It was already growing dark as they landed. "Let us take this table,"
said Botho, as they stepped on to the veranda again: "You will feel no
draught here and I will order you some grog or a hot claret cup, shall
I not? I see you are chilly."
He offered several other things, but Lena begged to be allowed to go up
to her room, and said that by and by when he came up she would be
perfectly well again. She only felt a trifle poorly and did not need
anything and if she could only rest a little, it would pass off.
Therewith she excused herself and went up to the gable room which had
been prepared in the meantime. The hostess, who was indulging in all
sorts of mistaken conjectures, accompanied her, and immediately asked
with much curiosity, "What really was the matter," and without waiting
for an answer, she went right on: yes, it was always so with young
women, she remembered that herself, and before her eldest was born (she
now had four and would have had five, but the middle one had come too
soon and did not live), she had had just such a time. It just rushed
over one so, and one felt ready to die. But a cup of balm tea, that is
to say, the genuine monastery balm, would give a quick relief and one
would feel like a fish in the water and quite set up and merry and
affectionate too. "Yes, yes, gracious lady, when one has four, without
counting the little angel ..."
Lena had some difficulty in concealing her embarrassment and asked, for
the sake of saying something, for a cup of the monastery balm tea, of
which she had already heard.
While this conversation was going on up in the gable room, Botho had
taken a seat, not in the sheltered veranda, but at a primitive wooden
table that was nailed on four posts in front of the veranda and
afforded a fine view. He planned to take his evening meal here. He
ordered fish, and as the "tench and dill" for which the tavern was
famous was brought, the host came to ask what kind of wine the Herr
Baron desired? (He gave him this title by mere chance.)
"I think," said Botho, "Brauneberger, or let us say rather Rudesheimer
would suit the delicate fish best, and to show that the wine is good
you must sit down with me as my guest and drink some of your own wine."
The host bowed smilingly and soon came back with a dusty bottle, while
the maid, a pretty Wendin in a woolen gown and a black head-kerchief,
brought the glasses on a tray.
"Now let us see," said Botho. "The bottle promises all sorts of good
qualities. Too much dust and cobweb is always suspicious, but this ...
Ah, superb! This is the vintage of '70, is it not? And now we must
drink, but to what? To the prosperity of Hankel Ablage."
The host was evidently delighted, and Botho, who saw what a good
impression he was making, went on speaking in his own gentle and
friendly way: "I find it charming here, and there is only one thing to
be said against Hankel's Ablage: its name."
"Yes," agreed the host, "the name might be better and it is really
unfortunate for us. And yet there is a reason for the name, Hankel's
Ablage really was an Ablage, and so it is still called."
"Very good. But this brings us no further forward than before. Why is
it called an Ablage? And what is an Ablage?"
"Well, it is as much as to say a place for loading and unloading. The
whole stretch of land hereabouts (and he pointed backward) was, in
fact, always one great domain, and was called under Old Fritz and even
earlier under the warrior kings the domain Wusterhausen. And the thirty
villages as well as the forest and moorland all belonged to it. Now you
see the thirty villages naturally had to obtain and use many things, or
what amounts to the same thing, they had to have egress and ingress,
and for both they needed from the beginning a harbor or a place to buy
and sell, and the only doubt would have been what place they should
choose for the purpose. They actually chose this place; this bay became
a harbor, a mart, an 'Ablage' for all that came and went, and since the
fisher who lived here at that time was my grandfather Hankel, the place
became 'Hankel's Ablage'."
"It is a pity," said Botho, "that this cannot be so well and clearly
explained to everyone," and the host who felt encouraged by the
interest shown was about to continue. But before he could begin, the
cry of a bird was heard high in the air, and as Botho looked up
curiously, he saw that two large, powerful birds, scarcely recognizable
in the twilight, were flying above the water.
"Were those wild geese?"
"No, herons. The whole forest hereabouts is full of them. For that
matter, it is a regular hunting ground. There are huge numbers of wild
boar and deer and woodcock, and among the reeds and rushes here ducks,
and snipe."
"Delightful," said Botho, in whom the hunter was waking up. "Do you
know I envy you. After all, what is in a name? Ducks, snipe, woodcocks!
One could almost wish to be in such pleasant circumstances also. Only
it must be lonely here, too lonely."
The host smiled to himself and Botho, who noticed this, became curious
and said: "You laugh. But is it not so? For half an hour I have heard
nothing but the water gurgling under the pier, and just now the call of
the herons. I call that lonely, however beautiful it may be. And now
and then a couple of big sailboats glide by, but they are all alike, or
at least they look very similar. And really each one seems to be a
phantom ship. It is as still as death."
"Certainly," said the host. "But that is only as long as it lasts."
"How so?"
"Yes," repeated the host, "as long as it lasts. You speak of solitude,
Herr Baron, and for days together it is truly lonely here. And it might
be so for weeks. But scarcely has the ice broken up and the spring come
when we have guests and the Berliner has arrived."
"When does he come?"
"Incredibly early. All in a moment there they are. See here, Herr
Baron, while I, who am hardened to the weather, am still staying
indoors because the east wind blows and the March sun scorches, the
Berliner already sits out of doors, lays his summer overcoat on the
chair and orders pale ale. For if only the sun shines the Berliner
speaks of beautiful weather. It is all the same to him if there is
inflammation of the lungs or diphtheria in every wind that blows. It is
then that he best likes to play grace-hoops, and some are also fond of
Boccia, and when they leave, quite blistered from the reflected
sunlight, my heart really aches for them, for there is not one among
them whose skin will not peel off at least by the following day."
Botho laughed. "Yes, indeed, the Berliners! And that reminds me, your
Spree hereabouts must be the place where the oarsmen and yachtsmen meet
to hold their regattas."
"Certainly," said the host. "But that is not saying very much. If
there are a good many, there may be fifty or perhaps a hundred. And
then all is still again, and the water sports are over for weeks and
months. No, club members are comfortable to deal with; by comparison
they are endurable. But in June when the steamers come, it is bad. And
then it will continue all summer, or at any rate a long, long time ..."
"I believe you," said Botho.
"Then a telegram comes every evening. 'Early to-morrow morning at nine
o'clock we shall arrive by the steamer _Alse_. Party to spend the day.
240 persons.' And then follow the names of those who have gotten up the
affair. It does well enough for once. But the trouble is, it lasts so
long. For how do such parties spend their time? They are out in the
woods and fields until it is growing dark, and then comes their dinner,
and then they dance till eleven. Now you will say, 'That is nothing
much,' and it would not be anything much if the following day were a
holiday. But the second day is like the first, and the third is like
the second. Every evening at about eleven a steamer leaves with two
hundred and forty persons and every morning at nine a steamer arrives
with just as many on board. And between whiles everything must be
cleared away and tidied up. And so the night passes in airing,
polishing and scrubbing, and when the last corner is clean the next
boat load is already arriving. Naturally, everything has its good side,
and when one counts up his receipts towards midnight one knows what he
has been toiling for. 'From nothing you get nothing,' says the proverb
and it is quite true, and if I were to fill all the punch bowls that
have been drunk here I should have to get a Heidelberg tun. It brings
something in, certainly, and is quite right and proper. But according
as one moves forward he also moves backward and pays with the best that
he has, with his life and health. For what is life without sleep?"
"True, I already see," said Botho, "no happiness is complete. But then
comes winter, and then you can sleep like the seven sleepers."
"Yes, if it does not happen to be New Year's or Twelfth Night or
Carnival. And these holidays come oftener than the calendar shows. You
ought to see the life here when they arrive in sleighs or on skates
from all the ten villages, and gather in the great hall that I have
built on. Then we don't see one citified face among them, and the
Berliners leave us in peace, but the farm hands and chambermaids have
their day. Then we see otter skin caps and corduroy jackets with silver
buttons, and all kinds of soldiers who are on leave are there also:
Schwedter Dragoons and Fuerstenwald Uhlans, or perhaps Potsdam Hussars.
And everyone is jealous and quarrelsome, and one cannot tell which they
like best, dancing or fighting, and on the slightest pretext the
villages are arrayed against each other in battle. And so with noise
and turbulent sports they pass the whole long night and whole mountains
of pancakes disappear, and only at dawn do they leave for home over the
frozen river or over the snow."
"Now I see plainly," said Botho, "that you have not very much solitude
or deathly stillness. But it is fortunate that I knew nothing about all
this, or else I should not have wished to come and should have missed a
real pleasure. And I should have been really sorry not to have seen
such a beautiful spot.... But as you said before; what is life without
sleep? and I feel that you are right. I am tired, although it is still
early; I think it must be the effect of the air and the water. And then
I must go and see ... Your good wife has taken so much trouble ... Good
night, I have talked quite enough."
And thereupon he rose and went into the house, which had now grown very
quiet.
Lena had lain down on the bed with her feet on a chair at the bedside
and had drunk a cup of the tea that the hostess had brought her. The
rest and the warmth did her good, the little attack passed off, and
some little time ago she could have gone down to the veranda to join in
the conversation of Botho and the landlord. But she was not in a
talkative mood, and so she only got up to look around the room, in
which she had thus far taken no interest.
And the room was well worth her attention. The timbers and the
plastered walls had been allowed to remain since former times, and the
whitewashed ceiling was so low that one could reach it with one's hand.
But whatever could be improved had been improved. Instead of the small
panes which one still saw on the ground floor, a large window reaching
nearly down to the floor had been set in, which afforded, as the host
had said, a beautiful view of the scenery, both woods and water. But
the large window was not all that had been accomplished here in the way
of modern comfort. A few good pictures, very likely bought at some
auction, hung on the old irregular plastered walls, and where the
projecting window gable joined the sloping roof of the room itself
stood a pair of handsome toilet tables facing each other. Everything
showed that the character of the fisherman's and boatman's tavern had
been carefully kept, while at the same time the place had been turned
into a pleasing hotel for the rich sportsmen of the yacht club.
Lena was much pleased with all that she saw, and began to examine the
pictures that hung in broad frames to the right and left of the bed.
They were engravings, the subjects of which interested her keenly, and
so she wanted to read the inscriptions under each. One was inscribed
"Washington Crossing the Delaware" and the other "The Last Hour at
Trafalgar." But she could get no further than merely to decipher the
syllables, and although it was a very small matter, it gave her a pang,
because it emphasised the chasm that divided her from Botho. He was,
indeed, in the habit of making fun of learning and education, but she
was clever enough to know what to think of such jesting.
Close to the entrance door, above a rococo table, on which stood some
red glasses and a water carafe, hung a gay colored lithograph with an
inscription in three languages: "_Si jeunesse savait_"--a picture which
Lena remembered having seen at the Doerrs'. Doerr loved such things. When
she saw it here again, she shivered and felt distressed. Her fine
sensibility was hurt by the sensual quality of the picture as if it
were a distortion of her own feeling, and so, in order to shake off the
impression, the went to the window and opened both sashes to let in the
night air. Oh. how refreshing it was! She seated herself on the
windowsill, which was only a couple of hands' breadth from the floor,
threw her left arm around the middle bar and listened to hear what was
happening on the veranda. But she heard nothing. Deep stillness
reigned, except that in the old elm there was a stirring and rustling,
and any discomfort that might have lingered in her mind disappeared at
once, as she gazed with ever-growing delight on the picture spread out
before her. The water flowed gently, wood and meadow lay in the dim
evening light, and the thin crescent of the new moon cast its light on
the stream and showed the tremulous motion of the rippling waves.
"How beautiful," said Lena, drawing a deep breath. "And I am so happy,"
she added.
She could hardly bear to leave the view. But at last she rose, placed a
chair before the glass and began to let down her beautiful hair and
braid it. While she was thus occupied Botho came in.
"Lena, still up! I thought that I should have to wake you with a kiss."
"You are too early for that, however late you come."
And she rose and went to him. "My dearest Botho, How long you stayed
away ..."
"And your fever? And your little attack?"
"It has passed off and I have felt well again for the last half hour.
And I have been waiting for you all that time." And she led him over to
the open window: "Only look. Would not the beauty of that view fill any
poor human heart with longing?"
And she clung to him and just as she was closing her eyes, she looked
up at him with an expression of rapture.