The New Year's eve ball lasted till the early morning and Effi was
generously admired, not quite so unhesitatingly, to be sure, as the
bouquet of camelias, which was known to have come from Gieshübler's
greenhouse. After the ball everybody fell back into the same old
routine, and hardly any attempt was made to establish closer social
relations. Hence the winter seemed very long. Visits from the noble
families of the neighborhood were rare, and when Effi was reminded of
her duty to return the visits she always remarked in a half-sorrowful
tone: "Yes, Geert, if it is absolutely necessary, but I shall be bored
to death." Innstetten never disputed the statement. What was said,
during these afternoon calls, about families, children, and
agriculture, was bearable, but when church questions were discussed
and the pastors present were treated like little popes, even looked
upon themselves as such, then Effi lost her patience and her mind
wandered sadly back to Niemeyer, who was always modest and
unpretentious, in spite of the fact that on every important occasion
it was said he had the stuff in him to be called to the cathedral.
Seemingly friendly as were the Borcke, Flemming, and Grasenabb
families, with the exception of Sidonie Grasenabb, real friendship was
out of the question, and often there would have been very little of
pleasure and amusement, or even of reasonably agreeable association,
if it had not been for Gieshübler.
He looked out for Effi as though he were a special Providence, and she
was grateful to him for it. In addition to his many other interests he
was a faithful and attentive reader of the newspapers. He was, in
fact, the head of the Journal Club, and so scarcely a day passed that
Mirambo did not bring to Effi a large white envelope full of separate
sheets and whole papers, in which particular passages were marked,
usually with a fine lead pencil, but occasionally with a heavy blue
pencil and an exclamation or interrogation point. And that was not
all. He also sent figs and dates, and chocolate drops done up in satin
paper and tied with a little red ribbon. Whenever any specially
beautiful flower was blooming in his greenhouse he would bring some of
the blossoms himself and spend a happy hour chatting with his adored
friend. He cherished in his heart, both separately and combined, all
the beautiful emotions of love--that of a father and an uncle, a
teacher and an admirer. Effi was affected by all these attentions and
wrote to Hohen-Cremmen about them so often that her mother began to
tease her about her "love for the alchymist." But this well-meant
teasing failed of its purpose; it was almost painful to her, in fact,
because it made her conscious, even though but dimly, of what was
really lacking in her married life, viz., outspoken admiration,
helpful suggestions, and little attentions.
Innstetten was kind and good, but he was not a lover. He felt that he
loved Effi; hence his clear conscience did not require him to make any
special effort to show it. It had almost become a rule with him to
retire from his wife's room to his own when Frederick brought the
lamp. "I have a difficult matter yet to attend to." With that he went.
To be sure, the portiere was left thrown back, so that Effi could hear
the turning of the pages of the document or the scratching of his pen,
but that was all. Then Rollo would often come and lie down before her
upon the fireplace rug, as much as to say: "Must just look after you
again; nobody else does." Then she would stoop down and say softly:
"Yes, Rollo, we are alone." At nine Innstetten would come back for
tea, usually with the newspaper in his hand, and would talk about the
Prince, who was having so much annoyance again, especially because of
that Eugen Richter, whose conduct and language beggared all
description. Then he would read over the list of appointments made and
orders conferred, to the most of which he objected. Finally he would
talk about the election and how fortunate it was to preside over a
district in which there was still some feeling of respect. When he had
finished with this he asked Effi to play something, either from
_Lohengrin_ or the _Walküre_, for he was a Wagner enthusiast. What had
won him over to this composer nobody quite knew. Some said, his
nerves, for matter-of-fact as he seemed, he was in reality nervous.
Others ascribed it to Wagner's position on the Jewish question.
Probably both sides were right. At ten Innstetten relaxed and indulged
in a few well-meant, but rather tired caresses, which Effi accepted,
without genuinely returning them.
Thus passed the winter. April came and Effi was glad when the garden
behind the court began to show green.
She could hardly wait for summer to come with its walks along the
beach and its guests at the baths. * * * The months had been so
monotonous that she once wrote: "Can you imagine, mama, that I have
almost become reconciled to our ghost? Of course, that terrible night,
when Geert was away at the Prince's house, I should not like to live
through again, no, certainly not; but this being always alone, with
nothing whatever happening, is hard, too, and when I wake up in the
night I occasionally listen to see if I can hear the shoes, shuffling
up above, and when all is quiet I am almost disappointed and say to
myself: If only it would come back, but not too bad and not too
close!"
It was in February that Effi wrote these words and now it was almost
May. The "Plantation" was beginning to take on new life again and one
could hear the song of the finches. During this same week the storks
returned, and one of them soared slowly over her house and alighted
upon a barn near Utpatel's mill, its old resting place. Effi, who now
wrote to her mother more frequently than heretofore, reported this
happening, and at the conclusion of her letter said: "I had almost
forgotten one thing, my dear mama, viz., the new district commander of
the landwehr, who has been here now for almost four weeks. But shall
we really have him? That is the question, and a question of
importance, too, much as my statement will make you laugh, because you
do not know how we are suffering here from social famine. At least I
am, for I am at a loss to know what to make of the nobility here. My
fault, perhaps, but that is immaterial. The fact remains, there has
been a famine, and for this reason I have looked forward, through all
the winter months, to the new district commander as a bringer of
comfort and deliverance. His predecessor was an abominable combination
of bad manners and still worse morals and, as though that were not
enough, was always in financial straits. We have suffered under him
all this time, Innstetten more than I, and when we heard early in
April that Major von Crampas was here--for that is the name of the new
man--we rushed into each other's arms, as though no further harm could
befall us in our dear Kessin. But, as already mentioned, it seems as
though there will be nothing going on, now that he is here. He is
married, has two children, one eight, the other ten years old, and
his wife is a year older than he--say, forty-five. That of itself
would make little difference, and why shouldn't I find a motherly
friend delightfully entertaining? Miss Trippelli was nearly thirty,
and I got along with her quite well. But Mrs. Crampas, who by the way
was not a _von_, is impossible. She is always out of sorts, almost
melancholy, much like our Mrs. Kruse, of whom she reminds me not a
little, and it all comes from jealousy. Crampas himself is said to be
a man of many 'relations,' a ladies' man, which always sounds
ridiculous to me and would in this case, if he had not had a duel with
a comrade on account of just such a thing. His left arm was shattered
just below the shoulder and it is noticeable at first sight, in spite
of the operation, which was heralded abroad as a masterpiece of
surgical art. It was performed by Wilms and I believe they call it
resection.
"Both Mr. and Mrs. Crampas were at our house a fortnight ago to pay us
a visit. The situation was painful, for Mrs. Crampas watched her
husband so closely that he became half-embarrassed, and I wholly. That
he can be different, even jaunty and in high spirits, I was convinced
three days ago, when, he sat alone with Innstetten, and I was able to
follow their conversation from my room. I afterward talked with him
myself and found him a perfect gentleman and extraordinarily clever.
Innstetten was in the same brigade with him during the war and they
often saw each other at Count Gröben's to the north of Paris. Yes, my
dear mama, he is just the man to instill new life into Kessin.
Besides, he has none of the Pomeranian prejudices, even though he is
said to have come from Swedish Pomerania. But his wife! Nothing can be
done without her, of course, and still less with her."
Effi was quite right. As a matter of fact no close friendship was
established with the Crampas family. They met once at the Borckes',
again quite casually at the station, and a few days later on a steamer
excursion up the "Broad" to a large beech and oak forest called "The
Chatter-man." But they merely exchanged short greetings, and Effi was
glad when the bathing season opened early in June. To be sure, there
was still a lack of summer visitors, who as a rule did not come in
numbers before St. John's Day. But even the preparations afforded
entertainment. In the "Plantation" a merry-go-round and targets were
set up, the boatmen calked and painted their boats, every little
apartment put up new curtains, and rooms with damp exposure and
subject to dry-rot were fumigated and aired.
In Effi's own home everybody was also more or less excited, not
because of summer visitors, however, but of another expected arrival.
Even Mrs. Kruse wished to help as much as she could. But Effi was
alarmed at the thought of it and said: "Geert, don't let Mrs. Kruse
touch anything. It would do no good, and I have enough to worry about
without that." Innstetten promised all she asked, adding that Christel
and Johanna would have plenty of time, anyhow.
* * * * *
[An elderly widow and her maid arrived and took rooms for the season
opposite the Innstetten house. The widow died and was buried in the
cemetery. After watching the funeral from her window Effi walked out
to the hotel among the dunes and on her way home turned into the
cemetery, where she found the widow's maid sitting in the burning
sun.]
* * * * *
"It is a hot place you have picked out," said Effi, "much too hot. And
if you are not cautious you may have a sun-stroke."
"That would be a blessing."
"How so?"
"Then I should be out of the world."
"I don't think you ought to say that, even if you had bad luck or lost
a dear friend. I presume you loved her very dearly?"
"I? Her? Oh, heaven forbid!"
"You are very sad, however, and there must be some cause."
"There is, too, your Ladyship."
"Do you know me?"
"Yes. You are the wife of the district councillor across the street
from us. I was always talking with the old woman about you. But the
time came when she could talk no more, because she could not draw a
good breath. There was something the matter with her here, dropsy,
perhaps. But so long as she could speak she spoke incessantly. She was
a genuine Berlin--"
"Good woman?"
"No. If I said that it would be a lie. She is in her grave now and we
ought not to say anything bad about the dead, especially as even they
hardly have peace. Oh well, I suppose she has found peace. But she was
good for nothing and was quarrelsome and stingy and made no provision
for me. The relatives who came yesterday from Berlin * * * were very
rude and unkind to me and raised all sorts of objections when they
paid me my wages, merely because they had to and because there are
only six more days before the beginning of a new quarter. Otherwise I
should have received nothing, or only half, or only a quarter--nothing
with their good will. And they gave me a torn five-mark note to pay my
fare back to Berlin. Well, it is just enough for a fourth-class ticket
and I suppose I shall have to sit on my luggage. But I won't do it. I
will sit here and wait till I die--Heavens, I thought I should have
peace here and I could have stood it with the old woman, too. But now
this has come to nothing and I shall have to be knocked around again.
Besides, I am a Catholic. Oh, I have had enough of it and I wish I lay
where the old woman lies. She might go on living for all of me. * * *"
Rollo, who had accompanied Effi, had meanwhile sat down before the
maid, with his tongue away out, and looked at her. When she stopped
talking he arose, stepped forward, and laid his head upon her knees.
Suddenly she was transformed. "My, this means something for me. Why,
here is a creature that can endure me, that looks at me like a friend
and lays its head on my knees. My, it has been a long time since
anything like that has happened to me. Well, old boy, what's your
name? My, but you are a splendid fellow!"
"Rollo," said Effi.
"Rollo; that is strange. But the name makes no difference. I have a
strange name, too, that is, forename. And the likes of me have no
other, you know."
"What is your name?"
"I am called Roswitha."
"Yes, that is strange; why, that is--"
"Yes, quite right, your Ladyship, it is a Catholic name. And that is
another trouble, that I am a Catholic. From Eichsfeld. Being a
Catholic makes it harder and more disagreeable for me. Many won't have
Catholics, because they run to the church so much. * * *"
"Roswitha," said Effi, sitting down by her on the bench. "What are you
going to do now?"
"Ah, your Ladyship, what could I be going to do? Nothing. Honestly and
truly, I should like to sit here and wait till I fall over dead. * *
*"
"I want to ask you something, Roswitha. Are you fond of children? Have
you ever taken care of little children?"
"Indeed I have. That is the best and finest thing about me. * * * When
a dear little thing stands up in one's lap, a darling little creature
like a doll, and looks at one with its little peepers, that, I tell
you, is something that opens up one's heart. * * *"
"Now let me tell you, Roswitha, you are a good true person; I can
tell it by your looks. A little bit unceremonious, but that doesn't
hurt; it is often true of the best people, and I have had confidence
in you from the beginning. Will you come along to my house? It seems
as though God had sent you to me. I am expecting a little one soon,
and may God help me at the time. When the child comes it must be cared
for and waited upon and perhaps even fed from a bottle, though I hope
not. But one can never tell. What do you say? Will you come?"
Roswitha sprang up, seized the hand of the young wife and kissed it
fervently. "Oh, there is indeed a God in heaven, and when our need is
greatest help is nearest. Your Ladyship shall see, I can do it. I am
an orderly person and have good references. You can see for yourself
when I bring you my book. The very first time I saw your Ladyship I
thought: 'Oh, if I only had such a mistress!' And now I am to have
her. O, dear God, O, holy Virgin Mary, who would have thought it
possible, when we had put the old woman in her grave and the relatives
made haste to get away and left me sitting here?"
"Yes, it is the unexpected that often happens, Roswitha, and
occasionally for our good. Let us go now. Rollo is getting impatient
and keeps running down to the gate."
Roswitha was ready at once, but went back to the grave, mumbled a few
words and crossed herself. Then they walked down the shady path and
back to the churchyard gate. * * *