Irretrievable

by Theodor Fontane

  Holk put down the letter and, drawing a deep breath, looked happily out over the square, all green and blooming. Joy was in his heart; and in his mind, possibilities were taking shape of which he had hardly dared expect the realization; buried hopes were resurrected and became almost certainties; and the couple who, inwardly and outwardly, had for so long been divided, again took possession of their castle by the sea, and past happiness and good fortune flourished there once more.

  [1]A thirteenth-century German saint known for her good works as well as for her devotion.

  32

  And Holk’s dreams came true or seemed to come true.

  It was Midsummer Day and over the whole of Angeln the sun was shining in a blue sky and nowhere more brightly than over Holkenäs castle.

  Lines of carriages were halting all along the drive and Holk’s coat of arms above the entrance was decorated with a wreath of ivy intertwined with red and white roses. Arne had wanted myrtle, but Christine had insisted on ivy.

  Twelve o’clock now rang out from Holkebye village and hardly had the sound of the last strokes died away than the huge bell, rung by two men, began slowly to toll, announcing far and wide that the celebration for which all their friends had gathered together, had begun. Soon the tall French-window leading out on to the park swung open and the many spectators who had taken up points of vantage along the flower-beds could see a procession forming in the hall, led by Holk and Christine, the Countess in white satin and with a crown of orange-blossom on her veiled head. Behind the couple whose marriage vows were about to be renewed, came Asta and Axel, then Arne with the dowager Countess Bockdorff and Schwarzkoppen with Fräulein Dobschütz, and many others with them; and finally all those who had asked to join in the festive procession and whose presence was especially welcome to Holk and Christine, since many of them were little more than acquaintances. The servants brought up the rear and as the procession moved off towards Holkebye and passed along the gravel path under the avenue of pines, the route was lined by girls from Holkebye and the neighbouring villages carrying baskets and strewing flowers in their path; some of them, unable to resist their feelings, flung their baskets aside and ran towards Christine to seize hold of her hand or even kiss her dress. “They are treating me like a saint,” said the Countess, trying to smile. But Holk, to whom these words were whispered, saw that all this was causing her more sorrow than joy and that, true to her nature, this exaggerated homage was for her rather a source of anxiety and grief and even of dread for the future. But the whirling life around her made her forget these gloomy reflections and as she could now clearly hear more and more bells joining in, as if all the churches in the land were eager to celebrate this strange festival of reconciliation, all her sadness left her, for the moment at least, and her heart opened up to their joyous peal.

  They had now reached the low churchyard wall along which, as when Asta and Elizabeth used to sit there, tall nettles were once more growing and the sawn-up logs were arranged in high piles, and when the head of the procession had passed along the wall, they turned in through the gate and moved on between the graves towards the church which was standing with open doors, giving a full view of the lighted altar at the end of the central aisle.

  There Petersen was standing.

  He had been frail for many years and to his great age had finally been added the burden of illness. But when he had learned that “if Petersen was not well by Midsummer Day, Schwarzkoppen would have to conduct the service,” he had immediately recovered and when people tried to recommend caution and urged him to spare himself, he retorted that he was going to be the one to restore her happiness to Christine even if he had to do so from his death-bed. Everyone had been touched by this, his strength had been restored to him and he was now standing as straight and upright as nineteen years ago when, also on Midsummer Day, he had joined their hands together for the first time.

  As the procession moved up the aisle, a hymn was sung and when it was over, Petersen gave a short address, avoiding any personal allusions and above all any reference to the “sinner over whom there is more rejoicing in heaven than over ninety and nine just persons.” Instead, in a simple yet deeply moving prayer, he asked for the grace of God to descend upon the hearts of the reunited and then pronounced the blessing.

  The organ burst forth again and the bell pealed out and the long procession of witnesses to this renewal of vows made their way back along the path beside the sea and when they reached the jetty, they turned up towards the castle.

  The wedding feast was laid out on the front terrace, so that all the guests could look out over the sea, and as the time had now come for someone, if not to propose a toast, at least to say a few words, Arne stood up and turning towards his sister and brother-in-law, said simply: “To the luck of Holkenäs.”

  Everyone was strangely moved by these words which, indeed, had an almost melancholy sound and those sitting close to the bridegroom silently touched glasses with him.

  But there was little real rejoicing and all the bystanders had an anxious foreboding that if there was to be any “luck of Holkenäs” it was, at best, on that day only. By tomorrow, it would already have been buried.

  33

  However, the feeling of sadness that had dominated the splendid celebration appeared to be unjustified and the “luck of Holkenäs” seemed, in reality, likely to revive. At least, such was the impression gained by all those who were not intimates of the castle. The Holks lived amicably together, entertained a great deal (more than before), and visited their neighbours, on which occasion Holk was never lacking in charm and good humour and only the more observant noticed that one essential was absent. It was not happiness but merely peace that prevailed and before the autumn neither Fräulein Dobschütz nor Arne had any further doubt that as far as Christine was concerned, she had nothing but the willingness to be happy. Indeed, she was willing enough. There was no longer any question of differences of opinion and if, as occasionally happened, Holk launched out on some genealogical excursion or plans for model-farming, the Countess never smiled in the supercilious way that had so often vexed and exasperated her husband; but this anxious avoidance of everything that might have disturbed their peace, the sudden interruption of the conversation when an awkward topic chanced to turn up, the very care and constant self-control, were so oppressive that the last few years before the catastrophe, even though the real happiness of the marriage belonged by then already to the past, seemed in comparison a relatively happy time.

  With his sanguine temperament, Holk for a long time refused to face this truth and made a point of ignoring the reserve, almost the aversion, with which Christine met his advances. Finally, however, he became impatient and at the end of September, in a state of mingled disgruntlement and sympathy, he resolved to speak to Fräulein Dobschütz to ask her opinion and, if possible, her advice.

  It was a bright fresh autumn day and gossamer threads hung glittering on the bushes, already in part leafless. Asta had arrived from school the previous evening and as soon as breakfast, which had just started, was over, she was eagerly waiting to go down to visit her friend in the village. “I’ll come with you,” said Holk, and as Fräulein Dobschütz had already promised to accompany Asta, they all three set off from the terrace to take the shorter and prettier way beside the sea. The broad expanse of water was almost motionless and only occasionally a slight swell carried a little foam right up to the foot of the dune. Asta was delighted to see the sea again and kept breaking off in the middle of an account of happenings at school as, now and then, a wonderful shimmer of light slid over the still water or gulls’ wings dipped into it; but all at once she lost all interest in the sea and its reflections, as she spied Elizabeth Petersen coming out from the dunes on to the beach. She hurried towards her and gave her a hug and a kiss. Holk and Fräulein Dobschütz had been left somewhat behind, which suited the two girls very well as they naturally had a thousand and one things to tell each other as they went on ahead. Holk,
too, was pleased as it gave him the opportunity, for which he had been waiting for some time, to speak freely to Julie about Christine.

  “I am glad that we are alone for a moment, my dear Julie,” he began, “because I’ve been wanting a talk with you for a long time. What is wrong with Christine? You know that I am not inquiring out of mere curiosity or even less to complain and least of all to blame her. There were times when you found yourself having to hear such things and try to smooth them over; but as you know, my dear Julie, such times are past and will never return. There is never any conflict over anything now and when I go walking with Christine in the park, as I did before breakfast this morning, and a squirrel runs across the path and a swan glides over the lake and Rustan refuses to budge even when a swarm of hens flies out before our noses—then I think of a picture of Paradise that I once saw in which everything was at peace: the lion was walking with the lamb and God came and spoke with Adam and Eve. Yes, Julie, my present life reminds me of that picture and I could be satisfied and perhaps I should be. But I’m not, on the contrary I’m depressed and anxious. If it were only a question of myself, then I wouldn’t waste words if, in spite of this peacefulness, I feel uneasy and unable to enjoy myself. I should simply accept it as a punishment and not grumble, perhaps even feel a sort of grim satisfaction. After all, a wrong requires penance and penance can bring contentment because it satisfies our sense of justice. So let me say once again, if I am speaking to you now, it’s not on my own behalf but on Christine’s and because every day makes it plain to me that she would like to forget but cannot. And now tell me what you think.”

  “I think that you’re quite right. Christine is trying to forget but cannot.”

  “And has she said anything to you to suggest that? Has she given you to understand that everything has been in vain?”

  “No, not at all.”

  “And yet you yourself are convinced of it?”

  “I’m afraid so. But although I feel it so strongly, you mustn’t try to deduce from that anything more painful or more definite than you need, or indeed than you ought. Although I still enjoy Christine’s friendship—it could hardly be otherwise, because I am always trying to show her how much I love her—I no longer have her trust. She won’t confide in anyone, not even in me. It makes me very sad because she always used to open her heart to me and when, on that dreadful, unforgettable day when we left the house and afterwards went through those terrible times together, first in the village and then in Arnewieck and Gnadenfrei, there was not a single thought or feeling that she didn’t share with me. So close were we to each other that we were like two people with a single life. But from the moment Christine moved back here, all that came to an end. She is so sensitive that, having said to herself that a new life, full of joy and happiness, had begun or was about to begin, as soon as she saw—you must excuse me if I say this—as soon as she saw that this new life had failed and yet it seemed wrong to complain further and even ungrateful towards God, she became accustomed to keeping silent and even now I can still only guess at all that is taking place in her mind.”

  Holk stood still, lost in thought and then said: “My dear Julie, I had hoped that you would bring me consolation but I see that you’ve none to offer. If everything is as you say, then I can’t see anything that can help us.”

  “Time, dear Helmut, time. Mankind’s guardian angel.”

  “If only you may be right. But I don’t believe it; time will not have time enough to do anything. I’m not a doctor and I certainly disclaim any competence in reading in someone’s heart and soul. All the same, so much I can see, we’re heading for disaster. People can live happily or they can live unhappily, and in both cases they may live to a great age. But this resignation, this melancholy smile—that cannot last long. Our life must be built on joy and once the light of joy has been extinguished, then night must fall and if that night means death, then it will still be for the best.”

  A week later there was a small party at Holkenäs to which only a few intimate friends had been invited, amongst them Arne and Schwarzkoppen, in addition to Petersen and Elizabeth. Till dusk fell, they sat in the open because, in spite of the season, the air was mild and only when the lamps had been lit indoors did they leave the veranda and sit in the summer drawing-room to drink tea and have a little music. At school, Asta had become quite a polished pianist and since her return home she had been seeing Elizabeth almost daily and practising with her. This evening, a number of new pieces were going to be played in honour of Schwarzkoppen, who was leaving his post at Arnewieck in the next few days, and when the servants had ceased bustling about and the rattle of tea-cups and saucers had subsided, the two friends began hastily looking through their music-case until they had found what they wanted, only two or three pieces because Holk considered that music interfered with conversation. The first piece was a song from Flotow’s “Martha,” followed straight away by Robert Burns’s “O bonnie was yon rosy brier” and when the last notes of this song had died away, amidst general applause, Asta announced to her audience, who had become more attentive, that there would follow a genuine folk-song, since Robert Burns was not really a folk-poet.

  Schwarzkoppen disagreed with great vigour and was supported by Arne who, in his avuncular capacity, felt justified in adding that “this was just the sort of opinion you would expect from these modern boarding-schools” and, once launched, he would certainly have continued in the same strain with further provocative comments, had not Holk interrupted at that moment to inquire the exact title of the next song.

  “It hasn’t a title,” replied Asta.

  “Nonsense. Every song has to have a name.”

  “They used to have but now you take the first line as the title and put a wavy line under it.”

  “I can well believe that,” laughed Holk.

  Eventually they stopped arguing and after a short prelude by Asta, Elizabeth began to sing in her lovely voice, admirably suited to the words and the music of the song.

  “‘Denkst du verschwundener Tage, Marie,

  Wenn du starrst ins Feuer bei Nacht?

  Wünschst du die Stunden und Tage zurück,

  Wo du fröhlich und glücklich gelacht?’

  “‘Ich denke verschwundener Tage, John,

  Und sie sind allezeit mein Glück,

  Doch die mir die liebsten gewesen sind,

  Ich wünsche sie nicht zurück … ’”[1]

  When the singing and, immediately afterwards, the accompaniment, had come to an end, everyone, including even Holk, rushed to the piano to compliment Elizabeth, who was embarrassed at receiving so much praise. “Yes,” said Asta, proud of her friend’s success, “you’ve never sung it so beautifully.” Everyone wanted to hear the last verse again; but there was one person who did not join in this request because, in the middle of the general excitement, she had not failed to notice that, just as two years ago at the performance of Waiblinger’s melancholy song, Christine had quietly slipped out of the room.

  It was, of course, Julie who noticed this. She hesitated a moment, undecided whether to follow her friend or not but quickly making up her mind, she went upstairs to find Christine in her bedroom. She was sitting with her hands clasped together staring at the floor.