by Frank Wynne
So they all sat down to the table, Elisabeth beside Reinhard. “We shall read them at random,” said the latter, “I have not yet looked through them myself.”
Elisabeth unrolled the manuscript. “Here’s some music,” she said, “you must sing it, Reinhard.”
To begin with he read some Tyrolese ditties5 and as he read on he would now and then hum one or other of the lively melodies. A general feeling of cheeriness pervaded the little party.
“And who, pray, made all these pretty songs?” asked Elisabeth.
“Oh,” said Eric, “you can tell that by listening to the rubbishy things—tailors’ apprentices and barbers and such-like merry folk.”
Reinhard said: “They are not made; they grow, they drop from the clouds, they float over the land like gossamer, hither and thither, and are sung in a thousand places at the same time.6 We discover in these songs our very inmost activities and sufferings: it is as if we all had helped to write them.”
He took up another sheet: “I stood on the mountain height …”7
“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 home.”8
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?
Oh! 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 from among the branches, and giving notice to all that the night was now past.9
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.
1 The beginning of one of the best known of Grimm’s fairy tales.
2 The basement of the Rathaus or Town Hall. This, in almost every German town of importance, has become a restaurant and place of refreshment.
3 i.e. the ‘Lake of the Bees’
4 This form of salutation is especially common in the south of Germany.
5 Dialectal for Schnitterhüpfen, i.e. ‘reapers’ dances,’ sung especially in the Tyrol and in Bavaria.
6 These fine cobwebs, produced by field-spiders, have always in the popular mind been connected with the gods. After the advent of Christianity they were connected with the Virgin Mary. The shroud in which she was wrapped after her death was believed to have been woven of the very finest thread, which during her ascent to Heaven frayed away from her body.
7 An ancient folk-song which treats of a beautiful but poor maiden, who, being unable to marry ‘the young count,’ retired to
a convent.
8 Starke is the southern dialect word for Färse, ‘young cow,’ ‘heifer.’
9 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.
THE DOG
Ivan Turgenev
Translated from the Russian by Constance Garnett
Ivan Sergeyevich Turgenev (1818–1883) was a Russian novelist, short story writer and playwright. His first major publication, a short story collection entitled A Sportsman’s Sketches (1852), was a milestone of Russian realism, and his novel Fathers and Sons (1862) is regarded as one of the major works of nineteenth-century fiction. When Turgenev was nineteen, while traveling on a steamboat in Germany, the boat caught fire and Turgenev reacted in a “cowardly manner”, an accusation that dogged him for the rest of his life. While traveling together in Paris, Tolstoy wrote in his diary, “Turgenev is a bore.” His rocky friendship with Tolstoy in 1861 wrought such animosity that Tolstoy challenged Turgenev to a duel.
“But if one admits the possibility of the supernatural, the possibility of its participation in real life, then allow me to ask what becomes of common sense?” Anton Stepanitch pronounced and he folded his arms over his stomach.
Anton Stepanitch had the grade of a civil councillor, served in some incomprehensible department and, speaking emphatically and stiffly in a bass voice, enjoyed universal respect. He had not long before, in the words of those who envied him, “had the Stanislav stuck on to him.”
“That’s perfectly true,” observed Skvorevitch.
“No one will dispute that,” added Kinarevitch.
“I am of the same opinion,” the master of the house, Finoplentov, chimed in from the corner in falsetto.
“Well, I must confess, I cannot agree, for something supernatural has happened to me myself,” said a bald, corpulent middle-aged gentleman of medium height, who had till then sat silent behind the stove. The eyes of all in the room turned to him with curiosity and surprise, and there was a silence.