The things that should bring joy in life
Have nurtured shame and guilt and strife –
But now it is too late.
All pride and joy is gone,
And anguish fills my mind.
Would that I could forget my pain,
Could wander through the world again
And leave my cares behind!”
Reinhard felt the sheet tremble us he read, and when he had finished, Elisabeth rose from her chair and went out silently into the garden, watched by her mother. Erich was on the point of following her, but her mother held him back.
“Elisabeth has some things to attend to outside,” she said. So he let her go.
Outside the darkness was closing in around the lake and the garden, moths fluttered past the open doors through which the scent of flowers and bushes was wafted in; from the water came the sound of the croaking of frogs, and as the moon rose, the song of nightingales was heard, one from beneath the windows and another in the distance. For a long while he stared at the bushes through which the frail figure of Elisabeth had passed, then rolled up his manuscript, took his leave of the others and left the house in the direction of the lake.
The woods were silent, casting their dark shadow far out over the water, while the centre of the lake was illuminated by the pale moonlight. From time to time the leaves rustled, but there was no wind – only the gentle breath of the mild summer night.
Reinhard walked by the side of the water. Within a stone’s throw of the bank he caught sight of a white water lily and suddenly felt an urge to see it from close quarters.
Taking off his clothes, he entered the water. Plants and sharp stones stung his feet, and it was too shallow to swim. Then suddenly the ground sloped away; the waters swirled over his head, and it took him some time to fight his way to the surface.
He swam around a little until he had gained his bearings, then, catching a glimpse of the lily as it lay between the broad, shining leaves, he swam out slowly towards it, the moonlight shining on the drops of water that fell from his glistening arms as he propelled himself forwards. But the distance between him and the lily never seemed to change, whilst the bank behind him became more and more indistinct. Yet he had no thought of turning back, and swam with powerful strokes towards the middle.
At length he came close enough to the flower to be able to distinguish its silver leaves in the moonlight, but as he did so, he felt as though he were becoming entangled in a net: the smooth stems stretched up from the bottom of the lake and twined themselves around his naked limbs. The black waters swirled around mysteriously, and he heard a fish leap up behind him. In a fit of panic he tore the clinging tendrils savagely from his body and struck out feverishly for the bank. When he finally reached it and looked back across the water, the lily was still floating there above the distant murky depths.
He put on his clothes and walked slowly homewards. As he entered the drawing room from the garden, he found Erich and Elisabeth’s mother making arrangements for a short business trip the following day.
“Where have you been at this time of the night?” she cried as she caught sight of Reinhard.
“Where have I been?” he repeated. “Why, I wanted to visit the water lily, but I found that it could not be done.”
“Who can be expected to believe that?” said Erich. “How in Heaven’s name can one visit a water lily?”
“I once knew her,” answered Reinhard, “but that was a long while ago.”
Elisabeth
The following afternoon Reinhard and Elisabeth went for a stroll on the far side of the lake, sometimes passing through wooded copses, sometimes walking along the raised bank by the water’s edge. Erich had told Elisabeth that, while her mother and he were away, she should show Reinhard the most attractive views of the surrounding landscape, in particular those of the house itself from the other side of the lake.
They walked from one place to another. At last Elisabeth became tired; she sat down in the shade of the overhanging branches, while Reinhard leant against a tree opposite her. A cuckoo called from the depths of the forest – and suddenly he had the feeling that he had lived this scene before. Looking at her with a strange smile, he said:
“Shall we go and look for strawberries?”
“This is not the season for strawberries,” she replied.
“But it soon will be.”
Elisabeth shook her head without speaking. Then she stood up, and they walked on. Time and again he glanced at the figure tripping gracefully at his side as though she were borne along by her clothes, and often he held back so as to look deep into her eyes.
They came to a grass-covered clearing from which they could see far out into the countryside. Reinhard bent down and picked some of the plants that were growing there. When he looked up, he showed pain and anguish in his face.
“Do you recognize this flower?” he murmured.
She looked at him in surprise.
“It’s heather. I’ve often picked it in the woods.”
“I have an old book at home,” he said, “in which, a long while ago, I used to write down all kinds of poems and rhymes. There is heather – a faded one – pressed between its pages. Do you know who gave it to me?”
She nodded silently, casting her eyes down and looking only at the little flower that he held in his hand. For a long time they stood there, motionless. When at last she raised her head, he saw that her eyes were filled with tears.
“Our childhood lies beyond those mountains, Elisabeth,” he said softly. “What has happened to it?”
They both fell silent and walked on side by side towards the lake. The air was humid, and dark clouds were gathering in the west.
“There’s going to be a storm,” said Elisabeth, quickening her step.
Reinhard nodded. They hurried along the bank until they reached the spot where they had left their boat.
As Reinhard pulled at the oars, she let her hand rest on the side of the boat. He looked towards her, but she stared past him into the distance. He lowered his gaze, and his eyes came to rest on her hand. This pale hand, resting on the boat, told him all that her face had withheld from him; subtly but plainly it betrayed, as a beautiful hand so often will, the heart that suffers secretly in the loneliness of the night. When she noticed him looking at it, she let it slip slowly over the side of the boat into the water.
As they walked up to the house, they saw a knife-grinder’s cart. A man with long black hair was busily operating the treadle, humming a gypsy song as he did so, while his dog, chained to the cart, slept by his side. At the entrance to the yard stood a tattered beggar girl with fine but haggard features, who stretched out her hand imploringly to Elisabeth.
Reinhard put his hand in his pocket, but before he could find something to give her, Elisabeth hastily emptied the entire contents of her purse into the beggar girl’s hand. Then she turned away abruptly, and Reinhard heard her sobbing as she went up the steps into the house. He wanted to stop her, then changed his mind and stayed at the foot of the steps. The beggar-girl was still standing there, motionless, clasping the money in her hands.
“What else do you want?” demanded Reinhard.
She gave a start.
“Nothing,” she stammered, and walked slowly towards the gate, staring back at him with her fiery eyes as she went. He shouted something at her but she was out of earshot, and with bowed head, her arms folded, she passed out of the yard.
But at my death
I shall suffer alone.
The strains of the old song sounded in his ears, and his heart stood still. Then he turned away and went up to his room.
He sat down and tried to work, but his mind was a blank and after half-an-hour’s fruitless effort he went down into the drawing room. The room was empty; only the evening sunlight shone in through the overhanging foliage. On Eli
sabeth’s bureau there lay a red scarf that she had been wearing that afternoon. He picked it up, but it hurt his hand and he put it back quickly.
Seized by a sudden restlessness, he left the house and went down to the lake. Untying the boat, he rowed over to the other side and retraced all the paths along which he had walked with Elisabeth earlier in the day.
By the time he got back, it was dark. Elisabeth’s mother and Erich had just returned, and as he crossed the courtyard, the coachman passed him, leading the horses out to graze. Entering the hall, he heard Erich walking up and down in the drawing room; he did not go in but paused for a moment, then went quietly up the stairs to his room.
He sat down in the armchair by the window and tried to listen to the throbbing music of the nightingale in the hedges below. But all he could hear was the beat of his own heart. Everybody else in the house had gone to bed.
The night wore on, and still he sat there. At last, hours later, he rose from the chair and lay down in front of the open window. The dew had settled on the leaves, and the nightingale was no longer singing. Slowly the deep blue of the night sky gave way to a pale yellow glow from the east, and a cold breeze caressed his fevered brow. The first lark flew upwards, singing joyously.
Reinhard turned away abruptly and walked across to his desk. He felt for a pencil, sat down and wrote a few lines on a sheet of paper. Then, leaving the paper on the desk, he got up, took his hat and cane, opened the door softly and went downstairs.
Everything was still. The big cat stretched itself on the mat and arched its back as he bent down to stroke it. In the garden the sparrows were proclaiming to all and sundry that the night was past.
He heard a door open and the sound of footsteps on the stairs. Looking up, he found Elisabeth standing in front of him. She put her hand on his arm and her lips moved, but no sound came from them. At last she said:
“Do not deceive me, Reinhard. I know you will never come back.”
“Never,” he repeated.
She drew her hand away and was silent. He walked across the yard towards the gate, then stopped and looked back. She was standing motionless at the same spot, staring blankly after him. He took a step forwards and stretched out his arms towards her. Then he turned quickly on his heel and went out of the gate.
Outside the world was bathed in the glow of morning, and the dewdrops in the spiders’ webs glistened in the early sunlight.
He did not look back. As he walked swiftly on, the house and the farm buildings grew smaller and smaller, while before him stretched the great wide world…
The Old Man
The moon was no longer shining through the window and it had become dark. But still the old man sat in his chair, his hands folded in front of him, and gazed across the room. As he looked, the darkness slowly gave way to the dark waters of a lake; it grew gradually wider and deeper, and at its furthest point, so distant that he could barely see it, there floated a solitary white water lily, nestling between broad green leaves.
The door opened and a bright ray of light shone into the room.
“I am glad you have come, Brigitte,” he said. “Put the lamp on the table.”
Then he drew up his chair to the table, picked up one of the open books and engrossed himself in subjects to which he had devoted himself in the days of his youth.
Part Two: Viola Tricolor and Curator Carsten
Introduction to Viola Tricolor and Curator Carsten
Hans theodor woldsen storm was born in 1817 at Husum, a town of about four thousand inhabitants on the west coast of Schleswig, as the son of well-to-do and substantial people. He studied law at Kiel and Berlin, at the same time writing poetry, browsing widely in German literature, and forming friendships with men of literary interests. His first publication was a volume of poetry issued in collaboration with Tycho and Theodor Mommsen.
Beginning the practice of law in Husum, Storm soon met a cousin, Constanze Esmarch, whom he married in 1846. Seven of Constanze’s children survived, but she died shortly after the last birth, in 1865.
Meanwhile Schleswig had been annexed by Denmark in 1851. As Storm remained loyal to Germany, his licence to practise was annulled in 1852, whereupon he took his family into voluntary exile in Prussia, which lasted until Prussia recovered his homeland in 1864. On returning to Husum, he became its mayor, but in 1867 he gave up this post and was made circuit judge of the Husum district, an office which he retained until his retirement in 1880.
The death of Constanze made it almost imperative for Storm to remarry, as his children needed a mother’s care. His second wife, Doris Jensen, who had long been devoted to him, found herself in a problematic situation as regards the children, and Storm himself increased her difficulties in the beginning, so that she lapsed into melancholia, which she was long in overcoming.
Storm spent the years after his retirement in the village of Hademarschen, where he died in 1888.
As a writer, Storm became a master of the shorter forms of narrative fiction, of which he published more than fifty of widely varying length; he is also regarded as a lyric poet of exceptionally high quality. His most admired stories include Immensee, Pole Poppenspäler, Psyche, Aquis submersus, Renate, Eekenhof, Zur Chronik von Grieshuus and Der Schimmelreiter.
“Viola tricolor” is the botanical name for the wild pansy, commonly called in German Stiefmütterchen (little stepmother). In this touching story, the widespread conception of the cruel and evil stepmother is countered by a sensitive portrait of a second wife who is eager to love her stepdaughter and has to overcome the latter’s initial hostility and aloofness. While not strictly autobiographical, the story undoubtedly draws on the spiritual problems which Doris Storm, with her husband’s belated help, finally succeeded in solving.
Curator Carsten makes use of a more sombre autobiographical element. Storm’s oldest son, whom he had adored as a child and youth (and probably spoilt), turned out to be completely unprincipled, and on reaching maturity he became a drunkard. It is clear that in many respects Carsten’s relation to Heinrich parallels that of the author to his son Hans. The tragic end is no mere conventional affair: it reflects the poet’s firm conviction, a by-product of Darwinian speculations, that there is no salvation but death for a person whose heredity condemns him to a frustrated life. At the same time, Storm makes effective use of the North Sea, which he knew and loved in all its aspects.
While these two stories do not show Storm at the height of his artistry, they are rated among those on which his reputation is firmly based.
– Bayard Quincy Morgan
Viola Tricolor
The Little Stepmother
Translated by Bayard Quincy Morgan
It was very still in the great house, but even in the hall one detected the scent of fresh flowers.
Out of one of the double doors which faced the broad stairway leading to the upper storey stepped a neatly dressed old serving woman. With a solemn air of self-satisfaction she latched the door behind her and then let her grey eyes rove along the walls, as if she would subject every speck of dust to a final inspection, but she nodded her approval and then cast a glance at the old English clock, whose chime had just played its second theme.
“Already half past!” murmured she. “And at eight, so the Professor wrote, they were expecting to be here!”
Hereupon she reached into her pocket for a big bunch of keys and then disappeared in the rear of the house. And again it grew still; only the tick of the pendulum sounded through the spacious hall and up the staircase; through the window above the front door a ray of evening sunshine came in and gleamed on the three gilt knobs which surmounted the clock case.
Then short, light steps came down the stairs, and a girl of about ten years appeared on the landing. She too was freshly and festally attired; the red-and-white striped dress was becoming to her olive complexion and her glossy black braids. She laid her arm on the
banister and her head on her arm and let herself slowly slide downward, while her dark eyes were dreamily directed to the opposite doorway.
For a moment she stood listening in the hall; then she softly opened the door of the room and slipped in through the heavy portières. Here it was already dim, for the two windows of the long room opened on a street hemmed in by tall houses; only to one side above the sofa a Venetian mirror gleamed like silver on the dark-green velvet wall-covering. In this solitude it seemed meant to reflect the image of a fresh bouquet of roses, which stood in a marble vase on the table by the sofa. But soon the dark head of the child also appeared in its frame. On her toes the little one had crept up over the soft carpet, and already the slender fingers were hastily reaching in among the flower stems, while her eyes sped back towards the door. Finally she had succeeded in lifting a half-open rosebud out of the bouquet, but in her zeal she had not thought of the thorns, and a red drop of blood trickled down her arm. Quickly – for it had almost fallen on the pattern of the precious table cover – she sucked it up with her lips; then as softly as she had come, with the stolen rose in her hand, she again slipped through the portières out into the hall. After she had once more stopped to listen, she again flew up the stairs that she had just descended, and she went along a corridor until she reached the last door. She cast one more glance through one of the windows, before which the swallows were criss-crossing in the afterglow; then she lifted the latch.
It was her father’s study, which she was otherwise not wont to enter during his absence; now she was quite alone among the tall cases, which stood about so awe-inspiringly with their countless books. When she had hesitantly latched the door behind her, the mighty baying of a dog was heard under one of the windows to the left of it. A smile flitted over the serious features of the child; she swiftly went to the window and looked out. Below her the great garden of the house spread out in broad patches of lawn and shrubbery, but her four-legged friend seemed already to have gone other ways; sharply as she peered, there was nothing to be seen. And something like a shadow again descended upon the face of the child; she had come here for a different purpose; what did Nero matter to her now!
Immensee and Other Stories Page 4