“Well, here’s a rather curious night fish,” said Stibbe as he hauled Lolo into the boat. “You know, I think this is the lass from the Bull’s Inn.37 She has already swallowed some water. Take her, Andree, you know how to deal with lasses.”
Andree took charge of Lolo, who was lying there lifelessly, covering her in his coat, encouraging her: “Just spit out the water, little Miss, just spit it out.” Stibbe began to pull at the oars peevishly: “Now we must get back home in a hurry,” he grumbled, “otherwise she will freeze to death on us. There’s big city stupidity for you, going into the water! If the sea wants you, it will come and fetch you itself. We’ll take the girl to Wardein’s, it’s closer, then we’ll let the city folk sort out this mess for themselves.”
Doralice was alone once more when the men entered the room. She did not grasp the situation at first. The fisherman Stibbe was standing there with another man and Stibbe was carrying somebody, she saw now that it was Lolo, who was quite pale and was keeping her eyes closed, her long hair was hanging heavy and wet over the arm of the fisherman.
“We just fished her out,” said Stibbe, “far out there, she didn’t want to come back. What sort of night fish is that? I said to Andree, and we went after her. Oh, she’s still alive, she is very much alive. She just swallowed some water. Where should I lay her down? Ah, in there on the bed. Andree has gone up to the Bull’s Inn to tell the mademoiselle to come and fetch her.”
Lolo was laid upon the bed, Stibbe repeated once again: “She’s very much alive,” then the men departed. The commotion had summoned Agnes and she instantly assessed the situation, rushing to Lolo’s side, taking off her clothes, covering her in blankets, rubbing her, taciturn and sullen the whole time, only once remarking: “She isn’t opening her eyes, not because she can’t, but because she doesn’t want to.” Eventually she decided to brew up some hot tea, Doralice was told to continue rubbing.
Doralice knelt at the bedside and rubbed the limbs of the motionless girl lying there. Lolo sighed, opened her eyes and looked solemnly at Doralice. In repose there was something stern and venerable about her narrow face.
“How… how are you feeling now?” asked Doralice.
“Fine,” said Lolo in a voice that suggested she was answering a pointless, trivial question. But Doralice leaned over her ardently, as if she wanted to warm and protect her. “How could you do that?” she whispered.
Lolo raised her eyebrows slightly and said in the same cool, superior tone: “He can’t help it. I knew, when I first set eyes on you, that he couldn’t behave otherwise, and you… you can’t help being so beautiful.”
“No, I don’t want that,” Doralice cried almost angrily. “He must stay with you, he must love you, he must, he must.”
Lolo turned her head to the side and closed her eyes, as if she wanted peace, and said sorrowfully and wearily: “Yes, now… now I don’t know.”
Doralice did not dare to say more. She knelt there by the bed, an unbearable feeling of humiliation made her miserable. There was activity in the next room. The loud voice of the Generalin could be heard: “Where is she? Where is she lying down? Is that hot tea you have there, my good woman, that will do nicely.” Then the Generalin appeared in the doorway of the bedroom, she had put a straw hat on top of her nightcap and had pulled her raincoat on over her night gown. She was red-faced and breathless: “Child! Child!” she cried, “What’s this they have been telling me? I have never heard such a thing! To think that I had to live to see this. Where is that hot tea, my good woman?”
Fräulein Bork and Ernestine were also there, loaded down with cloaks and towels, and now a series of orders were issued, and in between the comings and goings the Generalin uttered a constant stream of rebukes: “This is the old Buttlär tendency to overreact, the foolish Buttlär heart. You did not get this from me. Dear Countess, pass me that towel, we still need to dry her hair. In my day we also got engaged and fell in love and were jealous, because the men back then were also pretty useless, but we didn’t die from it. As for the young people of today, it’s as if they are intoxicated.”
Lolo meekly let everything happen to her as if she were a doll. Finally she stood there wrapped in towels and cloaks, propped up by Fräulein Bork and Ernestine. “Go home now,” ordered the Generalin, “but quietly, so that my daughter does not awake, tomorrow will be soon enough for the talk to begin. Put the child to bed, a hot water bottle and valerian tea, off you go, I will stay here for a moment. With your permission, my dear,” she turned to Doralice.
And so Lolo was led away.
“Come along with me, dear Countess,” said the Generalin, taking Doralice’s arm and leading her into the sitting room. “Sit down, you are white as a sheet. I will also sit down with you for a bit, a business like this is hard on my old bones.” She sat down in a chair with a sigh and was lost in thought for a moment. Her broad face was pale now and looked old and careworn.
“No!” she began again, “I didn’t foresee this. I am not usually dense, but I didn’t expect this. Our stay here will probably now come to an end. A pity. My dear, I always defended you. My daughter acted as if you were a ravening beast, but I defended you. Very well, you ran away from the old Count. One shouldn’t do that, if only for the sake of morality, but it was a foolish marriage and you allowed yourself to be carried off by your painter. But now, my dear, enough is enough, you can’t allow yourself to be continually abducted. You cannot live off of elopements. And then there is the little one, who has just this one fiancé. I didn’t search him out for her, but he was given to her and she fell in love with him. The Buttlärs always attend to such matters with great thoroughness. Surely you can let her have him.” The Generalin paused for a moment to catch her breath, Doralice sat there motionless, tears streaming ceaselessly down her pale face. “You are pretty as a picture, my dear,” continued the Generalin, “but what use is that? You should try to live respectably with your painter, he seems to be a very decent fellow. To allow yourself to be abducted, that happens quickly. To be sure no one ever made off with me, but there was no need, I was always quite satisfied with my Palikow, but I am talking about what I see going on around me. But to live with the gentleman who abducted you, that is a tricky business. Believe me, you can live very well without a man constantly on his knees before you. And one more thing. When the young man comes running to you tomorrow, talk some sense into him. You have caused him to take leave of his senses, now you must help him find them again. Well, now I will go. You, my dear, must sleep, otherwise you will become ill and that won’t do you any good at all.”
The Generalin got up, stroked Doralice’s tear-stained cheeks in motherly fashion and departed. Doralice remained seated and stared into space with terrified eyes. She pulled her feet up onto the chair, wrapped her arms around her knees, and sat huddled together. Had the old lady really been talking about her? Did people look at her that way? Was that how she appeared? Disgust and fear bubbled up in her, it was as if something unclean and nasty was sticking to her, disfiguring her and making her monstrous.
Agnes came in and brought tea: “You need to drink this,” she said brusquely. Doralice obeyed, while Agnes stood nearby and watched attentively. “This was bound to happen,” she muttered, “Hans is guilty as well. I said to him, why are you always running away? You have to keep a close watch when you have a wife who has already run away from somebody else. But the old lady had no right to preach sermons in this house. She ought to keep a tighter rein on her own lasses and young gentleman. And now we must go to bed.”
She took hold of both of Doralice’s arms, raised her from the chair, led her into the bedroom, undressed her as one undresses a child, helped her into bed, and tucked her in snugly. “Now go to sleep,” she said, “that can’t do any harm,” and extinguished the light.
Note
37“…the lass from the Bull’s Inn.”: The word that Keyserling uses here for lass or girl (“marjell”) is taken from East Prussian dialect. This is the only clue
in the book indicating a more precise location for the village in Waves. East Prussia (divided today between Poland, Russia, and Lithuania) was the most easterly province of the old German Empire, and not far from Keyserling’s homeland of Courland.
Chapter Thirteen
When Doralice awoke she heard people talking in the next room. Hans must have returned from his nightly expedition and Agnes was now recounting something to him in a whisper that sounded like continuous hissing. Only occasionally did the deep voice of Hans insert a word into the conversation. This went on for some time, suddenly the discussion broke off, a door closed and it grew completely silent. Outside it was sunny and the wind appeared to be blowing, since the nets that had been hung out to dry in front of Doralice’s window were swinging back and forth. On the fence sat two children, who were drumming on the boards with their bare feet and were singing into the wind with shrill voices: “Henny, Henny, bright as a penny, ho, ho!” Doralice nestled deeper into her pillows. In her mind began the painful task of connecting the events of the last day with the new one just beginning. The events of last night came back to her, coming forward like creditors to present their bills. In particular, there was the return of that sinister, ghastly Doralice, who was spoken of as a ravening beast, who made a living by allowing herself to be abducted, and who drove young girls to their death. For the first time in her life Doralice saw herself as a source of agony.
Agnes came in with the tea, Doralice was to drink it in bed today. Agnes stood there and reported that Hans had come home, that they had caught many fish. At the Bull’s Inn they had sent to the coastguard for horses to carry their luggage to the railway station. Yes, and then the young gentleman from the Bull’s Inn had stopped by, he wanted to speak to Madame. “What should I say to him if he comes back?” Agnes asked as she ended her report, and in the blurred eyes of the old woman flashed greens sparks, as in the eyes of a wicked dog. Doralice blushed under this gaze, and she sounded pained and angry when she blurted out: “I will not see him. Tell him that he should leave this place. I will not see him, never.”
“I’ll pass on the message,” muttered Agnes as she left the room.
A little later, as Doralice sat before the mirror combing her hair and studying her face in the mirror closely, as if it were new to her, loud voices erupted in the next room. Agnes spoke clearly and slowly in a deep voice, the same one that she used on Sunday mornings when she liked to read aloud to herself from her Bible. “Madame says, she will not see the gentleman. The gentleman should just go away. She says, she will not see him, never again. That’s what she said.”
Hilmar’s slightly raspy voice could be heard and then Agnes began again: “Madame says, she will not see the gentleman, the gentleman should just go away. She says, she will not see him, never again, that’s what she said.”
For a moment there was utter silence, then the rattling of spurs, the shutting of a door. Doralice went to the window, she saw Hilmar climbing down the dunes. He was in uniform. At first we went slowly and haltingly with head slightly bent. Down on the beach, however, his stride regained its fine, carefree swaying motion. The sun stirred up bright sparks from his spurs and from the buttons and braid of his uniform, speckling his entire figure with small restless lights. “No!” thought Doralice, “I am not moved by the sight of him.” However a distant childhood memory came into her mind, Doralice could not prevent it, the memory came to her, like a dream that comes to us through no doing of our own and then moves us. A spring evening in the old garden at home, little Doralice stands alone on the broad gravel path and looks gloomily at the golden sunset. Along comes a band of wandering musicians, men with shining horns and trumpets. They take up position in front of the steps and begin to toot, and instantly the silent garden fills with such delightful, light-hearted exuberance that Doralice wants to sing along and begins to dance on the gravel path. Then Miss Plummers appears at the top of the steps and waves off the musicians, they should not be playing, Madame has a migraine. It becomes quiet, the men pack up their horns and trumpets and move off, marching down the country road towards the sulfur-yellow sunset and the rays from the setting sun sparkle on the great horns. Little Doralice stands at the garden gate and watches them go with a heavy heart. Doralice fretfully turned away from the window and got dressed. Something difficult and important still had to come to pass today, she had to face Hans. She paced restlessly to and fro in the sitting room, but it seemed cold to her there. She wanted to warm up. She went outside and sat down on the bench where the Wardeins liked to sit in the evening. Only old Mother Wardein was sitting there now, sunning herself and looking out at the sea. She moved a little to make room for Doralice, murmuring only “warm.” And so they sat next to each other and Doralice waited. She did nothing but wait, because there are events that have to happen first, before we can think about anything else.
Finally Hans came walking up the road. He was walking slowly and looked tired and worn, as if he had come a long way. As he passed the bench he nodded to them: “Good morning, Mother! Good morning, Doralice!” and went straight into the house. Doralice followed him. In the sitting room she leaned her back against the wall, at the same time laying the palms of her hands on the wall as well as if she wanted to cool them. Hans had gone over to his painting implements and was busying himself with his brushes. Both remained silent for a moment, until finally an outburst escaped from Doralice like a moan: “My God, talk to me! Go ahead and say something.”
Hans turned to her, sticking both of his hands into his coat pockets, his head slightly bowed. When something weighed upon him or pained him greatly, his handsome figure could at times take on the heaviness and clumsiness of a village lad who is weary from labouring in the fields. “What can I say,” he replied. “Do I have any right to you? The right that you gave to me, you can take from me and give to another, just as you took it from the old gentleman and gave it to me. It’s no different. I understand that. We peasants, after all, are good with figures.”
Doralice raised her arms and placed her clasped hands on top of her head: “You’re very fair,” she spluttered, and it sounded like anger, “but you have it wrong. There is no one else. He is gone, gone for good. He has no right. I don’t need someone who kneels before me…” She broke off, and the rising tears made her voice unsteady and faint as she added: “But what good does that do me? What am I supposed to do now?”
Hans turned away and looked out of the window. For a moment it was completely silent in the room again. Outside on the fence the children were still singing their song: “Henny, henny, bright as a penny, ho, ho!” into the wind. At last he turned around, went slowly to Doralice, gently stroked her hair with his hand and said: “What can you do? This place will soon be all but deserted. We could take quiet walks together for a while. No one will bother you here. And then perhaps we will come to understand each other once again.”
Doralice did not answer, she stood there mute and intimidated. Quiet walks in the company of this strong, gentle man now felt like security to her, and in the anguish of her soul, in her fear of herself and of other people, she thought that security was what she needed most.
Chapter Fourteen
The September days were bright, with a fresh breeze blowing from the northeast. The clouds formed into great white islands and moved swiftly across the sky and their dark green shadows raced across the grey-green sea. Along the shore everything was in constant motion, the stiff blades of grass on the dunes trembled, the nets and fish hung out to dry swayed and the skirts and shawls of the fishermen’s wives fluttered.
“I have, as you know, resigned from my post,” said Privy Counsellor Knospelius to Hans as they paced slowly into the wind at the seaside. “I have performed enough calculations, and I find that my days are very satisfactorily filled by this battle against the wind.”
“The wind annoys me,” replied Hans. “You know, I paint the sea, I paint it all day long, except for those times when I am just observing it. But with t
his wind the sea won’t sit still, it has a new face every five minutes.”
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