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The German Classics Of The Nineteenth And Twentieth Centuries, Volume 12 by Various

V >> Various >> The German Classics Of The Nineteenth And Twentieth Centuries, Volume 12




Innstetten was wholly devoted to his office and his home. He was
happier than formerly in Kessin, because he could not fail to observe
that Effi manifested more artlessness and cheerfulness. She could do
so because she felt freer. True, the past still cast a shadow over her
life, but it no longer worried her, or at least much more rarely and
transiently, and all such after-effects served but to give her bearing
a peculiar charm. In everything she did there was an element of
sadness, of confession, so to speak, and it would have made her happy
if she could have shown it still more plainly. But, of course, she
dared not.

When they made their calls, during the first weeks of April, the
social season of the great city was not yet past, but it was about to
end, so they were unable to share in it to any great extent. During
the latter half of May it expired completely and they were more than
ever happy to be able to meet at the noon hour in the Tiergarten, when
Innstetten came from his office, or to take a walk in the afternoon to
the garden of the Palace in Charlottenburg. As Effi walked up and down
the long front, between the Palace and the orange trees, she studied
time and again the many Roman emperors standing there, found a
remarkable resemblance between Nero and Titus, gathered pine cones
that had fallen from the trees, and then walked arm in arm with her
husband toward the Spree till they came to the lonely Belvedere
Palace.

"They say this palace was also once haunted," she remarked.

"No, merely ghostly apparitions."

"That is the same thing."

"Yes, sometimes," said Innstetten. "As a matter of fact, however,
there is a difference. Ghostly apparitions are always artificial, or
at least that is said to have been the case in the Belvedere, as
Cousin von Briest told me only yesterday, but hauntings are never
artificial; hauntings are natural."

"So you do believe in them?"

"Certainly I believe in them. There are such things. But I don't quite
believe in those we had in Kessin. Has Johanna shown you her Chinaman
yet?"

"What Chinaman?"

"Why, ours. Before she left our old house she pulled him off the back
of the chair upstairs and put him in her purse. I caught a glimpse of
him not long ago when she was changing a mark for me. She was
embarrassed, but confessed."

"Oh, Geert, you ought not to have told me that. Now there is such a
thing in our house again."

"Tell her to burn it up."

"No, I don't want to; it would not do any good anyhow. But I will ask
Roswitha--"

"What? Oh, I understand, I can imagine what you are thinking of. You
will ask her to buy a picture of a saint and put it also in the purse.
Is that about it?"

Effi nodded.

"Well, do what you like, but do not tell anybody."

* * * * *

Effi finally said she would rather not do it, and they went on talking
about all sorts of little things, till the plans for their summer
journey gradually crowded out other interests. They rode back to the
"Great Star" and then walked home by the Korso Boulevard and the broad
Frederick William Street.

They planned to take their vacation at the end of July and go to the
Bavarian Alps, as the Passion Play was to be given again this year at
Oberammergau. But it could not be done, as Privy Councillor von
Wuellersdorf, whom Innstetten had known for some time and who was now
his special colleague, fell sick suddenly and Innstetten had to stay
and take his place. Not until the middle of August was everything
again running smoothly and a vacation journey possible. It was too
late then to go to Oberammergau, so they fixed upon a sojourn on the
island of Ruegen. "First, of course, Stralsund, with Schill, whom you
know, and with Scheele, whom you don't know. Scheele discovered
oxygen, but you don't need to know that. Then from Stralsund to Bergen
and the Rugard, where Wuellersdorf said one can get a good view of the
whole island, and thence between the Big and the Little Jasmund Bodden
to Sassnitz. Going to Ruegen means going to Sassnitz. Binz might
perhaps be possible, too, but, to quote Wuellersdorf again, there are
so many small pebbles and shells on the beach, and we want to go
bathing."

Effi agreed to everything planned by Innstetten, especially that the
whole household should be broken up for four weeks, Roswitha going
with Annie to Hohen-Cremmen, and Johanna visiting her younger
half-brother, who had a sawmill near Pasewalk. Thus everybody was well
provided for.

At the beginning of the following week they set out and the same
evening were in Sassnitz. Over the hostelry was the sign, "Hotel
Fahrenheit." "I hope the prices are according to Reaumur," added
Innstetten, as he read the name, and the two took an evening walk
along the beach cliffs in the best of humor. From a projecting rock
they looked out upon the bay quivering in the moonlight. Effi was
entranced. "Ah, Geert, why, this is Capri, it is Sorrento. Yes, let us
stay here, but not in the hotel, of course. The waiters are too
aristocratic for me and I feel ashamed to ask for a bottle of soda
water."

"Yes, everybody is an employee. But, I think, we can find private
quarters."

"I think so too. And we will look for them the first thing in the
morning."

The next morning was as beautiful as the evening had been, and they
took coffee out of doors. Innstetten received a few letters, which had
to be attended to promptly, and so Effi decided at once to employ the
hour thus left free for her in looking for quarters. She first walked
past an inclosed meadow, then past groups of houses and fields of
oats, finally turning into a road which ran through a kind of gully to
the sea. Where this gully road struck the beach there stood an inn
shaded by tall beech trees, not so aristocratic as the "Fahrenheit," a
mere restaurant, in fact, which because of the early hour was entirely
empty. Effi sat down at a point with a good view and hardly had she
taken a sip of the sherry she had ordered when the inn-keeper stepped
up to engage her in conversation, half out of curiosity and half out
of politeness.

"We like it very well here," she said, "my husband and I. What a
splendid view of the bay! Our only worry is about a place to stay."

"Well, most gracious Lady, that will be hard."

"Why, it is already late in the season."

"In spite of that. Here in Sassnitz there is surely nothing to be
found, I can guarantee you. But farther along the shore, where the
next village begins--you can see the shining roofs from here--there
you might perhaps find something."

"What is the name of the village?"

"Crampas."

Effi thought she had misunderstood him. "Crampas," she repeated, with
an effort. "I never heard the word as the name of a place. Nothing
else in the neighborhood?"

"No, most gracious Lady, nothing around here. But farther up, toward
the north, you will come to other villages, and in the hotel near
Stubbenkammer they will surely be able to give you information.
Addresses are always left there by people who would be willing to rent
rooms."

Effi was glad to have had the conversation alone and when she reported
it a few moments later to her husband, keeping back only the name of
the village adjoining Sassnitz, he said: "Well, if there is nothing
around here the best thing will be to take a carriage, which,
incidentally, is always the way to take leave of a hotel, and without
any ado move farther up toward Stubbenkammer. We can doubtless find
there some idyllic spot with a honeysuckle arbor, and, if we find
nothing, there is still left the hotel, and they are all alike."

Effi was willing, and about noon they reached the hotel near
Stubbenkammer, of which Innstetten had just spoken, and there ordered
a lunch. "But not until half an hour from now. We intend to take a
walk first and view the Hertha Lake. I presume you have a guide?"

Following the affirmative answer a middle-aged man approached our
travelers. He looked as important and solemn as though he had been at
least an adjunct of the ancient Hertha worship.

The lake, which was only a short distance away, had a border of tall
trees and a hem of rushes, while on its quiet black surface there swam
hundreds of water lilies.

"It really looks like something of the sort," said Effi, "like Hertha
worship."

"Yes, your Ladyship, and the stones are further evidences of it."

"What stones?"

"The sacrificial stones."

While the conversation continued in this way they stepped from the
lake to a perpendicular wall of gravel and clay, against which leaned
a few smooth polished stones, with a shallow hollow in each drained by
a few grooves.

"What is the purpose of these?"

"To make it drain better, your Ladyship."

"Let us go," said Effi, and, taking her husband's arm, she walked back
with him to the hotel, where the breakfast already ordered was served
at a table with a view far out upon the sea. Before them lay the bay
in the sunshine, with sail boats here and there gliding across its
surface and sea gulls pursuing each other about the neighboring
cliffs. It was very beautiful and Effi said so; but, when she looked
across the glittering surface, she saw again, toward the south, the
brightly shining roofs of the long-stretched-out village, whose name
had given her such a start earlier in the morning.

Even without any knowledge or suspicion of what was occupying her,
Innstetten saw clearly that she was having no joy or satisfaction. "I
am sorry, Effi, that you derive no real pleasure from these things
here. You cannot forget the Hertha Lake, and still less the
stones."

[Illustration: _Permission F Bruckmann A.-G. Munich_
BATHING BOYS Adolph von Menzel]

She nodded. "It is as you say, and I must confess that I have seen
nothing in my life that made me feel so sad. Let us give up entirely
our search for rooms. I can't stay here."

"And yesterday it seemed to you a Gulf of Naples and everything
beautiful you could think of."

"Yes, yesterday."

"And today? No longer a trace of Sorrento?"

"Still one trace, but only one. It is Sorrento on the point of dying."

"Very well, then, Effi," said Innstetten, reaching her his hand. "I do
not want to worry you with Ruegen and so let us give it up. Settled. It
is not necessary for us to tie ourselves up to Stubbenkammer or
Sassnitz or farther down that way. But whither?"

"I suggest that we stay a day longer and wait for the steamer that
comes from Stettin tomorrow on its way to Copenhagen. It is said to be
so pleasurable there and I can't tell you how I long for something
pleasurable. Here I feel as though I could never laugh again in all my
life and had never laughed at all, and you know how I like to laugh."

Innstetten showed himself full of sympathy with her state, the more
readily, as he considered her right in many regards. Really
everything, though beautiful, was melancholy.

They waited for the Stettin boat and in the very early morning of the
third day they landed in Copenhagen. Two hours later they were in the
Thorwaldsen Museum, and Effi said: "Yes, Geert, this is beautiful and
I am glad we set out for here." Soon thereafter they went to dinner
and at the table made the acquaintance of a Jutland family, opposite
them, whose daughter, Thora von Penz, was as pretty as a picture and
attracted immediately the attention and admiration of both Innstetten
and Effi. Effi could not stop looking at her large blue eyes and
flaxen blonde hair, and when they left the table an hour and a half
later the Penz family, who unfortunately had to leave Copenhagen the
same day, expressed the hope that they might have the privilege of
entertaining the young Prussian couple in the near future at Aggerhuus
Castle, some two miles from the Lym-Fiord. The invitation was accepted
by the Innstettens with little hesitation.

Thus passed the hours in the hotel. But that was not yet enough of a
good thing for this memorable day, which Effi enthusiastically
declared ought to be a red-letter day in the calendar. To fill her
measure of happiness to the full the evening brought a performance at
the Tivoli Theatre, an Italian pantomime, _Arlequin and Columbine_.
She was completely captivated by the little roguish tricks, and when
they returned to their hotel late in the evening she said: "Do you
know, Geert, I now feel that I am gradually coming to again. I will
not even mention beautiful Thora, but when I consider that this
morning Thorwaldsen and this evening Columbine--"

"Whom at bottom you liked better than Thorwaldsen--"

"To be frank, yes. I have a natural appreciation of such things. Our
good Kessin was a misfortune for me. Everything got on my nerves
there. Ruegen too, almost. I suggest we stay here in Copenhagen a few
days longer, including an excursion to Fredericksborg and Helsingor,
of course, and then go over to Jutland. I anticipate real pleasure
from seeing beautiful Thora again, and if I were a man I should fall
in love with her."

Innstetten laughed. "You don't know what I am going to do."

"I shouldn't object. That will create a rivalry and I shall show you
that I still have my powers, too."

"You don't need to assure me of that."

The journey was made according to this plan. Over in Jutland they went
up the Lym-Fiord as far as Aggerhuus Castle, where they spent three
days with the Penz family, and then returned home, making many stops
on the way, for sojourns of various lengths, in Viborg, Flensburg,
Kiel, and Hamburg. From Hamburg, which they liked uncommonly well,
they did not go direct to Keith St. in Berlin, but first to
Hohen-Cremmen, where they wished to enjoy a well-earned rest. For
Innstetten it meant but a few days, as his leave of absence expired,
but Effi remained a week longer and declared her desire not to arrive
at home till the 3d of October, their wedding anniversary.

Annie had flourished splendidly in the country air and Roswitha's plan
of having her walk to meet her mother succeeded perfectly. Briest
proved himself an affectionate grandfather, warned them against too
much love, and even more strongly against too much severity, and was
in every way the same as always. But in reality all his affection was
bestowed upon Effi, who occupied his emotional nature continually,
particularly when he was alone with his wife.

"How do you find Effi?"

"Dear and good as ever. We cannot thank God enough that we have such a
lovely daughter. How thankful she is for everything, and always so
happy to be under our rooftree again."

"Yes," said Briest, "she has more of this virtue than I like. To tell
the truth, it seems as though this were still her home. Yet she has
her husband and child, and her husband is a jewel and her child an
angel, and still she acts as though Hohen-Cremmen were her favorite
abode, and her husband and child were nothing in comparison with you
and me. She is a splendid daughter, but she is too much of a daughter
to suit me. It worries me a little bit. She is also unjust to
Innstetten. How do matters really stand between them?"

"Why, Briest, what do you mean?"

"Well, I mean what I mean and you know what, too. Is she happy? Or is
there something or other in the way? From the very beginning it has
seemed to me as though she esteemed him more than she loved him, and
that to my mind is a bad thing. Even love may not last forever, and
esteem will certainly not. In fact women become angry when they have
to esteem a man; first they become angry, then bored, and in the end
they laugh."

"Have you had any such experience?"

"I will not say that I have. I did not stand high enough in esteem.
But let us not get wrought up any further. Tell me how matters stand."

"Pshaw! Briest, you always come back to the same things. We have
talked about and exchanged our views on this question more than a
dozen times, and yet you always come back and, in spite of your
pretended omniscience, ask me about it with the most dreadful naivete,
as though my eyes could penetrate any depth. What kind of notions have
you, anyhow, of a young wife, and more especially of your daughter? Do
you think that the whole situation is so plain? Or that I am an
oracle--I can't just recall the name of the person--or that I hold the
truth cut and dried in my hands, when Effi has poured out her heart to
me?--at least what is so designated. For what does pouring out one's
heart mean? After all, the real thing is kept back. She will take care
not to initiate me into her secrets. Besides, I don't know from whom
she inherited it, but she is--well, she is a very sly little person
and this slyness in her is the more dangerous because she is so very
lovable."

"So you do admit that--lovable. And good, too?"

"Good, too. That is, full of goodness of heart. I am not quite certain
about anything further. I believe she has an inclination to let
matters take their course and to console herself with the hope that
God will not call her to a very strict account."

"Do you think so?"

"Yes, I do. Furthermore I think she has improved in many ways. Her
character is what it is, but the conditions since she moved to Berlin
are much more favorable and they are becoming more and more devoted to
each other. She told me something to that effect and, what is more
convincing to me, I found it confirmed by what I saw with my own
eyes."

"Well, what did she say?"

"She said: 'Mama, things are going better now. Innstetten was always
an excellent husband, and there are not many like him, but I couldn't
approach him easily, there was something distant about him. He was
reserved even in his affectionate moments, in fact, more reserved then
than ever. There have been times when I feared him.'"

"I know, I know."

"What do you mean, Briest? That I have feared you, or that you have
feared me? I consider the one as ridiculous as the other."

"You were going to tell me about Effi."

"Well, then, she confessed to me that this feeling of strangeness had
left her and that had made her very happy. Kessin had not been the
right place for her, the haunted house and the people there, some too
pious, others too dull; but since she had moved to Berlin she felt
entirely in her place. He was the best man in the world, somewhat too
old for her and too good for her, but she was now 'over the mountain.'
She used this expression, which, I admit, astonished me."

"How so? It is not quite up to par, I mean the expression. But--"

"There is something behind it, and she wanted to give me an inkling."

"Do you think so?"

"Yes, Briest. You always seem to think she could never be anything but
innocent. But you are mistaken. She likes to drift with the waves, and
if the wave is good she is good, too. Fighting and resisting are not
her affair."

Roswitha came in with Annie and interrupted the conversation.

This conversation occurred on the day that Innstetten departed from
Hohen-Cremmen for Berlin, leaving Effi behind for at least a week. He
knew she liked nothing better than whiling away her time, care-free,
with sweet dreams, always hearing friendly words and assurances of her
loveliness. Indeed that was the thing which pleased her above
everything else, and here she enjoyed it again to the full and most
gratefully, even though diversions were utterly lacking. Visitors
seldom came, because after her marriage there was no real attraction,
at least for the young people. * * *

On her wedding anniversary, the 3d of October, Effi was to be back in
Berlin. On the evening before, under the pretext of desiring to pack
her things and prepare for the journey, she retired to her room
comparatively early. As a matter of fact, her only desire was to be
alone. Much as she liked to chat, there were times when she longed for
repose.

Her rooms were in the upper story on the side toward the garden. In
the smaller one Roswitha was sleeping with Annie and their door was
standing ajar. She herself walked to and fro in the larger one, which
she occupied. The lower casements of the windows were open and the
little white curtains were blown by the draft and slowly fell over the
back of the chair, till another puff of wind came and raised them
again. It was so light that she could read plainly the titles of the
pictures hanging in narrow gilt frames over the sofa: "The Storming of
Dueppel, Fort No. 5," and "King William and Count Bismarck on the
Heights of Lipa." Effi shook her head and smiled. "When I come back
again I am going to ask for different pictures; I don't like such
warlike sights." Then she closed one window and sat down by the other,
which she left open. How she enjoyed the whole scene! Almost behind
the church tower was the moon, which shed its light upon the grassy
plot with the sundial and the heliotrope beds. Everything was covered
with a silvery sheen. Beside the strips of shadow lay white strips of
light, as white as linen on the bleaching ground. Farther on stood the
tall rhubarb plants with their leaves an autumnal yellow, and she
thought of the day, only a little over two years before, when she had
played there with Hulda and the Jahnke girls. On that occasion, when
the visitor came she ascended the little stone steps by the bench and
an hour later was betrothed.

She arose, went toward the door, and listened. Roswitha was asleep and
Annie also.

Suddenly, as the child lay there before her, a throng of pictures of
the days in Kessin came back to her unbidden. There was the district
councillor's dwelling with its gable, and the veranda with the view of
the "Plantation," and she was sitting in the rocking chair, rocking.
Soon Crampas stepped up to her to greet her, and then came Roswitha
with the child, and she took it, held it up, and kissed it.

"That was the first day, there is where it began." In the midst of her
revery she left the room the two were sleeping in and sat down again
at the open window and gazed out into the quiet night.

"I cannot get rid of it," she said. "But worst of all, and the thing
that makes me lose faith in myself--" Just then the tower clock began
to strike and Effi counted the strokes. "Ten--Tomorrow at this time I
shall be in Berlin. We shall speak about our wedding anniversary and
he will say pleasing and friendly things to me and perhaps words of
affection. I shall sit there and listen and have a sense of guilt in
my heart." She leaned her head upon her hand and stared silently into
the night.

"And have a sense of guilt in my heart," she repeated. "Yes, the sense
is there. But is it a burden upon my heart? No. That is why I am
alarmed at myself. The burden there is quite a different thing--dread,
mortal dread, and eternal fear that it may some day be found out. And,
besides the dread, shame. I am ashamed of myself. But as I do not feel
true repentance, neither do I true shame. I am ashamed only on account
of my continual lying and deceiving. It was always my pride that I
could not lie and did not need to--lying is so mean, and now I have
had to lie all the time, to him and to everybody, big lies and little
lies. Even Rummschuettel noticed it and shrugged his shoulders, and
who knows what he thinks of me? Certainly not the best things. Yes,
dread tortures me, and shame on account of my life of lies. But not
shame on account of my guilt--that I do not feel, or at least not
truly, or not enough, and the knowledge that I do not is killing me.
If all women are like this it is terrible, if they are not--which I
hope--then _I_ am in a bad predicament; there is something out of
order in my heart, I lack proper feeling. Old Mr. Niemeyer once told
me, in his best days, when I was still half a child, that proper
feeling is the essential thing, and if we have that the worst cannot
befall us, but if we have it not, we are in eternal danger, and what
is called the Devil has sure power over us. For the mercy of God, is
this my state?"

She laid her head upon her arms and wept bitterly. When she
straightened up again, calmed, she gazed out into the garden. All was
so still, and her ear could detect a low sweet sound, as of falling
rain, coming from the plane trees. This continued for a while. Then
from the village street came the sound of a human voice. The old
nightwatchman Kulicke was calling out the hour. When at last he was
silent she heard in the distance the rattling of the passing train,
some two miles away. This noise gradually became fainter and finally
died away entirely--Still the moonlight lay upon the grass plot and
there was still the low sound, as of falling rain upon the plane
trees. But it was only the gentle playing of the night air.




CHAPTER XXV


[The following evening Innstetten met Effi at the station in Berlin
and said he had thought she would not keep her word, as she had not
when she came to Berlin to select their apartment. In a short time he
began to bestir himself to make a place for his wife in Berlin
society. At a small party early in the season he tactlessly twitted
her about Crampas and for days thereafter she felt haunted by the
Major's spirit. But once the Empress had selected her to be a lady of
honor at an important function, and the Emperor had addressed a few
gracious remarks to her at a court ball, the past began to seem to her
a mere dream, and her cheerfulness was restored. After about seven
years in Berlin Dr. Rummschuettel was one day called to see her for
various reasons and prescribed treatment at Schwalbach and Ems. She
was to be accompanied by the wife of Privy Councillor Zwicker, who in
spite of her forty odd years seemed to need a protectress more than
Effi did. While Roswitha was helping with the preparations for the
journey Effi called her to account for never going, as a good Catholic
should, to a priest to confess her sins, particularly her great sin,
and promised to talk the matter over with her seriously after
returning from Ems.]

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