Delphi Collected Works of Elizabeth von Arnim (Illustrated)

by Elizabeth Von Arnim

  ‘What, already? Thou art truly a wonderful ally!’ he exclaimed in great glee.

  ‘Oh that’s nothing,’ I replied modestly; as indeed it was.

  ‘Let us start at once then,’ he cried briskly; and we accordingly started, slipping out of the house and round the corner down to the quay.

  The sun was shining, the ground was drying, there was a slight breeze from the east which ought, the landlord said, to blow us gently to Hiddensee if it kept up in about four hours. All my arrangements had been made the night before with the aid of August and Gertrud, and the brig Bertha, quite an imposing-looking craft that plied on week-days, weather permitting, between Wiek and Stralsund, had been hired for the day at a cost of fifteen marks, including a skipper with one eye and four able seamen. The brig Bertha seemed to me very cheap. She was to be at my disposal from dawn till as far into the night as I wanted her. All the time the bell-boy and I were exchanging increasingly sarcastic stares she was lying at the quay ready to start at any moment. She had been chartered in my name, and for that one day she, her skipper, and her four able seamen, belonged entirely to me.

  Gertrud was waiting on board, and had arranged a sort of nest of rugs and cushions for me. The landlady and her servant were also there, with a basket of home-made cakes, and cherries out of the inn garden. This landlady, by the way, was quite ideal. Her one aim seemed to be to do things like baking cakes for her visitors and not putting them in the bill. I met nothing else at all like her or her husband on my journey round Rügen or anywhere else. Their simple kindness shall not go unsung; and therefore do I pause here, with one foot on the quay and the other on the brig Bertha, to sing it. But indeed the traveller who does not yearn for waiters and has no prejudices against crawling up a staircase so steep that it is practically a ladder when he wants to go to bed, who loves quiet, is not insensible to the charms of good cooking, and thinks bathing and sailing agreeable pastimes, could be extremely happy at a very small cost at Wiek. And when all other pleasures are exhausted he can hire the Bertha and go to Hiddensee and study sea-birds.

  ‘Thou takest the excellent but unprepossessing Gertrud with thee?’ inquired the Professor in a slightly displeased voice, seeing her immovable and the sails being hoisted.

  ‘Yes. I don’t like being sick without her.’

  ‘Sick! There will hardly be a sufficiency of wind for the needs of the vessel — how wilt thou be sick in a calm?’

  ‘How can I tell till I have tried?’

  Oh gay voyage down the Wieker Bodden, over the little dancing waves, under the serene summer sky! Oh blessed change from the creaking of a carriage through dust to rippling silence and freshness! The Professor was in such spirits that he could hardly be kept from doing what he called manning the yards, and had to be fetched down when he began to clamber by the alarmed skipper. Gertrud sat watching for the first glimpse of our destination with the intentness of a second Brangäne. The wind could hardly be said to blow us along, it was so very gentle, but it did waft us along smoothly and steadily, and Wiek slipped into distance and its bells into silence, and the occasional solitary farms on the flat shores slid away one after the other, and the farthest point ahead came to meet us, dropped astern, became the farthest point behind, and we were far on our way while we were thinking we could hardly be moving. The reader who looks at the map will see the course we took, and how with that gentle wind it came to be nearly twelve before we rounded the corner of the Wieker Bodden, passed a sandbank crowded with hundreds of sea-gulls, and headed for the northern end of Hiddensee.

  Hiddensee lay stretched out from north to south, long and narrow, like a lizard lying in the sun. It is absolutely flat, a mere sandbank, except at the northern end where it swells up into hills and a lighthouse. There are only two villages on it with inns, the one called Vitte, built on a strip of sand so low, so level with the sea that it looks as if an extra big wave, or indeed any wave, must wash right over it and clean it off the face of the earth; and the other called Kloster, where Charlotte was.

  I observe that on the map Kloster is printed in large letters, as though it were a place of some importance. It is a very pretty, very small, handful of fishermen’s cottages, one little line of them in a green nest of rushes and willows along the water’s edge, with a hill at the back, and some way up the hill a small, dilapidated church, forlorn and spireless, in a churchyard bare of trees.

  We dropped anchor in the glassy bay about two o’clock, the last bit of the Vitter Bodden having been slow, almost windless work, and were rowed ashore in a dinghy, there not being enough water within a hundred yards to float so majestic a craft as the Bertha. The skipper leaned over the side of his brig watching us go and wishing us viel Vergnügen. The dinghy and the two rowers were to wait at the little landing-stage till such time as we should want them again. Gertrud came with us, carrying the landlady’s basket of food.

  ‘Once more thou takest the excellent but unprepossessing Gertrud with thee?’ inquired the Professor with increased displeasure.

  ‘Yes. To carry the cakes.’

  ‘Tut, tut.’ And he muttered something that sounded irritable about the lieber Gott having strewn the world with so many plain women.

  ‘This isn’t the time to bother about plain women,’ I said. ‘Don’t you feel in every fibre that you are within a stone’s throw of your Charlotte? I am sure we have caught her this time.’

  For a moment he had forgotten Charlotte, and all his face grew radiant at the reminder. With the alacrity of eighteen he leapt ashore, and we hurried along a narrow rushy path at the water’s edge to the one inn, a small cottage of the simplest sort, overlooking green fields and placid water. A trim servant in Sunday raiment was clearing away coffee cups from a table in the tiny front garden, and of her we asked, with some trembling after our many disappointments, whether Frau Nieberlein were there.

  Yes, she was staying there, but had gone up on to the downs after dinner. In which direction? Past the church, up the lighthouse way.

  The Professor darted off before she had done. I hastened after him. Gertrud waited at the inn. With my own eyes I wished to see that he actually did meet Charlotte, for the least thing would make him forget what he had come for; and so nimble was he, so winged with love, that I had to make desperate and panting efforts to get up to the top of the hill as soon as he did. Up we sped in silence past the bleak churchyard on to what turned out to be the most glorious downs. On the top the Professor stopped a moment to wipe his forehead, and looking back for the first time I was absolutely startled by the loveliness of the view. The shining Bodden with its bays and little islands lay beneath us, to the north was the sea, to the west the sea, to the east, right away on the other side of distant Rügen, the sea; far in the south rose the towers of Stralsund; close behind us a forest of young pines filled the air with warm waves of fragrance; at our feet the turf was thick with flowers, — oh, wide and splendid world! How good it is to look sometimes across great spaces, to lift one’s eyes from narrowness, to feel the large silence that rests on lonely hills! Motionless we stood before this sudden unrolling of the beauty of God’s earth. The place seemed full of a serene and mighty Presence. Far up near the clouds a solitary lark was singing its joys. There was no other sound.

  I believe if I had not been with him the Professor would again have forgotten Charlotte, and lying down on the flowery turf with his eyes on that most beautiful of views have given himself over to abstractions. But I stopped him at the very moment when he was preparing to sink to the ground. ‘No, no,’ I besought, ‘don’t sit down.’

  ‘Not sit? And why, then, shall not a warm old man sit?’

  ‘First let us find Charlotte.’ At the bare mention of the name he began to run.

  The inn servant had said Charlotte had gone up to the lighthouse. From where we were we could not see it, but hurrying through a corner of the pine-wood we came out on the north end of Hiddensee, and there it was on the edge of the cliff. Then my heart began to beat w
ith mingled feelings — exultation that I should be on the verge of doing so much good, fear lest my plan by some fatal mishap should be spoilt, or, if it succeeded, my actions be misjudged. ‘Wait a moment,’ I murmured faintly, laying a trembling hand on the Professor’s arm. ‘Dear Professor, wait a moment — Charlotte must be quite close now — I don’t want to intrude on you both at first, so please, will you give her this letter’ — and I pulled it with great difficulty, it being fat and my fingers shaky, out of my pocket, the eloquent letter I had written in the dawn at Stubbenkammer, and pressed it into his hand,— ‘give it to her with my love — with my very dear love.’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ said the Professor, impatient of these speeches, and only desirous of getting on. He crushed the letter unquestioningly into his pocket and we resumed our hurried walking. The footpath led us across a flowery slope ending in a cliff that dropped down on the sunset side of the island to the sea. We had not gone many yards before we saw a single figure sitting on this slope, its back to us, its slightly dejected head and shoulders appearing above the crowd of wild-flowers — scabious, harebells, and cow-parsley, through whose frail loveliness flashed the shimmering sea. It was Charlotte.

  I seized the Professor’s hand. ‘Look — there she is,’ I whispered in great excitement, holding him back for one instant. ‘Give me time to get out of sight — don’t forget the letter — let me get into the wood first, and then go to her. Now, all blessings be with thee, dearest Professor — good luck to you both! You’ll see how happy you both are going to be!’ And wringing his hand with a fervour that evidently surprised him, I turned and fled.

  Oh, how I fled! Never have I run so fast, with such a nightmare feeling of covering no ground. Back through the wood, out on the other side, straight as an arrow down the hill towards the Bodden, taking the shortest cut over the turf to Kloster — oh, how I ran! It makes me breathless now to think of it. As if pursued by demons I ran, not daring to look back, not daring to stop and gasp, away I flew, past the church, past the parson, who I remember stared at me aghast over his garden wall, past the willows, past the rushes, down to the landing-stage and Gertrud. Everything was ready. I had given the strictest private instructions; and dropping speechless into the dinghy, a palpitating mixture of heat, anxiety, and rapture, was rowed as fast as two strong men could row me to the brig and the waiting skipper.

  The wind was terribly light, the water terribly glassy. At first I lay in a quivering heap on the cushions, hardly daring to think we were not moving, hardly daring to remember how I had seen a small boat tied to a stake in front of the inn, and that if the Bertha did not get away soon ——

  Then Fortune smiled on the doer of good, a gentle puff filled the sails, there was a distinct rippling across the bows, it increased to a gurgle, and Kloster with its willows, its downs, its one inn, and its impossibility of being got out of, silently withdrew into shadows.

  Then did I stretch myself out on my rugs with a deep sigh of relief and allow Gertrud to fuss over me. Never have I felt so nice, so kind, so exactly like a ministering angel. How grateful the dear old Professor would be! And Charlotte too, when she had read my letter and listened to all he had to say; she would have to listen, she wouldn’t be able to help herself, and there would be heaps of time. I laughed aloud for joy at the success of my plan. There they were on that tiny island, and there they would have to stay at least till to-morrow, probably longer. Perhaps they would get so fond of it that they would stay on there indefinitely. Anyhow I had certainly reunited them — reunited them and freed myself. Emphatically this was one of those good actions that blesses him who acts and him who is acted upon; and never did well-doer glow with a warmer consciousness of having done well than I glowed as I lay on the deck of the Bertha watching the sea-gulls in great comfort, and eating not only my own cherries but the Professor’s as well.

  All the way up the Wieker Bodden we had to tack. Hour after hour we tacked, and seemed to get no nearer home. The afternoon wore on, the evening came, and still we tacked. The sun set gloriously, the moon came up, the sea was a deep violet, the clouds in the eastern sky about the moon shone with a pearly whiteness, the clouds in the west were gorgeous past belief, flaming across in marvellous colours even to us, the light reflected from them transfiguring our sails, our men, our whole boat into a spirit ship of an unearthly radiance, bound for Elysium, manned by immortal gods.

  Look now how Colour, the Soul’s bridegroom, makes

  The house of Heaven splendid for the bride....

  I quoted awestruck, watching this vast plain of light with clasped hands and rapt spirit.

  It was a solemn and magnificent close to my journey.

  THE ELEVENTH DAY

  FROM WIEK HOME

  The traveller in whose interests I began this book and who has so frequently been forgotten during the writing of it, might very well protest here that I have not yet been all round Rügen, and should not, therefore, talk of closes to my journey. But nothing that the traveller can say will keep me from going home in this chapter. I did go home on the morning of the eleventh day, driving from Wiek to Bergen, and taking the train from there; and the red line on the map will show that, except for one dull corner in the south-east, I had practically carried out my original plan and really had driven all round the island.

  Reaching the inn at Wiek at ten o’clock on the Sunday night I went straight and very softly to bed; and leaving the inn at Wiek at eight o’clock on the Monday morning I might have got away without ever seeing Mrs. Harvey-Browne again if the remembrance of Brosy’s unvarying kindness had not stirred me to send Gertrud up with a farewell message.

  Mrs. Harvey-Browne, having heard all about my day on the Bertha from the landlady, and how I had come back in the unimpeachability of singleness, the Professor safely handed over to his wife, forgave the chin-chucking, forgave the secret setting out, and hurried on to the landing in a wrapper, warmth in her heart and honey on her lips.

  ‘What, you are leaving us, dear Frau X.?’ she called over the baluster. ‘So early? So suddenly? I can’t come down to you — do come up here. Why didn’t you tell me you were going to-day?’ she continued when I had come up, holding my hand in both hers, speaking with emphatic cordiality, an altogether melted and mellifluous bishop’s wife.

  ‘I hadn’t quite decided. I fear I must go home to-day. They want me badly.’

  ‘That I can quite understand — of course they want their little ray of sunshine,’ she cried, growing more and more mellifluous. ‘Now tell me,’ she went on, stroking the hand she held, ‘when are you coming to see us all at Babbacombe?’

  Babbacombe! Heavens. When indeed? Never, never, never, shrieked my soul. ‘Oh thanks,’ murmured my lips, ‘how kind you are. But — do you think the bishop would like me?’

  ‘The bishop? He would more than like you, dear Frau X. — he would positively glory in you.’

  ‘Glory in me?’ I faintly gasped; and a gaudy vision of the bishop glorying, that bishop of whom I had been taught to think as steeped in chronic sorrow, swam before my dazzled eyes. ‘How kind you are. But I’m afraid you are too kind. I’m afraid he would soon see there wasn’t anything to make him glory and much to make him grieve.’

  ‘Well, well, we mustn’t be so modest. Of course the bishop knows we are all human, and so must have our little faults. But I can assure you he would be delighted to make your acquaintance. He is a most large-minded man. Now promise.’

  I murmured confused thanks and tried to draw my hand away, but it was held tight. ‘I shall miss the midday train at Bergen if I don’t go at once,’ I appealed— ‘I really must go.’

  ‘You long to be with all your dear ones again, I am sure.’

  ‘If I don’t catch this train I shall not get home to-night. I really must go.’

  ‘Ah, home. How charming your home must be. One hears so much about the charming German home-life, but unfortunately just travelling through the country one gets no chance of a peep into it.’
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  ‘Yes, I have felt that myself in other countries. Good-bye — I absolutely must run. Good-bye!’ And, tearing my hand away with the energy of panic I got down the ladder as quickly as I could without actually sliding, for I knew that in another moment the bishop’s wife would have invited herself — oh, it did not bear thinking of.

  ‘And the Nieberleins?’ she called over the baluster, suddenly remembering them.

  ‘They’re on an island. Quite inaccessible in this wind. A mere desert — only sea-birds — and one is sick getting to it. Good-bye!’

  ‘But do they not return here?’ she called still louder, for I was through the door now, and out on the path.

  ‘No, no — Stralsund, Berlin, Bonn — good-bye!’

  The landlord and his wife were waiting outside, the landlady with a great bunch of roses and yet another basket of cakes. Brosy was there too, and helped me into the carriage. ‘I’m frightfully sorry you are going,’ he said.

  ‘So am I. But one must ultimately go. Observe the eternal truth lurking in that sentence. If ever you are wandering about Germany alone, do come and see us.’

  ‘I should love to.’

  And thus with mutual amenities Brosy and I parted.

  So ended my journey round Rügen, for there is nothing to be recorded of that last drive to the railway station at Bergen except that it was flat, and we saw the Jagdschloss in the distance. At the station I bade farewell to the carriage in which I had sometimes suffered and often been happy, for August stayed that night in Bergen, and brought the horses home next day; and presently the train appeared and swept up Gertrud and myself, and Rügen knew us no more.