“No, I don’t want you to feel like that,” cried Lolo as she pulled away from him.
Notes
23 ‘My tribe, it is the Asra, who die when they love’: The last two lines of the poem Der Asra, by Heinrich Heine (1797-1856). The poem was set to music by Carl Loewe (1796-1869) in 1863. It was based on an old Middle-Eastern folktale that served as source material for a number of nineteenth-century European writers. The lines cited here are spoken by a love-struck young slave to the daughter of the sultan.
24 At this time it was customary in much of Europe to speak of only five continents: North and South America were lumped together as a single continent and Antarctica was excluded altogether. The five interlocking rings of the flag of the Olympic Games, designed at just about the same time that Waves was written, symbolise these five traditional continents.”
Chapter Seven
The next day was a Sunday. The Generalin and Frau von Buttlär sat in their wicker beach chairs and read devotional books. From time to time Frau von Buttlär raised her eyes and looked down at the brightly illuminated beach and at the sea, which today was blue and gold and as calm as a duck pond. Suddenly she fixed her eyes on two colourful little figures walking along the yellow wall of dunes. Doralice, wearing a turquoise-blue summer dress with some of Lolo’s roses tucked into her waistband, and carrying a red parasol, was walking with Baron Buttlär at her side. The Baron seemed to be talking animatedly, and his whole body, his manner of walking expressed polite kindness. Frau von Buttlär struck her book with the palm of her hand and said: “There you have it.” The Generalin had also looked up and replied: “Well, he didn’t lose any time in expressing his gratitude.”
“Gratitude,” cried Frau von Buttlär, “it really wasn’t called for. I don’t understand Buttlär. He has a wife, he has grown daughters, and yet he compromises us in this way. What can this person give him? What does he want from her?”
“Nothing, absolutely nothing,” the Generalin reassured her, “he just can’t resist flirting. It’s the same old story: when you get married, you want a handsome husband, but a handsome husband holds up better than we do, he doesn’t bring any children into the world, he takes better care of himself, and as a result the desire to flirt lasts longer for him than it does for us.”
“But, Mama,” protested Frau von Buttlär indignantly, “marriage is much too holy for such things even to be considered.”
“Marriage, my dear,” replied the Generalin, “may be most holy, but our husbands are not. By the way, it is growing more and more colourful down there.”
Hilmar and Lolo came down the strand from the opposite direction arm in arm, and when they met Doralice and Herr von Buttlär they stopped and greetings were exchanged. From yet another direction appeared Hans Grill and the Privy Counsellor, who attached themselves to the group. It was a pretty sight – the way these people stood together in the brilliant sunshine, the way the bright colours of their clothing, the red and the blond of their hair bloomed and shone against the backdrop of the yellow dunes. Frau von Buttlär could no long muster the energy for anger, she was too worried: “What should I do, Mama?” she asked mournfully. “My dear child,” said the Generalin, “you have no choice but to seize the initiative. You must establish some sort of relationship with this lady. When something forbidden is close by, for example a lady whose name may not be spoken in our presence, it drives the men wild. But if we acknowledge this lady even halfway she will lose much of her charm.”
“I don’t think I will ever be able to do that,” wailed Frau von Buttlär. “Why am I so put upon? First the battles with the governesses and now this.”
The group down on the beach was breaking up, exchanging farewells and then parting. Frau von Buttlär watched gravely and sorrowfully as her husband approached. But when he stood before her she looked down at her book and said nothing. Herr von Buttlär, though, felt the need to start talking rapidly in a forced and cheerful manner. Well, he had made the acquaintance of the local fallen woman, dear God, and she didn’t look too terrible, but in all seriousness it was better this way, you couldn’t just avoid a person here, which would be awkward in the long run, and now they could exchange greetings and speak to each other on neutral ground. Here in this secluded corner of the world it was not compromising anyway. There was in any case no question of any actual social contact, was there? Frau von Buttlär now looked up and asked, as if she had not been listening: “Aren’t we going to read a sermon today?”
“Certainly, my dear,” cried Herr von Buttlär, “is it already time then? Well, let’s go.” The family went back to the Bull’s Inn, assembled in the sitting room and Herr von Buttlär read a sermon aloud to them. It was observed by all that his wife wept during the service.
During the midday meal that followed the sombre atmosphere dampened the mood of those at table. Herr von Buttlär made great efforts to keep the conversation flowing. He eventually turned to Fräulein Bork and conversed exclusively with her about literature. He condemned realism in literature. Art should delight, should it not? Life was certainly not cheerful enough to be photographed so simply. Since his wife sighed at these words, he quickly changed the subject and talked about the Kaiser.25
This Sunday afternoon was very hot, yellow sunshine in the whitewashed rooms and above the sandy garden. The ladies retired. Herr von Buttlär sat in the sitting room behind his newspaper and napped and the engaged couple walked up and down the veranda.
“Please, darling,” said Hilmar, “don’t look at me so expectantly. I mean, you have the right of course to look at me that way, because you have the right to expect me to be pleasant and entertaining. But I don’t know why, this Sunday afternoon has sapped all of my energy.”
“Poor Hilmar,” replied Lolo a little mockingly, “stuck for the whole day in his blue velvet coat.”
“Nonsense, nonsense,” cried Hilmar, “I’m just in a mood. I have never really been able to tolerate Sunday afternoons. Come let’s sit in the shade and I will teach you to play piquet.”26
Only towards evening did it become livelier in the house. The Generalin entered the sitting room, her loud, forceful voice ringing out and awakening the sleeping house. Then Frau von Buttlär appeared, having performed her toilette and put on a hat decorated with ears of grain and poppies. She was still very grave. She put on her gloves and said to her husband: “Give me your arm, Buttlär, and we will go admire the sunset. Where are the children? Lolo, Nini, Wedig!” They all had to come along, and the family marched in pairs down to the shore. “Bravo, Bella!” said the Generalin, “always retain the initiative.” Wedig, however, grumbled: “This is supposed to be enjoyable. There is not the slightest chance of meeting the Countess, she doesn’t take her walk at this hour.”
The next morning Hilmar came to breakfast with flushed cheeks and flashing eyes. He had already been out and about and had made the acquaintance of the fishermen. Capital fellows! There was one named Andree Stibbe, a blond giant with pale blue eyes, as pale as spoilt milk. When he looked at you, it was as if you were being regarded by a very haughty codfish. Hilmar had spoken with him about a boat for sailing, he was also going to go accompany him on a fishing trip. By the way, Stibbe had promised a storm in the near future. He had also seen the painter, who seemed a decent chap. His beautiful wife had just been bathing in a very striking navy blue bathing costume. Finally he had spoken with his Excellency Knospelius, an extremely interesting gentleman. He takes a special interest in the social life here; he wants to throw a party, something like an Italian night. His servant, an incredibly earnest Anabaptist,27 is already pasting together the paper lanterns for the party.
“Klaus,” says his Excellency, “is very useful when it comes to providing for what he calls our sins.” Lolo had listened attentively and now said with resignation: “If you’re going to be sailing out to sea all the time, I suppose there will be nothing for me to do but sit on the dunes and watch you go.”
“But why, why?” cried Hil
mar, “that will only be for brief interludes, and you know there will be such interludes, times when I am bored, times when there is nothing to be done with me. Then I will go sailing. By the way, there is something about this in the Bible, about how the wife stays at home and the husband wins renown at the city gates.”
“Make a note of this gate, my child,” said the Generalin, “it will come up often in your marriage.”
“But I will come sailing with you,” announced Wedig from the foot of the table. His mother looked at him compassionately. “You, my poor boy, no, you will stay at home.”
A strange change now came over the boy. His pale face, with its sickly, overly fine features, turned red, his eyes filled with tears, and he began to speak, his voice cracking with passion: “I always have to stay at home, I’m never allowed to do anything, I’m always sitting off to one side. Why? Is there something wrong with me? Am I a cripple? What must people think of me? I’m a complete laughing stock. Yesterday I ran into the Countess, I greeted her, and she stopped and asked me: ‘Do you also like to bathe?’ I said, ‘Yes,’ but I couldn’t tell her that I’m not allowed to go into the sea, that I only take warm salt water baths.”
“Wedig, go to your room,” said Frau von Buttlär. Wedig had turned very pale again, he stood up and, stiff-legged with defiance, left the room. Silence descended on the table, everyone was taken aback by the incident. Finally Frau von Buttlär said anxiously: “I have no idea where all my children get their high-strung dispositions.”
“My dear,” responded Herr von Buttlär, laying his hand tenderly on the hand of his wife, “they get their brilliance at any rate from you.” The Generalin laughed.
“Well now,” she said, “I think it is the weather that makes you all so brilliant, but thank God, the barometer is falling.”
Notes
25 …the Kaiser: Emperor Wilhelm II (reigned 1888-1918), Germany’s last Kaiser, a foolish, impetuous, vainglorious monarch who had squandered most of his popularity by the time Waves was written.
26 piquet: A card game for two people. The game originated in France, but it was popular for centuries with the upper classes throughout Europe.
27 Anabaptist: A radical Protestant group that first emerged in the sixteenth century. Members of this sect rejected infant baptism, called for the complete separation of church and state, and insisted on a literal interpretation of the Bible. Their refusal to take oaths, hold political office, or serve in the military often led to conflict with the state.
Chapter Eight
Keep busy, keep busy, Hans Grill had insisted, and so they went out with Wardein on an overnight fishing trip. The moon stood high in the heavens, the sea was calm, stirred only by the gentle, slow-moving rise and fall of the swell, as if the boat were sliding over a landscape of glassy hills. Wardein sat at the helm and smoked. Two blond, round-headed lads, Mathies and Thomas, were rowing; shapeless in their bulky jackets, they bent forwards and backwards rhythmically. Doralice had been set up on a little folding chair, securely wrapped in a blanket and a cloak. Hans sat near her on the bench. Everyone remained silent, Wardein only now and then issued an order, which sounded like a deep growl. The horizon was obscured by a bank of thin, silver fog, but Doralice believed she could sense the infinite vastness, just as she thought she could feel the dark depths beneath her, and both, the depths and the vastness, oppressed her, like something that took away her breath, that frightened her, that gave her the feeling of being lost and lonely.
Why didn’t one of these men say something? Why did they sit there silently wrapped in their coats, their hat brims pulled down over their faces like dark, strange figures in a dream? Then Hans bent down to her, pressed her hand and asked: “How are you doing?”
“Fine,” she replied and smiled – no one must know that she was afraid, but the pressure on her hand, the calm, friendly voice did her good, restored to her some sense of security. And Hans, as if he perceived this, spoke again, asking Wardein: “Are we going to row out to the flounders?”
“Yes, yes, to the flounders,” growled Wardein, “they lurk down below in the sand.”
“Aha,” replied Hans, “so they burrow into the sand down there and wait for their prey, the flat scoundrels.”
The young fellows on the rowing bench began to laugh loudly and hoarsely at the flounders, Doralice laughing along with them. The night was muggy, Mathies was growing hot from the rowing and wanted to take his jacket off. Hans offered to row for him, and they stood up and changed places, walking about the boat as if they were in a sitting room. Mathies took off his jacket, stood there in his shirt sleeves, braced one foot against the gunwale, spat into the sea and whistled softly to himself. And as they all moved so calmly and casually around her, as if they were at home here in the middle of the sea, the oppressive feeling of fear now also left Doralice – yes, it was delightful to feel that she was being accepted gradually into this world as something that belonged here. It felt to her as if something very vast and very powerful were expanding in her chest, as if she could adjust her breathing to the rhythm of the tranquil, shimmering waves all around her, and a childish feeling of pride, of arrogance made her happy. To belong among those who were at home here in the middle of the sea, who were not afraid, appeared to her to be something very great and important. Now and then other boats emerged, very big and black in the uncertain light. Wardein called out to them, and from the same direction came an answer, someone must even have made a joke, because Thomas and Mathies laughed. The boats were now very close together, three of them rowing in a half circle, the men busying themselves with the nets and talking with each other from boat to boat. Amidst these voices, which found it easiest to utter every word as a deep resounding growl, Doralice suddenly heard another voice, high and sharp, which sounded strangely foreign here, as if it were speaking another language. “That is Lieutenant von Hamm,” said Doralice to herself, and this discovery displeased her, it almost outraged her, as if an unauthorised person had forced his way into a place where only the select few were allowed to gather.
In the boat the men began to stir, the great net was carefully lowered into the water, one of the other boats was hailed and a rope was thrown across to it. The moving water flashed like little silver flames, glistening droplets hung on the net. Mathies had rolled up his sleeves so that he could work in the water, when he raised his bare arms silver streamed down on to him. Doralice pulled her cloak more tightly around her, all of her fear and agitation were gone, she felt safe and snug. A slight weariness made her eyelids heavy, and when she closed her eyes, it felt almost like when she was a child and lay in her bed and listened half asleep to the adults around her busying themselves or talking, which had always given her a cosy feeling of security. But every time she opened her eyes, the vast expanse filled with white light in all of its great and cool beauty was once again an agreeable shock, Doralice felt again and again as if the hot, cramped boundaries of the self were blurring and dissolving, as if it were becoming wide and cool inside of her too. It was lovely to switch back and forth between these images, first the half dream of familiar faces and rooms from childhood, then back to the moonlit sea. Once when she opened her eyes the other boats had drawn near, the men cried out and talked, the net was pulled out of the water, Doralice also heard once again the incongruous voice of the lieutenant, the fish snapped and flopped in the big baskets in the boat. It then became quiet and they moved further out. After some time Doralice discovered that it had become dark, the moon must have gone down, stars shone in the heavens, and in the darkness the sea was stirring like a gently moving blacker darkness. Doralice did not know how long they had been travelling like this, but when she opened her eyes once again there was a white glow on the horizon and a grey dawn lay over the water. A strengthening breeze chilled her, all comfort suddenly disappeared, the grey dawn made the sea and the sky appear harsh and austere. Mathies and Thomas were rowing vigorously, their jackets thrown over their shoulders, their chests bare, the
ir breathing laboured. They were seemingly engaged in a race with another boat alongside. In the baskets the bodies of fat, shiny fish gasped and snapped. Hans was standing in the boat, holding a great codfish by the gills, hefting it and laughing at it. Flocks of seagulls came flying in, big and white in the dim light, emitting shrill, greedy cries. How violent it all seemed. What a powerful, ruthless life force emanated from everything – too powerful for Doralice, it made her quite weak, it made her ill, the odour of the sea water, the fish, the damp jackets of the fishermen, all of this flesh of men and plump fish oppressed her, she turned completely pale. A back-and-forth conversation was now taking place between their boat and the neighboring boat. The boats turned towards each other, huddled close together. Hilmar, never losing his balance, leaped easily and skilfully over the gunwale into their boat, and stood next to Doralice and laughed.
“I am paying you a morning call,” he said. Hans nodded to him and showed him the codfish, which he was still holding by the gills. “Yes, indeed, that’s a beauty,” said Hilmar, “that was a magnificent haul.” Then he sat down on the bench opposite Doralice. “I see, Madame, that you are also a bit weary.”
Doralice drew her eyebrows together as she answered dismissively: “It’s probably just the light.”
“Of course, of course,” agreed Hilmar politely, “an unforgiving hour of the day.” Since it seemed as if Doralice wished to remain silent, he also fell silent and lit himself a cigarette. Under the downturned brim of his felt hat, his face, with its sharp, taut features and black, restless eyes, looked very pale, almost sickly. There was something over-refined and delicate about his whole build that pleased Doralice at this moment, that gave her the feeling that she had found a comrade who shared her weaknesses, and the sweet aroma of the Egyptian cigarette seemed like a breath of air from a world that was friendly to her. Now she decided she wanted him to say something more, and so she smiled and said: “By the way, you also look as if you might be a bit worn-out, or is that just the light again?”
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