The title of this book, in the German, is "Der Roman der Stiftsdame,"
_stiftsdame_ being rendered in this version _canoness_. It is desirable
to explain that _stiftsdame_ is the name given to a female member of
certain religious communities or orders, originally Roman Catholic, the
members of which lived in common but without taking monastic vows.
After the Reformation, Protestant houses of a similar kind were
organized. The privileges of these communities are often secured by
noblemen for their daughters, who may at any subsequent period enter
the stift or chapter of the order, but who forfeit this right in case
of marriage.
THE
ROMANCE OF THE CANONESS.
In June, 1864, a visit I had promised to pay one of the friends of my
youth led me into the heart of the province of Brandenburg. I could
travel by the railway as far as the little city of St. ----, but from
this place was compelled to hire a carriage for two or three miles, as
the estate, which my friend had owned several years, did not even
possess the advantage of a daily stage. So, on reaching St. ----,
I applied to the landlord of the "Crown-Prince"--who was also
postmaster--for a carriage, and, as it was past three o'clock in the
afternoon, and the drive over shadeless roads in the early heat of
summer would not be particularly agreeable, I begged him not to hurry,
but give me time to have a glimpse of the little city and its environs.
The landlord replied that the poor little place had no sights worth
looking at. As a native of a great capital who had removed to the
province, he displayed a compassionate contempt for his present
residence. The situation was not bad, and the "lake" the most
abundantly stocked with fish in the whole Mark. If I kept straight on
in that direction--he pointed across the square marketplace on which
his hostelry stood--I should get a view of the water just beyond the
city-wall.
To a traveler who is less thoroughly familiar with the local history of
the Mart than my friend, Theodor Fontane, and who suddenly finds
himself transferred from the capital to the province, one of these
little cities looks very much like another. The first feeling amid the
neat little houses--most of them only a story high, while walking over
the rough pavement kept as clean as the floor of an old maid's room, or
passing through the quiet squares planted with acacias or ancient
lindens, where nothing is stirring save flocks of noisy sparrows--is a
secret doubt whether real people actually dwell here, people who take
an active interest in the life of the present day, or whether we have
not strayed into a pretty, gigantic toy village, which has merely been
set up here for a time and will soon be taken down and packed into
boxes like Nuremberg carvings.
This impression of fairy illusion and enchantment, which would speedily
vanish, was enhanced by the sultry calm, portending an approaching
thunder-storm, that brooded over the streets and squares and kept the
inhabitants indoors. Here and there I saw behind the glittering
window-panes the face of an old woman or a fair-haired young girl, not
peering out between the pots of geranium and cactus to look after the
stranger with provincial curiosity, but gazing into vacancy with a
strange expression of gentle melancholy. The few persons I met in the
street also wore this pensive look, as if some great universal calamity
had happened, which quenched the cheerfulness of even the most
indifferent.
I therefore pursued my walk somewhat cheerlessly, and not until I had
reached the wall, which rose to a moderate height on both sides of the
ancient city-gate, did the oppression of this sultry afternoon calm
abandon me. Not less than four rows of the most magnificent old trees,
among which several huge maples and chestnuts stretched their gigantic
branches skyward, cast a broad belt of shade over the dreary little
place, and were not only animated by the notes of birds, but by the
shouts and laughter of countless children, who had seen the light of
the world in the silent houses. Their nurses sat knitting and gossiping
on the numerous benches; yet even on their faces I fancied I perceived
the sorrowful expression I had noticed in the other inhabitants of the
city.
It would have been pleasant to linger here in the shade among the
little ones. But I remembered that I must do my duty as a tourist and
see the lake, which even the postmaster had mentioned approvingly. At
the end of a long avenue of poplars, leading from the gate over the
level plain, I saw the white-capped waves sparkling in the sunlight,
and quickened my pace in order to return the sooner to the cool shade
of the dense foliage.
Yet the scene that opened below, before my gaze, was indeed wonderfully
charming. A bright, semicircular basin, as clear as a mirror, whose
circuit it would probably have required a full hour to make, lay amid
the most luxuriant green meadows and a few tilled fields, in which the
lighter hue of the young grain stood forth in strong relief. The shore
was encircled by a dense border of sedges, whose brown tops, whenever a
faint breeze blew, waved gently to and fro as though stirred by their
own weight. The opposite bank, which rose in a gradual ascent, was
clothed with a dark grove of firs, whose reddish trunks were reflected
in the water, and around whose tops hovered flocks of crows and jays,
whose harsh screams ever and anon interrupted the oppressive silence.
The avenue of poplars led directly to the harbor, which was marked by
half a dozen gayly painted boats. These had been drawn up on the sand,
but their owners had not thought it worth while to fasten them to a
stake, as if it would be quite impossible for them to voluntarily drift
away from the shore. Near these skiffs I was surprised by the sight of
a steamer, similar in size and form to the coasters so much used in the
German Ocean. The light green garlands of fir, with which it was
profusely adorned, formed a strange contrast to its slanting smokestack
and the damaged condition of the deck-rail. But I looked about me in
vain for some person who might have told me how this craft, which must
have once seen better days, had reached the quiet inland lake and been
decked in its gay festal array, like a shame-faced old man holding a
jubilee.
Still keeping my eyes fixed on the opposite grove, I strolled slowly
along the broad path by the shore of the lake, unheeding the sun, as a
refreshing coolness rose from the water. But ere I had advanced a
hundred paces I discovered, half hidden behind some tall lindens,
several lonely buildings, a long, narrow, gable-roofed house, without
any architectural ornamentation, which looked more like a store-house
than a dwelling, yet showed by the little white curtains at the
window-frames, and the flowering plants inclosed by trellis-work
fences, that human beings lived there. A few low huts or sheds adjoined
it in the rear, the long front faced the lake; but the view was here
partly cut off by a little church or chapel, also of the plainest
structure, and so low that a man on horseback might have easily glanced
into the swallows' nests under its weather-beaten roof. Yet the poor
little church, with its four blind arched windows and tiny steeple,
looked cheerful and picturesque, for an ancient ivy had climbed the
narrow rear wall, and, while the trunk clung naked and bare to the
masonry, the luxuriant branches, twining over cornice and roof, had
flung a thick mantle over the shoulders of the shabby building.
Here, too, all was desolate and silent. But a peasant lad, who had been
fishing in the lake and was now running home, answered my queries so
far as to enable me to learn that the long building was the almshouse,
and the chapel belonged to it, but there were no religious services
held there now; and no one, except the paupers, were buried in the
little grave-yard, whose sunken, slanting black crosses gleamed from
under the shadow of the lindens. When I asked if I could go into the
chapel, the child stared at me in astonishment, shook his flaxen head,
and sped away on his little bare feet as swiftly as though the earth
was beginning to scorch them.
I now walked slowly around the chapel, and approached the house.
Standing on a little bench in the flower-garden, before an open window,
was a tall figure clad in black, gazing motionless into the dwelling.
He was apparently a man of middle age, with smooth, brown hair, which
fell slightly over a high forehead. The profile, whose noble lines
denoted marked character, was strongly relieved against the whitewashed
wall; the sun shone fiercely on his head and back, but, without heeding
it, he held his hat before him in both hands, and did not even turn
when I passed. The sound of my steps apparently did not reach his ear.
His coat was old-fashioned in cut, but his appearance was by no means
provincial. I would gladly have accosted him, had it not seemed as if
he were listening to something, inaudible to me, that was being said
inside the room.
So I quietly passed him and went to the gable side of the house. On the
steps in front of the open door sat an aged dame, stooping so far
forward that her big black crepe cap shaded the tiny old book she held
in her lap. A pair of large horn spectacles rested on the open pages,
and her sharp red nose nodded strangely like the beak of a bird that is
trying to peck at something. She was not asleep, for she sometimes
sighed so heavily that the capstrings under her withered chin trembled.
Then her yellow shriveled hand grasped a small lead box lying on the
stone step beside her, and she took a pinch of snuff.
"Can you still read, mother?" I asked, stopping before her.
She looked up at me without the slightest sign of surprise. The stern,
withered old face wore the anxious expression of a deaf person.