avoided, and Experience with her sledge-hammers drives the lesson home,
why do we, convinced and battered, repeat the actions every time we get
the chance? I have known from my youth the opinion of Solomon that he
that passeth by and meddleth with strife belonging not to him, is like
one that taketh a dog by the ears; and I have a wise relative--not a
blood-relation, but still very wise--who at suitable intervals addresses
me in the following manner:--'Don't meddle.' Yet now I have to relate
how, on the eighth day of my journey round Rügen, in defiance of Reason,
Experience, Solomon, and the wise relative, I began to meddle.
The first desire came upon me in the night, when I could not sleep
because of the mosquitoes and the constant coming into the pavilion of
late and jovial tourists. The tourists came in in jolly batches till
well on towards morning, singing about things like the Rhine and the
Fatherland's frontiers, glorious songs and very gory, as they passed my
hastily-shut window on their way round to the door. After each batch had
gone I got out and cautiously opened the window again, and then waited
for the next ones, slaying mosquitoes while I waited; and it was while I
lay there sleepless and tormented that the longing to help reunite
Charlotte and her husband first entered my head.
It is true that I was bothered for some time trying to arrive at a clear
comprehension of what constitutes selfishness, but I gave that up for it
only made my head ache. Surely Charlotte, for instance, was intensely
selfish to leave her home and, heedless of her husband's unhappiness,
live the life she preferred? But was not he equally selfish in wanting
to have her back again? For whose happiness would that be? He could not
suppose for hers. If she, determined to be unselfish, went home, she
would only be pandering to his selfishness. The more she destroyed her
individuality and laid its broken remains at his feet, the more she
would be developing evil qualities in the acceptor of such a gift. We
are taught that our duty is to make each other good and happy, not bad
and happy; Charlotte, therefore, would be doing wrong if, making the
Professor happy, she also made him bad. Because he had a sweet way with
him and she had not, he got all the sympathy, including mine; and of
course the whole of that windy mass of biassed superficiality called
Public Opinion was on his side. But how can one, if one truly loves a
woman, wish her to live a life that must make her wretched? Such love
can only be selfish; accordingly the Professor was selfish. They were
both selfish; and if one were not so the other would be more so. And if
to be unselfish meant making those about you the opposite, then it must
be wrong; and were it conceivable that a whole family should determine
to be unselfish and actually carry out the dreadful plan, life in that
doomed house would become a perpetual _combat de générosité_, not in any
way to be borne. Here it was that my head began to ache. 'What stuff is
this?' I thought, veering round suddenly to the easeful simplicity of
the old conventions. 'Just to think of it gives me a headache. The only
thing I know of that does not give a woman a headache is to live the
life for which she was intended--the comfortable life with a brain at
rest and a body wholly occupied with benevolences; and if her meekness
makes her husband bad, what does that matter in the end to any one but
him? Charlotte ought to be very happy with that kind old man. Any woman
would be. Her leaving him must have been owing to some trifling
misunderstanding. I am sure it would be for her happiness to go back to
him. She would grow quite round and mellow. Could I not do something,
say something, to get her to give him another trial? I wish--oh, I wish
I could!'
Now from time to time the wise relative quoted above amplifies his
advice in the following manner:--'Of all forms of meddling that which
deals with man and wife is, to the meddler, the most immediately fatal.'
But where are the persons who take advice? I never yet met them. When
the first shaft of sunshine slanted through my window it fell on me in
my dressing-gown feverishly writing to Charlotte. The eloquence of that
letter! I really think it had all the words in it I know, except those
about growing round and mellow. Something told me that they would not
appeal to her. I put it in an envelope and locked it in my dressing-case
till, unconscious of what was in store for her, she should send me her
address; and then, full of the glow that warms the doer of good actions
equally with the officious, I put on my bathing things, a decent skirt
and cloak over them, got out of the window, and went down the cliff to
the beach to bathe.
The water was icily cold in the shadow of the cliffs, but it was a
wonderful feeling getting all the closeness of the night dashed off me
in that vast and splendid morning solitude. Dripping I hurried up again,
my skirt and cloak over the soaked bathing dress, my wet feet thrust
into shoes I could never afterwards wear, a trickle of salt water
marking the way I took. It was just five o'clock as I got in at the
window. In another quarter of an hour I was dry and dressed and out of
the window a second time--getting in and out of that window had a
singular fascination for me--and on my way for an early exploring of the
woods.
But those Stubbenkammer woods were destined never to be explored by me;
for I had hardly walked ten minutes along their beechen ways listening
to the birds and stopping every few steps to look up at the blue of the
sky between the branches, before I came to the Hertha See, a mysterious
silent pond of black water with reeds round it and solemn forest paths,
and on the moss by the shore of the Hertha See, his eyes fixed on its
sullen waters, deep in thought, sat the Professor.
'Don't tell me you have forgotten me again,' I exclaimed anxiously; for
his eyes turned from the lake to me as I came over the moss to him in an
unchanged abstraction. What was he doing there? He looked exceedingly
untidy, and his boots were white with dust.
'Good morning,' I said cheerfully, as he continued to gaze straight
through me.
'I have no doubt whatever that this was the place,' he remarked, 'and
Klüver was correct in his conjecture.'
'Now what is the use,' I said, sitting down on the moss beside him, 'of
talking to me like that when I don't know the beginning? Who is Klüver?
And what did he conjecture?'
His eyes suddenly flashed out of their dream, and he smiled and patted
my hand. 'Why, it is the little cousin,' he said, looking pleased.
'It is. May I ask what you are doing here?'
'Doing? Agreeing with Klüver that this is undoubtedly the spot.'
'What spot?'
'Tacitus describes it so accurately that there can be no reasonable
doubt.'
'Oh--Tacitus. I thought Klüver had something to do with Charlotte. Where
is Charlotte?'
'Conceive the procession of the goddess Nerthus, or Hertha, mother of
the earth, passing through these sacred groves on the way to bless her
children. Her car is covered, so that no eye shall behold her. The
priest alone, walking by the side, is permitted to touch it. Wherever
she passes holyday is kept. Arms are laid aside. Peace reigns absolute.
No man may seek to slay his brother while she who blesses all alike is
passing among her children. Then, when she has once more been carried to
her temple, in this water thou here seest, in this very lake, her car
and its draperies are cleansed by slaves, who, after performing their
office, are themselves thrown into the water and left to perish; for
they had laid hands on that which was holy, and even to-day, when we are
half-hearted in the defence of our adorations and rarely set up altars
in our souls, that is a dangerous thing to do.'
'Dear Professor,' I said, 'it is perfectly sweet of you to tell me about
the goddess Nerthus, but would you mind, before you go any further,
telling me where Charlotte is? When I last saw you you were whirling
after her in a waggonette. Did you ever catch her?'
He looked at me a moment, then gave the bulging pocket of his waterproof
a sounding slap. 'Little cousin,' he said, 'in me thou beholdest a
dreamer of dreams, an unpractical greybeard, a venerable sheep's-head.
Never, I suppose, shall I learn to remember, unaided, those occurrences
that I fain would not forget. Therefore I assist myself by making notes
of them to which I can refer. Unfortunately it seldom happens that I
remember to refer. Thou, however, hast reminded me of them. I will now
seek them out.' And he dragged different articles from the bulging
pocket, laying them carefully on the moss beside him in tidy rows. But
the fact of only one of the two handkerchiefs being there nearly put him
off the track, so much and so long did he marvel where its fellow could
be; also the sight of his extra pair of socks reminded him of the urgent
need they were in of mending, and he broke off his search for the
note-book to hold each up in turn to me and eloquently lament. _'Nein,
nein, was fur Socken!'_ he moaned, with a final shake of the head as he
spread them out too on the moss.
'Yes, they are very bad,' I agreed for the tenth time.
'Bad! They are emblematic.'
'Will you let me mend them? Or rather,' I hastily added, 'cause them to
be mended?' For my aversion to needles is at least as great as
Charlotte's.
'No, no--what is the use? There are cupboards full of socks like them in
Bonn, skeletons of that which once was socks, mere outlines filled in
with holes.'
'And all are emblematic?'
'Every single one.' But this time he looked at me with a twinkle in his
eye.
'I don't think,' I said, 'that I'd let my soul be ruffled by a sock. If
it offended me I'd throw it away and buy some more.'
'Behold wisdom,' cried the Professor gaily, 'proceeding from the mouth
of an intellectual suckling!' And without more ado he flung both the
socks into the Hertha See. There they lay, like strange flowers of
yellow wool, motionless on the face of the mystic waters.
'And now the note-book?' I asked; for he had relapsed into immobility,
and was watching the socks with abstracted eyes.
'_Ach_ yes--the note-book.'
Being heavy, it was at the very bottom of what was more like a sack in
size than a pocket; but once he had run his glance over the latest
entries he began very volubly to tell me what he had been doing all
night. It had been an even busier night than mine. Charlotte, he
explained, had left Sassnitz by the Berlin train, and had taken a ticket
for Berlin, as he ascertained at the booking-office, a few minutes
before he took his. He arrived at the very last moment, yet as he jumped
into the just departing train he caught sight of her sitting in a
ladies' compartment. She also caught sight of him. 'I therefore gave a
sigh of satisfaction,' he continued, 'lit my pipe, and, contemplating
the evening heavens from the window, happy in the thought of being so
near my little wife, I fell into an abstraction.'
I shook my head. 'These abstractions. Professor,' I observed, 'are
inconvenient things to fall into. What had happened by the time you fell
out again?'
'I found that I had emerged from my compartment and was standing on the
ferry that takes the train across the water to Stralsund. The ancient
city rose in venerable majesty----'
'Never mind the ancient city, dearest Professor. Look at your notes
again--what was Charlotte doing?'
'Charlotte? She had entirely escaped my memory, so great was the
pleasure excited in my breast by the contemplation of the starlit scene
before me. But glancing away from the massive towers of Stralsund, my
eye fell on the word "_Frauen_" on the window of the ladies' carriage.
Instantly remembering Charlotte, I clambered up eager to speak to her.
The compartment was empty.'
'She too was contemplating the starlit scene from the deck of the
ferry?'
'She was not.'
'Were there no bags in the carriage?'
'Not a bag.'
'What had become of her?'
'She had left the train; and I'll tell thee how. At Bergen, our only
stopping-place, we crossed a train returning to Sassnitz. Plentiful
applications of drink-money to officials revealed the fact that she had
changed into this train.'
'Not very clever,' I thought.
'No, no,' said the Professor, as if he had heard me thinking. 'The
little Lot's cleverness invariably falls just short of the demands made
upon it. At critical moments, when the choice lies between the substance
and the shadow, I have observed she unfailingly chooses the shadow. This
comical life she leads, what is it but a pursuit of shadows?
However----' And he stopped short, not caring, I suppose, to discuss his
wife.
'Where do you think she is now?'
'I conjecture not far from here. I arrived at Sassnitz at one o'clock
this morning by the Swedish boat-train. I was told that a lady answering
her description had got out there at eleven, taken a fly, and driven
into the town. I walked out here to speak with thee, and was only
waiting for the breakfast-hour to seek thee out, for she will not, being
so near thee, omit to join thee.'
'You must be perfectly exhausted.'
'What I most wish for is breakfast.'
'Then let us go and see if we can't get some. Gertrud will be up by now,
and can produce coffee at the shortest notice.'
'Who is Gertrud? Another dear little cousin? If it be so, lead me, I
pray thee, at once to Gertrud.'
I laughed, and explaining Gertrud to him helped him pack his pocket
again. Then we started for the hotel full of hope, each thinking that if
Charlotte were not already there she would very soon turn up.
But Charlotte was not there, nor did she, though we loitered over our
coffee till we ended by being as late as the latest tourist, turn up.
'She is certain to come during the day,' said the Professor.
I told him I had arranged to go to Glowe that day, a little place
farther along the coast; and he said he would, in that case, engage my
vacant pavilion-bedroom for himself and stay that night at
Stubbenkammer. 'She is certain to come here,' he repeated; 'and I will
not lose her a second time.'
'You won't like the pavilion,' I remarked.
About eleven, there being still no signs of Charlotte, I set out on foot
on the first stage of my journey to Glowe, sending the carriage round by
road to meet me at Lohme, the place where I meant to stop for lunch, and
going myself along the footpath down on the shore. The Professor, who
was a great walker and extraordinarily active for his years, came with
me part of the way. He intended, he said, to go into Sassnitz that
afternoon if Charlotte did not appear before then and make inquiries,
and meanwhile he would walk a little with me; so we started very gaily
down the same zigzag path up which I had crawled dripping a few hours
before. At the bottom of the ravine the shore-path from Stubbenkammer to
Lohme begins. It is a continuation of the lovely path from Sassnitz,
but, less steep, it keeps closer to the beach. It is a white chalk path
running along the foot of cliffs clothed with moss and every kind of
wild-flower and fern. Masses of the leaves of lilies of the valley show
what it must look like in May, and on the day we walked there the space
between the twisted beech trunks--twisted into the strangest contortions
under the lash of winter storms--was blue with wild campanula.
What a walk that was. The sea lay close to our feet in great green and
blue streaks; the leaves of the beeches on our left seemed carved in
gold, they shone so motionless against the sky; and the Professor was so
gay, so certain that he was going to find Charlotte, that he almost
danced instead of walking. He talked to me, there is no doubt, as he
might have talked to quite a little child--of erudition there was not a
sign, of wisdom in Brosy's sense not a word; but what of that? The happy
result was that I understood him, and I know we were very merry. If I
were Charlotte nothing would induce me to stir from the side of a
good-natured man who could make me laugh. Why, what a quality in a
husband, how precious and how rare. Think of living with a person who
looks at the world with the kindliest amused eyes. Imagine having a
perpetual spring of pleasant mirth in one's own house, babbling coolly
of refreshing things on days when life is dusty. Must not wholesomeness
pervade the very cellars and lumber-rooms of such a home? Well, I meant
to do all in my power to persuade Charlotte to go into the home again.
How delightful to be the means of doing the dear old man beside me a
good turn! Meanwhile he walked along happily, all unconscious that I was
meditating good turns, perhaps happy for that very reason, and full of
confidence in his ability to catch and to keep Charlotte. 'Where she
goes I go with her,' he said. 'I now have my summer leisure and can
devote myself entirely to her.'
'Do not fall into abstractions then, dear Professor, at important
moments,' I said; and inwardly rehearsed the eloquent pleadings with
which I meant to shake Charlotte's soul when next I saw her.
We said good-bye where the wood ends and the white path goes out into
the sun. 'Be sure you let me know when you meet Charlotte,' I said. 'I
want particularly to speak to her. Something really important. Tell her
so. And I have a letter for her if I can't see her. Don't forget I sleep
at Glowe to-night. I'll telegraph where I stay to-morrow. Don't forget.
Won't you be very nice and make notes of it?'
He promised, wished me Godspeed, kissed my hand, and turned back into
the wood swinging his stick and humming gay little tunes; and I went on
in the sun to Lohme.
There I bathed again, a delicious solitary bathe just as the woman was
locking up for the day; and afterwards, when she had gone away up the
cliff to her dinner, I sat on the empty beach in the sun and thought of
all I was going to say to Charlotte. It interested me so much that I
forgot I had meant to lunch at Lohme, and when I remembered it it was
already time to go up and meet the carriage. It did not matter, as the
midday meal is the best one to leave out, and Lohme is not the kind of
place I would ever want to lunch in. The beach at the foot of the cliffs
is quiet and pleasant, and from it you can see the misty headland of
Arkona with its lighthouse, the northernmost point of the island, far
away on the left. Lohme itself is a small group of hotels and
lodging-houses on the top of low cliffs, very small and modest compared
even to Binz and Sassnitz, which are not very big themselves, and much
more difficult to get at. There is no railway nearer than Sassnitz, and
the few steamers that stop there disgorge the tourist who wants to get
out into a small boat and steam away leaving him to his fate, which is
only a nice one on quite calm days. Safely on land he climbs up a
shadeless zigzag path which must be beautiful in June, for the cliffs
are thickly covered with wild-rose bushes, and at the top finds himself
among the lodging-houses of Lohme. The only thing I saw when I got to
the top that made me linger was a row of tubs filled with nasturtiums
along the little terrace in front of the first hotel I passed. The way
those nasturtiums blazed against the vast blue curtain of sea and sky
that hung behind them, with no tree or bush anywhere near to shadow
their fierce splendour, was a sight well worth coming to Lohme for.
There is no shade anywhere at Lohme. It stands entirely exposed out in
the open beyond the Stubbenkammer forest, and on a dull day must be
dreary. It is, I imagine, a convenient place for quiet persons who do
not wish to spend much, and the air is beautiful. In spite of the heat I
felt as if it were the most bracing air I had yet come across on my
journey.
The carriage was waiting just outside the empty, sunny little place, in
a road that winds chalkily between undulating fields in the direction of
Glowe. Gertrud's face wore a look of satisfaction as she got into her
old seat beside me and took out her knitting. She had not been able to
knit during those few dreadful days in which her place had been usurped,
and she had bumped after us ignominiously in a cart; and how pleasant it
was not to have the ceaseless rattle just behind. Yes; it became more
and more clear that Charlotte ought to be in her own home with her
husband. Her being there would undoubtedly promote the general peace.
And why should she go about stirring people up and forcing them to be
dogged by luggage carts?
The road wound higher through the cornfields, dwindling at last into a
stony track. The country heaved away in ample undulations on either
side. There were no trees, but so many flowers that even the ruts were
blue with chickory. On the right, over the cornfields, lay the Baltic. I
could still see Arkona in front of me on the dim edge of the world. Down
at our feet stretched the calm silver of the Jasmunder Bodden, the
biggest of those inland seas that hollow out the island into a mere
frame; and a tongue of pine-forest, black and narrow, curved northwards
between its pale waters and the vigorous blue of the sea. I stopped the
carriage as I love to do in lonely places, and there was no sound but a
faint whispering in the corn.
We drove down over stones between grassy banks to a tiny village with a
very ancient church and the pleasing name of Bobbin. I looked wistfully
up at the church on its mound as we passed below it. It was very
old--six centuries the guide-book said--and fain would I have gone into
it; but I knew it would be locked, and did not like to disturb the
parson for the key. The parson himself came along the road at that
moment, and he looked so kind, and his eye was so mild that I got out
and inquired of him with what I hope was an engaging modesty whether the
guide-book were correct about the six centuries. He was amiability
itself. Not only, he said, was the church ancient, but interesting.
Would I like to see it? 'Oh please.' Then would I come to the parsonage
while he got the key? 'Oh thank you.'
The Bobbin parsonage is a delightful little house of the kind that I
dream of for my declining years, with latticed windows and a vine. It
stands in a garden so pretty, so full of narrow paths disappearing round
corners, that I longed far more to be shown where they led to than to be
shown the inside of the church. Several times I said things that ought
to have resulted in my being taken along them, but the parson heeded
not; his talk was and remained wholly church. A friendly dog lay among
croquet hoops on the lawn, a pleasant, silent dog, who wagged his tail
when I came round the corner and saw no reason why he should bark and
sniff. No one else was to be seen. The house was so quiet it seemed
asleep while I waited in the parlour. The parson took me down a little
path to the church, talking amiably on the way. He was proud, he said,
of his church, very proud on week-days; on Sundays so few people came to
the services that his pride was quenched by the aspect of the empty
seats. A bell began to toll as we reached the door. In answer to my
inquiring look he said it was the _Gebetglocke_, the prayer-bell, and
was rung three times a day, at eight, and twelve, and four, so that the
scattered inhabitants of the lonely country-side, the sower in the
field, the housewife among her pots, the fisherman on the Bodden, or
over there, in quiet weather, on the sea, might hear it and join
together spiritually at those hours in a common prayer. 'And do they?' I
asked. He shrugged his shoulders and murmured of hopes.