Authors: Theodor Fontane
Irretrievable (34 page)
“I think that you're quite right. Christine is trying to forget but cannot.”
“And has she said anything to you to suggest that? Has she given you to understand that everything has been in vain?”
“No, not at all.”
“And yet you yourself are convinced of it?”
“I'm afraid so. But although I feel it so strongly, you mustn't try to deduce from that anything more painful or more definite than you need, or indeed than you ought. Although I still enjoy Christine's friendshipâit could hardly be otherwise, because I am always trying to show her how much I love herâI no longer have her trust. She won't confide in anyone, not even in me. It makes me very sad because she always used to open her heart to me and when, on that dreadful, unforgettable day when we left the house and afterwards went through those terrible times together, first in the village and then in Arnewieck and Gnadenfrei, there was not a single thought or feeling that she didn't share with me. So close were we to each other that we were like two people with a single life. But from the moment Christine moved back here, all that came to an end. She is so sensitive that, having said to herself that a new life, full of joy and happiness, had begun or was about to begin, as soon as she sawâyou must excuse me if I say thisâas soon as she saw that this new life had failed and yet it seemed wrong to complain further and even ungrateful towards God, she became accustomed to keeping silent and even now I can still only guess at all that is taking place in her mind.”
Holk stood still, lost in thought and then said: “My dear Julie, I had hoped that you would bring me consolation but I see that you've none to offer. If everything is as you say, then I can't see anything that can help us.”
“Time, dear Helmut, time. Mankind's guardian angel.”
“If only you may be right. But I don't believe it; time will not have time enough to do anything. I'm not a doctor and I certainly disclaim any competence in reading in someone's heart and soul. All the same, so much I
can
see, we're heading for disaster. People can live happily or they can live unhappily, and in both cases they may live to a great age. But this resignation, this melancholy smileâthat cannot last long. Our life must be built on joy and once the light of joy has been extinguished, then night must fall and if that night means death, then it will still be for the best.”
A week later there was a small party at Holkenäs to which only a few intimate friends had been invited, amongst them Arne and Schwarzkoppen, in addition to Petersen and Elizabeth. Till dusk fell, they sat in the open because, in spite of the season, the air was mild and only when the lamps had been lit indoors did they leave the veranda and sit in the summer drawing-room to drink tea and have a little music. At school, Asta had become quite a polished pianist and since her return home she had been seeing Elizabeth almost daily and practising with her. This evening, a number of new pieces were going to be played in honour of Schwarzkoppen, who was leaving his post at Arnewieck in the next few days, and when the servants had ceased bustling about and the rattle of tea-cups and saucers had subsided, the two friends began hastily looking through their music-case until they had found what they wanted, only two or three pieces because Holk considered that music interfered with conversation. The first piece was a song from Flotow's “Martha,” followed straight away by Robert Burns's “O bonnie was yon rosy brier” and when the last notes of this song had died away, amidst general applause, Asta announced to her audience, who had become more attentive, that there would follow a genuine folk-song, since Robert Burns was not really a folk-poet.
Schwarzkoppen disagreed with great vigour and was supported by Arne who, in his avuncular capacity, felt justified in adding that “this was just the sort of opinion you would expect from these modern boarding-schools” and, once launched, he would certainly have continued in the same strain with further provocative comments, had not Holk interrupted at that moment to inquire the exact title of the next song.
“It hasn't a title,” replied Asta.
“Nonsense. Every song has to have a name.”
“They used to have but now you take the first line as the title and put a wavy line under it.”
“I can well believe that,” laughed Holk.
Eventually they stopped arguing and after a short prelude by Asta, Elizabeth began to sing in her lovely voice, admirably suited to the words and the music of the song.
“âDenkst du verschwundener Tage, Marie,
Wenn du starrst ins Feuer bei Nacht?
Wünschst du die Stunden und Tage zurück,
Wo du fröhlich und glücklich gelacht?'
“âIch denke verschwundener Tage, John,
Und sie sind allezeit mein Glück,
Doch die mir die liebsten gewesen sind,
Ich wünsche sie nicht zurück ⦠'”
[1]
When the singing and, immediately afterwards, the accompaniment, had come to an end, everyone, including even Holk, rushed to the piano to compliment Elizabeth, who was embarrassed at receiving so much praise. “Yes,” said Asta, proud of her friend's success, “you've never sung it so beautifully.” Everyone wanted to hear the last verse again; but there was one person who did not join in this request because, in the middle of the general excitement, she had not failed to notice that, just as two years ago at the performance of Waiblinger's melancholy song, Christine had quietly slipped out of the room.
It was, of course, Julie who noticed this. She hesitated a moment, undecided whether to follow her friend or not but quickly making up her mind, she went upstairs to find Christine in her bedroom. She was sitting with her hands clasped together staring at the floor.
“What is it, Christine? What's the matter?”
Julie knelt down in front of Christine and taking her hand covered it with kisses and tears. But Christine pulled her hand away and said softly to herself:
“Und die mir die liebsten gewesen sind
,
Ich wünsche sie nicht zurück
.”
[
1
]“Do you think of vanished days, Marie, as you stare in the fire at night? Do you wish for those hours and days to return when you laughed full of joy and happiness?”
“I do think of those vanished days, John, and always they fill me with happiness, but those which were dearest to me, I do not wish them back again.”
A week
had gone by.
The air was mild and but for the Virginia creeper that was already taking on its autumn red as it twined luxuriantly round the columns of the castle terrace, one might almost have believed that midsummer had returned and that the splendid celebration of three months ago, in which the whole of Angeln had joined, was about to take place once again. Not only was the sun, almost summer-like, shining brightly over the castle and park, as on the day that the Count and Countess had renewed their marriage vows; but, as before, long lines of carriages gave a festive air as they brought the many guests to the castle. Bells were tolling far and wide and the village girls stood casting flowers as for the wedding procession. But today they were strewing white asters and the person who was passing on her way from the castle was dead. Solemn music accompanied the coffin behind which were walking Holk and the children and then the long cortège of relatives and friends. Petersen was standing at the entrance to the church and led the procession to the open grave beside the tumbledown old family vault. The choir was silent and every head was bared as the coffin descended and the earth closed over Christine Holk. A heart that had yearned for peace had found it now at last.
Julie von Dobschütz to Superintendent-General Schwarzkoppen
Holkenäs, October 14th, 1861
Your Reverence wished to know about our friend whose death was the first news that you received after taking up your office. I am glad to be able to satisfy your wish because, in spite of my grief, it is a consolation and an inspiration to be able to speak of our dear dead friend.
On the day that you last saw her, a thought must have been ripening in her mind which she may well have conceived long before. You may perhaps recall the elegiac, almost melancholy, folk-song that Elizabeth Petersen sang that eveningâChristine left the room almost immediately afterwards and I believe from that moment onwards, her resolution was made. I found her deeply affected and I admit that I was immediately seized with anxious forebodings, forebodings which I could only succeed in calming by recalling the Christian sentiments and religious convictions of our dear deceasedâthose Christian sentiments which bear us through life, for so long as it is God's will.
The next day seemed to justify my belief. Christine told me that she had gone very late to bed but she showed no signs of tiredness, on the contrary, she had a freshness which I had not seen since her reconciliation with her husband. When she came down to breakfast, she was more affable and friendly than usual, indeed almost jovial, and she persuaded her husband to join a shooting party in two days' time to which he had just received an invitation from Count Baudissin. Then, strangely enough, she talked about clothes in great detail, though only in connexion with Asta who, she said, now that she was over seventeen, must begin to think of “coming out” and as she said this I saw her eyes fill with tears.
The day went by and the sun was already quite low when she invited me to go for a walk with her along the beach. “But we must hurry,” she added, “or else it will be too dark.”
We went off straightaway down the terrace and when we were at the bottom, she said that she did not want to walk along the beach as the sand was so wet and her shoes so thin, so we went out on the jetty. She deliberately avoided mentioning any serious topic. When we finally reached the end-platform and the steps where the steamers tie up, we sat down on a wooden bench that the Count had recently had placed there and looked at the sun reflected in the sea, which was completely still, and at the magnificent colours of the clouds. “How beautiful it is,” said Christine. “Let's wait here to see the sunset. But as it's already getting cold, would you go and fetch our coats? But to save yourself the climb up to the terrace, just call up for them, Asta will certainly hear you.”
She said this with a touch of embarrassment, because it was not in her nature to tell a lie; but it would have struck me as strange had she not shown this embarrassment, because in her almost excessive kindness and goodness towards me, she was always most scrupulous about asking me to do favours for her. She saw, too, what was in my mind, but I still could hardly show her too plainly how anxious and worried I was and so I went back along the jetty and up to the terrace, because her suggestion about calling until Asta heard had obviously been an after-thought.
When I came back to the end of the jetty, I could see nothing of the Countess and I knew at once what had happened. I hurried back to fetch help, although I felt sure that it would be of no avail. The Count was stunned and did not know what to do. Finally, the alarm was given in the village and they searched the jetty and the beach until far into the night. Boats went out to search a shallow sandbank which lay some distance off the jetty but for hours there was no result and it was not until the following morning that some fishermen from Holkebye came up to the castle to announce that they had found the Countess. We all went down. Her face that for so long had borne the marks of silent suffering had been transfigured and she looked almost gay: so eagerly had her heart been longing for peace. A bier was brought from the church and to avoid the steepness of the terrace, she was carried over the dune and up the slope of the drive. The whole village accompanied her body in mourning, particularly the poor people to whom she had always shown such kindness and generosity, and some of them said bitter words against the Count that I hope he did not hear.
As for the burial and Petersen's funeral address which, as I can testify, would have satisfied the most orthodox, you will have read about that in the
Arnewieck Messenger
which Baron Arne sent you and perhaps in the
Flensburg Gazette
as well.
I want only to add what you may consider proper concerning the state of mind of the Countess and what made her take the fatal step. As soon as we had brought her up from the beach, we went to her room to see whether she had left any farewell message. We did, in fact, find a number of sheets of paper on which a few words had been written showing that she had tried to say good-bye to her nearest and dearestâher husband and Baron Arne, as well as to me. On those addressed to the Baron and myself she had scribbled a few words such as “Thank you ⦔ and “When you read these lines ⦔ but they had been crossed out, and on the sheet addressed to Holk there was not even that. Instead, inside the sheet intended for him there was a piece of crumpled paper that had been carefully smoothed out again, on which was written the song that Elizabeth Petersen had sung immediately before Holk's departure for Copenhagen and which had made such an impression on her on that occasion, just as recently the folk-song translated from the English which I mentioned earlier. This latter song your Reverence will surely still recall but the earlier one may have slipped your memory, in which case, if you will allow me, I should like to copy the first verse. This is how it goes:
Â
Die Ruh' ist wohl das Beste
Von allem Glück der Welt,
Was bleibt vom Erdenfeste,
Was bleibt uns unvergällt?
Die Rose welkt in Schauern,
Die uns der Frühling gibt,
Wer haÃt, ist zu bedauern,
Und mehr noch fast, wer liebt.
[1]
Â
The last line had been almost invisibly underlined, and that gentle, almost timid underlining contains the story of a whole life.
Your position and your faith will give you strength to accept the death of our friend but I have lost all that was dearest to me in life and what now remains will be poor and empty. Asta asks to be remembered to you as does Elizabeth Petersen and
Your most respectful,
Julie von Dobschütz
