I
At that time I was five-and-twenty, began N. N.,--it was in days long
past, as you perceive. I had only just gained my freedom and gone
abroad, not to ‘finish my education,’ as the phrase was in those days;
I simply wanted to have a look at God’s world. I was young, and in good
health and spirits, and had plenty of money. Troubles had not yet had
time to gather about me. I existed without thought, did as I liked,
lived like the lilies of the field, in fact. It never occurred to me in
those days that man is not a plant, and cannot go on living like one
for long. Youth will eat gilt gingerbread and fancy it’s daily bread
too; but the time comes when you’re in want of dry bread even. There’s
no need to go into that, though.
I travelled without any sort of aim, without a plan; I stopped wherever
I liked the place, and went on again directly I felt a desire to see
new faces--faces, nothing else. I was interested in people exclusively;
I hated famous monuments and museums of curiosities, the very sight
of a guide produced in me a sense of weariness and anger; I was almost
driven crazy in the Dresden ‘Grüne-Gewölbe.’ Nature affected me
extremely, but I did not care for the so-called beauties of nature,
extraordinary mountains, precipices, and waterfalls; I did not like
nature to obtrude, to force itself upon me. But faces, living human
faces--people’s talk, and gesture, and laughter--that was what was
absolutely necessary to me. In a crowd I always had a special feeling
of ease and comfort. I enjoyed going where others went, shouting when
others shouted, and at the same time I liked to look at the others
shouting. It amused me to watch people … though I didn’t even watch
them--I simply stared at them with a sort of delighted, ever-eager
curiosity. But I am diverging again.
And so twenty years ago I was staying in the little German town Z.,
on the left bank of the Rhine. I was seeking solitude; I had just
been stabbed to the heart by a young widow, with whom I had made
acquaintance at a watering-place. She was very pretty and clever, and
flirted with every one--with me, too, poor sinner. At first she had
positively encouraged me, but later on she cruelly wounded my feelings,
sacrificing me for a red-faced Bavarian lieutenant. It must be owned,
the wound to my heart was not a very deep one; but I thought it my
duty to give myself up for a time to gloom and solitude--youth will
find amusement in anything!--and so I settled at Z.
I liked the little town for its situation on the slope of two high
hills, its ruined walls and towers, its ancient lime-trees, its steep
bridge over the little clear stream that falls into the Rhine, and,
most of all, for its excellent wine. In the evening, directly after
sunset (it was June), very pretty flaxen-haired German girls used to
walk about its narrow streets and articulate ‘Guten Abend’ in agreeable
voices on meeting a stranger,--some of them did not go home even when
the moon had risen behind the pointed roofs of the old houses, and
the tiny stones that paved the street could be distinctly seen in its
still beams. I liked wandering about the town at that time; the moon
seemed to keep a steady watch on it from the clear sky; and the town
was aware of this steady gaze, and stood quiet and attentive, bathed
in the moonlight, that peaceful light which is yet softly exciting
to the soul. The cock on the tall Gothic bell-tower gleamed a pale
gold, the same gold sheen glimmered in waves over the black surface of
the stream; slender candles (the German is a thrifty soul!) twinkled
modestly in the narrow windows under the slate roofs; branches of
vine thrust out their twining tendrils mysteriously from behind
stone walls; something flitted into the shade by the old-fashioned
well in the three-cornered market place; the drowsy whistle of the
night watchman broke suddenly on the silence, a good-natured dog
gave a subdued growl, while the air simply caressed the face, and
the lime-trees smelt so sweet that unconsciously the lungs drew in
deeper and deeper breaths of it, and the name ‘Gretchen’ hung, half
exclamation, half question, on the lips.
The little town of Z. lies a mile and a half from the Rhine. I used
often to walk to look at the majestic river, and would spend long
hours on a stone-seat under a huge solitary ash-tree, musing, not
without some mental effort, on the faithless widow. A little statue
of a Madonna, with an almost childish face and a red heart, pierced
with swords, on her bosom, peeped mournfully out of the branches of
the ash-tree. On the opposite bank of the river was the little town
L., somewhat larger than that in which I had taken up my quarters.
One evening I was sitting on my favourite seat, gazing at the sky,
the river, and the vineyards. In front of me flaxen-headed boys were
scrambling up the sides of a boat that had been pulled ashore, and
turned with its tarred bottom upwards. Sailing-boats moved slowly by
with slightly dimpling sails; the greenish waters glided by, swelling
and faintly rumbling. All of a sudden sounds of music drifted across
to me; I listened. A waltz was being played in the town of L. The
double bass boomed spasmodically, the sound of the fiddle floated
across indistinctly now and then, the flute was tootling briskly.
‘What’s that?’ I inquired of an old man who came up to me, in a plush
waistcoat, blue stockings, and shoes with buckles.
‘That,’ he replied, after first shifting his pipe from one corner
of his mouth to the other, ‘is the students come over from B. to a
commersh.’
‘I’ll have a look at this commersh,’ I thought. ‘I’ve never been over
to L. either.’ I sought out a ferryman, and went over to the other
side.