“He is coming straight towards us,” thought Doralice, “the daft boy.” Hans saw him coming as well and hot blood rose to his temples. But when Hilmar stood before them and doffed his hat, Hans said calmly and amiably: “Good morning, Herr Baron, a lovely morning.”
“Good morning,” replied Hilmar, a little breathless with excitement. “The lady and gentleman are already hard at it, I see. Ah, Mother Wardein, yes, I would also paint her if I were able. It must be like painting all of eternity.”
“Good sailing weather,” observed Hans.
“Splendid!” declared Hilmar, “the sea is rocking like a cradle today. Yes indeed, and I wanted to ask,” he turned to Doralice, “if you, Madame, would like to come along. There is room for three in the boat, and Stibbe and I are steady sailors.”
Doralice looked at him with surprise and then she had to smile at the stubborn, resolute expression on his face. “Oh, me?” she said, “I don’t think my husband would permit that.”
Hans had jabbed so violently at the canvas with a paintbrush full of vermilion that the cheek of Mother Wardein had received a bright red scratch, and he was surprised to hear his own voice say calmly and persuasively: “Why not? I don’t suppose there is any danger today. If it would give you pleasure, the Baron is certainly an experienced sailor.”
Doralice stared at Hans with a peculiar look of cold astonishment: “Then the case is altered,” she said, “very well, we will go sailing, let us go, Baron.” She got up, nodded curtly to Hans, and then she and Hilmar climbed down from the dunes.
Hans sat for there for a moment and scraped the red streak off the face of Mother Wardein. Suddenly he tossed everything aside, jumped up to the lip of the dune and followed the retreating couple with his gaze. They were already among the boats, he saw Doralice climb aboard, saw Stibbe and Hilmar launch the boat, now all three of them were aboard, and the vessel was climbing effortlessly up the crests of the first green waves. Without giving a thought to Mother Wardein, Hans stormed down the dune to the sea, where he began to pace back and forth, stopping from time to time to gaze out at the sail, and as he stood there pulling at his beard, he looked like a handsome, violent young peasant. He would have liked more than anything to bellow out over the water, and he felt cold here in the hot midday sun. For whose benefit was he acting out this comedy of trust and magnanimous equanimity? Trust? What did he actually know about this woman? He knew only that every fibre of his being rebelled at the thought of losing her. He was not a hunchbacked Excellency, he could not be detached and sceptical. But that was it – this jealousy wounded him, it shamed him, it humiliated him, it shattered his pride and independence, without which he did not think he could survive. No, that had to change, or else he was finished, he would be known for the rest of his life as nothing more than the gentleman who ran away with the Countess Köhne and was now guarding her. “I still don’t see anything,” he heard a nearby voice cry despairingly. The wife of the fisherman Steege was standing near him and gazing with tired eyes at the shimmering sea. Further away on the dunes, however, a group of female figures now appeared, the white piqué dress of the Generalin was fluttering in the breeze, Fräulein Bork and the Baroness Buttlär were also there. They were holding opera glasses to their eyes and looking at the sea, at the white sail that was gliding merrily amidst the midday glitter of the sun. Out there in the boat, beneath that white sail, Hilmar was sitting opposite Doralice and looking at her. Doralice was pensive, she had the vague feeling that she had been insulted by Hans, that it had been unfaithful of him to let her go sailing so calmly. But Hilmar’s face had broken into such a happy, exuberant laugh, the laugh of a boy who has run away from school in order to give himself an unauthorised holiday, that she had to laugh with him and suddenly the playful holiday mood infected her as well. And young Stibbe, who was sitting on the other side of the boat in order to work the sail, crinkled his tanned face covered in light blond fuzz into a wide laugh. “You know,” said Hilmar, “if you had not come sailing, if you were not sitting here, I don’t know what I would have done. But I knew it had to happen.”
“Yes, yes, I am sitting here now,” answered Doralice, “but don’t say such… such passionate things.”
“Oh no, not another word,” cried Hilmar enthusiastically, “it’s not at all necessary, there is nothing more to say. You are sitting there, words won’t bring you any closer. In any case, conversations have ended somewhat disastrously for me of late. Talking to another person, anyone can do that, but being with another person, that is the real art. Now then, if you happen to be tired, here is a blanket, here is a cushion. You could take a nap. It would still be the most enjoyable hour of my life. You don’t want to sleep? Well, just put this cushion behind your back and this one under your feet here, like so – and now there is nothing left for me to say, except perhaps that you might try to look a little more contented. Have you ever noticed that when children eat something very sweet, they grow very grave and their eyes get big and fill with tears? That’s how you ought to look.”
“Oh, I see,” replied Doralice impatiently, “will you also tell me how I am feeling?”
“No, no,” Hilmar assured her, “I mean only that in your eyes there is a little bit of that look lingering from last night.”
“What sort of look is it?” asked Doralice.
“Well, the look you had when you were sitting in your chair by the lamp last night and staring into space,” explained Hilmar. “Yes, I was looking through your window at you; I do that all the time, of course, I can’t help myself. You find that scandalous. It is perhaps scandalous, but I would like to do even more scandalous things. Are you angry?”
“Oh yes,” said Doralice slowly and listlessly, “certainly I am angry, but later, not now.”
“Good, later then,” Hilmar ended the conversation. “Let’s smoke a cigarette.” The sun shone down fiercely on the sea, its yellow glow poured down on the waves like oil, gulls flew slowly quite low over the water and the flapping of the sail in the weakening breeze sounded like the gentle beating of wings.
When the voyage was over, when Doralice and Hilmar stood downcast on the shore facing each other, she offered him her hand and said: “Thank you.” Hilmar frowned. “The land,” he replied grimly, “the land is contemptible.” Then they parted. Doralice made her way home indifferently and hesitantly. The thought of the midday meal, of the steam rising from the plump potatoes, of Agnes’ stern, watchful gaze, and then there was something else, something unexpected, that also tormented her, a feeling of pity for Hans. She had been so distant from him the whole time on the boat, and now she was returning to him without having given him a single thought. Well, whether she found him sad or angry or unpleasant when she got home, she was determined to be kind, and this virtuous impulse made her feel better.
Chapter Twelve
Hans was sitting at the laid dinner table reading. When Doralice entered he looked up and said in his usual quiet voice, “Well, did you enjoy yourself?”
“Yes, very much,” she replied.
“That’s nice,” said Hans, “I will also learn to sail, so that you can enjoy this pursuit without the presence of strange lieutenants. But now we will eat.”
During the meal Hans seemed to be quite at ease, he talked again at length about his plans – he had received a letter from Munich, the outlook seemed favorable, it was the right moment to attempt something there. From time to time he looked at Doralice and waited for an answer, but when she offered a reply it came across as dismissive and testy. Doralice was slipping increasingly into a foul mood. Hans did not seem to notice this, but he was particularly considerate, agreed with her eagerly and treated her like someone in need of special care. The afternoon arrived and filled the room with its golden sunshine. Hans talked still more about all of those things that, as it seemed to Doralice, had nothing to do with her. Again and again he said, “When we are in Munich,” leading Doralice to interrupt him: “In Munich? But that is still a long way off
.”
Hans paused in front of her: “No? I see, hmm. Very well, then we will stay here.”
He tugged thoughtfully at his beard and then resumed his march about the room. “It’s only that,” he began, “a man must have something to do. I am afraid that if we remain here longer, I will turn entirely into a fisherman. I already dream of fish at night.”
“But that’s rather nice,” replied Doralice.
“Perhaps,” continued Hans. “Do you want to go out on the sea with me tonight?”
No, she did not feel like it. “Then perhaps something else,” suggested Hans. “It might amuse you to learn a little cooking with Agnes.”
“With Agnes?” No, Doralice did not fancy that all. Well yes, he found that understandable, all things considered. Fräulein Bork, though, had suggested doing something on behalf of the fishermen’s children. She thought that some sort of instruction for them might produce many blessings; one could keep oneself lovingly occupied with the local poor.
“Do you want to keep me occupied?” asked Doralice.
“I am only looking for something that would be good for you,” replied Hans, but she went on testily: “Is it meant to be a sort of first step in my training?”
Hans blushed: “No, no, that isn’t at all what I meant.” He turned his back to Doralice and looked out the window. Outside a man and a woman were climbing up from the dunes, the fisherman Steege, who had finally come home, and his wife. He was walking along leisurely with a rolling gait, as if nothing had happened, and his little wife trotted behind him, all of the agitation had drained from her, and in her usual manner she was looking patiently and sullenly down at her bare feet as she walked in order to avoid the larger pebbles. This sight brought back a little bit of Hans’ good mood. “Steege has finally come home,” he announced, “and look at his wife following him. She’s making a face like an ill-tempered creditor who has finally received payment from a delinquent debtor. She’s collecting her husband.” He turned around to face Doralice, smiled good-naturedly and said: “I think we should take a walk. Outside perhaps we will walk side by side again just as naturally as the Steeges there.”
They strolled inland past the forest warden’s lodge and up into the pine reserve. The young trees stood there at equal distances from each other, pink trunks and blue-green tufts, straight yellow paths cut through the stand. The air was hot here and heavy with the scent of resin. Hans tried to muster some enthusiasm: “Wonderful! Such colour! And what a shade of blue! You could make a hundred thousand mantles for Venetian Madonnas out of it.”
“I think it looks like a schoolroom during the afternoon lesson,” Doralice said dismissively. Hans laughed very loudly at this, because he hoped that she would laugh as well: “Schoolroom! Very good, but what a schoolroom. Blue-green walls with a golden floor and the scent! If we had sat in such schoolrooms, we would be very different creatures.” But Doralice did not laugh with him. She was suddenly assailed by an overwhelming longing for the sea under a midday sun, for the sailboat, for Hilmar, for young Stibbe, and as happens now and then when the yearning for a bygone happy hour seizes us so strongly that it hurts, she felt compelled to say something about it: “Baron Hamm,” she began, “says that the sea today is green and transparent and sweet like Russian marmalade.”
“Is that what he said?” replied Hans disdainfully. “Yes, a lieutenant of that sort is always concerning himself with sweet things. He eats them and he gives them as gifts and then he speaks them and he is not satisfied until the whole sea has been turned into marmalade.”
Doralice said nothing in response and for a while they walked silently side by side along the straight paths. When the sun shone red through the birch trunks they turned toward home. They met farm workers returning from the fields, men in white linen trousers, behind them women holding the porridge pots. From time to time one of these married couples would stop at one of the little cottages; the man opened the door, ducking his head to enter, his wife followed him; they disappeared into the dark hole and the door closed with a creaking sound. And when Hans and Doralice arrived at their dwelling and he entered the door, stooping slightly, Doralice sighed and thought: “This is just like one of those little cottages; we disappear silently into the dark hole, the door creaks shut, the world full of beautiful, exciting possibilities remains outside.”
The evening meal arrived with its flounder and big potatoes, Hans ate hurriedly and heartily, he spoke cheerfully with Agnes and seemed to be looking forward to the nightly fishing expedition. Soon he got up from the table in order to change his clothes and then he set forth. “Good night, sleep well,” he said and kissed Doralice on the forehead. Agnes grumbled something about “running away into the night” and how that was no way to behave.
The night closed in, Agnes had brought the lamp and then retired with a sullen “good night.” Doralice drew her chair closer to the open window facing the sea and stretched out comfortably. It seemed to her that the images and dreams, which had already been waiting for her for the entire afternoon, could now come. Outside the night was starlit, a gentle breeze off the land brought with it the scent from clover fields and pine woods. The sea had a strangely tentative, listless roar tonight. At times it seemed to fall silent, then a wave crashed and there was some babbling and after a while another one awakened and replied sleepily and on the pebbles of the beach clattered the heavy steps of silent pairs of lovers. Doralice closed her eyes and tried to lose herself in her thoughts, but the thoughts turned into a dream and she fell asleep. She dreamed of the castle garden, she was walking with Hilmar along one of the straight, endless paths and in the flower beds on both sides were gladiolas, very tall fire-red gladiolas. And suddenly the old Count was standing there in the middle of one of the beds, knee-deep in the gladiolas. His face was small and grey and furrowed with fine lines. He was standing there and looking at his watch, which he was holding in his hand.
“Now he sees us,” said Hilmar, “now it doesn’t matter,” and he bent down and kissed her. And then Doralice knew that she was no longer sleeping, that Hilmar was there, that she had been waiting for him the whole time and that he was kissing her. She still kept her eyes closed, only when Hilmar took her hands and said: “How cold your hands are, you are freezing from loneliness,” did she open them. Hilmar was kneeling next to her and resting his eyes on her again with that headstrong, violent desire that made her weak, almost hurt her.
“Why are you here?” she asked.
“Why,” replied Hilmar impatiently, “where else should I be? I don’t belong with the others any more, you know that very well, Doralice.”
“No, this is wrong,” replied Doralice.
“Wrong, perhaps,” replied Hilmar, “but it is our wrongness, yours and mine. And if the others curse and shun us, then we will finally be alone together, just like at noon today on the sea. Then we can devise a life for ourselves that is entirely our own. It’s too stupid to always be living the life that others contrive for us. No, listen to me, you cannot live the life of Herr Grill, and I cannot be the bridegroom of a little saint – that much is clear. Tomorrow I am supposed to return to my regiment in order to mend my ways. But if you tell me to stay, I will stay here, and the regiment and the uniform and everything else, none of that will count for anything. And you, Doralice, will dismiss Herr Grill.”
“Don’t talk this way,” interrupted Doralice. “He is a good man.”
“Good? Good?” cried Hilmar, “of course he is good, they are all good, the others, it is only we who are not good, we cannot be good, and that is why they should let us go our own way.”
Doralice sighed, sighed very deeply and said quietly: “You have to go now.”
“Yes, now, now,” repeated Hilmar. He shook Doralice’s hands, which he was holding tightly between his own, and a wild triumph blazed in his eyes: “You say now, but I can keep coming back and then… then…”
Outside the window that looked out onto the dunes stood Lolo, and her white fac
e peered gravely into the room for an instant.
Lolo had, like every other night, climbed up with Nini to their chamber under the eaves and put herself to bed. She lay there awake and stared into the darkness with wide-open eyes. She was mulling over a great, indistinct idea, which she had been carrying around with her constantly for the past few days, which had grown within her and become powerful. A sacrifice, she wanted to make a sacrifice. The confusing torments and disappointments of her romance were no longer bearable, and so she took refuge in that feeling of euphoria that only the desire for sacrifice can implant in a woman’s heart. This was a new experience for her and it filled her completely with a sense of reverence for her own soul. Dying was easy. She would swim far out to sea, far beyond the sandbank. She would swim until she experienced that state of exhaustion that she knew so well, in which we want nothing more than to stretch ourselves out and to lie there limp and motionless on the water. Yes, and then it would happen, dark restfulness, and all of the terrible tension of feeling and wanting would melt away. As soon as the house was silent Lolo got up. She put on her bathing suit, wrapped herself in a coat and slipped out of the house. Outside the night, black and warm, in the sky huge, intensely bright stars. This is what she had expected, everything was as it should be. When she saw that there was still a light in the window at the Wardein farm, she wanted to go up to it and look inside, moved by a vague yearning for still more bitterness and pain. She saw Doralice sitting in the chair and Hilmar kneeling before her, but it did not shock her greatly, she had expected it – this, too, had to be this way. She calmly climbed down to the sea. There she took off her raincoat and her shoes and went into the water. Small balmy waves leapt up to her. She began to swim, a sense of infinite well-being coursed through her body. Hills of black waves, in which the stars were reflected like buoyant gold dots, lifted her up gently and then let her slide just as gently into black troughs studded with golden stars. All of the heat, narrowness, and oppressiveness fell away from her, she no longer knew why she was here, she knew only that she was happy and that she had to go further out. From time to time she lay on her back and looked up, and it was if she were falling into a black abyss in which the stars were whirling in confusion. Time passed, at one point it seemed to her that as in a vision a boat was sitting there motionless upon the water, black in all of the blackness. Her swimming grew more urgent and determined, as if there were a goal that she had to reach. And then suddenly she was overcome by a paralysing awareness of the terrible expanse surrounding her, of the terrible depths beneath her. Fear took away her breath, everything became malevolent, everything was opposed to her and she had to fight against the high waves, which to her now seemed hard and cold like black metal. She called out several times into the night and then struggled on, grappling with something that wanted to push or pull her down, and then nothingness.
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