Immensee
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Theodore W. Storm >> Immensee
He took up another sheet: "I stood on the mountain height [Footnote:
An ancient folk-song which treats of a beautiful but poor maiden, who,
being unable to marry 'the young count,' retired to a convent.]..."
"I know that one," cried Elisabeth; "begin it, do, Reinhard, and I
will help you out."
So they sang that famous melody, which is so mysterious that one can
hardly believe that it was ever conceived by the heart of man,
Elisabeth with her slightly clouded contralta taking the second part
to the young man's tenor.
The mother meanwhile sat busy with her needlework, while Eric listened
attentively, with one hand clasped in the other. The song finished,
Reinhard laid the sheet on one side in silence. Up from the lake-shore
came through the evening calm the tinkle of the cattle bells; they
were all listening without knowing why, and presently they heard a
boy's clear voice singing:
I stood on the mountain height
And viewed the deep valley beneath....
Reinhard smiled. "Do you hear that now? So it passes from mouth to
mouth."
"It is often sung in these parts," said Elisabeth.
"Yes," said Eric, "it is Casper the herdsman; he is driving the
heifers [Footnote:
Starke is the southern dialect word for
Färse, 'young cow,' 'heifer.'] home."
They listened a while longer until the tinkle of the bells died away
behind the farm buildings. "These melodies are as old as the world,"
said Reinhard; "they slumber in the depths of the forest; God knows
who discovered them."
He drew forth a fresh sheet.
It had now grown darker; a crimson evening glow lay like foam over the
woods in the farther side of the lake. Reinhard unrolled the sheet,
Elisabeth caught one side of it in her hand, and they both examined it
together. Then Reinhard read:
By my mother's hard decree
Another's wife I needs must be;
Him on whom my heart was set,
Him, alas! I must forget;
My heart protesting, but not free.
Bitterly did I complain
That my mother brought me pain.
What mine honour might have been,
That is turned to deadly sin.
Can I ever hope again?
For my pride what can I show,
And my joy, save grief and woe?
h! could I undo what's done,
O'er the moor scorched by the sun
Beggarwise I'd gladly go.
During the reading of this Reinhard had felt an imperceptible
quivering of the paper; and when he came to an end Elisabeth gently
pushed her chair back and passed silently out into the garden. Her
mother followed her with a look. Eric made as if to go after, but the
mother said:
"Elisabeth has one or two little things to do outside," so he remained
where he was.
But out of doors the evening brooded darker and darker over garden and
lake. Moths whirred past the open doors through which the fragrance of
flower and bush floated in increasingly; up from the water came the
croak of the frogs, under the windows a nightingale commenced his song
answered by another from within the depths of the garden; the moon
appeared over the tree-tops.
Reinhard looked for a little while longer at the spot where
Elisabeth's sweet form had been lost to sight in the thick-foliaged
garden paths, and then he rolled up his manuscript, bade his friends
good-night and passed through the house down to the water.
The woods stood silent and cast their dark shadow far out over the
lake, while the centre was bathed in the haze of a pale moonlight. Now
and then a gentle rustle trembled through the trees, though wind there
was none; it was but the breath of summer night.
Reinhard continued along the shore. A stone's throw from the land he
perceived a white water-lily. All at once he was seized with the
desire to see it quite close, so he threw off his clothes and entered
the water. It was quite shallow; sharp stones and water plants cut his
feet, and yet he could not reach water deep enough for him to swim in.
Then suddenly he stepped out of his depth: the waters swirled above
him; and it was some time before he rose to the surface again. He
struck out with hands and feet and swam about in a circle until he had
made quite sure from what point he had entered the water. And soon too
he saw the lily again floating lonely among the large, gleaming
leaves.
He swam slowly out, lifting every now and then his arms out of the
water so that the drops trickled down and sparkled in the moonlight.
Yet the distance between him and the flower showed no signs of
diminishing, while the shore, as he glanced back at it, showed behind
him in a hazy mist that ever deepened. But he refused to give up the
venture and vigorously continued swimming in the same direction.
At length he had come so near the flower that he was able clearly to
distinguish the silvery leaves in the moonlight; but at the same time
he felt himself entangled in a net formed by the smooth stems of the
water plants which swayed up from the bottom and wound themselves
round his naked limbs.
The unfamiliar water was black all round about him, and behind him he
heard the sound of a fish leaping. Suddenly such an uncanny feeling
overpowered him in the midst of this strange element that with might
and main he tore asunder the network of plants and swam back to land
in breathless haste. And when from the shore he looked back upon the
lake, there floated the lily on the bosom of the darkling water as far
away and as lonely as before.
He dressed and slowly wended his way home. As he passed out of the
garden into the room he discovered Eric and the mother busied with
preparations for a short journey which had to be undertaken for
business purposes on the morrow.
"Where ever have you been so late in the dark?" the mother called out
to him.
"I?" he answered, "oh, I wanted to pay a call on the water-lily, but I
failed."
"That's beyond the comprehension of any man," said Eric. "What on
earth had you to do with the water-lily?"
"Oh, I used to be friends with the lily once," said Reinhard; "but
that was long ago."
* * * * *
ELISABETH
The following afternoon Reinhard and Elisabeth went for a walk on the
farther side of the lake, strolling at times through the woodland, at
other times along the shore where it jutted out into the water.
Elisabeth had received injunctions from Eric, during the absence of
himself and her mother to show Reinhard the prettiest views in the
immediate neighbourhood, particularly the view toward the farm itself
from the other side of the lake. So now they proceeded from one point
to another.
At last Elisabeth got tired and sat down in the shade of some
overhanging branches. Reinhard stood opposite to her, leaning against
a tree trunk; and as he heard the cuckoo calling farther back in the
woods, it suddenly struck him that all this had happened once before.
He looked at her and with an odd smile asked:
"Shall we look for strawberries?"
"It isn't strawberry time," she said.
"No, but it will soon be here."
Elisabeth shook her head in silence; then she rose and the two
strolled on together. And as they wandered side by side, his eyes ever
and again were bent toward her; for she walked gracefully and her step
was light. He often unconsciously fell back a pace in order that he
might feast his eyes on a full view of her.
So they came to an open space overgrown with heather where the view
extended far over the country-side. Reinhard bent down and plucked a
bloom from one of the little plants that grew at his feet. When he
looked up again there was an expression of deep pain on his face.
"Do you know this flower?" he asked.
She gave him a questioning look. "It is an erica. I have often
gathered them in the woods."
"I have an old book at home," he said; "I once used to write in it all
sorts of songs and rhymes, but that is all over and done with long
since. Between its leaves also there is an erica, but it is only a
faded one. Do you know who gave it me?"
She nodded without saying a word; but she cast down her eyes and fixed
them on the bloom which he held in his hand. For a long time they
stood thus. When she raised her eyes on him again he saw that they
were brimming over with tears.
"Elisabeth," he said, "behind yonder blue hills lies our youth. What
has become of it?"
Nothing more was spoken. They walked dumbly by each other's side down
to the lake. The air was sultry; to westward dark clouds were rising.
"There's going to be a storm," said Elisabeth, hastening her steps.
Reinhard nodded in silence, and together they rapidly sped along the
shore till they reached their boat.
On the way across Elisabeth rested her hand on the gunwale of the
boat. As he rowed Reinhard glanced along at her, but she gazed past
him into the distance. And so his glance fell downward and rested on
her hand, and the white hand betrayed to him what her lips had failed
to reveal.
It revealed those fine traces of secret pain that so readily mark a
woman's fair hands, when they lie at nights folded across an aching
heart. And as Elisabeth felt his glance resting on her hand she let it
slip gently over the gunwale into the water.
On arriving at the farm they fell in with a scissors grinder's cart
standing in front of the manor-house. A man with black, loosely-
flowing hair was busily plying his wheel and humming a gipsy melody
between his teeth, while a dog that was harnessed to the cart lay
panting hard by. On the threshold stood a girl dressed in rags, with
features of faded beauty, and with outstretched hand she asked alms of
Elisabeth.
Reinhard thrust his hand into his pocket, but Elisabeth was before
him, and hastily emptied the entire contents of her purse into the
beggar's open palm. Then she turned quickly away, and Reinhard heard
her go sobbing up the stairs.
He would fain have detained her, but he changed his mind and remained
at the foot of the stairs. The beggar girl was still standing at the
doorway, motionless, and holding in her hand the money she had
received.
"What more do you want?" asked Reinhard.
She gave a sudden start: "I want nothing more," she said; then,
turning her head toward him and staring at him with wild eyes, she
passed slowly out of the door. He uttered a name, but she heard him
not; with drooping head, with arms folded over her breast, she walked
down across the farmyard:
Then when death shall claim me,
I must die alone.
An old song surged in Reinhard's ears, he gasped for breath; a little
while only, and then he turned away and went up to his chamber.
He sat down to work, but his thoughts were far afield. After an hour's
vain attempt he descended to the parlour. Nobody was in it, only cool,
green twilight; on Elisabeth's work-table lay a red ribbon which she
had worn round her neck during the afternoon. He took it up in his
hand, but it hurt him, and he laid it down again.
He could find no rest. He walked down to the lake and untied the boat.
He rowed over the water and trod once again all the paths which he and
Elisabeth had paced together but a short hour ago. When he got back
home it was dark. At the farm he met the coachman, who was about to
turn the carriage horses out into the pasture; the travellers had just
returned.
As he came into the entrance hall he heard Eric pacing up and down the
garden-room. He did not go in to him; he stood still for a moment, and
then softly climbed the stairs and so to his own room. Here he sat in
the arm-chair by the window. He made himself believe that he was
listening to the nightingale's throbbing music in the garden hedges
below, but what he heard was the throbbing of his own heart.
Downstairs in the house every one went to bed, the night-hours passed,
but he paid no heed.
For hours he sat thus, till at last he rose and leaned out of the open
window. The dew was dripping among the leaves, the nightingale had
ceased to trill. By degrees the deep blue of the darksome sky was
chased away by a faint yellow gleam that came from the east; a fresh
wind rose and brushed Reinhard's heated brow; the early lark soared
triumphant up into the sky.
Reinhard suddenly turned and stepped up to the table. He groped about
for a pencil and when he had found one he sat down and wrote a few
lines on a sheet of white paper. Having finished his writing he took
up hat and stick, and leaving the paper behind him, carefully opened
the door and descended to the vestibule.
The morning twilight yet brooded in every corner; the big house-cat
stretched its limbs on the straw mat and arched its back against
Reinhard's hand, which he unthinkingly held out to it. Outside in the
garden the sparrows were already chirping their patter [Footnote:
Literally, "sang out pompously, like priests." The word seems to have
been coined by the author. The English 'patter' is derived from
Pater noster, and seems an appropriate translation.] from among
the branches, and giving notice to all that the night was now past.
Then within the house he heard a door open on the upper floor; some
one came downstairs, and on looking up he saw Elisabeth standing
before him. She laid her hand upon his arm, her lips moved, but not a
word did he hear.
Presently she said: "You will never come back. I know it; do not deny
it; you will never come back."
"No, never," he said.
She let her hand fall from his arm and said no more. He crossed the
hall to the door, then turned once more. She was standing motionless
on the same spot and looking at him with lifeless eyes. He advanced
one step and opened his arms toward her; then, with a violent effort,
he turned away and so passed out of the door.
Outside the world lay bathed in morning light, the drops of pearly dew
caught on the spiders' webs glistened in the first rays of the rising
sun. He never looked back; he walked rapidly onward; behind him the
peaceful farmstead gradually disappeared from view as out in front of
him rose the great wide world.
* * * * *
THE OLD MAN
The moon had ceased to shine in through the window-panes, and it had
grown quite dark; but the old man still sat in his arm-chair with
folded hands and gazed before him into the emptiness of the room.
Gradually. the murky darkness around him dissolved away before his
eyes and changed into a broad dark lake; one black wave after another
went rolling on farther and farther, and on the last one, so far away
as to be almost beyond the reach of the old man's vision, floated
lonely among its broad leaves a white water-lily.
The door opened, and a bright glare of light filled the room.
"I am glad that you have come, Bridget," said the old man. "Set the
lamp upon the table."
Then he drew his chair up to the table, took one of the open books and
buried himself in studies to which he had once applied all the
strength of his youth.