace, but the farm hands and chambermaids have their day. Then we see otter skin caps and corduroy jackets with silver buttons, and all kinds of soldiers who are on leave are there also: Schwedter Dragoons and Fürstenwald Uhlans, or perhaps Potsdam Hussars. And everyone is jealous and quarrelsome, and one cannot tell which they like best, dancing or fighting, and on the slightest pretext the villages are arrayed against each other in battle. And so with noise and turbulent sports they pass the whole long night and whole mountains of pancakes disappear, and only at dawn do they leave for home over the frozen river or over the snow."
"Now I see plainly," said Botho, "that you have not very much solitude or deathly stillness. But it is fortunate that I knew nothing about all this, or else I should not have wished to come and should have missed a real pleasure. And I should have been really sorry not to have seen such a beautiful spot… But as you said before; what is life without sleep? and I feel that you are right. I am tired, although it is still early; I think it must be the effect of the air and the water. And then I must go and see … Your good wife has taken so much trouble … Good night, I have talked quite enough."
And thereupon he rose and went into the house, which had now grown very quiet.
Lena had lain down on the bed with her feet on a chair at the bedside and had drunk a cup of the tea that the hostess had brought her. The rest and the warmth did her good, the little attack passed off, and some little time ago she could have gone down to the veranda to join in the conversation of Botho and the landlord. But she was not in a talkative mood, and so she only got up to look around the room, in which she had thus far taken no interest.
And the room was well worth her attention. The timbers and the plastered walls had been allowed to remain since former times, and the whitewashed ceiling was so low that one could reach it with one's hand. But whatever could be improved had been improved. Instead of the small panes which one still saw on the ground floor, a large window reaching nearly down to the floor had been set in, which afforded, as the host had said, a beautiful view of the scenery, both woods and water. But the large window was not all that had been accomplished here in the way of modern comfort. A few good pictures, very likely bought at some auction, hung on the old irregular plastered walls, and where the projecting window gable joined the sloping roof of the room itself stood a pair of handsome toilet tables facing each other. Everything showed that the character of the fisherman's and boatman's tavern had been carefully kept, while at the same time the place had been turned into a pleasing hotel for the rich sportsmen of the yacht club.
Lena was much pleased with all that she saw, and began to examine the pictures that hung in broad frames to the right and left of the bed. They were engravings, the subjects of which interested her keenly, and so she wanted to read the inscriptions under each. One was inscribed "Washington Crossing the Delaware" and the other "The Last Hour at Trafalgar." But she could get no further than merely to decipher the syllables, and although it was a very small matter, it gave her a pang, because it emphasised the chasm that divided her from Botho. He was, indeed, in the habit of making fun of learning and education, but she was clever enough to know what to think of such jesting.
Close to the entrance door, above a rococo table, on which stood some red glasses and a water carafe, hung a gay colored lithograph with an inscription in three languages: "Si jeunesse savait" – a picture which Lena remembered having seen at the Dörrs'. Dörr loved such things. When she saw it here again, she shivered and felt distressed. Her fine sensibility was hurt by the sensual quality of the picture as if it were a distortion of her own feeling, and so, in order to shake off the impression, the went to the window and opened both sashes to let in the night air. Oh. how refreshing it was! She seated herself on the windowsill, which was only a couple of hands' breadth from the floor, threw her left arm around the middle bar and listened to hear what was happening on the veranda. But she heard nothing. Deep stillness reigned, except that in the old elm there was a stirring and rustling, and any discomfort that might have lingered in her mind disappeared at once, as she gazed with ever-growing delight on the picture spread out before her. The water flowed gently, wood and meadow lay in the dim evening light, and the thin crescent of the new moon cast its light on the stream and showed the tremulous motion of the rippling waves.
"How beautiful," said Lena, drawing a deep breath. "And I am so happy," she added.
She could hardly bear to leave the view. But at last she rose, placed a chair before the glass and began to let down her beautiful hair and braid it. While she was thus occupied Botho came in.
"Lena, still up! I thought that I should have to wake you with a kiss."
"You are too early for that, however late you come."
And she rose and went to him. "My dearest Botho, How long you stayed away …"
"And your fever? And your little attack?"
"It has passed off and I have felt well again for the last half hour. And I have been waiting for you all that time." And she led him over to the open window: "Only look. Would not the beauty of that view fill any poor human heart with longing?"
And she clung to him and just as she was closing her eyes, she looked up at him with an expression of rapture.
