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TITLE: IMMENSEE
AUTHOR: THEODORE W. STORM
EBOOK: E00490 (O'Briens Book Cellar)
IMMENSEE
BY THEODOR W. STORM
TRANSLATED BY C. W. BELL M. A.
PREFACE
We are at the beginning of a new era which will, it is to be hoped, be
marked by a general rapprochement between the nations. The need
to know and understand one another is being felt more and more. It
follows that the study of foreign languages will assume an ever-
increasing importance; indeed, so far as language, literature, and
music are concerned, one may safely assert that fas est et ab hoste
doceri.
All those who wish to make acquaintance with the speech of their
neighbours, or who have allowed their former knowledge to grow rusty,
will welcome this edition, which will enable them, independently of
bulky dictionaries, to devote to language study the moments of leisure
which offer themselves in the course of the day.
The texts have been selected from the double point of view of their
literary worth and of the usefulness of their vocabulary; in the
translations, also, the endeavour has been to unite qualities of style
with strict fidelity to the original.
INTRODUCTION
Theodor W. Storm, poet and short-story writer (1817-1888), was born in
Schleswig. He was called to the Bar in his native town, Husum, in
1842, but had his licence to practise cancelled in 1853 for
'Germanophilism,' and had to remove to Germany. It was only in 1864
that he was able to return to Husum, where in 1874 he became a judge
of the Court of Appeals.
As early as 1843 he had made himself known as a lyrical poet of the
Romantic School, but it was as a short-story writer that he first took
a prominent place in literature, making a most happy debut with
the story entitled Immensee.
There followed a long series of tales, rich in fancy and in humour,
although their inspiration is generally derived from the humble town
and country life which formed his immediate environment; but he wrote
nothing that excels, in depth and tenderness of feeling, the charming
story of Immensee; and taking his work all in all, Storm still
ranks to-day as a master of the short story in German literature, rich
though it is in this form of prose-fiction.
IMMENSEE
THE OLD MAN
0ne afternoon in the late autumn a well-dressed old man was walking
slowly down the street. He appeared to be returning home from a walk,
for his buckle-shoes, which followed a fashion long since out of date,
were covered with dust.
Under his arm he carried a long, gold-headed cane; his dark eyes, in
which the whole of his long-lost youth seemed to have centred, and
which contrasted strangely with his snow-white hair, gazed calmly on
the sights around him or peered into the town below as it lay before
him, bathed in the haze of sunset. He appeared to be almost a
stranger, for of the passers-by only a few greeted him, although many
a one involuntarily was compelled to gaze into those grave eyes.
At last he halted before a high, gabled house, cast one more glance
out toward the town, and then passed into the hall. At the sound of
the door-bell some one in the room within drew aside the green curtain
from a small window that looked out on to the hall, and the face of an
old woman was seen behind it. The man made a sign to her with his
cane.
"No light yet!" he said in a slightly southern accent, and the
housekeeper let the curtain fall again.
The old man now passed through the broad hall, through an inner hall,
wherein against the walls stood huge oaken chests bearing porcelain
vases; then through the door opposite he entered a small lobby, from
which a narrow staircase led to the upper rooms at the back of the
house. He climbed the stairs slowly, unlocked a door at the top, and
landed in a room of medium size.
It was a comfortable, quiet retreat. One of the walls was lined with
cupboards and bookcases; on the other hung pictures of men and places;
on a table with a green cover lay a number of open books, and before
the table stood a massive arm-chair with a red velvet cushion.
After the old man had placed his hat and stick in a corner, he sat
down in the arm-chair and, folding his hands, seemed to be taking his
rest after his walk. While he sat thus, it was growing gradually
darker; and before long a moonbeam came streaming through the window-
panes and upon the pictures on the wall; and as the bright band of
light passed slowly onward the old man followed it involuntarily with
his eyes.
Now it reached a little picture in a simple black frame. "Elisabeth!"
said the old man softly; and as he uttered the word, time had changed:
he was young again.
* * * * *
THE CHILDREN
Before very long the dainty form of a little maiden advanced toward
him. Her name was Elisabeth, and she might have been five years old.
He himself was twice that age. Round her neck she wore a red silk
kerchief which was very becoming to her brown eyes.
"Reinhard!" she cried, "we have a holiday, a holiday! No school the
whole day and none to-morrow either!"
Reinhard was carrying his slate under his arm, but he flung it behind
the front door, and then both the children ran through the house into
the garden and through the garden gate out into the meadow. The
unexpected holiday came to them at a most happily opportune moment.
It was in the meadow that Reinhard, with Elisabeth's help, had built a
house out of sods of grass. They meant to live in it during the summer
evenings; but it still wanted a bench. He set to work at once; nails,
hammer, and the necessary boards were already to hand.
While he was thus engaged, Elisabeth went along the dyke, gathering
the ring-shaped seeds of the wild mallow in her apron, with the object
of making herself chains and necklaces out of them; so that when
Reinhard had at last finished his bench in spite of many a crookedly
hammered nail, and came out into the sunlight again, she was already
wandering far away at the other end of the meadow.
"Elisabeth!" he called, "Elisabeth!" and then she came, her hair
streaming behind her.
"Come here," he said; "our house is finished now. Why, you have got
quite hot! Come in, and let us sit on the new bench. I will tell you a
story."
So they both went in and sat down on the new bench. Elisabeth took the
little seed-rings out of her apron and strung them on long threads.
Reinhard began his tale: "There were once upon a time three spinning-
women..." [Footnote: The beginning of one of the best known of Grimm's
fairy tales.]
"Oh!" said Elisabeth, "I know that off by heart; you really must not
always tell me the same story."
Accordingly Reinhard had to give up the story of the three spinning-
women and tell instead the story of the poor man who was cast into the
den of lions.
"It was now night," he said, "black night, you know, and the lions
were asleep. But every now and then they would yawn in their sleep and
shoot out their red tongues. And then the man would shudder and think
it was morning. All at once a bright light fell all about him, and
when he looked up an angel was standing before him. The angel beckoned
to him with his hand and then went straight into the rocks."
Elisabeth had been listening attentively. "An angel?" she said. "Had
he wings then?"
"It is only a story," answered Reinhard; "there are no angels, you
know."
"Oh, fie! Reinhard!" she said, staring him straight in the face.
He looked at her with a frown, and she asked him hesitatingly: "Well,
why do they always say there are? mother, and aunt, and at school as
well?"
"I don't know," he answered.
"But tell me," said Elisabeth, "are there no lions either?"
"Lions? Are there lions? In India, yes. The heathen priests harness
them to their carriages, and drive about the desert with them. When
I'm big, I mean to go out there myself. It is thousands of times more
beautiful in that country than it is here at home; there's no winter
at all there. And you must come with me. Will you?"
"Yes," said Elisabeth; "but mother must come with us, and your mother
as well."
"No," said Reinhard, "they will be too old then, and cannot come with
us."
"But I mayn't go by myself."
"Oh, but you may right enough; you will then really be my wife, and
the others will have no say in the matter."
"But mother will cry!"
"We shall come back again of course," said Reinhard impetuously. "Now
just tell me straight out, will you go with me? If not, I will go all
alone, and then I shall never come back again."
The little girl came very near to crying. "Please don't look so
angry," said she; "I will go to India with you."
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