Ingeborg – Berliner Liebesdrama & Gesellschaftsroman 🎭💔🏙️

Ingeborg – Berliner Liebesdrama & Gesellschaftsroman 🎭💔🏙️

Welcome to German Audiobooks. Today, with “Ingeborg” by Bernhard Kellermann, we’ll whisk you away to the world of a young woman searching for her path, caught between quiet longing and the courage to make her own decisions . Glances turn into questions, questions mature into desires—and suddenly a life is on the threshold of change. Kellermann delicately depicts the tension between societal expectations and personal freedom. Follow Ingeborg’s inner compass through coincidences, encounters, and those quiet moments when a heart understands what it truly wants. Take a deep breath, open the door—and step into a story of love, dignity, and self-discovery. Chapter 1. Now I live in a hut in the middle of the vast steppe. I like living here; it’s so vast and so quiet. No one knows me, no one comes to me; I’m all alone. I can do whatever I want. I’m not bored; my days pass by. As the clouds sweep across the vast sky, so the hours sweep over me. I’m content. Sometimes I still think of the girl from the forest. I have n’t forgotten her, no. It’s not like it used to be, when I couldn’t see a carnation by the road or a patch of blue sky without thinking: If only she saw it, if only she saw this carnation, this blue patch! It’s not like that anymore, but still I sometimes think of her. She was… I called her the jewel of the world and God’s darling. I gave her many, many names. I never found the right one. May she fare well. There was a summer in my life when I would have liked to have dressed like a Greek, with flowing hair, roses in my hair, a golden lyre in my hands. That summer did exist. It is long gone. She gave it to me. May she fare well! She came from the forest, where it is high and night-like. She was blonde. Golden she came from the black forest, I often thought that. She walked through the forest and sang, she walked through the fields and sang, she sang day and night. There was always sound wherever she went. She floated from one place to another like a butterfly, she kissed flowers and trees, she saw eyes in the treetops. She believed in gnomes and forest goblins. One morning in tender spring, she came soaring. Quite suddenly, she appeared before me. I was sitting on the steps of my house in the mountain forest , sunning myself. We exchanged a few words. I still remember them. I was struck by how floating her voice sounded. She sang halfway, and she had the habit of tilting her head to the side. She could n’t stand still for a moment. Back then, she looked as wet as a tree in the morning. Her dress was soaked, her shoes, her hair were soft and hung over her temples and cheeks. She had dew on her lips and eyelids. Dew and sundrops. “It’s so wet in the forest today!” she said, and rain trickled down her cheeks. She laughed. “You’re sitting in front of your house, Prince, like a badger before its burrow. Where have you been all winter?” “At home, Countess.” She laughed. “You always call me Countess, but I’m not Count Flüggen’s daughter.” She wasn’t Count Flüggen’s daughter, she said? “Papa calls me that, but he’s not my father. Haha, what did I say?” She laughed and looked at me sideways. “No, he raised me, Count Flüggen, since I was eight.” And she told me that her name was Ingeborg Giselher and that her father was a lumberjack in the Otternbrücklein district. He had many children and didn’t miss them. When he cut the bread at the table, so many of their little mouths opened wide, like when you throw white bread into a carp pond. “–like throwing white bread into a carp pond, so many mouths,” she said and laughed. She spoke a few more words, then left. “Thank you for the visit, Miss Giselher!” I said. “Oh, please,” she replied, smiling back over her shoulder. “It was n’t a visit, I just happened to be passing by. Goodbye, Prince!” She steered through the meadow, jumped over the ditch, and disappeared into the Forest. I watched her. How soaked she was, I thought, how the rain trickled down her cheeks! And I thought, what was that about the carp pond? How could anyone have such an idea? I smiled. Chapter 2. This was our first conversation. Then, for a long time, I didn’t see her again, the woodcutter’s daughter from the forest. I lived peacefully in my house in the mountain forest, and it was spring. Now and then she came to mind: rain trickled down her cheeks! And once, when my gaze fell on the turquoise of one of her pieces of jewelry, her eyes floated before me. They were like dewy turquoise. I no longer thought of her. I lived quietly in my own house, I roamed through the woods . I think of this house, and a faint pain seizes me. It was a dead thing, certainly, but yet it seemed to me to have a soul. I saw it in the snow, in a thunderstorm, in the hot sun; it always looked equally calm. It seemed so brave to me. Now it no longer stands. It will probably look like a wound in the mountain forest. I myself inflicted this wound on the mountain forest. One night— but I haven’t forgotten it; it is always before my eyes. It is an old hunting lodge; it looks like Noah’s Ark and is painted ochre yellow. In the sun, it can shimmer like gold through the tall chestnut trees; it can take on glowing red cheeks toward evening; that’s how it looks . Inside, it is cool and quiet; the corridors with their many doors are snow-white. Often, in my thoughts, I still wander through these snow-white corridors, these large, cool rooms. I go back and forth, open the doors, close them. I look out the window. I enter the white rooms, greet them with a bow, listen, and smile. I wipe the dust off the desk with my finger and the strange blotting paper. All in my thoughts. I open the heavy front door and step onto the stairs. I stand in a shady arbor formed by the tops of the chestnut trees. Directly in front of me lies a small meadow, then the forest begins. I turn my head to the left, to the right: forest, forest, forest, as far as I can see, forest and hills. The mountain road winds along the small meadow, then plunges down into the valley, boring into the woods. Far below lies the valley, small, narrow, a fine ribbon stretches through the ground, on it something occasionally wriggles—it is a wagon. I look across the valley, my gaze falls on the top of a tower, no larger than a pencil, rising from the forest beyond. It is a red beech, and behind the mountain lies a tall spruce. But you can’t see that. Now all I have left is the hunting lodge, but it is quite enough for me. Whenever I see the spire, I smile. Pleasant memories! This spring was more beautiful than any other I’ve experienced. It had a peculiar air; it didn’t tremble, it didn’t move, it lay like a single, large dewdrop on the valley, clear and transparent . It also possessed a peculiar taste; I sensed it whenever I inhaled it. One moment it tasted of ice, and the next it tasted of honey. I had no leisure to think about the girl who came climbing up one morning as I sat on the steps sunning myself. No. My heart was filled with the small wonders around me. I walked around and contemplated my spies. I looked into spring’s shimmering eyes. In February, I had already searched for spring’s spies. I peeled twigs, but no, there was nothing yet. On February 14, I rolled a stone from the spot, and lo and behold, a small black beetle was underneath it, along with pale germs. I know it was February 14 because on that day I received a letter from my friend Bluthaupt, the poet . Then the south wind blew, in the middle of the night, and I awoke instantly , laughing out loud with delight. It was a halloo in the forest; the trees shook off their sleep and wailed loudly. Since then, I have been on the Post. Spring came from the damp earth, from the air, it came from everywhere. I stood and listened: it trickled and gurgled everywhere. It was like a hidden laughter beneath the rotting leaves; you knew things were happening down there. It smelled so wonderful of earth and roots. The water from the streams changed its taste. And—ah!—green nibs pushed through the foliage. What a green it was! I had completely forgotten that such green existed. Moisture gushed from the beech trunks, there was movement everywhere, a quiet emotion lay over everything. I spotted the first anemone. “Do you see, Pazzo?” I said to my dog, and Pazzo looked attentively at the flower, his eyes shining. Then we moved forward at a rapid pace; spring didn’t take long to dwindle. Everything was green, it budded. All sorts of cheap, wild herbs grew first, then the greenery climbed upwards, into the bushes, and finally up to the topmost branches of the beech trees. The chestnut buds dripped, flocks of swift birds glided high in the sky over the valley, a finch settled into the beech forest, and one day a white butterfly swooped over the meadow! Hoho! I cried and laughed. Now spring was here. I had seen it coming, and yet every morning, when I looked out the window and saw all this, all this, it seemed to me as if it had come overnight. I shook my head, I couldn’t believe it. The earth was seized by a frenzy, a whirl; it laughed. One day, the apple trees along the mountain road were in bloom… They marched down the road, and I didn’t understand why they didn’t also sing and wave themselves like flags. The most beautiful thing I owned was a small, blossoming apple tree. It stood by the park wall, and every spring I fell in love with it. When I first looked at it, my heart tugged slightly, and my breath caught for a moment. It was beautiful and small, lovely, like a decorated little princess, white on white, a slender little princess, upon whom all eyes were fixed, and who didn’t know how beautiful she was, and that all people did nothing but think of her day and night. I was happy and looked into my heart. There was nothing but joy and wonder. Often I would sit down in the grass and look at a spot no bigger than my hand. It floated! It was so artistic and varied. I would look at this hand-sized spot and shake my head, and I understood nothing, and a strange emotion ran through my entire body, from my toes to my head. Great God, how could you have conceived this? And God smiled from the smallest blade of grass. Everything was so wonderful, and I listened to my breathing. My breathing was so wonderful. I was alive. This was so wonderful. I went into the forest and sang to keep from crying. That was spring. Sometimes spring came to me at night, into my dreams, and I laughed a lot in my dreams. I experienced amorous and strange adventures there. That was spring, of course. Surely spring was also to blame for my falling in love with the red-haired Liselotte, née Weikersbach. She had been dead for a long time; she lay down in the village church, but her picture hung in my room. She watched me wherever I went. She smiled. She had many freckles and bluish-white skin. In my dreams, I often kissed her. Come, Axel, she called, he’s gone into town to buy some jewelry for me. The next morning, she smiled. Spring had injected its sweet poison into my veins, that was it. I often stood for a long time at the edge of the forest, gazing at the house and thinking: Is Liselotte coming out in a hoop skirt, and her husband in a wig and buckled shoes? And I waited, although I knew that Liselotte and her husband were long dead. That, too, was probably spring’s doing, that I waited for the impossible. It was the air that turned everything into a fairy tale! It seemed to me as if I were looking into a strange picture book with strange characters, and under one would stand: that is Axel. — — — — — — — — — One night I awoke with the feeling of happiness: a voice was singing in the forest. I sat up and listened. It was completely black around me, little stars flickered in the darkness. It was singing. The voice hovered in the night. Was I awake? Was I dreaming? The voice moved away and suddenly fell silent. It was an hour past midnight, the constellation of Orion was sinking into the forest. I sat down on the windowsill in my shirt. Midnight air. Chapter 3. A few days later I met Ingeborg again. I was walking through the forest with Pazzo. It was in a leafy path that ran straight through the beech wood. She came slowly along the path, swinging her arms and looking left and right into the forest as if she were looking for something. Like the other day, she was hatless and soaked with dew. She carried something like a wreath in her hand. She sang softly, and only when we were very close did she fall silent. She looked beautiful as she walked through the leafy avenue. The avenue was filled with green light and as cool and solemn as only the cloisters are, with the morning sun flooding through their arched windows. In all the green light, in the solemnity, she walked, almost translucent, woven of white, white, a touch of gold, and red. “Good morning!” she called, her eyes shining. I shook her hand. Her hand was icy cold and frozen blue. It was cold. Her face, too, was frozen blue, narrow, and her nose appeared pointed and small. A fine crack ran down her cheek. “It’s chilly today, Prince!” she said, shaking herself. “I’ve been out since five o’clock. ” One must get up early now, the day is still so short.” I asked her if she went for walks and sang all day? “Yes!” she replied, smiling and looking into my eyes. This smile confused me. Surely she was smiling at my green hat, my high boots, or at my trimmed mustache. You could see her upper teeth when she smiled. They were slightly protruding. Where was she going? She made a wide arc with her hand and shrugged her shoulders. “I don’t know. First I’ll go down there!” She pointed in the direction I had come from. Pazzo turned his head and followed the finger. There was a small stream there, and she wanted to see what it was doing. I smiled. I was glad she loved the woods of Edelhof, I said. She paid no attention. She looked down at the ground and watched Pazzo attentively. She was a head shorter than me; I saw the beautiful part of her head. It was perfectly straight. My gaze fell on a golden medallion she wore around her bare neck. She shook her head. “How clever your dog looks, Prince!” she said in amazement. “He has eyes like a human.” Pazzo’s eyes shone like wet chestnuts, he let his tongue hang out of his mouth and gasped excitedly. “He is beautiful. What is his name?” “Pazzo.” Pazzo sprang stiffly to his feet and looked from one to the other. Ingeborg crouched down and said, “Now come here, beautiful Pazzo!” And she placed the wreath of anemones she was carrying around Pazzo’s neck. Pazzo barked with delight and jumped high in the air. Ingeborg laughed, she stood up. She looked at me. “Is he used for hunting?” she asked suddenly, hastily. He was a hunting dog. “Oh! Yes, he has teeth as sharp as thorns.” I hate hunting dogs and hunters!” she said, and her face turned bright red. “Goodbye, Prince!” she said curtly. “Goodbye, Miss Giselher.” But Ingeborg didn’t leave immediately; she turned back. “You said earlier that you were pleased that I loved the Edelhof forests. Why did you say that?” I smiled, pulled the short pipe from my pocket, and lit it. I blinked through the smoke, waited a while longer, then answered : “So? Did I say that? Well, that was silly, you’re right. Everyone A landowner who prides himself on his forests could have said something like that .” Ingeborg looked at me critically. It sounded like this: Goodbye, Prince! Goodbye, Miss Giselher! A cuckoo called in the forest. I went on my way, smiling to myself . The leafy path was two leagues’ walk from Ingeborg’s home, but I could reach it in ten minutes. I walked back and forth. It was a beautiful morning. Deep in the forest, Pazzo grew restless and looked into the thicket. I saw a man hurrying through the thicket, holding his hat. He stepped out onto the path, waving his hat, and acted as if he were taking a stroll. He was a slender young man with velvety-black hair and a pale face. From a distance, his hands caught my eye. They were long, bluish-white, and finely jointed. They were cruel hands that carried great power . By these hands, I recognized the young man. It was Harry Usedom, the violinist. I hadn’t seen him for a good six years; back then , he was almost a boy and all made of velvet. His suit, his hair, his eyes, and his face were velvet. His playing was velvet too, silky violet velvet, with the scent of orchids. I understood, of course. Now I understood everything. “Harry Usedom?” I said. He must have wanted to pass me by, because he kept his eyes fixed on the ground. He didn’t know I wanted to give him great pleasure. He turned his large eyes, which looked like violets, to me and smiled wearily. He had a large mouth, disgust and sin. But he was beautiful. Harry Usedom looked like a pale woman, with a narrow, slender head. We greeted each other and spoke of this and that. “Greetings to your father,” I said. “Is he still suffering?” “Yes.” Harry Usedom didn’t feel like talking much. I smiled and said it was a pleasure to have met him. Often days pass and I meet no one in the forest, but today I’ve met two: him and a short while ago a young lady in the beech walk. So, goodbye! Harry Usedom bowed and blushed. He left; I stood behind a tree and watched him go. He kept his head bowed, waved his hat, as before, and gave the impression that he was calmly continuing his stroll. But I did notice that he was taking preternaturally long strides. I laughed. I, Axel, the patron saint of lovers! A halo around my head, love potions in a bottle! I wished them both luck. It is spring, and God wills that red mouths find each other! Chapter 4. One should praise and sing of the days that are without desire, the days without desires . They are like a silent, silently creative summer in the heart, overgrowing everything, letting rose hedges grow on graves; they are silent fertility and make one rich, and the rich are just. Therefore, one should praise the days without desires! One should praise the days of hot, blazing desires, even them! They are like scythe blows into sleepy weeds; they carry the seeds of shining , foreign blossoms into the heart, flowers that have blood instead of honey and smell of murder and destruction; they are like black weather in a sultry summer, sowing lightning and laughing away rotten trees. They make one humble and proud; they too should be praised. One should praise life in every form, murder and love, holy are murder and love. My days without desires had come. They passed silently by, like people coming out of church. I walked with a warm, soft heart , and often giggled to myself when I was alone in the forest. A few years ago, I was out in the wide world. I danced. I danced over people and holy books, certainly causing some mischief, but here and there I also brought a little joy to a poor soul. Now I lived alone; I needed no one; I was enough for myself. I was never bored, no, never. Day and night flew by, and I didn’t know how many of them came to be. passed. There were no clocks in my house, in my pocket. There were enough clocks anyway: the sun, the leaves on the trees, the fountain in the park. It murmured differently by day than by night, at midnight than toward morning. Even the smell of the forest was a clock. Even the smallest noises, whose cause is unknown, had their appointed hours. There were more than enough clocks anyway. I think of how those days passed when my heart was without desire. I whistled Pazzo, and we wandered through the forest. Sometimes I put on my high boots and went out into the fields with the servants. I shoveled and raked. I walked behind the plow, joking and snuffing and drinking from earthenware jugs. I went to the library, took out a book , and read. I found a captivating thought, was frightened by its beauty, its depth, imagined it, pursued it. A crown to this man! I thought, a crown and an empire. There have been minds in the world . . . I sat down at the piano and struck a key, letting the sound trickle through my blood. I could spend long hours with it. This piano was an all-knowing, all-sentient being. Man’s wild, throbbing heart was hidden within it, his sweet weeping and his insane laughter. I listened. What is that? I thought, and was frightened. And I didn’t dare strike the next chord, I didn’t dare. I had seen so much pain in one eye and could no longer forget that eye. It grew dark, the world lost its colors, and in my head they awoke. Coral forests and a sea of ​​rainbows, walls of cat’s eyes and a silver infinity. Comets circling my eyelids. Haha! I could draw and paint the world as I saw fit. Coal-black rivers, red skies, green people, as I wished. I could accomplish the impossible. It’s hard to put the devil on the tip of a pin, but I could, and I could delight in his pitiful face, I could see Jehovah walking by, the sun on a signet ring, I could do anything I wanted. The visions behind my closed eyelids were so glorious that I sometimes wished I were blind. Blind, as absurd as the thought is. For example, yes, fine, I close my eyes and wait. I see a bronze-green air. Something white appears. It is the body of a woman, a slender girl. The girl directs her gentle, warm gaze toward me, standing still and stiff, her hands lightly pressed against her breasts . I don’t take my eyes off her, waiting. Then her breasts begin to bloom, their buds burst open, and transparent calyxes grow out. The woman’s fingers bloom, and small white blossoms lie on them like drops of milk. Delicate coral branches are the veins of her hands and arms. The woman’s lips bloom crimson, her hair transforms into golden petals and falls over her shoulders and body. A crystal-bright blue tulip grows from her forehead, a crystal-bright blue tulip grows from her knees. The woman moves her lips and opens them and whispers; a tiny butterfly floats from her mouth, another one, a swarm in all colors, and they flutter around the blooming woman like flying blossoms. The woman closes her eyelids, and then enigmatic symbols appear on her eyelids in diamond script. The woman opens her eyes, and her eyes are radiantly white like lights. Now her eyelashes begin to bloom too… I have spent many a night with such dreams. Should I be bored? No, my days passed. —
I received an invitation to an evening party hosted by Count Flüggen . Papa is surely expecting you, it said. He should wait. I don’t have time. Harry Usedom walked past my house, wrapped in a fantastic coat; it was raining. He was in a great hurry. I was sitting at the piano and saw him coming up the street. I stopped playing. For he was surely listening. with his fine ears, he wanted to eavesdrop on my heart. It was a strange thought, but it forced me to pause. Best wishes! I thought and smiled. I remember the nights of that spring so clearly. They were so wonderfully quiet, so quiet that one had to listen to the silence. They were black as velvet with many, many stars. I often lay in the grass in front of my house and looked up at the stars. A bitter scent fell from the chestnut trees. They were in bloom, they looked like large Christmas trees, and their candles, in turn, appeared like little Christmas trees, made entirely of light. I smelled meadow sage and woodruff. There I lay, on my back, and looked up at the sky. The brain of God with his thoughts? Was I looking into God’s brain and seeing his thoughts burning? The stars looked at me and a shiver ran through my body. Should I sink to my knees? I thought. And I wished I were an arrow , to be shot into the sky, and to stand still up there for a second, turning and looking around before I fell back to earth. And I gazed at the stars until they dripped down on me, and I shuddered. I carried a brain full of stars into the house, and then I dreamed that I was lying in the grass, gazing at the stars. I was rich and happy. These were my wishless days. The evening party at Count Flüggen’s took place on a Sunday. On
the afternoon of that Sunday, Ingeborg drove past the castle in an open hunting carriage . She drove herself, cracked her whip, and nodded up at me. It was quite peculiar. I first dreamed of her. There I was standing in the courtyard, in my shirtsleeves, screwing on a plow whose screws had come loose. The courtyard lay between the castle and the outbuildings and had a wide gate onto Bergstrasse. It was Sunday; everything was quiet and empty. The sun was shining so that the ploughshare glared, occasionally slicing into my eyes. Pazzo lay in the sun, his feet stretched out stiffly . He looked white and blue, casting a narrow, light-blue shadow that reflected every stray hair. He blinked and seemed to smile because I was being clumsy. And when I looked at him, he thumped his tail on the ground, as if to apologize for the smile and appease me. Suddenly, I thought of Ingeborg. Surely, I thought, she’d read that story about the white bread and the carp pond somewhere. Or at least said it many times before and not just made it up at that moment. No, certainly she’d read it. Didn’t it immediately seem familiar? I’ll ask her. Haha, I’ll say to her, Miss Giselher, I’ve just discovered this story about the white bread and the carp pond in a book. What do you say to that? I’m sure she won’t deny it. I’ll tell her I’d be happy to see her more often. I have four young foxes, funny little rascals—the farmhands were robbing a den—come and look at these foxes, Miss Giselher. Sweat ran down my face and dripped onto my hand, which was already dirty and greasy. The thread of the screw seemed to be spoiled. In all seriousness, I would have a long conversation with her! Miss Giselher, that’s how I would begin, I’ve waited for you for many years without knowing it. Hahaha! Why is she laughing now? Waiting for you without knowing it myself. Longing and dreams for many years. I stretch my arms out the window at night to clasp a neck—no one is there. There’s a knock at my door. Come in! I call, startled, for at last she comes. But no one is there. But now—— Hahaha! Yes, those are all lies, certainly, Miss Giselher. I love to lie, and I have a great talent for it. The children and I, how we lie together! But I’ll tell you one thing—you don’t know me, my friend. No. I smoke my pipe and smile to myself, no one knows what I’m thinking. No one knows what I think sometimes when the forest laments. Isn’t it possible that I had a heart? I look at people and think: they don’t know you, and that cheers me up. Then Pazzo raised his head and twitched his ears. A carriage rattled up the street and flew past the open gate. Ingeborg was driving. No one else was sitting in the carriage, pulled by two shiny foxes. I greeted them, and Ingeborg inclined her head, cool and reserved, as if she didn’t know me at all. But I had to stand in the yard in my shirtsleeves. In shirtsleeves, high boots, and on top of that, I had dirty, swollen hands. I had no luck . . . Then I realized I was dreaming, and I woke up! There was a crackling in the distance. It sounded as if nuts were being poured out of a sack onto the ground and smashed. I was lying in my room. What was I dreaming! I thought. The rattling grew louder, and now I heard a carriage coming up the street. The horses had to nip sharply into the ground as the road rose steeply. Ingeborg flew up in a hunting carriage. Behind her sat a footman, stiffly, arms crossed. Ingeborg held the reins and cracked her whip. She looked out the window and smiled when she saw me. The whip cracked, sounding like fine gunshots. I bowed and smiled. I thought about the strange dream. But that evening I stayed home. I had no desire to be among people. That evening was a single, beautiful dream, and I didn’t fall asleep until the roosters crowed. I thought of Liselotte. Red-haired Liselotte, née Weikersbach, what is the matter with us? We look at each other, smile, with hidden, dark sin in our eyes. What will your husband say? I went down to the village church in Hohenficht and looked at Liselotte’s epitaph. I read the few dates, read the name, Liselotte, née Weikersbach, and felt sad and dark within. Liselotte, I would love you if you were alive! Yes, I know that! I’ve had wonderful adventures with Liselotte. They would make a thick book if I were to write them down. A book that would give one much laughter. All my adventures with Liselotte are of a cheerful nature. — Did I eat poisonous berries? Chapter 5. One rainy afternoon in May, Liselotte was sitting in my room when I came home. I had been in the forest with Pazzo. It wasn’t Liselotte, it was Ingeborg, Ingeborg Giselher, the woodcutter’s beautiful daughter deep in the black high forest. But it was twilight in my room, and at first glance I thought I saw Liselotte, the redhead, before me. And then, when I had long known that it was Ingeborg Giselher, the golden blonde, my visitor kept taking on Liselotte’s image, and everything swayed before my eyes. Liselotte came to speak to me. Yes, now she sat there; we knew each other from dreams, we knew much about each other, the two of us. It was Ingeborg, of course; they bore no resemblance at all, Liselotte and the woodcutter’s daughter, and yet it was hard for me not to see Liselotte in Ingeborg, not to hear Liselotte in Ingeborg’s voice. The sweet air of spring had numbed my senses. All day long I had thought of Liselotte and tried to explain to myself how it was that I had to love her, even though she was long dead. The night before, I had sat before her picture until my eyes closed. Ingeborg came to speak to me. She struck an unpleasant note. Certainly, it wasn’t pleasant to hear these things. First, she said something about a hunt, and that she brought greetings, very warm greetings from Count Flüggen. “You must excuse me for greeting you in these high boots and that old jacket, Miss Giselher,” I said, “I’ve just come from the hunt.” Please, please! “I bring very warm greetings from Papa. He would like to see you again sometime! He will invite you to the next hunt.” Thanks and greetings in return. We glanced at each other, and I went to the window to tend to the curtains. Ingeborg was dressed like a princess; she looked like an apparition from Botticelli’s paintings. She wore a white, wide-brimmed straw hat, and her carefully curled hair hung over her cheeks like golden tassels. She looked around my room, which was as large as a hall, full of cabinets, vases, and books. It was somewhat disorganized. “You live like a poet!” she said, smiling. “I’ve never been to a poet’s house, but I think that’s how they live, poets.” I listened to her. Liselotte? I thought. Liselotte’s picture on the wall began to smile. Who was that woman on the wall? “Liselotte, née Weikersbach,” I answered, and had to smile. “A beautiful and fun-loving lady, isn’t she?” Yes. Then Ingeborg looked at me and said, “I have other greetings to bring you. From Claire Davison.” She died, you know that?’ ‘Certainly,’ I said. ‘By Claire Davison?’ I was very surprised. ‘She was very unhappy. Do you know how she died, Claire?’ Ingeborg looked at me. But I had nothing to reproach myself for; I could remain completely calm. ‘I felt very sorry for her,’ I said. ‘I heard everything, it’s sad. She was so beautiful and proud.’ ‘She was, yes.’ She had written to her a few weeks before her death, asking her to say hello if she ever met me somewhere. That was about a year ago. Two years ago, Claire had visited Count Flüggen for three months; they had passed by here several times. Had I not seen her? ‘No.’ I told the truth. ‘Thank you for the greetings, Miss Giselher.’ That ended the unpleasant conversation. We chatted some more. Perhaps she had heard whether the violinist Harry Usedom had bought Red Beech or not? Yes, Mr. Usedom had bought Red Beech. “Old Mr. Usedom, where does he currently live?” He currently lives at Rote Buche with his son. It was getting dark. Ingeborg stood up. I offered to accompany her for a bit, as it was dark and stormy. She would gladly accept the company up to the top, but only up to the top.
I understood why I should only go up to the top. A hasty, damp wind blew up from the valley, and the woods shook. It was dark between the trees, and the forest smelled of rain and night. We could hardly see the path. Pazzo’s white fur shone; he seemed to be making wildly high leaps, changing his shape at any moment. Ingeborg held her hat with both hands, and the wind blew the hem of her dress around her feet, so that she could hardly move forward. “Haha,” she laughed. “What a wind!” A proper conversation was impossible , and our words flew back and forth in fragments. “Harry Usedom is a truly extraordinary violinist!” I shouted into the wind. “Of course he is,” Ingeborg cried in reply. “He’s a beautiful man!” “Yes.” The wind stopped; it became noticeably warm. We breathed a sigh of relief. “Do you know that Liselotte, whose picture you saw in my room, wanders around the castle? They say so. After she died, she visited her husband every night. He became paler and paler, was always in good spirits, and died eight weeks after Liselotte’s death.” I told him. “That was very strange,” Ingeborg said, looking at me and smiling imperceptibly. She smiled just as Liselotte had smiled at me in her dream, and a faint shudder of horror ran down my spine. “Tell me,” she began, “I’ve been told many things about you. Is it true that you literally threw money out into the street?” They opened the hotel window and threw the money onto the street.” “Yes, it was a little joke, it wasn’t much, really.” Ingeborg smiled and shook her head. I laughed, thinking of the fight outside my window and my funny pranks. The wind started up again and drove us up the mountain; a pale glow fell over the heights. The moon rose, shrouded in clouds, looking like a blind eye. Everything suddenly cast pale, watery shadows: the trees, the two of us, and Pazzo. Ingeborg’s tufts of curls fluttered, as did her clothes. “That’s the heights,” said Ingeborg. We stopped. Pazzo waited off to the side, unaware of the disturbance. His shadow looked like the silhouette of a long-legged mythical creature. I took off my hat. “Thank you!” said Ingeborg. A peculiar, humble smile shimmered in her eyes. “Thank you for the visit,” I said, holding my hat in my hand. “Perhaps your path will lead you past my house again sometime, Miss Giselher?” Ingeborg laughed. “Yes, it may be that I’ll come by again sometime,” she cried, gazing at the moon drifting behind shining clouds. A bluish light flitted across her face, her teeth and eyes gleamed like enamel. Ingeborg gazed at the moon, then turned to me and said unexpectedly: “You must have been abominable to Claire, Prince! Yes, abominable!” She spoke very quickly. She shook her head and continued quietly: “I don’t understand you at all! No! I bring you greetings from her, from Claire. We’re talking about her death, and you don’t change your expression and say you were very sorry for Claire. What is that? You were very sorry for her! And yet you murdered her, yes, you did.” She looked me straight in the eyes, but her gaze was shy and humble. Her hair was blowing. “Do you know everything Claire told me about you? No, she did n’t speak of you often, that’s true. She said you were noble and kind. She said she hadn’t exchanged more than a hundred words with you . You knew, you knew everything, but you were still despicable! What kind of word would Claire have given you? We drove past your house twice; Claire turned as white as chalk. No, I don’t know what was between Claire and you, but you were n’t noble to her. You could have paid Papa a visit to please Claire—you did nothing, nothing at all!’ I looked at her and couldn’t reply. I thought of these strange people, I thought of everything and nothing. Ingeborg’s face was pale; her eyes filled with the moonlight and turned pale. Her voice sounded pale too. ‘Prince,’ she whispered, ‘who are you? You don’t know who you are, no.’ She paused. She smiled and shook her head imperceptibly. “No, you don’t know who you are!” she repeated, even more quietly. Then she laughed, very briefly. She looked at me with rapturous eyes and said, “I don’t love you, no, but I can’t stop thinking about you. Why didn’t you come on Sunday? I wrote another line at the bottom of the invitation; I thought you must come now. But then I got scared and drove past Edelhof in a roundabout way. But you didn’t come. I waited and waited, I sat on the steps and the wind blew. Mr. Usedom was there, Harry Usedom too, they were all there. I didn’t say a word. What will they think of me? I don’t care. Harry Usedom said to me: ‘What’s the matter with you? Nothing,’ I said. I said it very rudely. I was waiting for you, for you alone!’ I do n’t care that I was rude to Harry Usedom — — haha ​​– — everything spun before my eyes, then I ran up to the hill, right here, and waited. But they didn’t come!” I wanted to speak, but Ingeborg wouldn’t let me. “It doesn’t help that I’m always singing,” she continued, and the peculiar, humble smile on her face wandered back and forth. “It doesn’t help anymore. All winter long I’ve been thinking about something and I didn’t know what. But when spring came, it came to me. I came to you, what did it cost me? That thing with Claire isn’t even Isn’t it, oh, it’s not true at all! She didn’t ask me to give her regards. I’ve brought a heavy guilt upon myself. You could bring him greetings, Claire wrote, but then immediately, I just thought it was a joke. Don’t bring him greetings, no, no. Claire didn’t mean to, she wrote expressly that she didn’t mean to, I’m telling you quite the truth, but I did it anyway. I had to have an excuse.” I wanted to interrupt her. “No, no,” she said, “you received me kindly. You did n’t act surprised. You didn’t smile either. You said I should excuse myself—yes, because of the old jacket and the boots—that was so kind of you! You are kind, I know it, Claire said it too, even she did. You gave away your two castles and six villages for alms—I know everything about you.” I smiled. “I was gambling,” I said. “Hahaha,” laughed Ingeborg, “yes, yes—” she looked at me, laughed, then lowered her head. “Prince, Prince,” she whispered, and was silent. Her hair was fluttering. What should I do? I couldn’t find a suitable word. I would have liked to say a gentle word to her, but nothing came to mind. What did she want from me? First she reproached me for Claire , and then…
Suddenly a smile came to my face. All of this seemed ridiculous to me . These words, so many confused words. “I am not worthy of these words,” I said. “I smile. Yes, these words even make me vain.” Ingeborg shuddered and looked at me, startled. Her lips twisted into a smile, and she said tonelessly: “I’ve been told a lot about you, Prince, then I thought—I’ve often thought of you. I would ask you for some love, if it were worth it, I would even do that. I have no pride in you. But I think you have no heart.” I replied, “I live for myself, I’m tired, I can’t tell you how it happened.” The pale girl’s face nodded sadly. “So you can’t love anymore?” she said. How ridiculous that sounded. “No,” I replied, “I don’t know how it happened.” Ingeborg turned away and walked away with hesitant steps. Everything about her fluttered. “Miss Giselher,” I said, “I didn’t mean to hurt you with a single word. I tried to be sincere. I was glad that you came to me today.” Ingeborg left. Her white figure glided silently into the twilight; it turned gloomy, gray, then I saw her no more. I called to the dog and went down the road. Chapter 6. I went down the mountain. As soon as the wind died down, I lit my pipe. I shook my head and laughed. God forgive me for laughing, but the experience up there on the hill cheered me up. How the smile on her face darted back and forth, how her words flickered! And all this because of me, was it possible? Joy and pride swelled my chest. I descended the mountain and waded into the wind. Pazzo cut through the wind with his pointed chest. Across the black sky, flocks of little lamb-like clouds moved , all heading for the moon to drink light. They shimmered merrily, they seemed to frolic and rub against one another. The forest swayed. The wind sought out its trees and shook them so that their tips touched the ground. Sparks flew from my pipe, and each time it seemed to me as if I saw my happy face. Ingeborg’s words, those hasty, confused words, went back and forth in my head. She stood before me, her hair flowing, her face pale and full of humility. She looked beautiful, touching, and how her eyes shone! By God, I can still see their light! I shook my head. Humans are so strange to throw themselves to the ground before a stranger and humiliate themselves when their time has come. I thought of the young girl and her soft, trembling words, and I was moved. It was spring, yes, she could do nothing about it. Now it was God’s will that she turned to me, who was just having his days without desire, who was tired, too tired for the love that demands her whole husband, much too tired. There had been times when the gaze of a maid ran like fire through my veins, and I had to think long nights about that miserable, ardent gaze —but now the days without desire of dreaming blood had come. I stopped, looked up at the drifting clouds, and pity for the humiliated soul seized me. I wanted to hurry after her and speak with her. Thank you, thank you, I wanted to say. I cannot love you, Miss Ingeborg, I have my days without desire, but thank you for your love. If you want, come to me, I will chat with you day and night, I want to be your friend. I am ashamed, I am poor these days, selfish, because I am happy alone. But I did not hurry after her. I went on. I thought: perhaps I’m only so rich and happy because she loves me? She gifts me with her thoughts, her love, from afar; I become cheerful and happy, and she becomes poor and unhappy. She throws herself on the ground and weeps, and at the same moment joy surges through me, an inexplicable, deep joy, and I breathe deeply and smile. No one can say. I walked further and further down the dark forest path, and with every step I thought I should turn back to speak to her. Now she wandered through the rustling wood, slowly, ashamed, thinking of the man with the weary heart. The wind blew and she coughed. Then she came home, took off her dress, the beautiful, light spring garment, and threw it under the bed. She didn’t want to see it anymore. In the mirror, her image from this afternoon was still stuck. “I will please him?” smiled her mouth. And her eyes said: Yes, yes, you will please him . . . . . . . . She closed her eyelids . . . . . . . . . I continued down the mountain road, yet I actually wanted to turn back. The strange words echoed through my head. Yes, I had to turn back and tell her to be patient with me, patience! She was beautiful, she was glorious, she was moving. I walked and walked. My mind darkened. Then my heart burst open. It burst open like a bud, I felt it. It shot through me, it was like a cry of joy in my blood. I turned back and climbed the mountain, hesitantly at first, then with quick steps. The wind drove me; there was a mighty roar in the forest that shook me to my very core. I walked and walked. I never caught up with Ingeborg. I walked through the black forest, still walking. Suddenly, a castle with many illuminated windows lay in the forest. It seemed like a fortress to me; I stopped. Chapter 7. Did I want to enter the castle with its many lit windows and have the servant tell me: There’s someone standing in the corridor, someone with his hat in his hand? It was toward morning, the day was turning blue. I looked out my window, which overlooked the park, and listened to the song of a bird. It sang in the vast silence of the morning, when everything was asleep. It sang all night long until the sun rose; spring would n’t let it rest. I had often enjoyed its song, but today I understood the little bird, and my heart trembled. I knew what that meant. Only the unfortunate and the happy tremble at the song of a bird. My heart twitched with every note, and when it chirped softly, so that it could hardly be heard, I was frightened, I opened my lips, and my breath caught. My time had come! I pressed my hands to my face and smiled, pressing a kiss into my hands. My time had come! — — — My mind is dark, my mind is dark gold, something is circling in my brain. My heart is loud in my chest. I walk around, touching the cupboards and tables as if they were made of flesh. I walk around and talk to myself. I draw the curtains of the room so that everything around me turns golden. I sit in a golden room and smile to myself. I take my stick and wander. With long strides, in wide circles I must go. My footsteps echo through sleeping villages, the dogs bark, I wander, in wide circles I must wander. I smile. The stars smile. I had the horses harnessed and drove to Count Flüggen’s castle. I had shaved carefully and tied a white bandage around my head. Ingeborg was nowhere to be seen. Count Flüggen exhausted himself with pleasantries. He was a stooped old man with a long beard; he seemed like a dwarf to me. I dragged out the conversation , telling of distant lands and their sun; Ingeborg was nowhere to be seen. Carriages trundled through the evening, past my house. I didn’t see who sat inside. Colorful flares rose above red beech trees into the dark night. A celebration! I thought. In the middle of the night, the carriages rolled up the mountain road again. Ingeborg sat in the front carriage; I recognized her by her hat, I recognized her by the swirling of my heart. Harry Usedom passed Edelhof twice in the course of a week: he walked quickly up the mountain, slowly and gliding down the mountain. Things were happening. As a boy peers through a knothole into a sideshow booth, so I peered into these things. They flitted and twitched past my eyes. One evening, a soft, sad song sounded through my soul. I shivered… One evening, as the forest glowed red in the setting sun, I met Ingeborg and Harry Usedom up on the hill. They came along the road, carrying large bouquets of lilies of the valley in their hands and laughing. I saw it, I heard it. They both approached, smiling; not the faintest memory of that evening shimmered in Ingeborg’s eyes. Harry Usedom’s eyes shone. I had never seen such eyes; they hung like lamps in his face, and his face, which always seemed white and sickly, was tinged with a delicate blush of happiness. “Do you gentlemen know each other? Of course—of course—” said Ingeborg, smiling. Then she spoke to Pazzo, and I exchanged a few words with Harry Usedom. He asked if he liked Rote Buche. Very beautiful forests, weren’t they? Magnificent forests! And he had the lake, too! He liked Rote Buche very much! His eyes shone, they were like dark caves full of jewelry. I couldn’t stop looking at those radiant eyes. He was currently writing an opera. He wanted to give up his concert tours. Harry Usedom’s lips were broad, curled at the corners. They were reminiscent of orange slices. They were red. The gentlemen took off their hats, Ingeborg nodded and bowed slightly, and we parted. I turned down the nearest side path and lit my pipe. Many objects swirled before my eyes in the smoke from my pipe. Pazzo looked at me. He knew me well, and when I spoke to him, he jumped up to caress me. I stroked his back with a gentle hand—back and forth. A few days later, I walked with Ingeborg up on the hill, along the edge of the forest. The sun was slanting and already slightly red over the forest, casting a shadowy, dark lace collar over the hill. We strode along on this lace collar, high above the valley with its small villages and sparkling streams. Sunspots flickered across Ingeborg’s dress and face; we spoke nothing. Pazzo walked beside us, dipping his slender feet with pleasure into the tall, lush grass. Ingeborg’s face appeared green in the reflection of the grass and the forest; occasionally the sun came out, then it glowed for a moment. Ingeborg’s brow was full of thoughts. We came to a bench, and Ingeborg said, “Shall we sit down for a while ?” She looked at me briefly as she asked the question. I was grateful for the look and for the meaningless words. She sensed it, for she looked at me again, examining my expression. I noticed it very well. I placed the rifle against a tree, with Pazzo guarding it. A bird sang behind the bench. I listened. What kind of bird was it ? It was a bird I hadn’t heard before. Perhaps it had flown away. Many things had changed, I realized that. I sat next to Ingeborg, and my heart pounded. Ingeborg sat there with an indifferent, withdrawn face, her chin resting in her hand, interested in the young grasshoppers skittering around in the grass. A fine frown crease appeared between Ingeborg’s brows; I didn’t dare speak. If she was in a bad mood, why didn’t she leave? She sat so close that I couldn’t put my hand down without touching it, and suddenly the blood rushed to my head, she sat so close. I felt her warmth. I sat still, I didn’t move, I thought of the fine frown between Ingeborg’s brows. She could command me, yes, she could. A nod and I disappeared, and I never saw her again. I left the area when she requested it; my presence wouldn’t spoil her mood. The valley lay beautiful at our feet, and except for Ingeborg’s small wrinkle, everything would have been wonderful. A farmer was mowing with a gleaming scythe far below; he was no bigger than an ant. Above the valley, a green meadow shimmered like a precious stone, but it was only a piece of glass, a broken bottle, that glittered there. Across the valley lay scattered cottages, silent, seemingly uninhabited. Suddenly, from the nearby cornfield, a spade emerged, then a hat, a head. The head bobbed up and down and disappeared again in the corn, and the spade, too, submerged. This bouncing head roused me from my reverie. An incredibly bold thought shot through my head. What if I simply put my arm around Ingeborg and said: Well—? It’s lovely to sit here beside you and gaze at the valley. I could sit here beside you for hours, even if you didn’t speak. I moved my lips, moistened them, then I said: “It’s lovely to sit here and gaze at the valley.” Ingeborg nodded. “Yes,” she said. In the valley walked the man with the spade, small and blue. My heart clenched . The shard of glass over there in the field stopped flashing, the shadows rose. I fixed my eyes on the cottages across from us. They were inhabited; a door had been open a moment ago, but now it was closed. From the forest that covered the hill above the cottages, something crawled out. It looked like a small cart pulled by white mice. Something white walked alongside, something white lay on the cart. He was a miller, carrying sacks on a cart pulled by two white horses. The white horses’ legs disappeared into the grain. The cart drove to the small farmhouses. There it stopped, and a few people came out of the doors. A maid hit the sacks, and flour sprayed out, a round little cloud, as if she had fired a shot. I saw all this very clearly, while my heart clenched. Ingeborg moved a foot, and I was startled. She moved another foot, and I was startled. Yes, now she stood up. We walked. It had grown darker in the forest, becoming twilighter and twilighter. The sky shone red like wine through the gloomy treetops. Our walk was long, and we spoke nothing. A bird chirped. I smiled. Ingeborg looked at me. “I’m thinking of a dream, Miss Giselher,” I said. I spoke very quickly; I knew I could speak now, and joy flooded through me. I continued. “I’m thinking about a dream. I often think about what a strange thing it is with the human soul. Today I’m not thinking about stealing, but tomorrow I have the desire to do it, and the day after tomorrow I do it. But three days ago, I had n’t thought about it. Now I’m sitting in prison and thinking about myself. Suddenly it occurs to me that I’ve sometimes dreamed of stealing. Well, what am I saying? It doesn’t fit here, and I didn’t want to say it either. I wanted to say, our soul has its special desires, but we don’t know them. What did I want to say? I wanted to tell you about a dream I had. I dream the strangest things in the world together. Now listen, a few weeks ago I dreamed of a voice. What a voice it was! It was enchantingly beautiful. I’m lying in bed and dreaming that I’m lying in bed and a voice is speaking to me. You should hear how strangely we conversed, this voice and I. This voice said that it wanted only me and not the amber candlestick and the mother-of-pearl shoes. “No, no, only you,” she said. And I lay there and smiled and almost lost consciousness, the voice sounded so wonderful and enchanting. Then she said that we would have a hut on the beach, a small hut. “You’re a fisherman,” she said. “A fire will burn on our hearth, and you will stick fish scales on my shoes.” — Then I answered her: “Yes!” I’ll wander the blue bottom of the sea and look for beautiful things for you. Perhaps I’ll find a pretty little knife for you, too, I said.” I smiled and continued just as hastily: “The voice then told me to beware of the sawfish down there in the sea. — Haha! — But I continued: One day a chest will be thrown onto the beach, and when we break it open, old crowns will fall out, golden rings with green and red stones, scepters, and brooches. There’s also a hairpin for you. Then the voice rejoiced and began to sing: I awoke and a nightingale was singing in the garden.” I looked at Ingeborg and waited for her to say something. But Ingeborg didn’t move; her face looked thin, as if frozen . She shook her head. “A bird was singing in the forest just then, and I thought of the voice and the dream ,” I said. “Yes, but—I don’t understand the connection,” Ingeborg replied. The frown between her brows had deepened. Connection? Was there no connection? “I had to explain my smile. You looked at me, then I felt I had to tell you why I was smiling. Perhaps it was clumsy of me.” — — We arrived at Count Flüggen’s castle. The pillars of the gate bore stone lions holding two coats of arms. The lions were covered with moss, as if buckets of mud had been dumped over them. Ingeborg offered me her hand. I looked at her. She understood my look quite well. She lowered her eyes, then she said: “I gave Harry Usedom my word.” I bowed. I bowed deeply; my misfortune weighed me down. I was full of humility. “I wish you luck!” I said in a calm, deep voice and took off my hat. I went . . . . I went into the woods, stumbling back and forth, not knowing whether to go right or left. It didn’t matter. I laughed lightly, like someone who’s cold. Hahaha, I laughed, hahaha! But at the same time, I had the urge to throw myself on the ground and stay there. Then I remembered my path and headed toward my house. It was late, the stars were appearing in the sky. Something white was sitting on the steps of my house. It was Ingeborg. She stood up and hurried toward me. “No! No!” she cried. She came to me, lightly took my arm, and looked up into my eyes. What was her look like? Full of searching, full of wonder, full of radiance. She smiled and snuggled up to me. I put my arm around her and kissed her on the mouth. Chapter 8. How many times did I kiss Ingeborg? I didn’t count. Ingeborg did n’t count either. “Now do you see?” I said and kissed her. She smiled ecstatically and offered me her mouth and forehead to kiss. “You said you couldn’t love anymore!” “Yes, now do you see?” I said and kissed her. Oh, home, home, no, no. Home now? No, no! Who thinks of that too? You? No, no, no one thinks of that. What was that evening like? It was like the wind that blew over flowers. It was like the dream of two little birds slumbering in a rose bush. God sent us a smile and greetings, many greetings. The stars came out, haha! The sky was blue and full of mysterious love. We sat under a blossoming apple tree, foaming with blossoms. The white blossoms and the blue night sky, it was Arabian Nights, it was heaven. I looked at Ingeborg and said: “You are beautiful, beautiful, beautiful! You give heaven away!” And I shook the apple tree, and the blossoms fell over Ingeborg’s beautiful head. Ingeborg said: “No, you are beautiful! You don’t know it. You are so beautiful, as if you weren’t human! Your eyes are so warm and pure, you have children’s eyes, do you know that?” No. My heart was pounding. “I believe you could die at the hands of murderers and your eyes would not change. Jesus Christ had such eyes, I know it!” My heart pounded. My head sparkled. I had a white star in my head. “Listen, sweet Ingeborg,” I said, “what are you thinking! A legend just occurred to me. Right at this moment. It’s the legend of the Mother of God and the frozen vine. You must hear it, because it fits so well. Imagine, all the vines are sprouting and green, except for one. It froze to death. One night, the frost gripped it. I’m telling a bad story, oh, excuse me. Yes. But then the Mother of God came along the path, and now listen: just as a hundred eyes appear at the windows, the Queen passes by, so suddenly blossoms bloom from all the vines, and just as children stretch out their little arms, the Mother comes walking, so everywhere tendrils and leaves stretch out towards the Mother of God. Do you understand?« »Beautiful! — Where did you hear it, the legend?« »Heard? No, didn’t I say that it just occurred to me, this legend, at this very moment?« — — It’s late. Good night, good night, good night! Does anyone have any idea how quietly one can say good night? Quieter and quieter, and yet one can still hear it. And how one can say it? That it means so much! — — — »Good night, my kingdom of heaven!« — — — — I was alone. Suddenly Pazzo stood before me and looked at me. No one had seen him since. I went home, through the quiet, wide forest I went home. In the middle of the wide, solemn forest I met God. Is that you, Axel? God said to me. I knelt down. Yes. God breathed his breath into my face. I went. In a clearing I met Spring. Naked and bold. He giggled . Do you understand me? he said. He had light green eyes. Yes, I said and smiled, first the small apple tree by the park wall, then Liselotte — — — I have my plans for you! said Spring and tickled me under the chin so that I had to laugh. I walked back and forth in the quiet, wide forest. I met someone. Is that you again? Yes, I’m going around in circles, he said. I knelt down. He touched my eyelids with his finger, and then I saw my happy days lying before me. My eyes became moist. I am happy, I can say it with confidence. I lie in the grass in front of my house, it’s fragrant, I smell resin and woodruff. The cockchafers sail across the sky, they buzz above my head. All night long I lie there and look at the stars. When a star blinks, I must blink too; thin, silver fingers reach for my eyes. When a star trembles, I feel the gentle trembling in the center of my heart. I look at the stars and my heart beats. It ripples through me, the stars caress me. I hear the peace up above. It whispers. Chapter 9. Daybreaks. Mists roll in. A man sits on a hilltop. Fine beads of dew hang from his loden jacket; he has pushed his hat away from his hot brow . The fog drifts past him in strings. Lightning flashes in the fog cloud, flashing swords fly back and forth. The fog rips open, fir treetops emerge, glowing red. Through a crack , a strip of blue sky peeks out, a corner of pale green meadow, small farmhouses with blinking windows. Slowly, the fog recedes into the woods, the last shreds slipping into the branches of the beech trees. The man gazes out over the valley. It is like a large shell in which all colors merge. A line of reapers far below swings their scythes in steady rhythm. The windows of the farmhouses gaze with luminous wonder at the rising sun. The forest drips and breathes deeply in the bliss of awakening. The forest rings with bright birdsong. The man’s eyes are dazzled by the light. The sun is not yet round when a girl emerges from the forest. She is wet with dew like flowers and grass. She runs so fast her skirts fly. “I wanted to wait for you!” she cries so loudly, “I wanted to be there first!” She laughs, she cries, she throws herself onto her husband’s chest. Her husband’s hands tremble. The sun rises and chases the mists into the woods. We walk through the forest, the sun sets behind golden hills. We walk together, the two of us. We look up; the tops of the beeches are transparent, bright green like water. We walk as if in a bright green sea, whose bottom is illuminated by the sun. “It’s midday,” we say. Day after day. My heart pounds. We meet on the bench on the hill. Ingeborg tells me how she hurries to the bench. Yes, at first she walks fast, very fast, then she runs, and finally she flies through thick and thin, and it’s still too slow. I smile. “I sat all night thinking of you!” I say. Ingeborg takes the chain with the gold medallion from around her neck and presses it into my hand. Hastily, as if someone could see it. “Take it,” she says, “take it! I have nothing more precious to me.” “Allow me to kiss the tip of your shoe!” I say. Ingeborg comes into the birch grove in front of her house that evening, carrying a small notebook. “Take it,” she says, “take it! It’s a school notebook, a small notebook, perhaps it will give you pleasure?” I have to turn away. I thank Ingeborg from the bottom of my heart. I take off my hat and walk beside her. “Why are you carrying that hat in your hand?” Ingeborg asks. “It’s humid in the forest,” I reply. Ingeborg pulls a photograph from her pocket. She laughs. There he stands, the violin in his hand, looking at us with his large , womanly eyes. Ingeborg laughs. “He’s stupid and arrogant,” she says, tearing the picture to pieces. She throws the pieces into the bushes. I laugh. “Yes, he’s stupid and arrogant,” I say. “I want to give you everything I have!” says Ingeborg. I don’t know how to respond. I squeeze her hand. “Oh!” she says, half-closing her eyes. “I’m dreaming.” My eyes looked out into the beautiful world, and I had the deep feeling that I belonged to it and had nothing to be ashamed of. My heart was heavy and rich, and it filled my chest with a sweet burden. Gratitude, wonder, and love were my heart at that time. I saw Ingeborg’s floating figure walking beside me and was amazed and grateful, grateful to that spirit who sent her to me this spring, grateful to her that I was allowed to walk beside her. I wished for nothing else but to be allowed to walk beside her. That was happiness! I could fall asleep while walking beside Ingeborg, lose consciousness, I had no thoughts in my head, no clarity. Clarity? Oh – hahaha – – no, I was numb, no thoughts, no clarity. Ingeborg felt my gaze, she came closer, gave me both her hands, looked into my eyes and smiled. We stood like that for a long time, God knows how long, we knew nothing anymore. I knew her eyes very well. Often I thought, always I thought of her Eyes. They are like turquoise, shining turquoise, but what does that mean? There ‘s a peculiar, searching, radiant look in them, something flashing, I remember, in my head it’s like lightning. I’ve forgotten the expression in her eyes. I look at her again, those eyes, yes, there’s something twinkling, shimmering in her eyes, no one can remember it. Her face is narrow, pointed toward the chin, peeking out from the golden tassels that hang over her cheeks and almost touch her chest when she lowers her head. Her cheeks are narrow and slightly flushed, and they dimple whenever she smiles. She has an enraptured smile, and everything smiles at her whenever she smiles. I can never forget that smile; it hovers around me day and night. I know it well, but every day it seems new to me. Every day I discover it, that smile, and it flows through my blood, making it cheerful and happy. Today I think a golden tone is spread across her face like the portraits of old masters. And tomorrow I think: yes, some of the gold of ripe ears of corn is scattered across her face. And the day after tomorrow I think that she has the colors of meadows and fields on her face, the gold of the ears of corn, the blue of the forget-me-nots, the red of the strawberries. Ingeborg, Ingeborg. At this time I wrote a letter to my friend, the poet Karl Bluthaupt. I am happy, I wrote, I’ll be right there! I am very happy, great things are happening, I live on the sun, in a garden on the sun, in the neighborhood of the most beautiful angels, I am happy, I ‘ll be right there. I wrote even more. Well, friend Bluthaupt was a poet, he will understand when he reads: I am happy, I am very happy. A sea of ​​happiness has washed over me, I am happy . . . I had two hours to walk to deliver this message of my happiness to the post office. I walked at night, laughing and swinging the letter back and forth . I am happy, I live on the sun, in a garden on the sun. A stream of happiness waters this garden, the flowers laugh. Details by word of mouth. We walked through the forest, a tall pine forest. Pazzo pricked up his ears and stopped. He barked. “Quiet, Pazzo,” I called. Pazzo obeyed, crept up to me, and looked into the thicket. “There’s someone in the forest,” I said. “It’s a person in the thicket, not an animal. I know Pazzo.” Ingeborg looked at me and turned pale. We continued walking. “Let’s go outside,” said Ingeborg. She trembled. Perhaps it was Usedom? She put her hand on my arm and looked at me searchingly. “What do you think?” I smiled. “You’re beautiful, Ingeborg!” I thought so. You’re kind, Ingeborg!’ ‘Let me tell you, Axel. Listen to me. He’s sneaking around, I know it. Ever since I’ve known him, he’s been sneaking after me. Even as a boy, he was like that. He ‘s so pushy and so arrogant. I used to be afraid of him, especially afraid of his hands. I didn’t have anything to do with him, I hated him. Yes, it’s true, sometimes I even loved him. Back then, I was a stupid girl, I was proud of him. Women were always sending him flowers, and he threw them away. He had a breastpin from a queen, and he gave it to a peasant boy. ‘I won’t accept anything from a queen either,’ he said. I liked that; I was so foolish back then. I liked it when he stood in front of me; then his eyes looked like a dog’s. It’s all pretense; he’s so arrogant and stupid. He always talks about himself, about his concerts, and how people stand at the train stations waiting for him. He always wept in front of me. I weep in front of you, he said, a thousand and ten thousand women would give their lives for me and you don’t look at me.” — — A few days later, we walked through the forest again, and Pazzo barked again. It was in a forest of tall, thick beeches. Pazzo barked and jumped into the woods. Harry Usedom emerged from behind a beech tree. “Call your dog back!” he cried, drawing his hands to himself. He stood by the path and looked at Ingeborg. His face was pale, gray, deep circles around his eyes, which shone dully. His narrow face looked like that of a woman near death. His lips twitched; he had placed his left hand over his heart, and his fingers began to drum nervously. “I’ve been trying to speak to you for many days,” he said, “I just wanted to tell you this: you have a short memory, Miss Ingeborg!” He grabbed his hat, turned, and walked quickly into the woods. “Come,” I said to Ingeborg, gently placing my hand on her shoulder. Ingeborg was pale; she didn’t speak for a long time. Then she said, “I do love him.” A pang shot through my heart, and I gently took my hand off her shoulder. “No, no! Just leave your hand there. I still love him a little, I feel sorry for him, but I love you a thousand times more, a thousand times more. Kiss me, Axel, be good!” “I love you,” I said and kissed her. Oh, oh, now everything is good. “I was frightened, Axel. Now you shall hear everything. I gave him my word—it was a few days after I told you on the hill that I loved you. He came to my garden. “One sees you so rarely these days,” he said. “I go for a lot of walks.” Yes, he continued, ” a prince’s crown is worth more than a violinist’s fame.” It was so stupid and clumsy. But I was unhappy and helpless these days, so I wasn’t angry with him. I laughed. “What are you saying?” I cried, laughing. ” Ah, Usedom, how foolish you can be sometimes.” That evening I gave my word, out of spite. He placed his hand on my shoulder, and I thought of you. He should see that, I thought, he should only see that! I walked through the forest with Usedom, only to meet you and hurt you. You won’t understand, no, you won’t. I was unhappy and humiliated, my head was confused. Oh, how I would have loved to go with you back then, to go straight to you, and I barely looked at you and talked with Pazzo—————« We are sitting in the sun on a meadow. Ingeborg is singing softly and tying a bouquet of wildflowers. I lie in the grass and listen and watch as Ingeborg makes the bouquet. Never in my life have I heard such a voice, never in my life have I seen anything as beautiful as Ingeborg. Her eyelashes are golden and long. It is as if she has a small sun shining beneath her eyelids. Her eyebrows are golden, regular and high-arched, golden arches; you can see every single hair. They seem to have been drawn with a brush, and a Japanese hand seems to have guided the brush. Her forehead is high and pure, and behind it lie all the many thoughts that she herself does not yet know. Ingeborg turns the bouquet this way and that and presses it to her chest with motherly love. A bird is singing in the nearby forest, and Ingeborg pauses and listens. She feels my gaze, lifts her eyelids, and smiles at me. She returns to her bouquet, forgetting me completely, makes a round, childlike mouth, smiles at the flowers, and sings softly. She is finished. “Is it beautiful?” she asks. “Yes!” “Well, take it then! But look after it well.” Ingeborg is the mother of flowers and birds, and she strokes the trees. She knows all the herbs, the names of all the birds, all the bushes. She gazes into the treetops as if she sees faces, and I have caught her chatting with flowers as if she were children. Ingeborg was born in the forest. I see her today, I see her tomorrow, I see her every day. Every day I think I’m seeing her for the first time. And my heart trembles no less when she comes, than it did on the first morning. During this time, I often lay in the grass in front of my house long after midnight . The valley shimmered silver, and the clouds in the sky. Dark birds They glided silently over the forest, fireflies glided by, occasionally landing near me, and I never took my eyes off them. As small as they were, so silent and magnificent. They loved each other and were as happy as I, a large beetle. I watched them until they disappeared into the darkness of the bushes. Many beetles, moths, and moths with silvery wings were at work. I lay there and thought of Ingeborg, thought of myself and my incomprehensible happiness. The peace of the shimmering valley entered my heart. It was such a deep peace, such as I had never known. My heart overflowed. And I stood up and raised my hand and blessed the world. I thought: Peace to all human hearts, sweet peace. Happy hours for all that lives, to the poorest man in the farthest land, to the smallest worm in the darkest earth. Fire to the freezing, bread to the hungry, a gentle death to the murderer, safe passage to the sailor on the sea! I lay in the grass until late after midnight, and I felt as if I were floating. Peacefully the earth floats its course, I thought. And I opened my lips and whispered: “Peacefully the earth floats its course.” — In that time, yes, what was there in that time! I lay down to sleep and counted the minutes until I would see her again. I walked through the red day once more and collected myself. I felt the pressure of her lips on my mouth, my hands retained the pressure of her hands in my memory. The warmth of her breath was in my memory, the softness of her hair, the shine of her eyes, the smile of her cheeks. Then I fell asleep, and in my dreams I met Ingeborg again. From hour to hour I awoke, I looked up at the stars; they sparkled, they shone, they flickered, they faded — finally! And Ingeborg said, “By day I walk about as if I were dreaming. At night I walk about in dreams as if I were awake.” Ingeborg said, ” I see all things in radiance. Never has the sky been bluer, never has the forest been greener. I see all things as if with rainbow edges. Oh, Axel, I thank you for everything!” Ingeborg, Ingeborg, you darling of God, you jewel of the world! The days passed like rose petals drifting down a stream, so quiet, so beautiful, and hardly seen, such were those days. The valley rocked like a golden cradle, the forest rustled like an organ, the birds sang as if they had diamond beaks. And Ingeborg rejoiced: “The sky is becoming ever bluer, your mouth ever sweeter !” Chapter 10. “I love you.” How wonderful it is to be able to say that, how wonderful it is to hear that— it is a small, small word, but everyone must say it once, and everyone must hear it once. When a person’s heart leaps in spring, they must say it. They can be a tyrant with blood-black thoughts, they can be a researcher who always sits over their books; their hour comes. They forget everything, their mind grows dark, and their mouth speaks that small, small word. A person can have beautiful, eternal thoughts in their head; they can be a great man, of whom many think day in, day out; their hour comes, and they find nothing but this small, small word. It is old and deep, contains man’s entire blood-red heart, all his happiness, all his sorrow. By day and by night it has been spoken, whispered and crunched, and will be spoken forever, forever, as long as the lark trills in the ether. — — — Greetings, Ingeborg! I love you, believe me. I walk back and forth, look up at the sky a lot, see much into the distance. Smile. I stand before a stone on the path and smile. I am never tired. No, there is no more tiredness. I open my eyes and it is bright and wide in my soul. I always have thoughts in my head, glorious thoughts, my mind is rich, rich and passionate. I feel like a poet, through whose heart great works rush. High waves of blossoms splash over the park wall, white, red, and violet. and lemon yellow ones. In my garden there are many flowers. They look like waving fires, burning fuses, sunflakes, like red mouths, like eyes, yes, they look like eyes too. Spring has lit its fires in the mountains, and they burn day after day. It throws the hearts of people, deer, and birds, the wishes of flowers, butterflies, and trees into its fires so that they burn. The stag brays in the forest. I walk through the burning fires of spring and smile. Sometimes I have strange thoughts! A red, foamy evening cloud stands above the mountains, like a shining mountain of snow. Wouldn’t I like to stand on the top of this cloud and wave my hat? I look at the moon, and it occurs to me that I would like to stand on the edge of the moon and greet the Earth. Glorious days and nights. My heart leaps in my chest, I laugh to myself. No one knows, no, not a soul suspects, which is why I smile to myself. I sit in my room; it’s getting dark. I wish night would come sooner! If only I could spread a dark blanket over the earth. I’m so impatient; no one knows what I’m waiting for. Silence all around, night is coming. I light a candle and sit before the flame. I hear my heart pounding. I wait. Perhaps something is walking somewhere far away in the dark forest? It’s hurrying—? I wait. I have patience, beloved, don’t rush yourself… Then a whisper comes, something bright enters the doorframe. Ingeborg! I go over, slide to my knees, she kneels too, and we kiss, both kneeling. We snuggle cheek to cheek, press our chests together. “Take a seat!” I say softly. “Yes!” Ingeborg answers just as softly. Her shining gaze meets mine. I put my arm around her. “You are with me, it’s deep in the night. Thank you, Ingeborg.” “We are all alone.” “Yes!” “No one knows we’re together.” “No one!” “Ingeborg, I love you very much, you know it.” “Yes, yes!” Ingeborg nods, she pulls my hand to her chest. “I’m only wearing this dress,” she whispers, smiling at me. “You are good, Ingeborg!” We smile. Our eyes are lidless, our eyelashes no longer flutter. I stand up and blow out the candle. Now it’s completely dark. The dark blue night peers in. A star wanders by, illuminating us to the depths of our eyes. Ingeborg’s teeth gleam, her hair sparkles golden. The fragrances of the forest and the fields waft through the window and settle over us. An almond tree exhales the scent from the garden. Gentle sounds awaken, sometimes near, sometimes far. Now in the top of the chestnut tree by the window, now in the stables, a clinking, a slurping, the night sounds softly. The peace listens. All the small noises remain contained, none of them wanting to begin to disturb the peace. Our voices sink to a lisp, no louder than the trickling of a fountain. “My cheeks are hot!” says Ingeborg. She is proud of it. “Yes,” I reply, “your cheeks are hot, darling.” “May I stroke your breasts?” “They are yours!” “It is sweet to stroke your breasts.” “It is sweet when you do it.” We chatter for a long time. The small noises awaken. We do not move . Our hearts beat dully. “How beautiful!” whispers Ingeborg. “It has never been so beautiful and so intimate!” ” Intimate!” she says. That is a beautiful word. A leaden note falls in the distance. The clock in the village below strikes. It
is so quiet in the valley that one can hear the clock far into the woods. Ingeborg flinches. “We have time,” I whisper. Ingeborg nods. A story awakens in my head as I say: we have time. “We have time—we have time. Listen, sweet Ingeborg, I’m thinking of two young people sailing on the sea. It is the daughter of a prince. and a young goldsmith. He delivered a piece of jewelry to the prince’s daughter , and then they saw each other. Listen, they loved each other and fled across the sea. Our ship is like a cradle rocking two children, whispers the beloved. The playmate replies: The sea is our bridal bed, the sky the cathedral with thousands upon thousands of candles lit for our wedding. Yes, says the prince’s daughter, snuggling up to her lover, God carries us in his hand across the sea! Listen, sweet Ingeborg. The helmsman comes and says: Mistress, I can’t find my destination. We should have reached our destination long ago; we’ve been on the road for many weeks. Hahaha—we have time! The helmsman comes and says: Mistress, I can’t find my destination. My hair is snow-white. We’ve been sailing for thirty years.— Hahaha—we have time! A hundred years pass, a thousand years pass. Hahaha, we have time!—” Ingeborg smiles. “You say it makes my heart stop,” she says. I lean forward so that her hair caresses my cheek, and I close my eyes. “We have time!” whispers Ingeborg, laughing softly. “Yes!” “It’s beautiful to sit in the dark while the stars wander by outside.” “Yes, it is unspeakably beautiful.” Chapter 11. What must the servants and maids be thinking as they walked back and forth in the house? They looked at me and thought my mind was confused. They didn’t understand why the stairs were strewn with flowers, as if there were a wedding; they didn’t understand that in the master’s room a carpet of cornflowers was spread—today poppies, tomorrow, and another day birch leaves. God knows, this house was an enchanted house! Often I opened the doors of all the rooms and walked through them. Back and forth, with a heart swollen with joy and freedom. The flowers on the wallpaper seemed to have come alive and to smell of fragrance; the portraits of the elderly people with their strange hats and hairstyles smiled. Liselotte, née Weikersbach, winked at me. I stood in front of her and smiled. Yes, I said, unfortunately I couldn’t remain faithful to you , Liselotte, that’s what love is like! A very strange atmosphere swirled through this enchanted house. This air contained exclamations, whispers, glances, the glint of teeth, the crackle of a quick step. Many secrets were hidden in this air: soft laughter, words of love, eyelids moving, arms clasping a neck, the red of a mouth, the flash of a ring. You were thinking of nothing, suddenly you heard his name, the air called him, suddenly you saw a mouth blowing out a light, you glimpsed yourself, just as you were studying your happy eyes in a mirror. The air reflected this. All day long, the sun roamed through this house, climbing through the windows, through the keyholes in the doors. Then dusk came, and for a brief moment, everything was silent and dead. But as soon as the moon and the stars came out, this house came alive again. Sparks jumped across the tables and chairs, there was a crackling sound, and something climbed down the wallpaper, something silvery played with a tassel, and the tassel began to dangle. In the village below, the clock struck: One, two, three – ten. In the village below, the clock struck: One, two – eleven. A breeze blew through the house. There was a crackling sound, a staircase creaked, a footstep, a flickering, and a floating sound – Ingeborg was there! There was a murmuring in my room, whispering, rustling, and laughter. Just as if a small fountain were singing and giggling. Surely the gentlemen with the strange clothes and hairstyles had stepped out of the frame and met in my room. On many, many nights, Ingeborg came to me. My heart pounded during the long hours of waiting. With a shout of joy, she welcomed my heart. Yes, how did we greet each other? As if we had been separated for many years and Longing would have glowed and steeled our love and multiplied it a thousandfold. A meeting of eyes, stammered words, a kiss on the fingertips, that was our greeting. Often we said nothing at all, we held hands and smiled at each other, for a long time. Ingeborg came to me from the forest, in the silent night; I wasn’t allowed to go to meet her, I wasn’t allowed to accompany her. No, no, I am your wild lover, I live in the forest, I come and go— do you understand? She didn’t say it when she came. I wasn’t allowed to know. Sometimes she said: I’m not coming today, but it was barely midnight when she was with me. “I couldn’t have slept, Axel!” “Thank you, thank you, sweet Ingeborg! I sat here thinking about that last look this evening. It made my heart glow. Ingeborg, be careful! I will crush you in my arms.” “Yes, yes!” She lets her head fall back and closes her eyes. Her teeth smile. “I’ll do this in all seriousness, be careful, Ingeborg! I love you, you know it. You can do whatever you want with me, Ingeborg. That’s not a figure of speech, no, it’s serious, you can blind me, I’m not complaining, no, I’m smiling. You can trample me into the ground, you can do anything you want. But beware, my love is dangerous! My heart is red, bloody red, and wild!” “Oh, Axel, how good God must be to give us such happiness!” I reply: “He loves all lovers, you must know. Look, he says to his angels, they love one another! And the angels say: Praised be you, Father of love, you are a good God, yes!” The night passes, the night passes. Today the night passed faster than yesterday, tomorrow it will pass faster than today, the day after tomorrow faster than tomorrow. We chat. We are silent. We listen to the bird’s song, singing of its happiness in the quiet park. The night passes. “Listen to what the bird is singing, Axel! Do you hear everything? It sang your name—” Ingeborg looks at me—”Stay like this,” she said, “stay like this—close your eyes—smile a little, like this! You look otherworldly! Stay like this, don’t move!” She slides to her knees and whispers: “Stay like this, I want to look at you.” She strokes my hand with her finger, very softly. “I love your hand, Axel—I love every hair on your hand, every nail, stay like this, stay like this—I want to caress your hand—” I sit with my eyes closed. My hand is lifted slightly , Ingeborg’s lips touch it—I shudder. There is a stifled cry of joy in my throat — The night passes, the morning steams. A pale dress disappears in the morning vapor. I take my rifle and wander into the woods. Deep in the woods, two shots ring out. What did the gentleman shoot? Nothing, nothing. I don’t hit anything; I have bad eyesight, and then I’m trembling a little; it must be the little pipe. — — — I met Count Flüggen quite by chance in the woods as I was carrying my rifle for a walk. He came along like a dwarf, with long, dangling arms. He walked as if searching for something on the ground. “Just listen, what a strange creature this Ingeborg is!” said Count Flüggen, his little eyes twinkling. “Day and night she runs around in the woods. Yes, hee hee, even at night. She’s been up to it every summer, but this year she’s really going crazy. Sleeps in the forest, the girl, sleeps in the forest.” I laughed. Count Flüggen laughed too. He coughed, he laughed so hard. “But—but of course”—he clapped his hands against his thighs—”she was born in the forest.”— “I found her in the forest. Just like in a fairy tale, she sat there, blonde, a pigtail like a tail, singing, singing, so loud you could hear it for miles. What’s your name? My name is Ingeborg Giselher. Who is your father? He cuts down trees for ships, and my mother is from Denmark. She spoke so wisely and cheerfully that my heart leapt. Are you perhaps the forest god?” she said. she. Yes. Well, then I know you. I saw you three days ago, with a bush on your head and a large stick in your hand. — Hi hi hi — — you sing, Ingeborg? Yes, I’ll be a singer, Mother said so. Then she showed me a hollow tree in which two thousand dwarves were having lunch. His daughter is sick, she said. Whose daughter? Well, King Wap’s. She’s lying there. Where? Now in the cobweb. She has a cough . . . Yes, what has Ingeborg become to us, my wife and me? Hee hee — a joy for our old age, a pleasure, a delight — –.” He giggled, nodded, tears running down his cheeks. The old man talked about Ingeborg all the time. He’d become a bit talkative in recent years. But I listened, for my own sake. “Yes, yes, he sleeps in the forest, almost every night. Well, she should be happy , our Ingeborg.” Then the devil poked me in the neck and I said, “Perhaps she has a lover she’s visiting? Eh?” Count Flüggen whistled through his teeth and blinked. “What an idea! No, no, a wrong assumption – he is very talented and handsome, but he lacks – yes, he is not a man – he is suffering, very ill, I think. Well, just imagine, at the age of twelve they were already dragging him from town to town. No, no, what an idea of ​​yours!” Count Flüggen laughed. I laughed too. “Do visit me! No time? I think our Ingeborg will be happy too. She said the other day, why do we see Prince Axel so rarely?” I would probably call again soon. “Many greetings to Miss Ingeborg.” “Thank you, thank you. That will please her, yes, certainly. She once said something to me about your eyes, can’t tell you, young friend—haha— She used to imagine you as something like Knight Bluebeard, certainly, like in fairy tales—then she saw you last autumn. Papa, she said, now and then she said just that about your eyes.—Goodbye, young friend. Happy hunting! Chapter 12. Red days! Blue nights! Life is beautiful! The days are an intoxication, the nights a fairy tale. The days are singing and laughing, the nights are kisses that drink tears of happiness from twitching eyelashes. The days are a great red sun, the nights a blue light, moonlight in an eye without a bottom. One Sunday a man came to me who was made of hair, resin, and honey. I stood at the window and saw him coming up the mountain road. A thick stick walked beside the man. This stick took even longer steps than the man and was always well ahead. The man stood still and pushed the stick into the ground. “Is the master at home?” he called across the meadow. Yes, the master was at home. Immediately the man began to stride out again, heading for the door, and the man and his stick disappeared into the house. There was a loud knock, and a bearded, hazel-brown head with shining, watery-blue eyes appeared in the doorway. “Good day to you,” said the man, entering with his stick in his hand. He was a lumberjack, had come from the forest, and his name was Fürchtegott Giselher. “Welcome!” I said, extending my hand to the visitor. “Don’t be hasty, sir!” said the man who had come out of the forest. He pulled a chair closer to the door and sat down leisurely, his hat on his lap and his thick stick across his knees. He looked around my room, which was a museum of exquisite objects, and smiled disdainfully. He had a head like an apostle, his face almost disappearing into the wreath of sooty, jagged hair that combined his head and beard. His eyebrows, which resembled feathers, hung half over his watery, blue, trusting eyes. The man had large hands, like axes, full of cracks and fissures, his nails worn and brown. “Yes, I come from the forest,” said the bearded man, looking at me. “It’s a long way here, a long way. But it’s beautiful to walk through God’s nature.” It is always beautiful to walk, isn’t it?” It is beautiful to walk through God’s nature, he was right about that. The man pulled a large blue handkerchief from his pocket and blew his nose loudly. “The grain is good, the potatoes look good. Just a little more rain. Well, the Lord of men and beasts will see to it.” He rolled up the handkerchief, shook his head back and forth, and smiled. So he is Ingeborg’s father. I know Ingeborg, don’t you think? “Of course, of course!” “Hm. The Count is a worthy man with a heart that pleases God. He took Ingeborg in and raised her to be a fine lady—that’s all well and good. She has a clear head, Ingeborg, the Count noticed that from the very first hour. Who is your father?” the Count asked her. He cuts down trees for the ships, and my mother is from Denmark, she answered him. He liked her, especially her voice—all well and good, there are many mouths eating out of my bowl. A person has to know something these days. We don’t have that in the forest. All well and good. I didn’t give her away willingly, but it was much better for her, and selfishness is no good. Well, well, well, I could see her often, too. I asked what was happening with the woodland by the pond, I asked what was happening with the straw—I had to haul wood—yes, there was always a reason to come to the castle now and then , yes, yes, good.” “All well and good,” said Fürchtegott Giselher, shaking his head back and forth on his broad shoulders. “All well and good, yes, yes.” Fürchtegott Giselher cleared his throat and took the thick stick in his hand, waving it up and down a little. He looked at me and muttered something into his beard. Then he blew through his lips, making his mustache flutter. “All well and good, but sometimes I think it might have been better for Ingeborg if she hadn’t come to the castle. Better to remain poor , but true to heart, than to become a fine lady—now, now, hmm, understand?” “Into the forest, sir, sin does not come. Listen, sir, in the forest—ha—dada, what is in the forest? What isn’t in the forest, I say. Silence, dark, green, and a woodpecker is tapping. So! I’m sitting in front of my hut, and it’s getting evening. There is no evening in cities or castles, only in the forest. There he is. You can touch him, he’s sitting next to you on the bench! It rustles in the forest, it smells in the forest, resin drips from the trees. Lord, how the forest rustles! I hear it. I’ve lived in the forest for fifty years, and now I hear it rustling. There’s a rustling sound all around. The forest is speaking! Words are going through my head, words like the ones in books. I’m sitting on the bench and tapping out the time with my fife. I’m tapping out the time with my fife, I want to say the words — — they’re gone. Hahaha! I ‘ve only been to the village school, only to the village school — Lord, where is a holiday as lovely as in the forest? I’m wearing a clean shirt and my best clothes, I’m sitting in front of the hut and listening to the rustling of the trees. Ah! Can you hear it? It’s rustling. The treetops are bowing down. — — That ‘s the Lord!! The Lord is walking through the forest, and I hear it. I stand up, take off my hat and say — — Lord?! — I hear him, hear his words, and I stretch out my hand and speak to the trees — to the — — — I speak to them –” The man from the forest sat stiffly, with his hand outstretched and his eyes shining, just as if he were speaking to the trees. “Let there be light! I say. Light! Do you understand, Son of Heaven, what that is? Light! Let there be light! I hear voices, quite clearly, I listen. I hear them quite clearly. — — I listen — — they are gone. That is the forest. ”
And Fearful God Giselher spoke for a long time about the forest, saying that on Sundays old men and women came to him and he explained the Holy Scriptures to them . But where did he get this gift, the Holy Scriptures? To interpret? Of God and the forest! Then he adjusted his chair and said: “I have been sent by God to tell you this. There is still time to turn back. There is sin among the books and naked women on the walls , God is in the forest. Between you and me is an abyss, my friend!” His eyes sparkled, and he drew a line on the floor with his stick. “Here poor, here rich, here God, here the devil. Yes, sir!” He shook his head so that his hair fluttered, and continued in an excited tone: ” Rich people are for hell. Rich and godless are one thing. My daughter became rich—well, I wouldn’t let her away from me and her mother, lest she become godless too! She has poor parents who live in the forest, so she can’t become godless, no!” Here I took the floor. Surely she hadn’t become that? “No!” Fearing God Giselher laughed grimly. “No, you son of sin? — — Yes, God has posted his sentries everywhere. I received a letter from an unknown person –” “Certainly,” I said, “Ingeborg is my bride.” ” Hahaha! My friend, Maren was my bride too! Bride, what do you say, hahaha. Friend, I tell you, Maren was young and beautiful, from faraway Denmark, spoke so strangely, sang like a bird. The devil often came to me and tried to tempt me. No one sees it, he said, look how the others do it! But — ha, we’ve waited eight years! — Bride, that ‘s something completely different!” Father Giselher laughed, shifted in his chair, and placed both hands on the thick stick. Yes, that was why he had come, God rejoiced over every sheep found again. He wanted to know — he wanted to know — I smiled. “We’ll probably be able to come to an understanding,” I said. I reassured him as best I could. I wanted to speak with Ingeborg. Whatever he wished should happen. Father Giselher nodded. “I see, it’s easy to talk to you, my son, good!” He put his stick in the corner.
“It’s a beautiful day!” he said, breathing deeply. “Precious things in this room!” Now could he shake my hand? “Now, of course!” Father Giselher pressed my hand. We spent a lovely afternoon and evening together, Father Giselher and I. Father Giselher didn’t want to stay, but I managed to persuade him. So he stayed until evening and finally until midnight. I loved him. If he hadn’t been Ingeborg’s father, I would have loved this oak tree in the forest alone, but he was also Ingeborg’s father. And I would have loved Ingeborg’s father under any circumstances; he could have been a twelve-time robber, even a pickpocket. We chatted, ate, and drank. Father Giselher initially refused any wine with a harsh gesture, but when I told him that even Jesus Christ had nothing against drinking wine—didn’t he turn water into the finest wine at the wedding at Cana?—he was persuaded . He drank the strongest wine like water, and I delighted in it. He spoke, spoke of Ingeborg and how much he loved her; he spoke with moist eyes. He spoke of the world and how bad it had become. He spat on the ground, full of contempt. “Well, you must know that I’m reading a leaf, it’s called The Vine and the Branches, the priest of Heiligenbrunn always sends it to me; it says in there how bad and godless the world has become . Ee … He saw that God had died; he turned a blind eye to God, of course! Hahaha! And yet it says in the Bible: eternal, eternal, eternal is the Lord of hosts! Dada! –” For example, once again, a false, conceited scribe and Pharisee stood up and claimed that the miracle at the wedding in Cana was a fabrication. Haha! But a person who could raise the dead could also turn water into wine? Every child could understand that! How clever these Pharisees are! “But the Lord is almighty; he can turn my stick into a chicken, us two into barley, and the chicken will eat the barley. No one will believe that the stick ate us, and yet it is so. Yes, with him, nothing is impossible!” Father Giselher talked and talked, ate and drank. Over and over he spoke of the forest and how words echoed through his head so that he could almost grasp them and hold them. Gradually, he mentioned a multitude of names that were, of course, unfamiliar to me. He asked this and that, and also asked me whether I believed that Peter had stolen the flour from the Gasch Mill or not. No, I don’t believe it. Father Giselher didn’t believe it either. No, never, never, for he would have known Peter’s father, whom a tree had struck down on that stormy night of November 3, 1867. Had I ever experienced such a storm again ? “Haha! What weather, oh my!” Father Giselher imitated the roar of the storm, the crashing of the trees, the whistling of the branches, the swaying of the firs. He represented the tree branches with his outstretched fingers, letting them sway up and down, knocking over a few glasses in the process. “But what’s strange is that this Peter stole the flour, it’s true! He admitted it himself, he got two months!” Suddenly Father Giselher raised his finger. The forest rustled. A smile transfigured his bearded brown face, and he moved his lips, tapping his pipe on the table in time. “Yes, yes, there are many wonders in the forest,” he then said to himself. “No one knows why the oak has to be gnarled and the fir slender, why the robin has a red throat, no one knows. Why are the people in the forest God-fearing and those in the cities godless? Answer? haha!” At midnight, Father Giselher set out. I offered him the carriage, saying I wanted to drive him home myself. No, no! “If God made me feet, why should I drive? That’s against the grain. — Now then, as we’ve agreed: before God and the law.” “I’ll speak to Ingeborg.” Father Giselher strode down the hill, swinging his stick so sharply that sparks flew from the road. Then he began to sing a hymn loudly. The forest echoed. — — — The next day, I met Ingeborg in the forest and spoke to her. My heart trembled; she wanted to say yes! Ingeborg lowered her head and looked at the path. She hadn’t thought of that, no. She flinched. “Well, who wrote him the letter then?” Our eyes met. Ingeborg turned pale. — “Oh,” she cried, putting her hands over her face, “what dishonorable people there are, ugh, ugh!” “His misfortune has confused his mind,” I said. “He would surely never have been capable of such wickedness. Think how deeply you have hurt him.” “Oh, how wicked, how wicked!” “Despair makes one senseless, Ingeborg. He has only just become wicked.” Ingeborg looked at me and her eyes shone. “You, you, you are good, Axel! He is your rival and yet you defend him. You are just. — Yes, Axel, don’t think that I don’t love you because I didn’t say yes right away. I wanted to be your lover, your wild lover who comes out of the forest. It was so beautiful. –” “You can remain so, in spite of that.” “You should always consider me your lover, Axel. As nothing else!” “Yes, Ingeborg.” Chapter 13. Summer! Our summer. We live high above the valley, like birds in their nests. We feel proud and free; something of the pride and royal feeling of the eagles has entered us. Deep below, the small valley, mountains, mountains, forests, forests, as far as the eye can see. Our view stretches for many hours , to the distant, light-blue mountain ranges that hold the wide sky. Everything we see has become a vision for us. become, in which we read, the face can smile, grin, it can look helpless, it can tremble with anger and suppressed rage, it can be deathly sad, indifferent. A tremor of emotion can trickle over this face when the fiery messengers of the sun hover across the sky in the morning, the face can gaze longingly after the departing sun , despair when the sun has set, die. The moon comes and tickles it, it smiles, it giggles. How the moon floated up this summer! So free and proud and regally still. At times it looked astonished, at times smiling like a spendthrift, shining as if it had just left a bath. It was well. It dazzled like a silver mirror reflected by the sun. All the stars were in place, sparkling, it smiled superiorly. The lark sang and trilled in these white nights. The sun poured burning wine onto the earth every day. It rained sun, flowing in bright, steaming streams down the many paths and trails into the valley. A haze of sunshine lay over the forests, a red vapor in which little suns trembled. You had to sharpen your eyes and shade the light with your hand if you wanted to peer through this haze . Then, deep beneath the slumbering forests, you saw something flashing, a serpent of mercury; that was the river. Something flashed, it wriggled, it stirred; it was people working in the fields. It hummed, buzzed. “Listen!” said Ingeborg. Yes, I heard it, it was as if a threshing machine was whirring somewhere in the distance. That was summer. Spring sounds, summer hums, autumn laments and murmurs, winter is silent. The forests slept, they smiled in their warm sleep, they had serene dreams, the ground was hot, as if bread were baking on it. If we suddenly stepped into a clearing, the light stood before us like a wall, and we recoiled. The air trembled, and colorful fires danced above the grass. The strawberries turned red, the corn golden, and the people brown. Sweat stood on their brows, the sun boiled in their sweaty eyes. The farmers climbed slowly up the mountain road, often stopping to wipe their faces with their sleeves. The mountain road was snow-white, covered with deep dust, and walking on it was like walking on velvet. The prints of many bare feet were imprinted on it, as clearly as in flour. The house sparkled golden behind the chestnut trees, bright fires burned in its windows. The meadow stood tall and teemed incessantly with butterflies of all colors. If you walked through them, they fluttered upwards all around you, and it was as if they were following you. Magnificent mourning cloaks often sat on the hot stairs, basking in the sun. It was hot inside the house, and the dazzlingly white corridors with their many doors were the only cool places in the building. The rooms were mostly dark, as the shutters had to be closed. If you stuck a finger through the shutter, you could feel the sun roasting it. The park was most beautiful. The park was overgrown, old, not unlike a primeval forest, with its thick, mossy trees entwined with all sorts of vines. In many places, the sun could n’t penetrate; it pricked the foliage with sharp needles, but it had no power to destroy this darkness. Here it was cool , damp, and musty. All the paths in the park were overgrown, and you had to elbow your way through. There was only one long main path leading to the castle. Like a stream, the sun flowed zigzagging through its center. Here was a fountain, a round basin in which a thick, short column of water bubbled. Ingeborg especially loved this singing, murmuring fountain, above which a cool air always hovered. She could sit for hours on its edge, dipping her hands into the cool green water and gazing at the golden net trembling at the bottom of the basin . It was created by the refraction of the light with the small waves that rushed incessantly to the edge of the pool and seemed to be clawing at Ingeborg’s hands. There she sat, dreaming, then she suddenly turned to me and smiled, delicate and full of unspeakable love. Her smile first shone in her eyes, then slid across her lips. Her lips parted and her teeth smiled, her cheeks covered in a particularly kind, almost childlike smile. Then Ingeborg spoke in a dreamy, soft voice: “Listen to the fountain rushing!” She pointed with her hand down the alley. Something white shimmered there in the sunlight: the stairs that led into the house. And she said: “That’s where we live!” She said it as if in a dream. And I went closer, placed my hand on her shoulder, as lightly as I could, and said: “I love you, Ingeborg.” As quietly as I could. Ingeborg made no reply; she smiled up at me, took my hand, and placed it on her breast. Do you feel? asked her smile. And my smile answered her, saying that I did feel it. Do you hear what my heart is saying? asked her smile. And my smile answered her, saying that I did hear what her kind, glorious heart was saying. Ingeborg, Ingeborg, what shall I call your heart? — — Ingeborg lives in the white rooms of the castle, which face the sunrise . I hear her singing; her voice is bright, pure, and powerful; the walls ring, and the forest echoes as if with curved bells when she sings within the forest. I look at my door. There it says: Are you leaving, Ingeborg? And outside the door it says: Welcome, Ingeborg! I fall asleep, I slumber for five minutes, I wake up; a large letter with five red seals has arrived, or a package with flowers and some pretty pebbles. Letters buzz back and forth, even though we’re together almost hourly. But there’s always something left to say, something you’ve forgotten, something you ca n’t say. A book arrives with a passage underlined, or even just a white sheet of paper, completely blank, nothing written on it, but upon closer inspection, you find a small, dull spot. Ingeborg goes into the forest to pick flowers. I say: I really have nothing to do, Ingeborg, I’ll come with you. I walk around the small lake in the middle of the park. Then Ingeborg comes along. Where are you going, Axel? I’m walking around the lake! I’m taking exactly the same route! But I’m reading this book. I’m reading exactly the same book! I wake up in the morning, a mouth kisses me, Ingeborg stands before me , disheveled and wet with dew, flowers in her hand. Where were you? I slept in the forest, oh, wonderful it was. I bathed up in the stream! Many nights Ingeborg sleeps in the forest, often I don’t see her day or night. I sit and do nothing, I wait for her. My heart rings and sings. My mind grows dark – I feel that she is coming. Then she comes out of the forest. Pazzo accompanies her. He has passed from me to her. Danderadei – danderadei – she sings, waving the bouquet in her hand. It sounds like fanfares. My hands tremble, my feet tremble, I go to meet her, with moist eyes I go to meet her and I walk slowly because my knees are trembling. Besides, I would jump, rush. Oh, you wonderful thing! I think, I whisper it. “I found something in the forest!” cries Ingeborg. “Seven little notes. You wrote them, Axel! First I found one. I read: Ingeborg. Axel’s hand, I think. I search and find seven of them. They’re yellowed, but I can still read them. When did you write them?” “I wrote them a few days after you spoke to me on the hill , Ingeborg! I wrote many, many and scattered them to the wind.” “Axel, Axel!” I drop the pipe into the grass so I can kneel inconspicuously before it. We often hold hands and walk across the meadow—through the Forest and screaming and laughing. Huriho! Hurihohoho! My soul has become large and wide. An entire universe is my soul now, full of swaying light. My soul continues its circles ever further. I discover myself. I am amazed, amazed at myself, astonished by myself. I sit and look within myself, blossoming chaos, swaying wonders, light and purple and gentle music. I spread my arms and look into the sky, never have I seen deeper into the infinity of blue. I spread my arms . . . Since you are so beautiful, great God, how kind you must be! I hear my blood ringing, it is red, sparkling, has ignited fire, it laughs through my head, it rings against my skull, light shoots from my eyes. I feel my heart hurling the blood into my veins, it rushes, I am a bubbling fountain of blood. I feel life around me. Life in a stalk, a leaf, the sap throbs, the stalk trembles, a flower sways, twitches with lust, it surrenders itself. Ingeborg placed her finger on my heart, and it began to beat, and now it beats, it beats! There are stifled cries of bliss within me, my blood screams and I shudder — yes — — — There were hours when God wove our souls together into one being. A smile revealed to us everything that was going on in each other’s breasts; we felt it, we didn’t need words. I felt Ingeborg’s voice as my voice, and Ingeborg’s breath was my breath. Then a second eye opened in my head, a sharper one, and this eye gazed into a second world, the inkling of which shook me. We sat in the dark room and watched as a flower opened. It was a white lily. It peeled itself out of its skin, it slowly burst the bud, the petals drooped down, tired and satisfied, full of smiles, tears and hope. It took hours for the lily to unfold. We experienced it. It was as if God were rising from the calyx with the fragrance, as if there was rejoicing all around, as if this small flower had caused a shock, a change in the world . The world had taken a step forward, and we felt it. No flower could bloom, no bird hatch from its egg, without everything that lived feeling it, experiencing it. Often a quiet laughter rushes through my blood, in hours when I am sad; I know well where it comes from, this quiet laughter. Sometimes Ingeborg would talk. “Hoho!” she laughed, “that was beautiful!” Then she laughed to herself for a while, and then she began. She always talked about the forest. “… . . . There stood an old, old fir tree, from which the moss hung like gray beards. I often looked at it for a long time. Once, I knocked on the fir tree— why?—I don’t remember. What do you mean? The old fir tree spoke! God, Axel, I heard it, I heard it. It spoke in a deep, deep voice, like a barrel: Do you want some cones? Then it shook itself, and many, many cones came down.” She told a thousand such stories. “… Then they sent me to the city because I was supposed to learn something. I was always dreaming of the forest. Once I dreamed of a large clearing covered with strawberries. Yes, I have never seen so many strawberries. I bent down, they fell down, all of them, all of them, the grass looked red, it was sticky… I lasted a year in the city . Then I came back. Listen, Axel, how frightened I was! The forest no longer recognized me. It was angry with me, oh, how it looked at me! I wept. Then I came up with a brilliant idea. They adorned me so much during that time. I took the necklace out of my hair, put on my oldest dress, took off my shoes and stockings, messed up my hair, and then I ran into the forest screaming like mad. Should you have seen, Axel, Axel, hoho! Yes, it recognized me again . . . ” Once again, a man came through the forest; I’ve forgotten what he looked like. He smiled and had bright eyes. I walked with him for a good distance. Way. He kissed me on the forehead. I thought I had walked with Jesus Christ, and later, when I learned that Jesus Christ had lived a long time ago, I mourned. But a few years later, I believed again that Jesus Christ had met me, and my soul became so light— ” “And now?” “Don’t ask, good man!” She burst into tears and laid her head on my breast. After a while, when she had cried her last, she whispered: “You were the man in the forest, you! I recognized you when I first saw you. Go, talk, help them, the poor people!” Chapter 14. I tell of my happiness; it is beautiful, it is beautiful for me. Now, be kind, let me go on. I could go on—a thousand nights. If only you knew how beautiful it is to think of these things! I laugh within, I rejoice; sometimes I run around in circles, I weep for joy. Often the joy of remembering is greater than the pain that all this is past, and that is why I tell this story. These are the days of high festivals. Their splendor still surrounds me and transfigures lonely hours for me. Everything becomes religion, religion becomes everything. Words change their meaning; the most everyday words have become riddles . We eat lunch and speak everyday words. “The bread, dear!” “Yes, the bread, thank you. Dearest.” What kind of words are they? They are everyday words, yes, but they are disguised, enigmatic words. They say: I love you, dearest. They say: I love you, dearest. But then again, what kind of words are they? They are disguised, enigmatic words. They say: world, life, death. They say: God, eternity, salvation. But then again, what kind of words are they? Disguised, deep, deep words. Their names are, who names them? “You’ll have wine, darling?” “Yes, thank you.” “Red, white?” “Yes, red, white?” You’ll have poison? Yes, I’ll have poison. You’ll have a glass of death? Yes, I’ll have a glass of death. All words change their meaning. We walk through the forest. The forest is a miracle, a miracle rustles through the forest. We walk through the fields, the meadows, the ears of corn are a miracle , the smallest flower is a miracle. Everything becomes a miracle. “We want to watch the sun set, Axel.” The sun sinks behind the mountains. “Oh, oh!” Ingeborg presses her hands to her chest, her eyes shimmer. I shiver. “Axel, the moon is rising!” “Oh, oh! Look, a small star accompanies it! A large golden star sparkles there above the firs!” There are tears of ecstasy in her eyes. A Miracle of Star and Man — — — — Whether the days are more beautiful than the nights, whether the nights are more beautiful than the days, who could say? No one! A few times a week Count Flüggen arrives. He opens his arms when he sees Ingeborg, he waves with his handkerchief, and the carriage rolls back into the woods. “You have taken everything from me, Axel!” he says to me, secretly angry with me. He walks more bent over; he is suddenly really getting old. I feel dizzy when I think of my happiness. Again I wrote to my friend Bluthaupt. Come, come, I wrote. I am happy, everything within me rejoices. Come, I am changed, enchanted and bewitched, come, you will experience your greatest surprise — — — One afternoon Harry Usedom arrived at my house with a broken-down carriage . I sat on the steps, let the sun bake me, I also waited for Ingeborg, who was in the woods. “I’ve had a little accident!” said Harry Usedom. The wagon’s drawbar had broken. The wagon overturned. “Are you hurt?” I asked him. He was covered in dust . “No,” he said, smiling. “I just fell onto the street. It was all right .” I asked him to come in until the servants had repaired the damage. We sat in my room and chatted. “You have wonderful objects here,” he said, looking at everything with Childlike joy. He still looked pale, but he walked upright and spoke freely and cheerfully. His gaze fell on the door where the words were written: ” Are you going, Ingeborg?” He flinched, stared at the words, and blushed. Then he collected himself again and spoke about the objects in my room. He spoke about each one individually, let him tell his story, smiled, listened attentively, but his thoughts wandered. The carriage had been mended. Harry Usedom didn’t go. He continued talking about vases and bowls, and in between he went to the grand piano and played a few chords. He spoke, laughed softly, and in between he listened. “Do I have a violin?” I brought it to him, and he hastily grabbed it and played. He walked slowly back and forth while he played. He plucked the strings, he sang. His eyes shone, then they became dull, his face played along. I understood well what he was playing. In the middle of his playing, Ingeborg entered the room. Her face glowed, her eyes shimmered light and blue. Pazzo came in with her. He barked and growled and wanted to drive off to Usedom. Usedom immediately stopped playing. He placed the violin on a chair. Then he took it from the chair and placed it on the grand piano. His hand trembled, so that the violin clattered as he placed it on the piano. “You here?” said Ingeborg, holding out her hand. “How are you?” “Thank you!” he said, his mouth twitching. “I had a little accident with the car. The drawbar broke. I stayed here for a while, we chatted—I’m still dusty—forgive me—then I played a little violin—it was so cozy here, I’m always alone—” He paused, bowed slightly. He looked at Pazzo, with kind eyes. He stroked him. “Stay, Harry. Keep playing.” “Thank you,” he said, “you are so kind, so kind, Ingeborg. I thank you from the bottom of my heart—I will play if you wish—very gladly—” He reached for the violin, but didn’t take it. “No,” he continued, shaking his head, “I can’t play, I can’t play now—I’m going through so much, what a moment this is! You are good—everything is rushing around me. ” He closed his eyes, his eyelashes moistening. “Harry!” Ingeborg said kindly to him, touching his arm. Then he took her hand from his arm, and he fell to his knees. “————just a moment—just a moment. Ingeborg—” Ingeborg’s eyes filled with tears, she smiled. “———just a moment—just a moment, Ingeborg—” Sobs choked his voice. He stood up and smiled, his face wet with tears. “Forgive me!” he said, smiling like a happy boy, and left. It was night. “Listen!” said Ingeborg. Our eyes met. A violin was singing in the forest. The violin rang out and resonated. It was completely still, and the violin sounded so clearly to us, as if it were singing right under the window. Never in my life have I heard such a wonderful song. It was weeping happiness. Ingeborg sat motionless, staring wide-eyed into the sky. Then she began to weep, weeping incessantly into her hands, and the weeping shook her whole body. Her shoulders twitched. The violin’s song faded away, dying away in the great silence. “Forgive me for weeping,” said Ingeborg. ” Forgive me for weeping,” she said. For three nights the violin sounded in the silent forest. Then we heard it no more. A few days later , a card arrived from the far south, addressed to both of us. “Thanks!” it said. Nothing else. Chapter 15. One day, Karl Bluthaupt, the poet, arrived. That is, he came in the middle of the night, having missed all the trains, and with much shouting and noise, he woke us from our sleep. Now he lived upstairs in the gabled rooms of the castle and worked day and night. Sometimes he came down to us, laughing, beaming, intoxicated by his work, now and then I saw him standing in the courtyard, conversing with a dainty, pretty maid. This conversation could be heard far and wide, and the forest echoed; he laughed. Again, he would meet us, a frown on his brow, distracted, brooding over his work. He was tall, quite a bit taller than I, broad-shouldered, bony, and he walked with long strides. His hair was dark red, like copper, messy; he had a hawk’s nose, dark blue eyes, and a mouth that was always open and smiling. He looked like a singer of bygone times, striding behind the plough by day and singing in the hall before the women in the evening. His character was difficult to recognize; his nature was full of contradictions. He was very proud yet shy. His demands were harsh, cruel yet tender-hearted. He could be like a child, dancing, laughing. There were times when he was gloomy, serious, his eyes twitched, his features drooped, he spoke strange, profound words. The spirit came over him, he spoke to himself, to an invisible being. Then he went to his room and worked. He could come home from work tired, happy to the point of emotion, then he would speak with a moist, soft voice. He was mentally and physically brave to the point of audacity, always good, always noble. He demanded nothing from people, never, no. And always gave them everything! I loved him. I could talk about him for hours, if anyone would listen. Yes, he came in the middle of the night, soaked to the skin; it rained all night. “Hello!” someone called out. I jumped up, the blood rushed to my head; it was him, there he stood. I had waited for him for three years. I recognized his figure; I hadn’t forgotten it, of course, but I recognized it. I recognized his hand, I recognized the pressure of his hand. It was thin and bony, almost like a skeleton, friend Bluthaupt’s hand. “You’re doing well, damn well!” I recognized his voice. How I loved it, that strong, somewhat peasant-like voice! Of course he was doing well, too. He was always doing well; he could be starving, he could be living in the midst of despair; I’m doing well. I quickly went to Ingeborg. “Karl is here,” I told her, laughed, and immediately went back out. I quickly walked back down the corridor; the rain drummed against the windows; it was a pleasant feeling; I felt every drop on my body. Then Ingeborg came. In an incredibly short time, she had dressed. She wore her most beautiful dress, all white and clinging to her body. She wore the weasel-fur shoes I had designed for her. She carried a rose on her chest and one in her hand. She gave it to Bluthaupt. Her eyes were moist, she said nothing. Haha, yes, he was surprised, I must say. He blushed, then paled; he looked very beautiful. Ingeborg offered him the rose, like a child offering a rose to a sovereign. She tilted her head back, standing there completely bent over. He took the rose, shook her hand, and stammered something. He had no idea—not the slightest idea—he begged for forgiveness, but all the trains had left earlier than one might have expected. I enjoyed myself greatly that night, I was so happy to be able to enjoy myself wholeheartedly. Ingeborg looked at Bluthaupt, at his mouth, his forehead, his hands, she listened when he opened his lips. He spoke such simple words. She had never seen or heard a poet. She thought poets wore roses in their hair and spoke in verse. “I imagine poets as something flowing, something golden,” she once said. We had read Bluthaupt’s books together, head to head. Ingeborg said: “He knows me,” and pointed to her heart. “How he knows people !” — He will come soon, Ingeborg. — “Yes, what do I say to him?” And now he sat before her; she couldn’t understand him; she couldn’t penetrate him through any of his words or expressions; she brooded, she was disappointed. “Oh,” she said to me the next day, with a particularly round mouth, she said this “Oh!” “Oh!” She shook her head. “No, what do I care about those poor cab horses he talked so much about? I’m glad I don’t see cab horses anymore!” Then he points his finger in the air and laughs. “Those miserable cab horses! Haha, that’s the poet Karl Bluthaupt!” “And look, Axel, he didn’t know what to answer when I asked him what women were like. I wanted to know his opinion, exactly. He evaded the question. No one can know that. One doesn’t know them, one only knows examples. I met a poor girl; she went with me. In the morning she left me, and an hour later she was back; she had made me a tie. That’s how they are. And again, a woman can say to a man one day, “You’re a saint, you can perform miracles,” and the next day, “You’re a pathetic little person.” They’re touching when they love, interesting when they hate. You really can’t say anything definite about them.” A few days later, she came to me, took me by the arm, and said: “Axel, now I’ve seen it!” “What did you see?” “That he’s a poet. In his eyes, I saw a light, a radiance. What was he thinking about? Since then, I’ve seen that light again and again. I think it’s the consciousness of immortality, that light?” A few days later, she said: “Come, Axel, come. Something quite strange has happened. Listen, it’s strange. The servant they call the monk walked past us. Blutkopf looked at him so strangely. I laughed. “He wears that thick coat and that big hat summer and winter,” I said. That’s not it, he replied, this man is a criminal. The monk! Do you hear, Axel? Yes, he committed a crime, a murder, but it was many years ago. How does he know that? He has the face of the victim in his; he has two faces, I can see it, he always thought about it. How does he know that the monk committed a crime?’ I smiled. ‘Do you believe it?’ Ingeborg looked at me, astonished. ‘Yes?’ she said, childishly embarrassed. And she continued: ‘Listen,’ I asked, ‘when you walk through the street and see many faces?’ Then he said, ‘Then I see many guilts, certainly. How does he know that? I used to study my face a lot,’ he said, ‘every vice and every guilt is imprinted on it.’ He gloomy as he said this. ‘He’s sinister!’ I wanted to know more. ‘What if you saw a murder in your brother’s face? ‘ I asked. So I would tell him and be careful. Of what? So that I don’t commit murder too. I asked further. But if he had murdered your lover? What would you do? “I would kill him,” he answered, smiling, but I was frightened by his smile; he wasn’t lying.” “You’re investigating him?” “Yes, I’m investigating, Axel!” Then she saw him chatting with the dainty little maid. She saw him standing among the servants, addressing them all informally. She shook her head. “He has a hundred faces,” she said, “I’m giving up investigating him.” From then on, she called him the man with a hundred faces. And she always told me when she discovered a new face in him. Only very late did she discover his real face, as I see it when I close my eyes and think of him. — I remember one evening when he spoke so wonderfully about people , about longing and the desire for happiness, about hope, about happiness, about being lost, about their grief, their pain, their loneliness, their despair. As an artist plucks the strings and weaves chords and melodies, so he wove chord upon chord, and we heard a song about the human heart, so wonderful, so wonderfully beautiful, so wonderfully mild, so wonderfully wild, so wonderful, so wonderful . . . . . . . I believe that Ingeborg discovered his true face that evening, I believe it, for she said nothing about it all night, she only looked at me and her cheeks smiled. She drew my hand to her lips, she did not kiss it, she only pressed it to her mouth. She mused. Yes, certainly it was that evening. — — — Chapter 16. It is beautiful to think of this summer, to wander through it again and again, to walk through its sun, its sun, not that of any other summer. I have his sun in my memory; it still burns on my hands and glows around my face. It is beautiful to wander through this cool white corridor, to open the doors, to slam them shut, to climb up to friend Bluthaupt and smoke a cigarette with him; yes, it is a pleasure to walk into this forest, this summer, with Ingeborg at my side, wrapped in Ingeborg’s love, which is so warm, so warm. All of this is beautiful. It is beautiful to run into the overgrown park, to call out, to sing. Now this park belongs to Anton Kreidmeier, a farmhand. I have forgotten nothing, no. Some things have melted away like a piece of jewelry thrown into a fire, but much stands before me quite clearly, sharply, individually, forever in my mind. I am rich; sometimes my wealth pains me, but only sometimes. I have a small cut in my hand; it comes from Ingeborg’s breastpin ; it hasn’t gone away in all these years. I often look at this tear, I observe it very tenderly, I have even stroked it. Oh, I know, I once told a story about this tear to a man on a ship—he had poor eyesight—he could hardly spot it— to a man I didn’t know at all, a touching story about a dog that caused this tear, just so I could talk about it , since I just had to think about it. That’s how I am; if I have to think about something, I can’t get away from it until I’ve thought about it a hundred times; I have to go away, run out, start over again and again, thinking about that specific thing. That has stayed with me; it’s quite comparable to the scarred tear in my hand. I look at this tear, I feel a pair of lips on it, absorbing the blood, I see them, those pursed lips, those pleading , smiling eyes, looking at me sideways, begging forgiveness for something not worth mentioning, I feel a few hairs brushing my wrist. I smell the scent of that hair. I hear words. I hear the word “my.” This voice that speaks it is soft and tender, it repeats a short “I” after the “egg,” “my–in,” it says. I could kiss this small tear and thank it, were it not on my hand. I won’t. Who would have ever thought that this inconspicuous tear, the most inconspicuous event in an hour in which much else happened, could become so much to me, in a time when there were many hours, many, many hours, when I didn’t count the hours? He is everything to me now, yes, I must say, right now, in this very minute, he is everything to me, my entire possession, my darling, my happiness! I haven’t seen him for weeks. I don’t think about him; I have many, many other things that make me rich, that delight me, but now, yes, now he is everything to me! The nightingale has left us, the lark is nesting for the second time, the cherries are red. Many trees have already emptied their fruit. Green apples and pears, covered with down, can be seen on the trees. The earth is feverish. She is a mother, a billion times mother, has much to do and never tires, working with hot cheeks. The sun sparkles, the sky is blue as steel, silent white clouds are scattered across it like white sails across the sea. What was I thinking? How was I? I see myself walking around. I was wearing a white suit, my hands and face were brown from the sun. I walked with my chest puffed out. I walked lightly, the floor rocked beneath my feet, I was never tired, I always felt like I was floating. I easily fell into dancing. I paced up and down in my room; it happened to me often. Red square, blue square, my feet took a liking to the red square. Red square on the right, red square on the left—there I was already dancing. Often I crept, I walked quietly, very quietly. But why did I only walk quietly? I went deep into the forest, where it grew dark and strange, shiny mushrooms and iridescent flies grew. There I began to sing, I sang as loudly as I could, I sang nonsensical things. Or I sang Ingeborg’s name, I sang as loudly as I could and listened to the echo. I walked through the forest; I would have liked to kiss all the leaves, each one individually, front and back. I kissed many of them, too. For it could be that a sudden wave of happiness would wash over me, and then, whether I liked it or not, I would have to kiss the leaves. I was walking around the lake in the park, and suddenly I remembered a word, a sweet word that two lips kissed on my ear. The wave of happiness washed over me, I took the rings off my finger and threw them into the lake, I took the pin from my bandage and threw it into the lake. No one saw it. Constantly, something sang within me: We will adorn ourselves, my girl, for our happiness has come! Let us wear wreaths of roses on our heads, since it is summer. Give me your hands, my love. Look, we will swing our arms and dance, since the meadows are green! So it sang within me. Once, I stood at the window and the sun was setting. It set so beautifully , the valley shone, everything held its gift to the setting sun, the grass sparkling rubies, the forests golden veils, the river fire, it was a wave, a cheerful farewell, and the sun smiled and sank. Then it came over me, as I saw the joy and gratitude of the valley and the smile of the sun, as I was so happy, so rich, I smiled, but it came over me, and I had to cry, I smiled and cried at the same time. As I cried, a hand took me and a pair of eyes looked at me. “Are you crying, Axel?” I laughed, tears splashed down my face because I shook my head while laughing. I pulled Ingeborg to me, and she remained motionless beside me, only her lips moved imperceptibly, she kissed my heart constantly. The happy man! I can tell you what he looks like, what he looks like inside and out! Happiness makes one beautiful, wise, and good. The happy one walks like a young god; he doesn’t walk, he walks. Roses on his head, roses on his cheeks, roses in his mind. Whatever he touches lives, whatever he looks at shines. Fire is his voice. He stands at his height and gazes upon things and understands them. From above, he gazes upon everything and understands, for all things arise from happiness and misfortune. He understands great hearts and small ones, the glowing and the icy, he understands the song of a bird and a poet’s verse. Know that he scatters joy around him. There are many beggars on the path of life, and most of them are recognized only by the eye of the happy one. He seeks. He has an enemy whom he hated fiercely for many years, one who bitterly betrayed him. He is happy, writes to him. Let it be, he writes to him. It is forgotten, new days have come. With tears in his eyes , he writes, his heart overflows. He goes to the defiant man, knocks on his door, knocks and knocks until he opens. Forgive me, forgive me, he says, it was me, it was my fault. I’ve known many a man who gave away money, property, and honor because he was happy, yes, who gave away his own happiness because he was happy, and danced away poor in a shirt. Know this: this is how happiness makes one crucify oneself and not curse one’s murderers; yes, it can happen that one lies and invents paradises for people because one is happy. An avalanche of happiness rolls through millennia. That’s what happiness is like: if you speak of it, you must speak, thousands and thousands of days and nights, and you will find no end, you must speak forever, forever— Two happy people live up there in the mountain forest. I see a small light burning in a dark room. A small light, I see a smile, a face swimming in golden hair. I hear whispering. “I am yours.” I am yours, I am yours. Summer night, you are a dark blue gemstone. Summer night, you are a fragrant breath from God’s mouth. Summer night, you are the clear, kind eye of a young mother. Isn’t that the summer night, a warm dark blue forest, a naked child in the moss, playing with a growling bear? Isn’t that the summer night, a dwarf sitting on the edge of a well, gazing into a mirror? Isn’t this the summer night — a song from afar — a beckoning somewhere — a kiss in the air — — a sigh — — a flash of blood — I am yours, I am yours! I think of the body of a woman beginning to blossom. I dreamed this once, there were enigmatic words on the woman’s eyelids — white eyes — eyes like lights — I think — — Depths open, the world opens its eyes and looks at me — I kneel before God’s throne and God whispers his secrets in my ear. I am yours, I am yours!! The world stands still, it is neither dark nor light, loud nor quiet. It whispers. “Do you see my eyes?” “Yes, I see them. They burn.” “Your eyes are a shining night. Stars are in it.” It whispers. There is a spraying and striding all around. Old, ancient gods walk around us. — — Summer night, you are a dark cypress grove through which ancient gods with long beards wander. They carry their beards on their arms so as not to step on them; it is dark, their eyes shine — — These things that no one can grasp, no one can think of — — Day is dawning, there is whispering in my room, there is giggling. “The moon falls backward into the forest,” says Ingeborg and giggles. “What does it see in one night?” I ask. Ingeborg giggles. “It just occurred to me, Ingeborg, do you remember, a man wrote: Life’s unmixed joy –?” “Yes, oh Axel, a poor, poor, unhappy man that was –” “Ha ha ha!” “Are we children?” “Yes, I am so happy, so light. I am flying. I could laugh, laugh, all the time!’ — — In the meadow in front of the castle stood a small, slender birch tree. It had silky-soft young leaves that always had something to whisper about, and bark as white and soft as a rabbit’s fur. Ingeborg and I built a bench in front of this birch tree. It took us a day to sharpen the pegs and saw the board. We laughed a lot while we worked, and Ingeborg was feverish with enthusiasm. Many evenings we sat on this little bench and watched the sun go down. We sat again on the bench under the birch tree, and the evening began to glow. ‘We are writing you gods a letter! We, Ingeborg and Axel!’ I said. ‘Begin Axel!’ said Ingeborg. And I began: ‘You gods, you good gods, you have your good days and your bad days, just like we humans. On your bad days, you create people with ordinary faces and a soul no deeper or warmer than a rain puddle in March. But on your good days, you create people with an unforgettable face, with a glowing, deep soul. On your best day, you created Ingeborg. “You good gods, you certainly have great ears; then you heard what Axel said and you heard his gentle voice. Look at his face and you know how kind he must be.” “You gods above the clouds, you know Ingeborg well, then you too will understand and forgive me for not walking with you above the clouds.” want, even though you are gods.” “I don’t want that either!” cried Ingeborg. “No, you kind old gods. But I beg you, do not punish us for our crime!” — — We sat again on the bench under the small birch tree. The bench had just enough room for two people. It was the hour when the stars had not yet risen, and yet one can see them all with one’s eyes. I said: “Ingeborg, you are my darling, and my heart has become so rich since I kissed you.” Ingeborg said: “Oh, Axel, I am startled with joy when I see your shadow coming around the corner. The blood drains from my cheeks when I hear your voice. It is incomprehensible to me that I can bear your kisses without dying.” I said: “Oh, Ingeborg, I am a garden, a blooming garden. I am in bloom, Ingeborg!” Ingeborg said: “I see all things changed, and I love them more than ever. I even love the stones that lie on the road. You seem to be on everything . The whole world has become a mirror that shows you to me. I have already seen your smile in the foliage of a beech tree and your hand in a moving meadow. Oh, if only something would come along with which I could show you my love. I would go begging for you, from house to house–” I said: “I hardly hear what you say, I only hear your voice. It sings me to death. It is wonderful. It is wonderful to close my eyes and follow the line of your profile in my thoughts. It is wonderful to look at your hair; I have every spark of your hair in my memory. What is your hair like? It is as if it had eyes all over it. That’s wonderful, your eyelashes once touched my shoulders, I feel it all the time—now—every minute—” Ingeborg said, “Oh, my beloved, will you always love me like this?” I said, “Why do you ask, sweet glory?” Ingeborg said, “I know , yes! But you must tell me once a day, and a thousand times, that you love me.” I took Ingeborg’s hands and placed them on my chest, I opened my shirt so that they touched my bare chest. And I said, “I will love you for all eternity, I love you, I love you, I love you—” That’s what happiness is like: if you speak of it, you must speak, day after day, night after night, you can never stop, no, you cannot, you must speak, speak—scream—whisper—once and for all— Chapter 17. A threatening cloud moved across our sky, a dark cloud, it weighed me down. I beat my chest, fell to my knees, and prayed to the great spirit. The threatening cloud passed by; it did not crush me. Long afterward , when the sky was once again clear and bright, did the lightning strike. Ingeborg fell ill. That’s how it began. We were sitting in the meadow at the edge of the forest, which Ingeborg named Honey Droplet. There were many yellow flowers dripping with honey. You could smell the honey from far away; an army of bees buzzed constantly in the meadow. We sat there in the blazing sun, but Ingeborg shivered. We walked home through the park, and Ingeborg snuggled up to me. Suddenly, she let out a scream. In the avenue stood a statue representing silence: a woman with two fingers to her lips. The pallor of the marble had frightened Ingeborg. By the evening, she had recovered . Karl dined with us; we were in good spirits, chatting and laughing. But the next morning, Ingeborg was ill. I rushed to town and fetched a doctor, then sent a dispatch to the capital. The path led through the summer-silent forest; the birds chirped. My heart was restless, my impatience flew before me. I raced through villages and towns; people shook hands. A dozen of these peasant Kaffirs didn’t matter. The doctor didn’t understand anything. Karl didn’t understand anything either, or he pretended not to. Ingeborg smiled. It would pass; she wanted to get up again this evening. No one seemed to hear that she spoke hastily, almost babbling like a child; no one seemed to see the metallic gleam in her eyes. Karl read aloud. I didn’t hear what he was reading; only now and then an image appeared before my eyes, colorless and featureless like a washed-out watercolor. Ingeborg fell asleep. I sat alone with Ingeborg in the white room. Fear gnawed at my heart. Golden twilight came into the room; Ingeborg’s hair shimmered like bronze. Her chest rose and fell slowly; this steady movement brought peace to my heart. Involuntarily, I breathed in unison, then I noticed: fear began to gnaw at me again. It grew dark, Ingeborg’s hair shimmered, the twilight descended upon her ever more densely, it was as if it were escaping me. I lit a candle. Then Ingeborg awoke. She looked at me with wide eyes and it seemed as if she were coming to her senses. “What time is it, Axel?” she asked. Evening had just arrived. “Then I’ll have to sleep for a long time,” said Ingeborg. But she didn’t fall asleep again. It was hot. Her cheeks were burning. I opened a window; a cool wind blew, like after a thunderstorm. I had to close it again; heavy, hanging clouds drifted across the sky, brushing the forests. In the distance, steam rose, and it rained. I placed cold cloths on Ingeborg’s forehead, but in an instant, these cloths were warm. Ingeborg’s eyes were moist and shiny, like blue and white enamel. “Now I’m sick,” said Ingeborg, nodding wearily. She closed her eyes. Night came. Karl asked if he could be of any help. “No, thank you.” The minutes passed slowly. The wind grew stronger, hissing against the panes, occasionally murmuring as if shaking with the cold. A distant, dull thunder rumbled in the mountains and forests. Thoughts drifted back and forth in my head, a voice whispered within me. — — The large, yellow house with its many rooms lay completely silent, as if no one lived there but the pictures on the walls and memories. One could hear neither doors nor footsteps, and the courtyard was also silent, as on Sundays when the servants were at church. Nothing moved, not a shout, not a step. This silence was audible, and it seemed to me as if it grew thicker with each hour. I set several clocks going. Now one could hear nothing but these clocks. But the silence grew, spreading ever more densely around the house. Everything seemed to be listening for a step in the distance that was coming closer. A voice whispered within me. I closed my ear to it. I didn’t want to hear it . The doctor from the capital arrived. He said that Ingeborg had an exceptionally strong nature. Then the voice inside me whispered louder; there were now two voices whispering inside me. I heard them, but I didn’t believe them. I walked around, wearing a calm, even confident face. The hours seemed endless. Until night came, until night passed! They were cool, stormy days of thunderstorms; the clouds caught in the mountains and could no longer escape. Slowly, they dragged themselves in circles, growling. I didn’t sleep. I didn’t feel tired, but my hearing was falling asleep. I didn’t let Ingeborg out of my sight; there were pillows to adjust, fruit juice to serve, and ice to apply. I didn’t let anyone into the sickroom except the doctor. He had taken up residence in the castle. I carried Ingeborg’s feverish body to the bath and back to bed. I was strong; after all, it was my Ingeborg, and no one had the right to care for her but me. Go to sleep! said the doctor. You’re sick yourself! No! I said. One night, Ingeborg suddenly sat stiffly in bed, her face long and her eyes glittering, counting on her fingers. “Seven little pieces of paper, that’s seven!” she cried with the voice of a frightened child. I turned pale. There it was! For hours, Ingeborg fantasized until she fell back exhausted onto her pillows. Many voices screamed inside me, so loud that I had to hear them. She is Lost! they cried. And one screamed incessantly: Ingeborg! Ingeborg! And one prayed, prayed confused, horrified, helpless words, over and over. Day and night the voices were within me. Pazzo howled in the courtyard. He sensed that his mistress was in danger. I staggered back and forth in my room. I didn’t cry, I did n’t complain, no, I didn’t pray. The voices were within me. There was now also a voice within me that cried incessantly. But I didn’t cry. I staggered back and forth in my room. Without thinking, I took a penknife from the desk and stuck it in my hand. I felt nothing, it was bleeding. I saw the blood, yes, I had stuck the penknife in my hand, when, why? Another voice came within me, crying incessantly: Help, help! It wrung its hands, the voice wrung its hands. — — — I wrestled with Ingeborg with all my strength; she was stronger than a man. I had to hold her back, I had to hurt her. She moaned, moaned. She wanted to run into the forest. — — — Had there been some emotional upheaval beforehand? asked the doctor. Love, love, my dear! — — — Day comes and goes. Night comes and goes. Now there is no longer any silence in the house. Now terror lives in the house. Wherever you look, it crouches; it crouches in every face, and wherever you listen, you hear it. Ingeborg’s cries and wailing will remain forever in the halls of the house. The doctor takes the temperature, counts the pulse, and gives orders. His expression is silent; he shrugs his shoulders. I am pale and distraught; I don’t understand what they are saying to me. My body is paralyzed; I can no longer move a muscle, but I cannot sleep. Sleep comes over me now and then for a few minutes, that’s all. I gaze into the gray forest, above which the clouds hang, and terror grips my heart. I look at Ingeborg, lying unconscious, and it feels as if a hand is pressing my heart together like a fruit. How kind Karl is! He’s not sleeping. He sits next door in the white parlor, a large atlas on his knees, studying geography. It’s lovely to fly like a bird over the continents down there, he says. I know full well that the continents don’t interest him at all, that he’s suffering and doesn’t want to show it to anyone. And he always starts talking about a similar case whenever he sees me. “My sister—twenty days—what a fever, Axel! Today we’re laughing; she’s talking nonsense.” “Courage! Axel, sleep! We’re awake. The old man says Ingeborg’s nature is extraordinarily strong.” “It’s all right, thank you,” I say, and go back to Ingeborg. I’m freezing, my clothes are soaked, but I don’t have time to change them. Besides, it doesn’t matter whether my clothes are wet or not. One has to think of a soldier in war, eight days without sleep, eight days in a snowstorm with shattered fingers; one has to think of a sailor, eight days in a storm. My feet are stiff, I can no longer feel the ground when I walk; uphill and downhill I seem to be climbing; often it feels as if I’m walking on my knees. I don’t know how long my arm is. I hold out my hand, and I believe my arm is so long that I could open the door without getting up from my chair. Sometimes I think I’ve fallen over and am lying on the floor, but I can see that I’m standing upright. The room sways like a ship. But as soon as I’m with Ingeborg, my strength gathers, and I feel neither tired nor sleepy. Occasionally, Ingeborg would wake up and recognize me and speak a few words. The voices within me rejoiced. All the voices had merged into one, and this one rejoiced, rejoiced. Her voice sounded changed, childlike, and a little hoarse. Often, she was unable to collect her thoughts. But then she spoke with a look, a gesture of her hand, and I knew what she wanted to say. She was pale and thin, her hair wrapped around her head and shoulders. “I must be very sick?” she asked. I smiled and told her she was feeling better now. “Axel, I’d like to see the sky!” I drew back the curtains; it was raining, the woods were gray. A high, dark storm cloud hung threateningly in the sky, and frightened birds fluttered back and forth in front of it, white as ash. “How is our little birch tree, Axel?” “It’s sad that it can’t see you, Ingeborg.” “What is it doing?” “It’s standing in the rain, waiting like a child who can’t go indoors. Its trunk looks snow-white, its leaves hang down, soaked, and don’t move.” “Is our little bench there?” “Of course, Ingeborg. The raindrops are spattering on it.” “What does it look like?” “Perhaps like a yellow dog tied to the birch tree, forgotten by its master.” Ingeborg tilts her head to the side and smiles wearily. “What can you see on the road, Axel?” “Deep wheel ruts with trickling water. It’s gray mud. There ‘s not a soul to be seen far and wide. You see so little that you’d think you lived in the countryside.” “You don’t see a bird, Axel?” “Yes, Ingeborg. A very small one is sitting there in an apple tree.” “What is it doing?” “It’s sitting under a small canopy of leaves and every now and then looks out into the sky to see if it will stop raining soon.” Ingeborg gazes into an indeterminate distance. For a long time. Tears well up in her eyes.
“No,” she says then, “it’s impossible!” She shakes her head slowly; it’s as if she’s rocking it back and forth. “What do you mean?” “I can’t die. It’s impossible!” I force myself to smile. She’s a sick, weary little child. I take her hand. There’s no strength in her long, emaciated fingers. “Ingeborg, I love you.” Ingeborg nods wearily and smiles. “Yes,” she says, “yes,” and gazes into the distance. I call Karl. Karl enters. “Hello!” he calls. “Now everything’s fine again, Mrs. Ingeborg!” Ingeborg smiles and nods. “Yes,” she says, gazing into the distance. Chapter 18. There was a day when she hadn’t yet opened her eyes. She had spent the whole night feverish, talking, and fantasizing; now she lay completely exhausted and silent. I sat beside the bed and watched her. Her breathing was quick and light; she was transparently pale, with bluish shadows under her eyes and on her cheeks. Her pale lips were half-open, and her long eyelashes hovered over her eyes, which were visible as a narrow slit . The pulse in her wrist twitched. A pale sun played on the curtain, it grew dark again, and once more the pale sun played on the curtains. A clock ticked. It hammered, and from time to time, a whirring and ringing sound began to ring inside the case. At times, it seemed to me as if I were moving very quickly , as if I were sitting in a speeding train. On the curtain, the shadows of leaves moved up and down as soon as the sun shone, and now and then they came so close that one could clearly distinguish their shape. They were linden leaves with long teeth along the edges. I looked at the clock face and discovered that the minute hand twitched like a slow pulse. Everything in the room began to twitch like Ingeborg’s pulse. Suddenly, the clock stopped, and I was startled. Silence filled the room, and the shadows on the curtains no longer moved . An infinitely long time passed, filled with very strange things. The small, dark cleft beneath Ingeborg’s eyelashes remained unchanged ; her lips seemed frozen. Ingeborg was no longer moving; she lay completely still and seemed to have grown longer. I kept looking at that small, dark cleft beneath Ingeborg’s eyelashes; it gaped, it was rigid. What is it? I thought. I couldn’t move; I wanted to get up, but I was like Paralyzed, I wanted to call out, but I could only press my tongue against my teeth ; I couldn’t even move my lips. Ingeborg lay stiff and still. Then I heard a door open, and the doctor entered silently. Karl stood under the door; I saw him standing there, although I wasn’t looking. The doctor stepped to the bed and lifted Ingeborg’s hand; this hand snapped at the wrist and fell lifeless back onto the covers. The doctor looked at me, I nodded. Karl came, stroked my hair, and again I nodded. The doctor left, Karl left. I understood nothing. Ingeborg was dead? No, it couldn’t be. There was a whisper in the next room, the door opened slightly, and a crowd of faces appeared in the crack: they were the maids and servants. Someone sobbed, and someone said, “Shh!” very quietly. “Don’t complain,” I said, and stood up. “You must not complain, you must bear your pain with dignity, friends.” Ingeborg was dead, but I felt no pain. It seemed as if my heart had died with Ingeborg. The sun flooded against the curtains, and Ingeborg smiled peacefully, like a child dreaming of heaven. Ingeborg is dead. A man bears his pain with dignity. Do not weep, you servants. You must bear your pain with dignity. They would bury Ingeborg in the earth, or soak her body with ointments to protect it from decay. Many women slept in the ancestral crypt down in the church. Do not weep, you servants. The old servants came up in festive clothes and asked if they could serve the master in any way. “Flowers, flowers . . . .” .” In Ingeborg’s chambers, there is no longer a chair, no wall, no carpet. “Flowers, flowers . . . . .” A bier made of green branches. I think for a moment. No, I couldn’t lay Ingeborg in the earth. I couldn’t allow her to decay—no, by God, no! So she had to be laid in the crypt, soaked with spices. But that wouldn’t do either. I had seen mummies that filled me with horror and disgust. No, no. That wouldn’t do either. The sea? A deep green, rocking grave, a dark evergreen forest with luminous fish and coral hedges. But then the fish would come. I saw them circling Ingeborg’s body, ever closer, ever closer— No, no, that wouldn’t do either. There is only one thing: fire! Fire! A grave amidst thundering, jubilant, waving flames! And I ordered wood to be stacked for a great fire that would shine across the mountains for all to see. In the meadow in front of the house. “Immerse the wood with oil and sweet scents!” A carpet of white roses covered the path, flowing like a stream of milk from Ingeborg’s chambers, over the stairs, across the meadow. The hour came when they carried Ingeborg to the meadow and laid her on the flower-strewn pyre. I stood close beside her, and around Ingeborg’s grave stood servants and maids. Off to the side stood Karl with large, shining eyes. The sky was greenish-blue like spring, a fresh wind blew, the birds sang in the forest and in the old chestnut trees in front of the castle. I looked at Ingeborg, lying slim and slender in a bed of flowers . The fire flickered, I could see nothing more. Fire, fire. The column of flames collapsed, and a thick brown plume rose from the cinders, dissolving into a fine smoke that drifted like a veil across the brilliant blue of the spring sky. The veil tore and, piece by piece, drifted across the valley, and it looked as if flocks of migratory birds were flying high above the sky. The servants watched the smoke and wept silently: up above, the mistress was departing! They would never see her again, never, ever. They still stood in a circle around this spot as they had in the morning when the sun rose. Many wept, but here and there one stood and smiled: he was thinking of the mistress. Karl stood and gazed fixedly down at his chest. There lay a blond hair, blown towards him by the fire. He didn’t dare move, staring fixedly at the blond hair on his chest. Pazzo lay in front of the pile of ashes, licking his burnt buttocks. He howled softly in between, raising his pointed head and looking up at the sky. He had tried to jump into the fire. The smoke thinned and died away. “Gather the ashes in silver basins!” I said, stretching out my hand. This hand was the hand of an old man, withered skin, wrinkled veins. And I scattered the ashes into the wind, which carried them away. This was how Ingeborg would return to the world. The wind would scatter the ashes into flower cups, onto girls’ red lips, into drinkers’ cups, into the open mouths of sleeping children. And as soon as night came, it would begin to flicker, like candles flicker in the dark caves of churches, in the forests, over the fields, in the gloomy chambers, high in the dark clouds, deep in the black sea. It would flicker over the whole world. Yes. That was Ingeborg! I washed my hands and knelt down. I spread my wet hands over my face and wept. I didn’t weep out of pain, I wept because I had given Ingeborg away . I could have kept her; you see, many women slept down in the church crypt , but I gave her away. And so I wept, and I wept so much that the tears streamed down my cheeks like streams. And as I wept, I heard Ingeborg’s voice comforting me. She called. “Axel, Axel!” she called. Then I smiled and took my hands away from my face and listened to Ingeborg’s voice. Something touched my arm and I sat up and turned my head. Ingeborg sat upright in bed and looked at me. Her hair hung over her narrow cheeks and her eyes were large and fixed on me in wonder. She looked like a slender girl of fifteen. “Axel,” she said, “why were you crying?” She spoke in a childlike, high voice. I had been dreaming and that terrible dream suddenly appeared before me again. Oh! I slid to my knees and laid my face in Ingeborg’s lap and sobbed with happiness. “Ingeborg, Ingeborg!” Ingeborg kissed my hair. She breathed a deep breath. “How fresh I feel,” she said. “Tell me . Axel, why were you crying? I heard you crying, woke up and saw you sitting there. You were asleep, but the tears were running down your cheeks. Tell me.” “Now I’m crying because you feel better, Ingeborg. How wonderful that is! I was crying, yes, I was dreaming. Haha, it was a confusing dream!” I tried to think of something, but nothing came to mind. The blood rushed to my face. “I dreamed something from my childhood—I broke something —God knows what I broke—I think it was a vase—what was it, then?” The shadows of the leaves were still swaying up and down on the curtains; I couldn’t have slept long. “I’d like to see Pazzo,” said Ingeborg. “How happy he will be.” Wouldn’t she be patient a little longer? Pazzo was doing very well. Ingeborg patiently submitted. There was always a rumbling noise. What was it, then? “Thunderstorms are moving in the mountains.” What a pity. She loved thunderstorms so much. She laughed. Her laughter sounded feverish, and it frightened me. A metallic gleam flickered in Ingeborg’s eyes. But he was a fool who demanded she be completely cured in an hour. There would probably be thunderstorms later, too. Yes, that too—hahaha! I gave her fruit juice, a sip of wine, and also forced her to eat half an egg. I ate the other half in front of her to show her how quickly half an egg disappears in the mouth. Ingeborg couldn’t stop laughing at that. Then she asked if Karl had left. No, of course he was still here. Did I resent her for simply calling Bluthaupt Karl? But Ingeborg? She liked Karl a lot, haha. I went out. I left feeling liberated, as if I had cast off a heavy burden. Everything in me twitched with joy. “I’m fine!” I said to the doctor and smiled triumphantly. The doctor looked at me. It was a strange look that immediately paralyzed me in every limb. It paralyzed my smile too. I left the room. The doctor’s look awakened all the threatening voices within me, all of them. Chapter 19. Double-Beating Pulse . . . . . Pull yourself together! I ran into the park, I had to run into the park, at least for a minute. It was night in the park, the wind tossed the treetops this way and that. Voices were in the air, all the warning, threatening, ominous voices that had spoken in my breast were in the air, in the rustling of the trees, in the falling drops. Then suddenly Ingeborg appeared in the darkness, she smiled, brandished a bouquet, and called out, “Danderadei!” “Pull yourself together!” I thank the doctor. Karl looks at me. I smile, yes, can’t you see? I smile, I feel nothing, no. And Karl takes me aside, presses me to his chest, and looks at me. “Courage, Axel! You have power over Ingeborg! Hope!” There is something above the science and art of a doctor. Words, words! I smile, I thank Karl with a pressure of my hand. The clocks begin to talk, the candles stretch into pillars of fire—that is the room— Ingeborg’s eyes shimmer on every object, the smallest bowl is filled with sweet wonders. I go. Tear me open, heavens. . . . I ran back and forth in the park. Who could believe it? Ingeborg was going to die! Ingeborg, the lovely, beautiful Ingeborg! Ingeborg, who loved the sun and gathered its rays in her cupped hands, who kissed the trees and chatted with them, Ingeborg, who prayed and gave thanks with a look that followed a butterfly. Ingeborg, who carried love and warmth into all hearts, the kind, gentle Ingeborg! Now she was going to die. Who could believe it? She would lie still, they would lay her in the earth, there she would lie, still in the black darkness, no one would see her again! Could Ingeborg’s shining eyes ever go out? No, no! No one could believe it. I shook my head and groped into the darkness. The park roared. In the distance, a dog barked, ravenous, demanding, like a predator. He wouldn’t stop barking until his hunger was satisfied. I came to the well, and the well poured water over me. This was Ingeborg’s well, there she sat— Grab, grab! A man—yes, a man grabbed, a man! Pain suddenly seized me by the shoulders and threw me onto my face. I dug my teeth into the sand and sobbed: “Ingeborg! Ingeborg!” I rose to my knees and sobbed, pressing the backs of my hands to my eyes. “Ingeborg! Ingeborg!” I cried. “Ingeborg must die now, hear this, all you trees, all you people in the world. Ingeborg must go!” The treetops roared and the trunks groaned. A shower of rain pelted the park. I tore my hair, fell to the ground, and beat my hands and feet. I wailed—My God, my God, what are you planning to do with me? I composed myself. Wide and still—so wide and still it suddenly became within me—I smiled. Yes, of course, I won’t survive. This very hour I will follow Ingeborg. I stood up. “I won’t survive,” I said to myself. That was a consolation! Ingeborg and I, weren’t we one? She couldn’t leave me without me going with her, no, that was impossible! I became so calm, serene, as if exhausted by happiness. I walked slowly back through the avenue. Could it be so? I love that Life that Ingeborg gave me, but it wasn’t meant to be . . . . . Suddenly, Karl’s eyes stood before me in the air. “Courage, hope! You have power over Ingeborg!” I saw the eyes and they captivated me. Her gaze gave me strength, her gaze ignited my brain. From the deepest darkness within me, something struggled to rise. I stopped, my heart pounding like a hammer in my chest. The eyes that stood before me sparkled, and suddenly the darkness within me was torn apart. I was frightened. What did these eyes mean? What did they mean— how? A blissful, a sweet thought. An intoxicating thought! I spread my arms. Karl’s eyes shone before me; what kind of eyes were they? No, no! A captivating, mind-boggling thought! A redemption! A liberation, a proclamation! Could Ingeborg leave me when I was one with her? What if I didn’t want to? If only I didn’t want to! I had power over Ingeborg. That was an intoxicating, numbing thought! I believed in my strength! No! I wouldn’t admit it! Ingeborg couldn’t leave me! — — — People know nothing. People are stupid and presumptuous beings. They claim there are no miracles. There can be miracles. They claim there is no God. And yet there can be a God. Man is more than a state of cells. There are hours that give man the eyes of a seer and the tongue of a prophet. Hours in which he must believe in things he laughed at and at which all reasonable people laugh. In such hours he believes that Lazarus was called back to the living, although he was already dead— What do I believe today? I don’t know. There is much everyday feeling about that hour when I believed in all miracles and in God, when I wrestled with God, yes, when I wrestled with God. I didn’t defeat him, no, if he hadn’t wanted to, I could have struggled in vain, but perhaps he respected my will? Ingeborg’s strong nature prevailed. One could put it that way. I believe it too, yes, but I know that I once believed something entirely different. Was I insane? Perhaps. Perhaps all this madness was n’t necessary? Perhaps Ingeborg would have recovered all on her own? I don’t know. But there were hours when I knew it wasn’t madness, no, never! When I knew that Ingeborg wouldn’t have recovered all on her own. Everything is confused within me. But I believe that a person is more than a person only in one hour, only perhaps in a single minute of their life; many, many, indeed most people never experience this single minute. And then they are ordinary again, and even of their divine minute they judge in an ordinary way. Had Ingeborg been dead, I would have awakened her, I would have set her heart in motion again, with my thoughts, with my faith, I would have lit her up as if with rays, until her heart beat again. I would not have given up; no, I would have fought until death or madness. I still remember that. This was my hour! Ingeborg wasn’t dead, but the doctor had given up on her. She lay stretched out, her eyes closed, without strength. Her body trembled slightly with fever, the trembling ran from head to toe, up and down. I sat beside her and held her hands in mine, thinking nothing but this: You must not leave me! The thought filled me with a power I had never known before; my brain was rigid, my sinews taut, my whole body was like bronze. Ingeborg’s color changed, her fever fluctuated, and she shook with chills. I lay down beside her, I lay down beside her and warmed her with my body — I thought — always the same thing — — No, I cannot think it again. This is what one cannot think a second time — — I have prayed, I am not ashamed to say it. I have not prayed to the God of the Jews or Christians, I have prayed to God, the Only one. Sweat stood on my forehead, it ran down my face. Terror, fear — — — There are secret forces hidden throughout nature, I drew them to me, I channeled them through my chest, I guided them into Ingeborg’s body, which was attacked by death, these, the forces of life, of movement, of growth. I awakened Ingeborg’s soul, which had already fled, I called it back, I did not rest. I did not give in. I prayed and made the powerful thought even stronger, ever stronger. My soul and Ingeborg’s had become a fine, mysterious fabric; it could tear, yes, but it could not be released. The two of us or neither. Ingeborg delved, her soul wavered to the very core, tossing and turning . I looked God in the eye, I begged him, I threatened him! Ingeborg blurted out hasty words, a foreign language it seemed to me. Hours passed. Then, finally, I heard a word. “Mother,” whispered Ingeborg. And I put my lips to her ear and cried, “Mother is with you! You are my sweet little Ingeborg!” I embraced Ingeborg and kissed her cheek, which was as hot as a glowing stone. I caressed her, stroked her, rocked her back and forth. “Mother is here!” I whispered and called all the childish nicknames into her ear. I made my voice so soft. I soothed her with many words, as a mother soothes her child, and I told her a hundred times that Mother was with her. I had captured Ingeborg’s soul; I wouldn’t let go. I listened desperately, I made my ear very sharp, pointed, for it was difficult to discern from the jumbled words what was occupying that feverish head . Back and forth it went. Like a will-o’-the-wisp in the night, Ingeborg’s thoughts wandered here and there, and it was superhumanly difficult to follow them and hold on to them for even a few seconds. The school, Count Flüggen’s castle, the forest, confused childhood experiences, Axel, Karl, the park, the statue in the avenue, animals, Pazzo. Long hours passed like this. And as a person chases a madman through alleys, fields, hedges, fire, and water , trying to catch him, so my thoughts followed Ingeborg’s wandering thoughts. I heard the rain drumming against the windowpanes, the forest roaring, and the thunder rolling. But all that was far away. I managed to keep Ingeborg focused on the sunshine, the flowers, and the birds . I imitated the rustling of the trees, the whistling of the blackbirds, the chirping of the crickets, and the laughter of children, women, and farmhands. Ingeborg became calmer. Her gaze was fixed on mine, and I had to sharpen my eyes and make them piercing to capture Ingeborg’s glittering, trembling gaze . I spoke, laughed, called, and pressed Ingeborg to me. It was obvious that I could hold Ingeborg tight! She belonged to me now, and I wouldn’t let her go. My strength grew, hope fueled it. I didn’t know how that night passed. At times, there was a rumbling as if the sky were collapsing; bluish light flew over the walls; there was a crackling in the forest. It rattled against the panes as if teeth were raining; the storm settled on the roof of the house, hopping around like a rider, howling , whipping the house so hard it rattled. Glass shattered. The rain fell silent, the wind pushed the house before it, into the forest. Over the black, boiling, seething forest, the terrifyingly pale moon flew, pursued and bitten by elongated cloud dogs. There was another rustling sound, water trickled down the panes. Fever, chills. I warmed her. I kissed her. I spoke, I laughed, I screamed—————No, I shouldn’t have tried to recall the unthinkable. It torments me. Of all that I experienced, both before and after, nothing is more horrible, nothing torments my thoughts as much as the memory of it. Was what I did madness? I don’t know. No, it wasn’t madness, no————— I spoke of myself. I told the insensitive soul about our Summer, of our love, our nights, for hours on end. Ingeborg became calmer. Then something happened—it was the most terrible thing— Ingeborg looked at me with sparkling eyes. She whispered. “Karl—Karl!” she whispered. She spoke of fear and love. And I calmed her. “Karl loves you, of course. Am I not with you, Karl?” But she was full of fear. She spoke and feverishly. She could never follow me, I shouldn’t demand it! Axel was there too, and Axel loved her too. “Oh, don’t go, don’t go. Karl!” “Karl will always stay with you, Ingeborg!” Ingeborg wept and laughed. Yes, yes, but Axel won’t let her go. He’ll lock her in his room. No, Axel had told me, he would let her go, absolutely. Wherever she wanted to go. He would by no means lock her in his room. “You are beautiful, Karl!” I love, love you! Don’t tell Axel!’ She embraced me, and my heart stopped with a jolt at that embrace. A violet flash lit up the room, twitching incessantly, but it seemed as if it wouldn’t go out. And Ingeborg kissed me as the flash lit up around her; she kissed me feverishly fast, and it seemed to me as if she kissed me a hundred times. Her face was white as chalk, and her eyes were as bright as diamonds. Suddenly, night fell into black, the thunder crackled as if a diamond gaze were leaping down a ringing steel staircase—that’s how it sounded. In the forest, a tree snapped in two, and a deep, eerie silence followed the shattering. Then there was a roar, as if someone were pouring buckets of water from the roof onto the street. ‘I won’t tell Axel, dearest Ingeborg. No, no, I won’t say a word to him.’
‘Oh, oh!’ ‘You will always be with me, Ingeborg! Do you hear it! Hahaha, what a beautiful life we ​​two will have. Look, this is how it will be, pay attention, I will kiss your hands and cheeks, I will take you in my arms and lift you up — I will –” And I talked and talked — how wonderful it would be for her with Karl. Ingeborg listened to me. She was breathing evenly and her eyes no longer glittered. “Sleep now, my girl, sleep now. Good night! Sweet Ingeborg, sleep now — the rain is rustling — do you hear?” “Sleep, sleep” — — — Day was dawning. The lamp looked red, blue light seeped through the panes. Ingeborg lay still and breathed softly. She was sleeping. Ingeborg was sleeping. Oh, if only the sun would come today! Hours passed and the sun rose. “Sun, sun!” I called softly and kissed the first ray. I opened the window. The wind had died down, how wonderful that was. The air was wonderful, flavored with moisture. This air would heal Ingeborg completely. A few drops fell from the sky. They glittered in the sun. It rained honey. The road was torn up, and streams rushed down the mountain. The meadow in front of the house was flooded with mud and sand. Oh! The little birch tree lay torn to pieces on the lawn, and the bench that Ingeborg and I had built was gone; only the posts remained, and a splinter of the seat hung from one. Further down, the top of an apple tree lay on the road, as if it had been in a stream. A farm boy was climbing around on it. Then Ingeborg began to whisper and talk again, and I calmed her as I had at night. The fever was no longer as severe, but it was demanding all my strength. So the day and the next night passed, filled with wild screams and cries for help, as if people were being killed in the forest, and with groans as if people had been nailed to trees. The next morning, I felt lifted up, and I recognized Karl. They had forced open the door. “Ingeborg is asleep,” he said, “she’s better!” He supported me and led me out. And I felt as if I were an old man, with snow-white hair, trembling feet, a bent back. There was a beckoning within me, a glow, a threat, a threatening fist. grew from my soul, I saw it—but I smiled— I no longer felt what was happening to me. Chapter 20. Someone shook my arm, and I felt as if I were a tree being shaken. I opened my eyes as best I could, but they immediately closed again . A deep voice spoke; I heard my name and something about Ingeborg. But it was all the same to me; I only wanted peace, and I sank back into a pleasant darkness and torpor. Someone shook my arm again after a long time, and this time I heard Karl’s voice. Karl said that everything was going well with Ingeborg. It was time to wake up. I opened my eyes and saw a red-haired, laughing head right in front of me. It was Karl. I had once again forgotten that Karl had just spoken to me. Then I was asleep again. Water splashed, and something cold and wet ran across my face. I crouched down, but the wetness followed me, and I slept, thinking that this was no news, that everything was going well for Ingeborg. The sparrows chirped on the roof. Yet a certain terror filled me, as if something terrible had happened. This terror suddenly woke me. “How is Ingeborg?” I asked. She was perfectly fine. She was sleeping soundly. Why was I so frightened? I thought. Something terrible must have happened, but if everything was going well with Ingeborg, what else could be terrible? “You’ve slept for three days, Axel,” said Karl, smiling kindly. His smile was so beautiful and delicate that it seemed like a caress to me. I got up with difficulty. I was very tired, and my head felt like lead . I couldn’t think clearly. But Ingeborg was saved! I sat on the edge of the bed and smiled. I couldn’t believe my happiness. And Karl put my stockings on, the poet Karl Bluthaupt helped me put them on! — — — Bonfires on the mountains! Dancing, playing, and singing! Gold in the huts of the poor! For two days and two nights a forest burns brightly on the hill, my forest. The fire brigades from all the villages have been dispatched with much hooting and rumbling. Let it burn! Let it burn! The forest flames brightly through the night. It can be seen from far away. Chapter 21. Ingeborg sits on the veranda, a shawl wrapped around her shoulders. She is pale, and you can almost see the blood running in the veins of her temples and hands . With wide, astonished eyes she gazes at the trees that have dozed off in the sun, at the meadow that fills with fragrance and swayes slightly in its sleep, down into the valley. There are small horses and wagons, and little creatures are busy piling hay on the wagons. Occasionally something flashes: a piece of iron, a fork, a scythe; faint, windblown cries drift up. After days of passing thunderstorms, weeks of glorious sunshine followed, the kind that shimmers red and evenly lies over the earth as summer draws to a close. The swallows darted shrilly through the air, sometimes narrow like fish, sometimes whirling like small turbines. Sometimes they all hovered in one spot , sometimes they scattered with lightning speed in all directions across the entire valley. They screamed; they could shoot high like an arrow, they could fall like a stone, only to suddenly spread their wings and hover serenely like a bird of prey. And Ingeborg has tears in her eyes when she sees the sun, and tears in her eyes when she hears the swallows cry. “I’m so soft, like a child,” she says, and a tear falls onto her hand. “Never has my heart been so full of wonder and gratitude.” I sit with her, chatting or remaining silent, as Ingeborg wishes. I have never experienced more beautiful and quiet hours than the days of Ingeborg’s recovery. I have become silent with happiness, and my chest is always filled with tears, without being able to cry. Karl and I strive to do Ingeborg a thousand favors in a style that rarely attracts attention. Ingeborg’s rooms are constantly decorated with flowers, and she walks on carpets of white roses. Karl brings the entire forest into the house from his walks, bouquets of red and black berries that contain the juice and fragrance of summer. Yes, Karl even let himself be persuaded to read Ingeborg passages from his books that she particularly loved. His calm voice, his serene demeanor, have a soothing effect on Ingeborg; she seems stronger in Karl’s presence. And when Karl laughs, she pretends to laugh, and her cheeks flush. “Did you hear that, Axel, today Mr. Karl said, ‘Dear Mrs. Ingeborg,’ to me —haha! He’s never said it before.” I clear out the folders and bring the most wonderful pictures to Ingeborg, pictures you dream about once you see them, and lay them out in front of her, like a museum. Or I play the piano, all the pieces Ingeborg loves, and through the open window comes a warm, caressing wave, bathing her like the sun. Ingeborg is tired of seeing. She closes her eyes and lays her head back on the pillow and says, “Tell me Axel.” “What was the legend of the frozen vine? And the one about the lovers at sea? Tell me Axel, make something up.” I look at Ingeborg and a hundred stories come to mind. And I tell them. I tell her the story of the priest with the silver heart, I tell her the story of Karin, who wandered halfway around the world to find his wife. I tell her the story of Hermann Ecke, the lord of the manor at Entenweiher, whom Eva had left. They lived happily, Eva and he, but Eva left him for another. Why? No one knows. Will she always stay with the other man? No, she will probably come back to Hermann Ecke. And he waits, Hermann Ecke, for her to return. He plants a garden for her , he builds her a terrace. Years pass. Where is Eva? She doesn’t come back. But he waits and the years pass. For many years he was sad and dejected, but look at him now, he walks upright and erect with shining eyes. His friend asks: Do you think Eva will come back? — Hahaha, answered Hermann Ecke. Nothing else. Hermann Ecke’s hair turns white. His friend asks: What will you say when Eva returns? Queen, I will say, replied Hermann Ecke, your throne is ready. Let us talk of the days to come. The friend smiles sadly; Hermann Ecke has lost his mind. A lamp burns in Eva’s room, bouquets constantly adorn the vases. Every evening, Hermann Ecke stands on the tower and looks down the street, checking for a carriage. No, no carriage comes. The friend looks at Hermann Ecke and thinks: Soon you will die. Your heart is weak. He ponders. Yes, Eva has a sister who must come to tell him about Eva and to tell him that she will be back soon, Eva. The sister comes and speaks to the friend. Eva is dead, she died poor and abandoned. Do n’t tell him that, dear friend, says the friend, tell him that she lives in splendor and happiness and is much celebrated. Soon she will come to him. Yes! Then he enters, Hermann Ecke. And he turns his eyes to his sister – he adjusts his glasses – do you see it –? His eyes are filled with an unearthly glow. He spreads his hands – do you see it? – Eva’s sister! whispers the friend. Does Hermann Ecke hear it? No. He speaks: Queen, your throne is ready, let us talk of the coming days! Those were Hermann Ecke’s last words. — — “What do you say to that, Ingeborg?” Ingeborg nods, she smiles, and her eyelashes tremble and become moist. “Tell Axel! Invent something!« The hour is golden, the sun blesses the world. A smile lies on all things, even on the tips of the grass. The forests near and far are like high waves of liquid gold. A golden sky, and a shower of golden sparks sinking to the earth. In the west lie narrow clouds like A great glowing pile, upon which the sun burns, and its fire blazes across the sky. Golden leaves tremble in the golden sky; one cannot see the branches from which they hang. The forest beyond looks like a grotto with golden pillars, filled with sparkling jewelry. There walk horses and a servant; the horses are golden, the servant golden. A golden wind blows, and golden dew drips from the trees. I look at Ingeborg, whose face and hands the sun shines through. Her hair is the color of old gold, and a fine web of fire trembles above it. Her eyelids are closed, but they appear so thin that one thinks one can see the eyes beneath them. A tired, happy smile hovers on her narrow face, the kind only those convalescing and those in childbirth have, and lovers on the morning of a sweet night. Pazzo lies at her feet, and she has placed her feet on his breathing flanks . And I look at Ingeborg and begin in a low voice: “This time I’ll tell you about a beautiful queen, because I ‘m thinking of a beautiful queen right now. It’s the queen they called “Golden Heart.” Her name was Silvia. She was Nicolo Dandoldi’s wife, young, Nicolo old. Nicolo was called the one-eyed man with the victorious sword, known among the people as the Sleepless One. Later, the Transgressor. You’ll hear why in a moment. He was very cruel, like all kings in legends, and it was said that if he were to descend as many yards into hell as he had killed people, he would n’t see more light than the tip of a pin. Of course, a page appears in it too; you’ll hear it in a moment, Ingeborg. The page was called “Eye,” because he had beautiful eyes, all women knew that. ” Your eyes are beautiful,” said Silvia when she saw him for the first time. She spoke as if in a dream. Golden Heart loved Eye, and Eye loved Golden Heart. They met in the women’s garden and sat through the night beneath the bushes, in the secretive shadow cast by the palace over the garden. There they sat and chatted, and I knew everything they said to each other. Ingeborg knew too, and she smiled. How many nights they sat there! But the priest stalked them, and on a night as glorious and fragrant as no other, it happened. They had first seen each other at the time of the first cherry blossoms; by the time the cherries turned red, it was already over for them. They were destined to die. The king invited all the nobility, as if to a feast, and they sat in the galleries, dressed in the splendor of centuries of wealth. From afar, they might have appeared like baskets full of flowers that the gardeners were displaying for sale. Silvia and the page were brought in, and everyone turned pale, and their faces became as white as the candles the monks carried. When the two knelt down and the executioners stepped behind them, it became so quiet that each could hear his own heart beating. The king looked like a relic of yellow wax, such as one sees in churches. Silvia looked so beautiful and touching that a struggle between love and the thirst for revenge arose in the king’s heart. And he cried: “The queen has one request! But the lover’s life remains in my hands.” It was silent, and the queen’s sweet, girlish voice spoke: “I ask that the slave who sings so sadly at night on the Lido be sent back to his homeland.” The king laughed hoarsely. “The queen has one request,” he cried again, his voice gasping. Then Golden Heart begged that she be killed before her lover. She didn’t want to hear his head fall. But his lover objected. She should see heaven longer than he did, he said. For a long time they argued back and forth, each wanting to die first. The women in the gallery wept. And once again Silvia prepared to die. Then the king rose and bent over the gallery, gasping and crying: “The queen has one more request!” And he bored his gaze into Silvia’s eyes. But Silvia did not express the request he expected. “I beg permission to confess my sins,” she said. The king fell back into his chair and nodded. It was a strange confession of sin, Ingeborg, you will hear it. Silvia began by saying that she was young and asked the Mother of God to forgive her for being only seventeen. “I would rather have been seventy than become queen. But may the Mother of God have mercy on me, that I rejoiced in being so young when I saw my beloved. For by the wounds of the Savior, had I been old, I would have died of grief that same night .” And she told how she saw her beloved for the first time. “He stood in the hall of the woven walls, where so many men and women were dining and laughing silently that one felt as if one were walking among ghosts and became afraid. Then I saw him and he bowed to me, and I was frightened. I don’t know why. You have beautiful eyes! I said to him. By God, I didn’t know what I was doing. Only later did I remember what I had said. Is it fitting for a queen to stand still and speak such words? Certainly not. I did it. I couldn’t move from the spot, I trembled and laughed. Is it fitting for a queen to laugh like a child? But I did it. I met him again at the silver stairs; he was putting pillows in the king’s boat . He was very pale. Why are you so pale? I asked. And he replied: I am so pale because I love a girl and can never tell her. I wasn’t frightened—haha—no, for I knew very well who the girl was. Would you kiss the girl if you could? By God, I would. Then kiss me. He kissed me. Friends, it was daytime, it was in front of the palace, the seagulls saw it, the fish in the sea, and God’s thousand shining eyes; only you have God sealed his eyes.” And I told her how Golden Heart spoke continually of her beloved and her love, and never tired of praising her beloved’s beauty, his eyes, his lips, his hands, his voice , and singing the sweetness of their love. Yes, she spoke so much that the monks and nuns turned away. “Oh, you women up there!” she cried. “See me, fallen ones! But I tell you, I would never exchange places with you. I would gladly die for every one of his words and for every eyelash of his eyelids. How happy each of you would be if she could speak these words! Haha! You would feel no remorse if he had just once placed his arm around your neck; you would rather endure the deepest hell than go without one of his kisses. I know, yes, yes, yes!’ Thus spoke Silvia, and she couldn’t stop speaking of her beloved and the glories of their love. She didn’t speak, no, she rejoiced. She laughed and wept as she spoke, and her cheeks flushed with happiness. But Auge wept with bliss behind the hood they had pulled over his head, and he wept so much that the stones at his feet turned dark, even though the sun burned. The guests trembled. The king writhed beneath Silvia’s words and froze, becoming more and more rigid. Deep gray furrows appeared in his cheeks and temples. Then Silvia prepared herself to die again. She was so beautiful, and her face so serene, so radiant, as if she were being wed to her beloved and it were not to death. The executioners waited for the signal, but then the king raised his hand again. ‘Stop! Stop!’ he cried, panting and pondering. And he turned to the guests. “Look! Look! Look how lovely she is! How beautiful she is! Who has ever seen such a beautiful woman?” And he leaned far over the parapet and whispered: “One more request is open to you, most glorious Silvia, any request, whatever it may be—on my honor!” The guests cheered. What do you think Silvia was asking for? Yes, what else could there be to ask for? How? But as she opened her lips to express this wish, the king was suddenly overcome by his old fury. “Kill her, kill her!” he gasped, waving his arms as if he were hurling stones at her. Silvia’s head leaped over the sword. And when they were about to cut off Auge’s head, they found he was already dead.
“He is already dead, sir!” cried the executioner. “Fear killed him.” Fear——— “What do you say to that, Ingeborg?” Ingeborg was silent. Ingeborg shook her head. “You must let her escape, Axel, will you?” ” Yes!” And I told the story from that moment on: the guests cheered. And Silvia said: “If you are so merciful, sir, may God reward you. Grant us both life and freedom.” The king smiled and nodded. Then trumpets blared and the guests cheered so loudly that the roofs of the galleries flew up, and everyone went to dinner. Ingeborg smiled. It was a golden hour and the whole world, the forests, the valley, the castle, Ingeborg and I and Pazzo at Ingeborg’s feet, everything was made of gold, and the golden rain was still falling slowly from the sky. I felt that my heart was golden and it began to ring softly like a bell. Ingeborg smiled. She didn’t smile like she used to. “More beautiful than all your legends is that of Axel and Ingeborg. Ingeborg was close to death, but Axel cared for her with such devotion that she recovered and could not die. Is there a more beautiful story? No, no . . . . .” This hour was golden and it was my most beautiful hour. More beautiful than your legends is that of Axel and Ingeborg . . . . . Oh, Ingeborg. — — — — — — — — — — — — The days passed, and Ingeborg grew stronger and healthier with each passing day. But she still didn’t speak as before, but she still laughed as before. Ingeborg was still tired. Ingeborg walked around and meditated. She walked for hours into the forest and meditated. Her face was tanned like in summer when the sun was burning. What was Ingeborg meditating? I lay there for many nights and didn’t sleep. Ingeborg was not the same as before. The birds no longer sang as before. The fields had been mown. I lay there for many nights and didn’t sleep. But during the day, tiredness often overcame me, and I had to sleep. I often woke from my sleep; dreams tormented me. I dreamed again and again of that night when I fought for Ingeborg’s life. Terrors raced through my soul. Fists rose up and struck me down – and I awoke. I heard voices, threatening voices, I heard a roar, and the roar said: You dared! Had I done something wrong? I looked bad, as if I were ill. At times I even had a fever. How was my soul? It was like the valley, sun and cloud shadows, chasing cloud shadows. I rejoiced in the sun, I reached for it, wanted to banish it, I was happy, I didn’t think about the shadows. No, I didn’t want to think about them. Ingeborg loved me. She kissed me a thousand times. But her lips kissed differently, it was a different kiss. Chapter 22. There was a joyful night, a night full of singing, full of laughter, full of glances, kisses in the air. The sky was deep blue, stars, many stars, peace all around, holy peace, in the forest, in the valley. A hundred candles burn in my room, we celebrate the festival of recovery. Laughter, singing, happy words, and wine. What all happened that night? I don’t remember. We were happy and in good spirits; a hundred candles burned in my room. Like a flaming flowerbed, white stems, burning blossoms. It flashed and sparkled; I have never seen such brightness again, such eyes, such lips, such hands, never again. We drank, Ingeborg, and I, and Karl. Karl laughed, drank to Ingeborg, to me, to all the saints listed in the calendar. He read a little story, a brilliant, fine piece of work. It was called “The Spendthrift.” I love the spendthrifts, the spendthrifts who always waste, gold, thoughts, and feelings, who waste everything, everything, always! Yes, that was Karl! I hate the bourgeoisie, the shopkeepers, the calculators, down, down with the bourgeoisie, yes, down with the bourgeoisie! A bas, à bas! That was Karl. We drank to the health of the spendthrifts, we drank to the downfall of the bourgeoisie. Ingeborg sang. She never sang as beautifully as that night; for the first time, I no longer thought it was Ingeborg who was singing; it was a voice, the voice of a singer. I was joyful, my heart was light. Everything was forgotten, all shadows. Had I thought of shadows? I was foolish. Ingeborg’s gaze sought mine, it sparkled with seduction. Ingeborg kissed my ear as I sat at the piano and Karl couldn’t see. I cried out slightly. The piano giggled and laughed. I heard Ingeborg’s old voice again, I saw Ingeborg’s old eyes. Karl was brimming with ideas, and we laughed and marveled endlessly. He told a story about the homeless, sad and horrible details, but he told it in such a way that we couldn’t help but laugh at everything. The night passed. A rooster crowed. Then we all burst out laughing, but no one could have guessed why we were laughing, for the rooster crowed like a perfectly ordinary rooster. I stood up. “Friends,” I said, “listen! I have a suggestion for you. You are friends, Ingeborg and Karl. I wish you to be siblings. If you can do that, then call yourselves!” Ingeborg became embarrassed. Her eyes flickered. Karl said thank you, they could try that sometime. And Ingeborg said, “Yes,” and smiled. “Good!” I cried. “So kiss each other.” I laughed. It fell silent. What children they were, those two! Ingeborg looked at Karl, and I knew that look. I had seen it once somewhere, yes, it was up there on the hill, back when the wind blew. “Well, kiss each other then!” Karl gently took Ingeborg’s head between his hands and looked at her. He turned pale, and his eyes shone. He looked beautiful, embarrassed and triumphant at the same time. That was Karl’s real face. And he kissed Ingeborg on the mouth. Ingeborg blushed. She closed her eyes. Then they were both ashamed and silent. Such children they were. “One must light new candles,” said Ingeborg, embarrassed, and Karl filled his glass and drank to my health, with an embarrassed expression. Later, I ordered the carriage, and we drove into the forest; day was breaking. Ingeborg became quiet and sleepy and closed her eyes. “Are you tired, Ingeborg?” I asked. “No,” said Ingeborg. “I’m not tired at all.” She smiled with closed eyelids. — — — — — Ingeborg walks around with a smile on her lips, dreams in her eyes. When I call to her, she gets a fright and smiles at me. “What are you thinking about, Ingeborg?” Ingeborg smiles and leaves. “I won’t say, Axel,” she says, smiling back over her shoulder. Chapter 23. Ingeborg sang and chatted. It was Ingeborg’s old voice. I heard a step hurry across the corridor; it was Ingeborg’s old step. Ingeborg walked across the meadow; I called to her; she turned around; it was Ingeborg’s old movement. I was happy, like in summer, yes, but still, I was occasionally overcome by a faint, groundless fear, a feeling of dizziness. I thought it was still from that night—I wasn’t as healthy as before. Then something happened. It was one afternoon. I was walking through the park to look for Karl and Ingeborg. They wanted to go rowing on the lake. Karl had finished his work; he was tireless in pleasure as well as in work; there was always something to be done. He was always on the move, his laughter sounded hearty and loud. The child inside the poet dominated him during these days. I walked through the park, yes. I wasn’t happy, I didn’t know. why. But I discovered that autumn was coming. Wilted leaves hung here and there, the treetops were so dense that one could only see small, shimmering, bright stars in the sky; the trees had unfurled all their strength. A sweet, heavy, withered scent fell from the treetops; it smelled almost like a hovel. And there was a constant rustling in the park. That was the rustling of autumn, so quiet, so wearily, so steady. A bird chirped in its nest. It flicked its beak back and forth. It made a soft, touching sound; it sounded as if the bird were alone and abandoned in the park. Autumn was in the little bird’s blood; it didn’t know what to sing about. I arrived at the lake; Ingeborg and Karl were nowhere to be seen; the boat lay dry on the shore. I turned onto a narrow, moss-covered path , wondering where the two of them might be, when I unexpectedly saw Ingeborg’s dress shimmering through the dense bushes. I was happy. They’re sitting in the grotto, I thought, and quickened my pace. In the park, there was a grotto, an overhanging rock, a small, clear pool below it, into which, from time to time, at regular intervals, a drop fell. The drop caused a delicate tinkling in the water and in the grotto. It was a beautiful, mysterious music that one couldn’t hear without becoming melancholy and pondering the mysteries of the world. I was happy; there I would meet them, these two whom I loved so much. Why was my heart beating so fast? I heard Ingeborg’s voice speaking a few words. It was unspeakably beautiful to hear the voice of my beloved through the silence of the park. I walked quietly, perhaps she would speak again. She spoke again, and it sounded as if she were speaking in a pleading tone. I heard my name. My heart began to pound loudly. I smiled. I was standing not far from them, and they didn’t know I was standing there. How wonderful it would be to hear their words, and even what they were saying about me. Then I wanted to step out of the bushes, like the magicians in fairy tales, and say: I think exactly the same thing, Ingeborg, or something like that. And I looked forward to their surprised faces and their laughter. I heard the drop of water fall into the pool, and then Ingeborg spoke, and suddenly it seemed to me as if she were speaking from a distance. And yet I was standing only a few steps behind them. I saw Ingeborg’s neck, some coral beads on it, I saw a hat, Karl’s hat, and next to it a bony, slender hand pressing down the grass, Karl’s hand. “But what do you think?” said Ingeborg. “Don’t you love me then?” Bang—the drop fell. And Karl answered in a serious, steady voice: “I’m thinking of Axel’s noble heart and the hard work of my life.” My eyelids closed and my arms grew stiff. An eternity passed, then Ingeborg spoke again, even more quietly, even more distantly: “But what should I do? Karl, Karl, advise me! I can’t bear it any longer. I love Axel, yes, of course, but—” Then I managed to press my paralyzed hands to my ears. There was a dull roar in my ears, like near a steam boiler. Quietly and cautiously, I crept away, almost dancing on the smooth moss. My teeth chattered, the pain fell like an axe into my heart. But what should I do? Karl, Karl, advise me— I hurried faster, reached the wide avenue, a wind blew between the trees. Ah, how cold the wind blew! But what should I do? Karl, Karl— I wished to meet death. I ran, I staggered, I groaned— still I covered
my ears . —— … Karl didn’t reply. A lie flickered in Ingeborg’s voice, a secret remained silent in Karl’s . I smiled, I controlled myself. “You’ll be hungry, friends. Come!” I said. And I went ahead, and they followed me, Ingeborg and Karl. Chapter 24. The next day, Karl left; no amount of persuasion would stop him. “I must, Axel!” I let him go; I loved him. Ingeborg was pale, speechless. The fields have been mown. The meadows are brown-green. The sun still sparkles, but a light wind blows constantly, up from the valley, blowing away the sun’s rays. Summer is fading, autumn is coming, soon the crows will cry, I think. And in my mind, I see snow falling from the sky. It’s sultry in the house, and yet there’s a draft wherever you go. Your hands and feet freeze, a cold breath brushes down your back. It has become very quiet here now, and the clocks are ticking wherever you go. Ingeborg sits at the window and looks down the road that leads to the village. In front of the house in the meadow stands a birch tree, a new bench, but it is a different birch tree, a different bench. I smile and say to Ingeborg, “How quiet it is here, dear Ingeborg!” It is very quiet, yes, replies Ingeborg, looking up at me with a smile. I leave. This smile hurts me. So the day passes. Ingeborg sits at the window and looks down the road that leads to the village. I sit down next to her and say, “How we miss Karl. Such a kind man, such a wonderful man! How beautiful he was to look at when he was driving the carriage!” Like a Greek charioteer, he stood in the chariot and cracked the whip over the horses, shouting until the horses shied, and his long, red hair fluttered in the wind around his laughing, enraptured face.” Ingeborg smiles and looks down over the gloomy, gently swaying beech forests. Ingeborg laughs softly. “He was strange above all else, strange in everything he did. Do you remember how he said on the first evening that he thought women were really good creatures . And he told of a poor girl who had given him a cravat? How did that sound! And at the same time he was writing a poem, twelve songs in praise of women—haha!” “Yes, he was strange, you’re right, Ingeborg. Who is he after all? I never heard a syllable of complaint from his lips, never saw a hint of discontent in him. And yet he suffered so much. He is always cheerful and always giving.” Then Ingeborg speaks, raising her eyebrows meaningfully: “He is a wise man and a child. Oh, he is a human being! I found a passage in one of his books that says: You must be able to suffer to the point of despair and laugh to the point of madness, without despairing, without going mad. That says a lot about him.” And Ingeborg smiles and looks down the street, and a small frown is visible between her brows. Her eyelids are half-closed. I leave. This small, suppressed frown between her brows tears at my heart. So the day passes. And Ingeborg is pale, and there is a strange glow in her eyes. Where have I seen this glow before, this frozen expression? It comes to me: back then on the hill, that evening, before we kissed. Ingeborg laughs strangely and says, “Do you know where the fire lily gets its glow and the blackbird its song?” No, I didn’t. How could I know where the fire lily gets its glow and the blackbird its song? I had never concerned myself with these things. “Karl knows!” Karl knows. Am I a poet? No. Karl is a poet and should have known. Ingeborg looks past me, down at the road leading to the village, and says, “Karl has discovered a new theory of immortality. How great man is to him. He revealed it to me; he never spoke of it to anyone else.” “Do you know how one can explain affection and dislike? He spoke of lineages and that—” What do I know of these things? The day passes, a wind blows up from the valley. The forests take on bright yellow patches. A single burning-red tree stands in the distance in the green forest. I walk around and ponder. I go into the stables and watch the farmhands . I speak to them. I go into the barns where the fodder cutter whirs. It drives me around. Ingeborg! Ingeborg! Every day you go further away from me, Ingeborg. Soon I will no longer see you. Every day your voice sounds further away, a day will come when I will no longer be able to hear you. You will speak a foreign language . A great sadness spreads in my heart and everything wants to darken it. Oh, Ingeborg, Ingeborg! It drives me around. I touch a tree and say to the tree: Oh, Ingeborg! I wander back and forth. I can’t sit down for a moment. I gnaw my lips. Sometimes the terror paralyzes me, so that my heart stops. My face is frozen, it has become completely stiff. I feel as if I would collapse to my knees. Sometimes I feel it— Something is crumbling. It’s crumbling incessantly, I feel it, I hear it, it’s crumbling around me, inside me— I no longer sleep. I lie always, always awake. My head is racing . Towards morning, I fall asleep from exhaustion. I dream that I’m crying. I hear myself crying, I wake up, my eyes are dry, but something is crying inside me. I am astonished, I am frightened, something is crying inside me constantly. I don’t look well. I look aged. I feel Ingeborg’s gaze resting on my face. I feel that she regrets all the words she said about my face. I feel it. I speak to Ingeborg. I try to speak as kindly as possible. “Do you remember how we sat under the apple tree, it was in bloom?” Ingeborg is silent. “That summer was beautiful, Ingeborg?” Yes, it was beautiful, Ingeborg says in a listless, tired voice. Irritation lurks in it. That hurt me! I leave. It drives me around. I walk back and forth, and everywhere I stop and chat a few words with the servants. “Did she catch a little sun?” I say to old Maria, who is sitting by the window darning stockings. I speak gently, and I am moved, as if I were speaking to my mother. It is quite peculiar. “Yes, it is warm today. Winter will be here before you know it.” She believes that winter is coming early this year. “I think so too,” I say. “I even think it’s going to be a harsh winter.” The blackthorns had bloomed so profusely, yes. What a bird she had there. It looked quite sad. It probably didn’t sing. “A robin, sir. It doesn’t sing, no.” She had had a canary, and it had died. She thought it had died of fear of the cat. If she had thought that, the cat would n’t have come into the room. But she couldn’t stand the sight of an empty cage; until a new canary was available, she wanted to keep the robin. “Listen,” I say, “give me the robin. I’ll get you a canary. They’ve always been accustomed to sitting in cages, and they sing too.” Very well. I take the cage and go to Ingeborg. Ingeborg is sitting by the window, gazing out at the sunset. The day is gently ending, with a steady red in the west and trembling clouds in the high sky. Just like a spring day. The air is warm, ringing cries tremble up from the valley. “Look,” I say. “Oh!” says Ingeborg. “A robin belongs in the forest, not in a cage, Ingeborg, I think.” Ingeborg looks at the little bird with a compassionate smile and full of love, as if she were looking into the eyes of a poor, crying child. A beautiful red The bird has a chest into which it presses its clever head. Its eyes are black as berries and peer fearfully. I want to speak, but I can’t. In the meadow near the small birch tree stands an old farmhand, in shrunken trousers and a blue work coat, calling out to a farmer on the street. He’s talking about a church fair. He’s laughing, but he’s waving his arms as if he wants to start a fight. “It’s a poor little bird, glad to be free,” I say. Ingeborg thinks, what does he mean? She looks at me and her eyelids twitch in embarrassment. The farmhand in the meadow laughs and calls out: “All the Hohenfichteners were there. It was a hunt, haha!” Hahaha — someone replies from the street. And the farmhand bursts into laughter again. He laughs happily and youngly despite his gray hair. “See, Ingeborg, what I do with such caged little birds.” I open the cage. The robin stands under the door, whistles shyly, and turns its stretched little head left and right. If you don’t think you can fly away without further ado, it thinks—zit zit! It looks at the wide world and shakes its wings. I smile. “It doesn’t want to go. But the door is open. I’m not so cruel as to hold it back—” “Go, little bird, fly!” Zit! chirps the bird. It looks back quickly, then glides from the ledge and spreads its wings. It flies to the small birch tree, lands, and begins to sing. Then it soars high and flies into the valley, intoxicated, in a wide arc. He encounters some swallows and seems to be calling out to them, for the swallows suddenly change direction and escort him for a short distance. I cannot look Ingeborg in the eye, so I watch the little bird as it flies off into freedom. Soon it looks as if a butterfly is flying in the reddened sky. Then only a tiny dot trembles above the valley, dancing up and down. “You see, I’m not so cruel as to hold him back? I rejoice with him in his joy.” Then I meet Ingeborg’s gaze. She has understood. She looks at me, and I see that she wants to do something to thank me. But she doesn’t dare. She just looks at me. We shake hands. In front of the house, the farmhand is still talking about the church fair and the dance in Rotenbuch. I hear it, understand every word, even though my heart is breaking. Chapter 25. That night I lay stretched out in my room and didn’t move. I lay and looked up at the ceiling and didn’t move. Then something crept, something crackled and rustled. Ingeborg slid to the floor next to me. She embraced me and kissed me, she kissed every part of my face, my neck, my hands. She wept; I didn’t hear it, but I felt her tears. They bathed my face, my neck, my hands. I felt so good, so good. I thanked her. I became joyful, I was happy. More, more, I thought. Then she whispered: “I certainly remember how we sat under the blossoming apple tree. I remember everything, everything, Axel. I won’t forget anything, nothing.” And she talked about our spring, our summer, over and over again, every detail. I felt so good, so light . . . Chapter 26. A new morning came—it had to come, the sun had to rise. — The sun rises, and the castle windows shine as if lit for a celebration. It’s cool, and mists drift across the valley. The forest smells damp, it glitters , and dew beads on the grass. Cobwebs hang from the blackberry bushes and between the stalks, and in each one lies an oval dewdrop, like a finely spun cradle. There’s a rattle, and the carriage pulls up. I step out of the house, Pazzo follows me. I speak to the coachman. Maids carry the luggage. Then Ingeborg comes down the stairs, buttoning her gloves. She’s wearing a wide-brimmed hat, which is striking, as she’s never worn a hat all summer. The hat changes her, the traveling coat; she looks almost like a stranger. “It’s lovely traveling weather, Ingeborg,” I say. I smile, wanting to make it easy for her. Ingeborg has tears in her eyes. “Forgive me, forgive me,” she whispers, imploring me with her eyes. “Calm down, Ingeborg!” “I can’t help it. It’s my destiny!” “I know that.” The horses paw the ground. Pazzo barks and circles the carriage. The coachman sits stiffly, ready to drive off. “Goodbye, Ingeborg!” “Oh, Axel!” “Give my regards to Karl!” ” Thank you, Axel!” “If you want to visit me, I’m always happy to have a visit, you know that.” “Of course, of course I’ll visit you.” I’ll visit you soon.” “If you want to rest, nowhere is quieter than here, you know that.” “I’ll think about it. Write soon, Axel! Promise!” “I’ll write.” Ingeborg hastily fumbles with her gloves and pulls them off her hands. “Goodbye, Axel!” “Ingeborg, goodbye!” We kiss. I stand on the running board of the carriage, and Ingeborg puts her arms around me. Farmhands and maids stand under the courtyard gate, understanding nothing. The horses pull forward, the carriage rolls down the street. Pazzo howls piteously, barks, looks at me. Goodbye! Goodbye! Ingeborg stands in the carriage and waves her handkerchief. I can still see her eyes clearly and the pleading expression on her face, shining beneath the broad hat. The tufts of curls shimmer golden. Now I can no longer see the eyes; something pale shimmers beneath the hat. The white handkerchief flutters. The car turns the corner, it has become very small. A white dove flutters in the forest, a metal fitting flashes, nothing can be seen anymore. Forest, forest, forest – Pazzo whines and barks. He jumps up at me. “Pazzo!” Pazzo flies down the mountain in great leaps. That’s one last greeting, isn’t it? Goodbye, Ingeborg! – – I have a taste on my lips. Chapter 27. Now Ingeborg is gone. – I see a man climbing the steps to the house. He climbs and climbs, how many steps are there? He doesn’t look back. He stands in front of the door, opens it, it is heavy. He doesn’t look back. He disappears into the house. He climbs the stairs, he walks down the long white corridor. He stops, his eyes close. This is a man who lost everything he owned. He turns pale. Two words are scrawled on a white door. He looks over his room. It is his room. There he looks, looks into his room, and dares not enter. He dares not, no! This room is empty, empty. Scream, laugh, fall down? How? No, none of that. A trembling in my hands, a shaking of my knees, that’s all. Desperate gestures within me, deep within me. Confused, racing images in my head, they are breaking, others are coming, broken. They are breaking. I sit down in a chair. I smile. I have a taste on my lips. Adieu, adieu. I take my leave. Dewdrops, pleading eyes, a bare hand. A voice. It hovers above me like a song. I bow to the voice. I smile. I stand on the running board and put my arm around Ingeborg. How desperately the smile wandered back and forth across her face? And her eyes, which blessed, blessed! Praised be you for all eternity, Ingeborg! I love you. My heart convulses, my head goes dark. Yes, now she’s gone. I’ve lost everything I owned. I stand up. I’m spinning in circles. Everything goes black before my eyes. Should I fall? If only I could! Just a little bit. Collapse once, scream, just for a second. No, I won’t. I stand upright, I fight. I begin to wander. My wandering. begins. It lasted weeks, months, now it began. Into the forest? No, there it is. Perhaps even into the white rooms? Where to? Into the cellar? There it is too. What I have been, what I was, what I could be: sun, happiness, beauty, wealth. All lost. The wandering is over. No, I did not collapse, I did not sob, I did not dig my nails into my temples. That is not true, I did not do it. I tore a handkerchief into strips, that is what I did, yes, that! I wandered. If only I could walk. On the road were the marks of wheels and hooves. Footprints. I discovered my shoe print, I discovered her shoe print. I looked at it. I felt watching faces behind me, so I walked. Tomorrow this mark in the dust would no longer be visible. It is etched in my memory; I often dreamed of the mark in the white dust. I went into the forest, stood still. Goodbye, goodbye, I kept saying goodbye. I went back into the house, reappeared, and stood again by the small track in the dust. The carriage returned from the station. The coachman jumped down from the box, and a groom came and unhitched the horses. I asked the coachman, “Where’s Pazzo?” The coachman hadn’t seen him again. At the station, he saw him for the last time. God knows where that dog is. Yes, God knows— haha! This carriage was terribly empty. This empty carriage was a miserable sight. The upholstery was smooth, nothing could be seen on the upholstery. A groom came with a brush. “Leave it. Push the carriage into the shed. Put a blanket over it, just as it is. The carriage is old-fashioned; I’ve ordered a new one.” I entered the house. “I’d better have something proper cooked for me, Mother,” I said to old Maria. “I’m terribly hungry; I got up early this morning.” Old Marie had something on her mind. You could tell right away from the way she turned around. “Just speak.” How long her mistress was going away? It was impossible to say exactly. Perhaps a month, perhaps a year. She had traveled to Paris. “To Paris?” “Yes, you understand, to learn to sing.” But she could already do that. “Mother, haha, you speak so well. How can you talk about such things?” Of course she could already sing, beautifully, very beautifully. But everything has to be learned, these days, in schools. You see, you can be very clever and learned, but if you haven’t been to many schools, no one will believe you and you won’t gain anything from it. It’s the same with singing. The day passed slowly. I had nothing to do. The shadow of the little birch tree slowly revolved in a circle. Pazzo wasn’t there yet. So you last saw him at the station? Yes, sir. And then not again? No, sir. I stole into the coach house. I lifted the blanket that had been spread over the carriage. It stood there covered in dust. I searched the upholstery, dust around the buttons, nothing else. There was nothing to be found. I took my hat and walking stick and whistled. I remembered that Pazzo wasn’t there. I smiled. I walked down the street, the same street. I could clearly make out the wheel tracks, including Pazzo’s. He was in a hurry. His tracks looked like large exclamation marks. I came to the place where he had caught up with the carriage. The carriage had stopped, and Pazzo had jumped into it. I saw all this from the tracks. In the village, the carriage’s tracks disappeared, then reappeared behind the village. It pulled me through the valley, over the mountain, past the red beech trees. All the shops were closed there. It pulled me to the station. I stood on the platform and watched the tracks. An official stepped out and greeted me. “I’m looking for my dog,” I said. Yes, oh yes, that dog. It was a pub. The dog did n’t want to stay outside. He howled and whined. The princess would have been quite moved. So, so. I walked along the tracks. There was sand here, I couldn’t find Pazzo’s tracks. These tracks. They shone. I touched them with my finger. I watched them. They seemed so strange to me. They pulled me, pulled me. I rolled along them, flying, flying. I saw a gigantic, bright yellow oak tree by the embankment. I looked at it. Surely she had noticed it. I became a train, rushing, flying through the woods and meadows, the woods and meadows turning toward me. Again, there I stood at a station and looked at a head behind a window. A round, fine head, smooth golden hair, tufts of curls falling to the shoulders . Then I walked straight through the forest home. I always stood on the running board of the carriage. My head was racing. My hands trembled. I had secretly hoped to find Pazzo. He hadn’t returned yet. Well, patience! I hadn’t thought that the sun would set, that night could come today. But everything went on as if nothing had happened. Suddenly everything turned red, soaked with the blood of the sun. Even my hands. Peace and beauty everywhere, my heart raged. Then, with horror, I saw it getting darker, darker and darker. Ashes fell to the earth. Dark shadows rose from the woods, wandered back and forth, and crouched down. It became quiet, as quiet as it had never been. Silence, silence. Not the silence one can still hear, no, a deeper , inaudible silence, a horrible silence that paralyzed me. Empty, everything empty. Now night fell. Pazzo hadn’t returned yet. I paced back and forth. I waited, yes, what was I waiting for? I waited for the house to collapse on me. I mindlessly went to the grand piano and struck a key. It was a bright note, Ingeborg’s note. Everyone has their own tone. I just had to get my hands on Ingeborg’s tone, too . I lit a candle, but the flame whispered, it spoke, a face appeared in the flame. I extinguished it again; the flame knew far too much. I paced back and forth. It was dark. I went to the window. Everything was black. Even the air was black. The stars fell from the sky and shattered on the dark fields. I shivered. Suddenly I saw a room in front of me, a lamp in it, two people under the lamp, a face emerging into the circle of light. I saw it so clearly. I closed my eyes. Yes, Karl could have Ingeborg if Ingeborg only wanted it. He alone, yes. He had never known happiness, hunger and worry and nights of work, he needed Ingeborg. Then it was Karl, the poet! I, on the other hand, who was I compared to Karl? I could live alone—yes, even alone, I thought, and paced back and forth, my body stiff. I shivered. Everything was empty, everything. I thought of the footprints in the dust, the tracks in the sun. I saw someone take off their gloves. I saw a face slipping away in the distance, a pair of eyes that grew smaller and smaller. A scarf fluttered in the forest. I pressed my fingers over my eyes and pressed my thumbs against my temples. I sat and thought, thought, thought on and on. Then I heard a soft whimpering, like a child whimpering. I was frightened. I stood up, cleared my throat, and paced back and forth again. My happiness, my summer, Ingeborg, every step, every laughter in my head and the other in my head, I paced back and forth. I had known for several days that the other would come, that this night, when everything was empty, would come; I had known it, my soul prepared—but—— No, no, no! I stood in my room, pressed my hands over my eyes, and kept saying the same word. No, no, no . . . The night passed, the day dawned. How did that night pass? God knows. I know too. I don’t think so. about it. I didn’t throw myself on the floor, I didn’t tear my hair and tear my chest—no, whoever says that is lying. I just had a little blood on my chin, that was all. Old Maria discovered it; I hadn’t wiped it away. I smiled as best I could; it wouldn’t go well this time—no, but I managed it nonetheless. “Hasn’t Pazzo come?” No. “The rascal!” I said, smiling. I saw my face as I said it, my smile. My voice had changed. Old Maria stared at me and backed out the door. Of course, I couldn’t look like a bridegroom. Only a few days later did I discover it: many, many of my hairs had turned white. I was very sad about it. Chapter 28. The days of loud pain came. Almighty Spirit above the stars, Father of men, have mercy on me. A new heart, a new brain! I beg you, a new heart, a new brain! Have mercy on me! — — A prayer was within me, my lips did not whisper it, my soul spoke it. Once I lay in the woods at night, and I heard my soul speak it, I listened, I understood. They were these words. I thought I could not be more unhappy than I was that first night. I thought I had reached the very core of unhappiness. No. I was destined to sink deeper and deeper. That first night was the first step, then I went step by step downward, ever deeper, ever deeper. I wrung my hands, I lay night after night in the woods and clenched my teeth, I wandered about, through night and rain, with a confused mind. The trees wove themselves into Ingeborg’s face, the woods, the clouds, wherever I looked, there it was, there it smiled, there it shimmered. I saw it in the starry sky. And when I closed my eyes, it was inside me, Ingeborg’s face sparkled inside me in the colors of the diamond. Everywhere there were shouts, everywhere whispers, smiles, words, songs. If only I were ill! Sick, for long weeks, and then awake, renewed, healthy—oh, oh! If only I had to endure physical pain that would make me forget what was hurting so much inside. Once it hailed, I remember, I took off my hat, the scythes struck me on the head, on the face, on my lips and eyes, it was like a chastisement that heaven had inflicted upon me. That felt good. I understood much, much that I had never understood before. The monasteries where they no longer spoke a word, only knelt, kneeled, sliding along long corridors on their sore knees, I understood the flagellants who flogged their backs, the hermits in the deserts. That was bliss, oh, that was bliss compared to everything else, compared to what was going on inside. I understood the drunkards, the criminals, the wretched, the depraved. I remembered Harry Usedom, standing before us in the forest, drumming his heart with his fingers. I remembered Claire Davison, standing before me once, saying three words: Farewell! I didn’t understand her, not that look. I have sinned against her, sinned grievously. Oh, if someone loves you, be kind and gentle to him, wander, wander until you find him, throw yourself on your knees and thank him! I wandered around. Days and nights. For long days I didn’t return to my house. For long days I didn’t enter a human dwelling. I was there deep inside the forest. I talked to myself, to the trees—— A new heart, a new brain! It prayed within me, prayed — — I often told Ingeborg that I loved her. No, I did n’t love her. I believed it, yes, I wasn’t lying, but I only loved her the moment she left me. I didn’t know what love was, no. Now I knew. I could no longer find a word for this love, which was the real one. Flames, roaring, that was it. It tore my heart apart. It was as if knives were cutting crisscross in my heart. That was it. I walked through the forest, it was night, it rustled in the forest, the leaves fell. I walked, I walked beside Ingeborg. I spoke to her. “I love you,” I said, “Ingeborg, now, yes, now I love you! Now you are in me, now—no words—” The tears streamed from my eyes. I knelt down and pressed my forehead into the ground. “Now I love you, Ingeborg, now.” My face stung, needles and twigs pricked, I pressed my forehead deep into it, it hurt, I lifted my face, it was studded with needles. “Now I love you, Ingeborg! now!” —————— But if God had stepped down from his starry chariot to me in the forest where I suffered and despaired, if he had done it and said: I will give you a new heart, a new brain! Look, now I will extinguish everything, everything. No, no, my God, don’t do it! I would have screamed that. The days passed, I grew calmer. Yes, it’s true, my heart still trembled, as if it were shifting its position in my chest, as if something were gnawing at it, as if something heavy with sharp teeth hung on my heart. It’s true, I often woke up at night crying, and I slept little, but I had become calmer. I met Harry Usedom in the forest. We looked at each other. We greeted each other. We passed each other. Chapter 29. Sorrow filled my heart. A heavy, deep sorrow, it filled my heart, rising to my throat, my eyes. I thought tears would fall from my eyes as soon as I bowed my head. So I didn’t bow it; I walked upright. That was autumn. The leaves were changing color; it was as if the earth was sending its blood into the branches, to look out, to spy, for the long winter sleep was about to begin, when it would know nothing more. The wind blew, and the leaves fell. First from the topmost branches, then all the way down. The trees stood bare, naked, grieving, despairing, resigned. They smiled in the dull sun, like dying people smiling. There were individual leaves that desperately struggled, refusing to fall. But the wind tore and tore, and finally, it tore them free and threw them, raw and triumphant, into the air. And it seemed to me as if I could hear the fluttering leaves screaming. The birds gathered, they screamed, made noise, and one day they soared into the air and flew away. It became quieter, quieter. Even the crickets no longer chirped at night. There was weeping in the forest, a suppressed sob wandering through the middle of the woods. The leaves fell from the chestnut trees in front of the house, there was a loud bang, a fruit burst on the steps. Now only a few leaves hung on them, they looked like twisted, withered hands. The house stood bare, naked, shorn, exposed; it had grown larger, larger, and more desolate. The entire valley gave the impression of a room stripped of curtains, carpets, and pictures. Dirty gray clouds dragged themselves across the valley. I thought of the foamy white clouds of summer, floating across the blue sky, ornaments, as it were, an adornment of summer. I thought of the autumn of the previous year, which had ignited my heart with its fervor, its pride, its jubilant death. I was sad; I felt nothing anymore, no colors, no fervor; everything was dirty, tired; it was an autumn that died an ugly, cowardly death. I walked through the park, which lay there without a sound. It was a cemetery in which a great corpse slumbered. I passed the statue, the fountain, and stood still for a moment at the grotto. The drop fell. I went through the gate and out into the forest. There was a path, and I smiled and said, “Here you walked, kind Ingeborg, on those nights—” I said it in a gentle voice, and it did me good to say it very kindly, as if Ingeborg, the good one, were hearing it. I placed my palm on the ground and stroked it. Perhaps Ingeborg’s foot had slipped across it? One cannot say. I found a pebble that had been trodden into the path. Perhaps Ingeborg’s foot had trodden the path? Should I take it with me? No. But I turned around and took it with me. Perhaps? No one can say. Holy earth, holy land, holy forest! I knelt down and kissed the forest floor. Holy land, here her feet walked! Holy trees, she passed you by! And the trees, desecrated by autumn, swayed sadly back and forth and lamented softly. They mourned with me, and the whole forest whispered Ingeborg’s name. I walked through the forest and listened. It was good that everything mourned with me. I was frightened when I saw a stone on which we had sat; I was frightened when I saw a tree we both knew. I was happy, I suffered. Oh, listen, I found a tall, solemn silver fir in the forest, under which we once sat when it rained. Ingeborg peeped out from her hiding place and caught raindrops with her mouth. I love the little raindrops, she said. And then she listed everything she loved, as the rain poured down and we sat beneath a waterfall. I love the little raindrops, Axel, yes. Oh, I love wind and weather, I love hail and snow, I love the sun more than anything, the clouds, the trees and the rustling of the trees, I love the birds more than anything, and especially the glowworms, and the lightning too, they laugh at me, and you, you, Axel, you more than anything, everything, more than a thousand suns and more than all the starry nights and the wildest thunderstorm — I walked past the silver fir and smiled, but I had to bow my head back. Not a single bird was singing in the forest anymore, no. I walked to Count Flüggen’s castle, saw the gate with the mossy lions holding out their coats of arms, I walked through our birch grove, I came to our apple tree. It stood bare. Brown, leathery leaves dangled from the stems. Rotten fruit lay in the withered grass. Once, in the bright spring, I shook it and the blossoms fell over a golden crown — — I went to the hill where the bench stood. The valley lay there as if seen through yellow glass. Wilted and tired and luminous, like the face of a dying man radiating a strange light. The meadows were brown and marshy, with autumn crocuses growing there. The pits were filled with withered leaves; they were graves; summer lay in them, the hope and joy of summer and its fragrance. Beside the bench stood a thistle; it looked like the gray head of an old, dirty woman with hair standing on end. The fields had been mown. The stubble hurt me; it felt as if I were walking barefoot across the stubble fields. I thought of spring, when the seeds sprouted, so young and green, it tickled my heart, and then, as they grew, and they planted the green flags and waved them with joy. Then came the time when the valley roasted like a great pan and every spot in the air began to sing, the wheat gleamed like brass and the corn red like a fox’s fur. There was greeting, nodding , and bowing as we walked through the fields! And the crickets chirped in the fields, it sounded as if a thousand tiny blacksmiths were busy deep within the earth, hammering fine silver. Then came the bad days, the sickle plucked and rustled, and one day the ears of corn lay there, felled, stiff, on their faces, like shot soldiers. That hurt us both greatly. I stood in the wind, the feather on my hat purring, in the middle of the bare autumn, and thought of summer, and the stubble ached; it seemed like cripples to me. I continued on. I wandered around, visiting all the benches, stones, and clearings, all shrouded in memories. There were many sacred places in the forest, places I never entered; I only gazed upon them from afar. Melancholy secrets lingered in my breast. These were my usual paths. Then it grew dark, the sun soon disappeared, and after a brief farewell, behind the mountains. It was autumn, autumn. The wind blew cold. Surely it would soon be dark and cold in the world, for many, many weeks. All things that anticipated winter and the dark nights were already freezing. It was a long time until spring. I gazed into the forest, which was brown-black in the depths. Ah, how sad it must have looked in there. And I thought—how I came to that conclusion, I don’t know—I thought—this is how it must be: Under a rotten mushroom, there sits a dwarf in the dark forest, mending his winter coat of moleskin with chattering teeth. A snail shone a light for him. I’m going to die, lamented the snail. I’m going to live, replied the dwarf, his teeth chattering. You snails have it good! It’s a long time until spring! I entered the house. Perhaps there was also a dwarf in the forest, a gray, tired dwarf, digging himself into the earth with his own hands. It was so quiet in the house, and everywhere there seemed to be someone who wanted to say something. I whistled. A door opened, and old Maria’s bald head appeared, round and round, in the bright crack. “It’s me,” I cried loudly. “Did they take care of the newspaper ad about Pazzo?” “Yes, sir.” “Then it’s good. He’ll be here soon, our dear Pazzo. Haha. Good night, Mother!” “Good night too, sir.” Now came the night, the long night. I slept very little in those first weeks. I sat in the library and read. I played the piano. Then Ingeborg came in every tones, in every gesture; it was beautiful, but often I had to stop. I sat on the windowsill in the white rooms and waited for morning. Ingeborg was around me. A scent of woodruff filled the white rooms; I had never noticed it so strongly before. In the morning, the early sun lived there. Billions of shimmering sparks swarmed
through the white rooms, flying into my eyes so that I had to close them, blinded. At night, a ghostly, dull light trembled over everything, and the wilted bouquets in the vases and jugs began to give off fragrance. Their scent was the scent of the past; you knew someone had lived here. Petaled roses lay on the floor, yellow pollen on the tablecloth. A faint scent of Ingeborg’s clothes, her neck, her hair, floated from the dead furniture. I sat on the windowsill, in the blue moonlight, and chatted with her. Just as I once did. We had conversations, and I imitated Ingeborg’s voice as best I could. We sometimes had joking conversations; I acted clumsy, ignorant. We laughed. We chatted. The moon rises, I say: “The moon is a letter of silver that the sun writes to the children of the earth because she is away on a journey, Ingeborg.” Old words. “Shall I give you the moon, Ingeborg?” Ingeborg laughs. “I’ll give you the butterflies of a hundred summers, Axel. Will you?” Old words. Sometimes I shudder. It is so quiet in the white rooms and I am speaking to a ghost. I crept around these rooms, crept, whispered. I felt the furniture. There was a pillow where her head had recently rested. You could see it — — — These rooms drew me back again and again! Here was her voice, her song! Often the rooms began to sing quite distinctly. The door that led to the bedroom stood half open; it seemed to move and still creak softly. I discovered traces of their footsteps on the carpets, I found a blotting paper on which a Christmas tree was scribbled, a cow, a monogram woven from A and I. On a table lay a book by Karl, many passages marked with fine lines. I also found a golden hair between two pages. How shocked I was when, quite suddenly, I found this golden hair! I might have kissed it; yes, surely, it had been wrapped around my neck. All day I rummaged through golden hair, I bathed in it, I let it stroke my face. I found a passage in Karl’s book that Ingeborg had underlined. It said: We looked at each other. Your soul embraced mine and they would n’t let go, and yet we stood many steps apart. Then you left. I left too. Truly, like two fish in the sea, we passed each other by. That’s human nature. I heard Ingeborg sigh. I fled. There was singing in the night. It sang wonderfully. I awoke and listened. The voice faded. I smiled and pressed my hands to my heart. One night, a dog barked in front of the house. I jumped out of bed. Was it Pazzo? No, there was nothing to be seen. Now there was howling deep in the forest. I dressed and ran into the woods. I whistled. Nothing moved but the sound of falling leaves. Chapter 30. One afternoon, two people walked into my house, two people who were laughing and in good spirits. Harry Usedom, with the narrow, tall woman’s head, and a red-haired whirlwind with freckles, trusting eyes, and a small nose, an Eggern Weikersbach, Isabella was her name. She was a cousin of mine. Usedom’s student, now his wife. “He married me out of desperation!” she said. She laughed, could n’t sit still for a moment, and pushed her hat back and forth on her head. Harry Usedom talked and talked. They both entertained me, laughed, ordered coffee, wine, and cognac, and acted as if they wanted to settle down. I could tell they’d come to distract me. “We’ll play you all of Mozart, Axel.” I tried to be cheerful with them, to chat with them, but it did n’t work. I smiled now and then. Isabella slapped Harry Usedom across the mouth when he got cheeky. Well, they left again. “We come every day, Axel!” No excuses!’ They left, and Isabella came back again. She hugged me and snuggled up to me. ‘Listen,’ she said, ‘what’s the matter with you? What do you look like? You look like a corpse! All green and waxy. Axel, confess!’ I smiled. ‘Oh, Axel, improve yourself. What a merry fellow you were, back then. I told everyone, it’s nothing, you should see Axel! Now goodbye, you!’ — — I looked at myself in the mirror. Yes, I looked like a corpse. Why was it? Was it because I was always living with a ghost? — — — They came again, Usedom and Isabella, I wasn’t at home. They invited me to Rote Buche. They sent the car to pick me up. No, I didn’t go. Didn’t they notice that I couldn’t see people? Chapter 31. The castle lay in the bare mountain forest, in the rain, in the wind, crouching beneath the trailing clouds, it looked deserted. It was silent, like a house where someone has died. The days were long, and the nights even longer. It rained and blew; the world had its gloomiest soul. These days and nights were not easy to bear. In the most beautiful hours, I dreamed that Pazzo would return and I could speak with him; in the most beautiful hours, I dreamed of Ingeborg. A rush of excitement roared through the wide halls, the flowers on the wallpaper bloomed again, the faces on the walls smiled again, many candles burned in my room, and I paced back and forth with a drunken heart. It was summer. Ingeborg laughs and asks, “How many times will you kiss me today?” I stand before her, my chest expanding. “A thousand times!” I say. And Ingeborg puts her hands over her face, shakes herself, and laughs. It’s summer, and the birds are singing in the park, so loudly that you’d think one of them was frantically shaking a bundle of bright bells in its hand. The sun is sparkling. Hello! A rainbow is the gateway to this house! The candles are extinguished, one after the other; it’s getting darker around me and darker in my heart. I sit before the last candle and watch it grow smaller. So time passes, it melts, and you can see it. I am alone, the guests have left. And I think: life is hard, it presents difficult tasks. Seek your happiness, oh man! Live your happiness, oh man! Smile again after sobbing with joy, oh man! Life speaks and doesn’t bat an eyelid. One night, as the wind rattled the windowpanes, I came up with the idea of ​​writing to Ingeborg. I wrote all night long and my heart felt lighter. I wrote: Ingeborg, Ingeborg, why did you leave me? Yes, why? Did n’t I love you? Wasn’t it beautiful this spring and summer? I ask you, it’s not meant as a reproach, no. You saw Karl, you saw Karl’s real face, his real face. Then you must have. I am writing to you. You will never receive these letters, but it is so temptingly beautiful to write to you. If only you knew how lonely it is at my place. Nothing stirs in the rooms. I
slam the doors, I whistle, but the silence descends upon me all the more terribly. If only you knew what I endure! Perhaps you would come to me for an hour. Perhaps you would write me a few words. Yes, you are so kind, you certainly would. If only you knew everything. Ingeborg, greetings! I think of you constantly. You mustn’t blame me in these first weeks. As soon as I’m no longer saying goodbye to you, things will be better. Ingeborg, I see you. You smile, and sparks leap from your eyes, bright like the sparks that leap from a stone. Ingeborg, you are a golden, round ring, you are a golden sphere, yes, you are, for the sphere is the Creator’s signature, you are like the soft air in spring when the snow melts, Ingeborg. You are a white bellflower full of dew. How much I write to you, Ingeborg! But it’s only ten o’clock, and the night is long. Now I’m writing you a little more. Ingeborg, I continue, I feel it when you think of me. I ‘m reading, but then I suddenly become uneasy. You’re standing behind me, you ‘re gently stroking the top of my head and touching the stray hairs, I can feel it. Ingeborg, it could be that your face is floating in the air, or just the glow of your cheek, a smile from your mouth. Ingeborg, listen, some nights you come to me and place two tears under my eyelids. Then I wake up, for the tears begin to glow, and I find them on my cheek. Ingeborg, sometimes you speak to me, you speak like someone who turns away and wants to leave. Axel, you whisper, why am I leaving you? How beautiful our love was! Fate beckoned. I didn’t want to hurt you. Axel. No, never, you dear one, how could you have wanted that? Go and be happy. Everything will be fine, just let a few more days pass. By the time I’m no longer saying goodbye to you, you know————— Ingeborg, Ingeborg, ten thousand beautiful names for you quickly came to mind! Ingeborg is combing her hair. I’m thinking of that. Ingeborg loved combing her hair; she could spend hours doing it. And I could watch for hours. There was so much hair! It was like streams, trickling, cascading over her shoulders, over her chest. When she shook her head, it moved from head to toe, wafting like flames. It could envelop her face so that it looked as if from a cave. Then her eyes shimmered so proudly and kindly. She tamed the loose hair with her hand and turned her head to the left while running the comb through it. I never saw her turn her head to the right. And it crackled. “It’s crackling especially loudly today!” said Ingeborg. The hair lay on my hand, a net, a web, it was soft, it caressed me. You couldn’t imagine what it was, hair, no, it was something quite wonderful. Then they tied it up and wound it behind her neck. I watched it go. Ingeborg combs her hair. I think about it. Hours pass. It’s strange how insignificant things can become events. From a time when I kissed a pursed mouth and cried: Every day is now a wedding, you! I have a taste on my lips. Sometimes it disappears, but it always reappears. I feel it in the morning when I get up, and that is my whole happiness for the day. It may be that I lose the taste on my lips, but I dream of it at night; I wake up, it is on my lips. Then I dare not go back to sleep. — — — What should I do? Should I read? I don’t understand a single line. Should I play the piano or the violin? Ingeborg is in every key. Should I clear the forest, drain a meadow, dig a canal for shipping and trade? Should I travel far away, to where the railway ends and then wander, wander –? Yes! But what if Ingeborg should think of visiting me at Edelhof? — — — During this time I thought a lot about the story of Hermann Ecke, the lord of the manor at Entenweiher, whose wife left him. At the time of Ingeborg’s recovery I had told it to Ingeborg. Was n’t it strange? Did my soul have a premonition of what was to come? I often thought about the story of Hermann Ecke, who believed that Eva would come back to him. He planted a rose garden for her, he built a veranda for her. Always fresh bouquets in the vases, a lamp burning all night in her room. Hurry, hurry, you people. Yes, now Eva could come. The friend says to Hermann Ecke: Will she come too? Hahaha, answers Hermann Ecke. That’s all he answers. Of course Eva will come back. I have experienced wonderful things, she will say, everyone has adored me. Queen, your throne is ready – ah, a fool! Yes, Hermann Ecke is a fool. But a happy fool he is. — — — — — — — — — — — — — One night the stag screamed in the mountains. I stood at the window and listened to its scream. Then the thought rose up in my heart for the first time, quite clearly, demanding and strong. I wrestled with it. For weeks and months I wrestled with it, with this thought. I was sad, sad. I went about in sackcloth and ashes. I no longer laughed, I rarely smiled. I loved to dance and shout for joy, I loved to carry splendid thoughts in my head, I loved to hear my heart beat. Yes, that summer there were symphonies within me, symphonies, without end, without end. Now I was banished from my kingdom, a beggar, dragging himself along, hunger in my eyes. Once I walked, now I crawled. I wish the sun would go blind, I wish the world would crumble into rubble, rubble. The hand of fate has crumpled my face; it seems strange to me. My eyes are closed and they sting, a deep crease splits my brow, bitterness has lined my lips. I am unhappy. It is a small word. Woe betide you if one day you can say nothing else but this. Chapter 32. The night the first frost fell, I had a wonderful dream. I dreamed that Ingeborg was standing by my bed. I saw her standing there, it was like summer, the moon shone through the chestnut trees, and the floor of the room looked like a mirror shattered into a thousand pieces. Ingeborg, too, glittered. I awoke: it was empty and cold around me. I got up and walked down the mountain, across the valley. I came across tracks. The tracks were covered in frost. Two happy days followed. Two days with cheeks like May and light feet like the sunbeams. One day, Pazzo returned. The next, a letter arrived from Ingeborg. I stood at the window and looked down the street. A hunter came up the street with his dog. No, it wasn’t a hunter; he had no gun and wasn’t walking as hunters walk; it was a shepherd with his dog. No, it wasn’t a shepherd either, it was a signalman; you could tell by his cap, and this dog wasn’t the signalman’s dog; this slinky, skinny dog ​​was Pazzo. I opened the window and whistled. The dog pricked up its ears, barked weakly , and trotted wearily up. “Come in! Come in, my friend!” I called to the signalman. Pazzo came yapping up the stairs and jumped up at me. He looked changed, completely disfigured. Then he whined and crawled around my feet. He howled piteously, lay down on the ground, and lashed his tail. “What’s wrong with you, Pazzo? Your eyes are completely dull.” The signalman entered. “I’m Paul,” he said. “I’ve caught the dog. He jumped back and forth with the trains, always along the railway embankment.” “On the railway embankment? Yes, sir. A good dog!” “Yes, a good dog.” But he’s sick. Doesn’t eat anything!’ ‘He’ll be okay, won’t he, Pazzo?’ Pazzo lashed his tail and whined. He had been running back and forth along the railway embankment. Barbeck von Unternzell had said: ‘Have you seen the dog—a white hunting dog— ‘ ‘Take a seat!—Wine!—Please, tell us.’ The man, who called himself Paulus, spoke in detail about the white chicken dog. He had locked him in the garden and also put a crate out for him. But now, a difficult case! Who did this dog belong to, who didn’t answer to the name Waldmann or Feldmann, Nero or Packan? No collar, nothing. He must have come from far away, perhaps jumped off the train. Well, he lived alone and only came to the village every Saturday. The innkeeper of the Black Bear said : ‘Paulus, there it is.’ ‘Well, I’ll set off and bring the runaway here myself. I have free passage.” The story went on for a long time, but then I let him fill me in on the details. So what did I owe, I asked. The signalman grinned, licked his mustache, and twirled his cap between his fingers. Well, the dog hadn’t caused any disturbance in the house. He had n’t eaten much either. He would just say—he would leave it to the gracious gentleman himself. “A suggestion.” “Let’s say five marks in total.” I smiled. “But please—?” I said. He shouldn’t have cared for Pazzo for nothing! “Then in God’s name, let’s say three marks. I’m also missing half a day. Food out—” I had to laugh. The signalman’s face turned red. I had to laugh more and more. There I sat, trembling with joy, and he demanded five marks! That was unheard of. He could have demanded my fortune , I would have given it to him. “Excuse me, my friend,” I said to him, “it’s not too much for me, but too little. I could cheat you and give you fifty marks—you would be satisfied—but it would be cheating. Because this dog there, yes, this dog there, is no ordinary dog, no!” I then explained what breed it was, that it had already earned me over fifty thousand marks in prize money, and that it would soon be shipped to America for an international dog show. It was hard not to laugh, because the signalman’s face grew longer with each prize. “The dog’s best days are over,” I concluded. “He can still get a few prizes, yes. I wouldn’t let him go for fifty thousand marks. A court appraiser would estimate the animal’s value at about thirty thousand marks. Let’s say twenty thousand. Now you have a legal claim to ten percent of the value of a found object ; I am prepared to pay you two thousand marks. Are you satisfied with that?” “No no no?!” “No joke, I can show you the award certificates if you wish. I don’t want to cheat you.” I spoke lightly, but in a convincing tone. The signalman laughed like a madman, stood at attention, put his hand to his cap, and blew me kisses. Then he ran down the hill like a madman , losing his cap three times. How happy he was! Two thousand marks! There are people you can give all of India and paradise to, and they won’t even blush. I locked the door. “Pazzo, Pazzo!” I threw myself on the floor and wept and laughed with joy. “Yes, Pazzo, you good soul, my friend. You good Pazzo—always along the railway embankment, back and forth—” Pazzo licked my hand and face and wagged his tail and barked. I looked at him. What he knew. If only he could talk! He wasn’t completely healthy. He was half-starved. But now everything was fine. Hahaha! Pazzo was there, Pazzo! Give a man India and paradise, the thousand most beautiful women in the world—a heart begins to beat where they touch you, on every part of your body—he won’t even blush. Give him a line, a word from his beloved, and he turns pale with joy. Yes, a letter came, from Ingeborg. I sat in my room and nursed Pazzo. Pazzo slept incessantly and turned his head to the side when I wanted to give him wine or minced meat. His eyes were red- rimmed. But soon he would be well, and then a good time would come. We would be able to endure the winter together, the days, the nights, everything. Then a letter arrived. Old Maria handed it to me, acting as if it were nothing special—and I read the inscription: it was from Ingeborg— the messenger had not brought it in vain. Friends, friends, friends, and dear people all over the world.—No, hush, hush! Was that Ingeborg’s writing? Yes, it was. Did Ingeborg’s hand rest here? Yes, yes. Ingeborg’s lips sealed the letter. Do you know what it is like when joy is bestowed upon an unfortunate person? It is a sun at midnight, it is as if God himself were entering him, it is——no, hush! I took my hat and went into the forest. Pazzo? But Pazzo just blinked and peeped and moved his tail a little. Into the forest. For the letter had to be read in the forest. It wasn’t dark enough yet, it wasn’t beautiful enough yet. Hurry! I went deeper and deeper into the forest, the letter in my hand. Then, all around me, bells began to ring in the forest. The earth and the trees rang. Their tops swayed back and forth, ringing. I went, carried by the humming of the dull, solemn bells, they rang, rang. And I looked for a hidden spot, stretched out in the moss, and listened to the strange, buzzing, solemn ringing around me. It was lovely to lie here and listen and look at Ingeborg’s letter. Hello, Ingeborg! Ingeborg wrote only a few words. I should forgive her———Listen, this is Ingeborg! — She hadn’t dared to write to me — Do you hear it? — Karl sent his regards, asking for a few small things. Could n’t she ask me to send her the locket with her mother’s picture ? She couldn’t live without the locket. She had a lot to do. Singing lessons. Karl worked constantly, and they could only be together for an hour in the evening. But she was very happy. She should receive the locket with the next mail. I wore it around my neck, hidden under my collar, but she could have it. Whatever she wanted, anything! Write soon, Axel. Yes, I wanted to write today. I went deep into the forest, Ingeborg, I would write, the forest began to ring. It was strange, unforgettable. I was very happy, how happy I was! Yes, it would be a wonderful letter. Back and forth I wandered through the forest. Was there a happier person on earth today? No, no! Whoever claimed that hadn’t emerged from the dark nights. Those dark nights were forgotten! I roamed the forest all afternoon, boisterous as a boy. I read Ingeborg’s letter a hundred times. The forest bells were still ringing . It was a glorious day that ended with gentle twilight. It began to drizzle in the forest, as if it were raining. I came to the mountain road. From a large, yellow cloud, the rain fell in thin strings through the blue twilight. Blue veins twitched across the path. The leaves on the road and between the trees appeared like a beautiful carpet. A footstep sounded on the street, and I turned around. A thin man with a leaden-gray face and short-cropped hair came up the road. His large eyes blazed. He waved his hat in his hand and walked slowly, as if bent over by a great misfortune. But as he came closer, I noticed that he was only walking slowly to rest a while. He must have come from far away. His shoes were completely white with dust, with black stars on them, from the rain. He had the haggard face of a monk, and his shining eyes, which looked freely and clearly out into the world, illuminated it. “Greetings!” called the monk, waving his hat. “Greetings!” I replied. The hiker stopped and blinked. “Ha!” he cried, “a glorious rain! How! This air! This rain— pure wine!” He blinked, nodded, turned his bald head left and right, and blinked again. “Such a tree! What? A beech! Heaven knows, this world is a pure miracle!” This world is beautiful, yes. I laughed. The hiker set off, and I walked beside him. “These colors! Red, yellow, green, as you can only imagine. Incredibly beautiful! The forest is vast, free, you understand, friend, the sky so high! Even though it’s raining. High! High! God, how high is your sky!” He shouted for joy and waved his hat. “God, how high is your sky!” he cried, spreading his arms. Then a squirrel jumped across the road. “Devil!” he cried. “Did you see it? A confounded animal, a tail like a flag! And—snap!—how nimbly it climbed the tree. All around—holla! There it sits. Do you see? A squirrel. Heaven knows, a fine, cunning, and clever little creature. I haven’t seen one for many years. Ah!—ha—ha—it flew!! Flew from one tree to another, a good five meters below brothers!’ Step by step, the pale little man burst into exclamations of delight . He looked as if he had been ill for years and had only today left the dim sickroom. ‘A frog, you! Where to, sir? Oops!’ I laughed. I couldn’t marvel enough at the strange wanderer, nor rejoice enough at his cheerfulness. Truly, I couldn’t have met him at a more opportune hour! I was in the mood for a chat today; I hadn’t spoken to anyone for many weeks . Was he ill? I asked. Yes, seriously ill. But now he was healthy again! No one could believe how happy he was. There were no happier people in the world. “How?” The traveler stopped and blinked and laughed. It was strange to see that haggard face with the gray tear-stains laughing. The eyes were a line, and instantly large, shining circles appeared. “Look at me, friend! A picture! Something rare, I tell you. Do you know who you’re walking with? Perhaps you think I’m a fool? In short , look at me, the happiest man in the world stands before you!” I slapped him on the shoulder with the flat of my hand, so that the little fellow almost fell to his knees. “That’s a good thing, friend,” I exclaimed, laughing, and bowed low. “I’m your brother. Also the happiest man in the world!” Hehehehe! Hahaha! We laughed, and it seemed as if we were making great bows to one another, we shook with laughter. We stood in the middle of the road, in the autumn forest, in the rain, and bowed. “Yes,” I said, “don’t you believe it? Dear friend, how lucky I was! I am a railway guard near Unternzell. I always see a dog running along the railway embankment, I catch this dog, I call “Waldman,” “Fieldman,” catch him as I said, and bring him to his master. Have you seen the castle there? down there?” “Yes, beautiful castle!” “Now listen further. I’ll bring him the dog. What do you want?” he asked. Very briefly, as rich people say, he was just about to go out with his wife. My dear, what a beautiful wife he has, I tell you! Slender, blonde, and a winning smile. Her curls hang over her cheeks, as you see on a child’s. She has small, fresh eyes, light blue like forget-me-nots. A voice like a bird. When she just speaks—” “So what did you want?” “I’m asking for five marks. Was it too much?” “How long did you have the dog in your care? That’s what matters.” “Six weeks!” “Then it’s not too much. ” “But what do you think happened? The gentleman laughed out loud. And his beautiful wife laughed too. I’ve never heard a woman laugh like that. ” Ingeborg,” said the gentleman, “he wants five marks.” The beautiful woman then said I was crazy. And they both laughed. But what do you think they gave me?’ ‘Twenty marks?’ ‘Two thousand!’ I shouted so loudly that the forest echoed. ‘Hoho! hehehe! Gently, gently!’ the little one cried just as loudly. ‘Yes, two thousand marks. You can see them.’ I pulled out my wallet . ‘Here they are. See? So no lie. You have no idea what kind of dog that was! A prize-winning beast, prize-winning everywhere. He’s coming to America soon.’ Very strange. Extremely peculiar. ‘Yes, man must be lucky, so prize-winning dogs come to his house. What do you say now if I claim to be the luckiest man in the world?’ ‘Let’s go on,’ said the hiker. ‘It’s just as easy to say while walking. Even if I assume that’s true, your luck isn’t as great as mine. It’s more of an external nature. Money doesn’t buy happiness. You can buy many beautiful and useful things with it, that’s true. But my happiness lies deeper, it lies right in my heart, it trembles there, yes! I’m reborn, you see, I have life and freedom, I wander through the beautiful world, I’ll wander for another two weeks, then I’ll be with my wife, I have two children who are already going to school. A girl, a boy. That’s different, isn’t it? Perhaps you have everything too—”
“Certainly, certainly! Only my children aren’t going to school yet. Hmm. I understand you, you have your health back, this reunion at home after so many years, yes, but nevertheless I’m very happy, friend, very happy. Tell me, is it the same for you? When I’m happy, I’d like to make others happy.” This is a universal human trait. “Now listen. I could just as well have received only a thousand marks. How about if we shared? I don’t need the money.” The wanderer blinked and laughed. He jingled his hand in his pocket , and it rang like hard thalers. He clicked his tongue. “There, I have money, I don’t need any,” he said. “I ‘m so happy that money doesn’t matter to me, friend. Everything ‘s going well; my wife has bought herself a knitting machine; she’s very skilled and hardworking.” Yes, if only he were so proud— “Let’s not spoil our mood,” said the little man, “because we are the happiest people in the world. You have a good heart, and you ‘re happy too, otherwise you wouldn’t smile like that. I know people’s laughter and smiles very well; I’ve been where laughter is rare, you understand. You’re so happy that you have to joke. Look, brother, I’m looking at your hands. You’re not a signalman, no—” Haha! “No. Does a signalman have a wallet? Where have you ever seen one? A signalman speaks quite differently. I’m a traveler, so I know the signalmen better than you. Who would be such a fool as to pay two thousand marks to have their dog returned to them? We’re not in America! I know you ‘re from the castle down there, perhaps the gentleman himself—?” I laughed. “Clever, clever fellow! Should I tell everyone why I’m happy? Well, I can tell you, what I said about the dog was a lie, of course. But I ‘ll tell you the truth. I received a letter from my wife today . She’s in the bath. She’s given birth to a child, a boy!” “Aha! Aha! Yes, that happiness runs deeper than that! Congratulations, congratulations!” “Thank you, thank you!” I had to turn away. Suddenly I had tears in my eyes. How stupid that was! The little one blinked. He shook his head strangely. “What’s the matter with you?” he said. “You’re so strange—you’re so strange—oh, oh! ” “It’s nothing,” I cried, laughing and throwing my head back . “So much the better. It seemed so to me—your smile is so peculiar, too. Farewell! One more, one sincerity is worth another, friend! ” Just look at me, my face, my shaved hair. If you ‘re not blind, you know which hospital I came from. Four years! It was a bad and reckless prank. Over, over— farewell.” We shook hands. The little boy descended into the valley with quick steps. He turned around and cheered and waved his hat. And I waved my hat and cheered in reply. Soon I didn’t see him anymore; he disappeared into the twilight. But I still heard the jubilant greeting for a long time, and I answered until I heard nothing more. A glorious day! Chapter 33. The letter is written, the locket has been sent. This letter has caused me a lot of trouble. Well, I rarely write letters. But this letter couldn’t contain any sadness—there’s a reason for it—it couldn’t contain any happiness either—there’s a reason for it. So I wrote about Pazzo. That Pazzo had gotten lost, he wandered around for six weeks, but now he was here. But he was sick and distraught. Sometimes he even growled when someone stroked him, and he was grumpy like a truly sick person. He had wrinkles between his eyes, a truly grumpy face. But I hope things will soon take a turn for the better with Pazzo. And now many greetings, many, many greetings to you, dear friends. Yes, by God, what else could I write? The letter is written, the locket has been sent. I would have loved to keep it. I looked at it carefully before packing it. Ingeborg had Karl, had conversations and laughter, I had—well, Ingeborg needed it. Good. I now only kept a small green glass vase from Ingeborg . Everything else had been locked away in Ingeborg’s chambers. These chambers were locked forever, and the keys lay in a wardrobe of old clothes. A new life had to be started! But I had kept the green vase. It stood on the piano , and I looked at it whenever I passed by. It had the shape and color of an unripe lemon, golden rims on the edges. It was grainy like rough ice. The days passed. I thought that perhaps another letter from Ingeborg would come soon. I received your letter and the locket; that’s probably how Ingeborg would write. I sat in my room and leafed through the folders; perhaps the letter would come, or I would go into the forest, and when I returned, the letter would be there. You couldn’t know. The days passed. Gloomy days. The wind howled and threw dirty leaves against the panes, making them stick. All the withered leaves gathered from the woods onto the meadow in front of the window and performed dances. It was a tall, swirling column, dancing, dancing into the forest. The trees stood bare, and suddenly you could see the tower of the village church between the branches. The autumn crocuses were withered and rotten; there were no more flowers. A large black crow swayed on the topmost branch of a beech tree, the blue smoke of small fires rose from the forest. Heavy clouds dragged over the mountains, lingering in the treetops . hanging, and sometimes it rained heavily day and night, so that one thought the castle would float away. Often old Maria came into the room. I looked at her hands. They held a tray, a plate for Pazzo, a bunch of keys. Just patience, patience. Ingeborg has a lot to do. She wrote it, after all. My day is filled with singing studies. I have a very talented teacher, the composer Holger Hunt, an acquaintance of Karl’s. He is currently composing an opera called Merlin. He is very strict, and I have to work a lot. But one day she would find time. I spent my days in the library. I had a lot to learn; there were countless wonders in the books. What about Pazzo? “Pazzo, what about you?” Pazzo lies on the blanket in front of the fireplace and opens his eyes. He is ill , and there is a rigid, glassy expression in his gaze. He eats almost nothing and has become terribly thin. And now he is so weak that he can barely twitch his ears or move his tail. When I touched him, the hair on his back stood on end and he growled grumpily. No one was allowed near him, and he only ate from my hand. When a servant came to put wood in the fireplace, he blew angrily through his nostrils and bared his teeth. The animal’s condition worried me greatly. But caring for the dog distracted me, and I nursed him as a mother nurtures her child. “It’ll be alright, be brave, Pazzo!” I said, crouching on the floor in front of him. “Be brave, my darling!” But things weren’t getting better, nothing seemed to help, and one stormy night, Pazzo suddenly rose and barked loudly. It was a hoarse yapping, wild and hungry. I sat at my desk and read. I was reading in the Bible, the story of the glorious Queen Esther. The candlestick stood beside me, and my shadow fell large and fantastically on the wall. Perhaps the shadow had frightened Pazzo, or the rattling of the branches outside the window. And I calmed Pazzo by speaking to him kindly. But Pazzo barked again, sharply and hostilely, and the sound was so strange and horrifying that it sent a chill down my spine. “Quiet, Pazzo!” I cried. Pazzo stood thin on tall, thin legs, his hair standing on end. His eyes glittered green and yellow, like the eyes of cats one encounters in dark alleys. Drool hung from his mouth and dripped onto the floor. That was . . . . . As soon as I moved, he wrinkled his nose so that his upper jaw flashed. He hissed like a cat. Now Pazzo has gone mad! I thought, and the pain overwhelms me. It came so suddenly! I struggled to restrain myself and not throw myself down before the dog and embrace him. Then Pazzo came toward me, head bowed, his eyes piercing like diamonds . It had to be done. I took the book from the desk and hurled it at his head with all my might. Pazzo jumped back and barked so loudly that it echoed. Then I did it. I took the revolver from the drawer. “Come on, Pazzo, my darling!” I said, aiming at Pazzo’s forehead. The tears blurred my vision. I fired, Pazzo jumped to the side, staggered, and collapsed. He took another bullet through his ear. He twitched, spread his legs, and bent his head back. He was dead, his eyes staring glassily at the dangling tassel of an armchair. Those were the last eyes Ingeborg had seen… A voice in the house screamed and screeched. A running sound in the hallways. Then some maids rushed into the room, scantily clad, without knocking. They stared at me as if petrified. “Carry him out,” I said, “bury him.” They took Pazzo’s body and dragged him out of the room. His head hung down, and he stared at me until he disappeared through the doorway. He was such a beautiful and faithful animal, so clever, amiable, polite. He had such clear, cheerful eyes, his fur was so white and soft. And the jumps he could make! He floated in the air, flew, and he could swish so loudly that his ears fluttered like little white flags. He had a few black blotches on his left flank—as if someone had thrown an inkwell at him, Ingeborg said. He was so grateful; at one word, his eyes shone, and at two words, he danced, and at three words, he lay down at your feet and flicked his tail. Now I was alone. Day after day, night after night. Life wasn’t easy to bear. I shook my head and smiled: What a winter! I thought a lot about Hermann Ecke, the gentleman at Entenweiher, whom Eva left. Perhaps Hermann Ecke also had a dog that went mad? Now I knew Hermann Ecke well. Yes, I saw him before me. So, so, yes, that’s what he looks like! — If you meet someone, his face pale, his eyebrows raised, his eyes large and wondering and without a look, a sore smile on his lips: That’s him! There is his story. I wrote it because grief weighed me down. A man wanders through his house and ponders. That is Hermann Ecke. What is he pondering? It is cold in his house, he can stretch his hands through the fire without being warmed. It is silent. The nights bring terror and darkness around the house like a black coffin followed by the wailing wind. It is night, Hermann Ecke carries a candle in his hand and wanders. Back and forth he wanders, searching. What is he looking for? Eva is not here, no. A mosquito buzzes in the room. Hermann Ecke smiles. A mosquito, he says and watches the little mosquito. He passes a mirror and closes his eyes, he does not want to see his face. He carries a light in his hand, it flickers and sounds come from the flame. He is startled and turns around; a shadow crouches behind the desk. He continues walking, but he feels the shadow stretching out from its hiding place. He sees it grow, across the wall, the ceiling, and a long, dark hand grabs his hair, dangling above him like a charred arm. Then he screams. What is it, sir? Nothing, thank you. Oh! Hermann Ecke is standing at the window, looking down at the street. Don’t sleigh bells ring through the winter stillness? A carriage whizzes by. Where to? To Neighbor Dohn’s. Wasn’t that a messenger coming? He staggered with excitement, waving a handkerchief in his hand. No, it’s a drunk carrying a white bundle. Perhaps he’s coming from a wedding. Isn’t it today, is it tomorrow. He can be seen everywhere, Hermann Ecke. In the forest, in the field, in the village. But he is no longer smiling; he is pale, and his eyes are large and astonished. He walks along as if looking for something on the floor. Hermann Ecke goes to the farmhands and maids in the servants’ room; he wants to talk to them. He speaks and they answer. He speaks more and more , they speak less and less. He sits and talks, talks. Everyone looks at him. He leaves. It is dark, a dark, damp evening, without moon, without stars, damp, black, and wet snow drifts across the street. Hermann Ecke goes down to the village and enters the tavern. Young people are gathered there: farmhands and maids. The maids lay their heads on the lads’ shoulders or sit on their knees. A lad in shirtsleeves, his hat on the back of his neck, plays the zither. Good evening, folks, says Hermann Ecke. Good evening. The zither sounds and the lad sings. He sings about a bull and a spotted cow and how a maid stood by and laughed. So he sings, and the maids laugh, and the boys grab her around the body. There is a little boy, a tailor, who opens his mouth wide. He claims to have no bones. He has no bones, you can beat him, he feels no pain. Two grab him by the hands and feet, swing him back and forth, and hurl him against the door so that crashes. He stands up. He felt nothing, he has no bones. The farmhands laugh so loudly that it deafens, and the maids scream. Hermann Ecke smiles. He pays and leaves. God’s peace be with you, you good people, he says. Some giggle and one says: Amen! When they grow old, they will know what it means when someone says: God’s peace be with you, you good people. Hermann Ecke wanders through the bumpy, dark alleys of the village. Wherever there is a bright window, he sneaks there. Like a thief, he sneaks around the farmhouses and peeks furtively into the lit windows. A peasant woman kneads dough and rolls it out with a stick; a farmer stands by the bed and slowly undresses. A young mother bathes her child; it kicks so hard that the water splashes against the panes. Back and forth the thief sneaks and stops at the bright window. There sits a boy, studying. He moves his lips and Hermann Ecke hears that he is learning. Then he understands the boy’s words. Holy, holy, holy is the Lord of hosts and all the lands – holy, holy is the Lord of hosts and all the lands are full of his glory. Holy, holy – Mother! he suddenly calls out loudly, someone is standing at the window! The thief disappears into the darkest alley. There is a whispering at a fence. The thief stands behind a pile of wood and hears what the two are whispering there. It is dark, but he sees their faces and their hands. The boy fiddles with the girl’s bodice; something shimmers from the bodice. A twig cracks. Hmm, says the boy and lets his hands fall and goes closer. The thief jumps into the forest. Breathless. Hermann Ecke. Hermann Ecke wanders back and forth. He kneels in the dark forest and speaks. I kneel here. I kneel here all alone in the forest. Tears run down his cheeks. I kneel here, all alone— Hermann Ecke. Hermann Ecke, my brother, do not grieve! Hermann Ecke gasps and digs his nails into his chest. He cries: Eternal bliss for all people, and a peaceful hour for me! Will you not take poison—poison—? Hermann Ecke, my good brother, do not despair! A bird twitters outside Hermann Ecke’s window, and Hermann Ecke smiles. He thinks of old things. The bird flies away, nothing can be heard anymore. Eva was such a bird, thinks Hermann Ecke. When a bird sings outside your window, you can listen and be happy and thank the little bird. You cannot hold it back, not with words and pleas and fine cake—it flies away and sings outside another window. Hermann Ecke can no longer find happiness, it is over. You people, you people, I ask you, what do you know? You have a wife and child and you can kiss them. I have nothing but empty rooms. Nor have you found happiness with Eva! So what do you know? You know nothing! Hermann Ecke, my good, good brother . . . That he didn’t always remain so despondent and sad, you know. And you also know how he died. He died a blessed death. Hermann Ecke. Chapter 34. When the snow began to fall, an unhappy man came to me and wept before me. It was the exuberant Isabella with the burning-red hair and the trusting eyes. She wept, kneaded the handkerchief, and soaked it. “I jokingly said he married me out of despair; it’s no longer a joke. Oh, I am unhappy! I have a madman for a husband. He talks in his sleep at night, quarrels with a woman, calls her a liar and weeps and says, ‘Dearest, fairest!’ No, Harry is lost, I see it. I am a surrogate, nothing more. Just imagine, I’m a surrogate!” She wept, wept. “Harry is lost. He’s been mad for years. When he laughs, he’s drunk; he drinks twenty glasses of cognac a day! He ca n’t play the violin anymore; they would laugh at him. But he was a phenomenon! His compositions are worthless. Only sometimes does he play well, There he plays in the evening and I sit and listen to him. He looks at me. I ‘m not playing for you, his eyes say. And once he said it too —he didn’t want to, but he said it—” She cried, cried. I didn’t interrupt her. “Oh, for a few weeks, it was wonderful—wonderful! He said I had saved him. But now —he’s gone for days, in his car. Just imagine, he, so nervous that he can’t walk over a bridge, races through the night and the snow. Where to? I don’t know. Then he comes back, then he smiles to himself —his eyes shine. This, I can’t bear to watch this smile, this shine—oh!” She cried, cried. “He’s such a good person, such a kind-hearted fellow—he had to become like that. I saw him years ago, he played, ah, that was youth, lightness of mind, gleam, radiance — and now — –” I asked her: “Why don’t you leave him?” She looked at me. “How? Yes, I do love him!” Then I said: “Then be as good to him as you can. Cheer him up, travel with him, travel wherever he wants –” “Yes, but, listen, Axel, what do I get for all my love?” “You can be with him,” I answered. She looked at me. She didn’t understand. “I’m going to perish!” she wept. — — — A great magician has written a book so sweet and beautiful that whoever reads it must die. Everyone reads it, even though they know they must die. Chapter 35. Things haven’t gone any better for me, no. I thought so sometimes, but I was mistaken. I worked hard. Yes, I can say, never in my life have I read and studied as much as I did this winter. I studied distant lands, learned their languages, because it might be that I would soon travel to places where no railway tracks run. I have no real profession, no special abilities or talents; I have no desire or time for it. I am of an old lineage, degenerate, belonging to that class of luxury people who are gradually dying out. I don’t wish it to be so; but soon people will only grow vegetables and raise cattle; people are becoming practical. Yes, I worked hard. I worked to forget myself. I went hunting, hiked until I was tired, I was calm. But suddenly Ingeborg appeared before me, so glorious, so wonderful—then the peace was over, the pain shook me, and I knew that I was still lying at the bottom and would never have peace again in there. I wrote many letters to Ingeborg; I didn’t send them; I wrote them only to find peace. I wrote one that read: Ingeborg, there is a dark thought within me that I must constantly wrestle with. It entices me, it deceives me—it beckons and calls—I wrestle with it, it is difficult, it is a desperate fight! Help me! Every day the thought gains more strength. It no longer entices; it sneers, mocks, and laughs. It triumphs in secret. I wrote one that read: Come, Ingeborg, Ingeborg! I open my arms! Come, here is your home. Come, come, I will build a gate of roses, every tree in the forest shall have a bright flag, I will light a thousand candles for you in every hall, I will kneel down and bathe your feet with tears and dry them with kisses . Ingeborg, I want to say, are you here? Blessed are you, I am yours! Come, come, Ingeborg, I’m at the bottom, I can’t go on, I beg you for one word, one single word. With tears in my eyes, I wrote this one. Then, contrite and pale, I wrote another: Ingeborg, I’m not speaking to you of love today. No, I want to confess to you, Ingeborg, confess! I have criminal desires, Ingeborg, criminal thoughts. I want to put my hand around your belt and press you to me. Just once more! I want to look at the top of your head, gently stroke it, over your beautiful, divine crown of the head. I would also like to kiss you on the mouth, just once more — just once more! Yes — haha ​​– that’s how I am now! Ingeborg, just once more I would like to press my lips to your breast — just once more I would like to be with you for an hour at midnight — An evil thought has also grown up in me, a weed, I ca n’t help it, an evil hand sowed it. I thought: perhaps you have treated me badly? Then my heart began to beat, and it beat so terribly, for several minutes, that I was punished enough. Forgive me! I love you. I often kiss my pillow, that spot — — — Then I wrote one, I wrote it in the midst of my terror: Oh, you friends, you! If only you knew! I feel every kiss, I feel every handshake, every glance. It falls like a glowing drop onto my heart. I feel everything, everything, why are you torturing me! You are torturing me to death, to death, to death!! I worked, worked, didn’t look left or right, buried my head in my hands. I read some lines twenty times; I forced myself. Chapter 36. It was night in the forest; all I could see was the snow. A footstep walked beside me. It was near my house. A voice walked beside me . It whispered. I didn’t want to hear it. It whispered: “I’ve seen her; she’s wearing a wide fur collar, it’s gray. She looks so beautiful and unique that everyone is looking at her. One walked beside her; he was tall, took long strides. He was red-haired.” My breath caught, my heart pounded. I listened, but didn’t want to listen. The voice beckoned. “I’ve seen her often, often. I saw her with Holger Hunt, the composer. She admires him; I could tell by her glance. Haha—I watch her, drive very slowly, I wear glasses, a hood, no one sees me.” A marvelous invention, the automobile.” I turned to the side. The voice walked beside me. “I saw her hand, she took off her glove to take money from her purse. Her hand was snow-white. Her neck is bare, even in winter. I looked right into her eyes —heavens! Those, those eyes!—she had to wait until my car crossed the street.—Haha, I’ve been meaning to tell you about this for a long time. I always walked around your house, never met you. I like walking around this house, yes, it’s so strange to imagine—sure—one ca n’t forget her anymore, no. She forgets more easily, ha! She lives by the day. Is that right? She’s as sweet as a child and as cruel as a child—she lies—she can’t crush a flower, but she can torture a person to death— ” I ran away, into the forest. I sent a messenger to Rote Buche with a letter saying: ” I only walk in the forest with a loaded gun from now on!” Harry Usedom sent me an answer: “Forgiveness, forgiveness, I didn’t want that.” I despised him. But I didn’t forget how enchanting his violin once sounded in the forest when he played “Weeping Happiness.” A few weeks later, I learned that Harry Usedom had attempted suicide. He had thrown himself out of a window. He had injured himself badly, but it wasn’t life-threatening. I was frightened… It was as if something were sinking over me, continually, ever thicker. I resisted , but it paralyzed me, it became ever more impenetrable. Into night and horror, someone will sink, someone, I know it! Chapter 37. It went into the depths. So it began… Ingeborg has returned. Is it possible? I sat in the room and heard neither the carriage nor footsteps. Then the door opened, and Ingeborg stood on the threshold. She was wrapped in a thick traveling coat, and her face was almost completely hidden in the fur collar. Her face was red with frost, a small, frozen, smiling child’s face. “Hahaha!” laughed Ingeborg. “Don’t you recognize me anymore?” I didn’t understand any of this . I stood up and smiled. I moved my lips, but I couldn’t speak. And Ingeborg laughed again and said she was coming to visit me, as she had promised. For two months. “Hahaha, yes, hello, Axel!” I gave her my hand; I couldn’t think yet. Little snow stars melted on Ingeborg’s fur and golden curls. Ingeborg’s voice had become stronger and more resonant. “Hello! Ingeborg—” ” Yes, yes, yes—Axel, Axel! Am I not getting a kiss? Kiss me. I ‘ve been looking forward to this kiss for weeks.” My heart stopped. I kissed Ingeborg on the mouth and lost consciousness— Then I awoke. I was lying on the ottoman in the room. It was dusk. Snow lay on the wet, black branches of the chestnut trees, a sparrow rocked on a twig, and snow drifted down. “I can’t find peace anymore!” I whispered. I was dead tired; I hadn’t slept for several days and nights. It worked so insidiously within me; by day I could numb myself as long as I was awake, but in dreams I was defenseless. I spoke to myself. “I can’t find peace even in sleep—I have no other choice. No, a prince wo n’t, a banker can—a prince can’t. Ah, those are simple sayings. Now the dark thought has triumphed after all!” I get up, rummage in the desk drawer, and leave the house. Blue winter twilight all around. Everything is asleep, trees, animals, only I can’t sleep. Soon I will be able to. The snow shines blue, almost like steel; the evening chill has covered it with a thin crust of ice that crackles under my feet. I walk past the statue; it has wrapped a polar bear fur around its shoulders, as if it were going to the theater. Shh! Didn’t she shhh! Called? Black ink bubbles in the round fountain , glittering ice-cold. The fountain is covered in thick ice, as if covered in leprosy. I hurry through the park, to the grotto where the eternal drop falls. The moon rises copper-red behind the tree trunks, shrouded in mist. The snow is soaked with dirty blood. The grotto is still. The drop is silent, the pool is frozen. A dead frog can be seen in the ice, revealing its yellow belly. The grotto is covered in ice, and a column of ice, resembling a large congealed candle, hangs from the rock overlooking the pool. I sit down in the snow. I touch a bush, and snow flies over me, falling on my neck, making me shiver. I take the revolver from my pocket. Everything is snow and ice. So much the better, I think to myself, I’ll preserve myself better; incidentally, there’s already one lying there. Too bad I’m not wearing a yellow vest! Who would have thought the story would be so easy? I put the revolver to my temple and close my eyes. Tick! The revolver failed. I look into the cylinder. I see the bullet. And I put the barrel to my temple again. Then someone touches my shoulder, and I look around. The haggard face of the happy wanderer nods sadly above me. “Brother, brother,” he says gently, raising his index finger threateningly , “there are far worse things than losing a wife. Four years in prison, brother, that’s hard. Oh, without fresh air, without heaven, without freedom, brother, this is far worse!” “Get the hell out of here!” I scream, pressing the revolver to my heart. But the wanderer throws himself over me and grabs my wrist. I gasp.
“Let go!” I wrestle with him. I gather all my strength, one more tug and my arm is free— “Let go.” I awoke. I was still lying on the ottoman. I shuddered. But someone was standing in the room, wrapped in a thick coat, a large hat on his head. He had a red, puffy face with treacherous, small Chinese eyes. He stood by the piano, took the green vase in his hand, put it away, and crept out. I jumped. I heard a door gently close. Someone had just been in the room. The servant they call the monk. Yes! He had stolen the vase. I looked at the piano: the vase was gone!! Was I dreaming? No, I wasn’t dreaming anymore. I had dreamed two dreams in a row, the one about Ingeborg, the one about the grotto. I knew that for sure, and I wouldn’t know it if I were still dreaming. I could see, I could touch myself, feel myself. The vase was gone! It had been sitting on the piano for weeks! I ran out of the room, down the stairs, across the courtyard. Large and brass-yellow, the moon stood above the forest in a violet sky. The yellow snow creaked beneath my hasty steps. Chains clanged in the stables and the horses stamped. I hurried into the house and flung open the door to the servants’ room. There they all sat in the tobacco smoke, farmhands and maids, weaving straw ribbons. They were smoking, laughing, and rising as I entered. I slammed the door shut. It became so quiet that one could hear the cows plucking the hay from the pile next door. There he stood, too, the monk, in the thick cloak he wore summer and winter, and the large hat on his red head. As always, he looked down at the ground. I approached him and shook his arm gently. “There you are!” I said, laughing mockingly. The servant raised his eyelids fearfully and looked at me in alarm. The blush faded from his face, and his plump cheeks trembled. He lowered his eyelids; they lay snow-white in his pale face. “I’ve had my eye on you for a long time!” I said. Everyone stood around, shocked, with wide eyes and open mouths. “Yes, yes,” murmured the monk. “Get the scourge!” “You did it? How?” “Yes, yes.” The servant fell to his knees and said, “I did it. I regret it. I choked for ten years.” “What did the monk do?” one asked. “He stole!” I cried. “A little vase.” Stolen? He hadn’t stolen anything. “Now he’s denying it again, hoho!” I cried, and I moved my hand so quickly in front of the kneeling man’s face that it grew to thirty fingers. ” He just admitted it, now he’s lying brazenly. Listen, you, I’ll have you flogged until you lose your hearing and sight!” But then I felt sorry for the servant who was kneeling before me in his thick coat, bowing his head. He had even taken off his hat; his hair was white as flour. A poor man he was. How wicked I had become, that I could shout at him like that. How wicked! So I had to become wicked too ! “Listen,” I said, “what are you thinking? I won’t hurt you. Just give me the vase. Did you bury it? Tell me?” “I didn’t steal the thing.” “A minute ago, you stole it from my room.” “Sir, he hasn’t left the room this entire afternoon and evening.” Everyone said so. “No? No?” So I had dreamed after all. But the vase was no longer on the piano. The servant rose and put his hat back on his head. And I remembered that I had locked the vase in the writing table this morning so that the maid wouldn’t accidentally break it. I turned pale. There was silence. “Forgive me,” I said to the servant and left the room. All eyes followed me. I stood in the courtyard under the dark sky from which the stars dripped like ice. My feet trembled. “What is this? What is this?” I whispered and walked wearily back into the house. — Chapter 38. I fell ill. This series of days, until I collapsed from exhaustion, until I lay there and no longer moved, is blotted out of my memory! I fell ill. How long did I lie ill? I do not know. Then I awoke again. A voice whispered. “Lord, who can move mountains and bring down walls with the breath of your mouth, take care of the poor sick man so that he may recover…” I lifted my eyelids. I lay in bed, at the window sat old Maria, a large glasses on the tip of her nose and prayed. Her bleached hair lay like ropes on her round, rosy head. Where had I seen that rosy look and that little wreath before? That’s right, with suckling pigs, just like that, seen from behind. And I lay still; it gave me joy to listen to someone speaking to their God, for me, always for me. I almost giggled, it sounded so beautiful. The way Mary praised God, as if she wanted to make him more compliant with flattery, and then begged for my health. “The sun stands still at your command—” Tatata, I thought to myself. “—and the dead rise at your word—” Tatata, I thought to myself. “Look to the poor sick person and send him health—” As you please, I thought to myself. My heart felt so light and I was in the mood for joking. I fell asleep again, and when I woke up, it was evening. Maria sat by a candle and was still praying. And I fell asleep again and awoke in the bright morning. Now I was healthy. I got up and dressed. I was healthy and fresh, like a newborn, and I wanted to sing. But at the very moment I wanted to begin, I couldn’t sing. There was a strange sadness within me that prevented me from singing. But what kind of sadness was that? — Deep winter. Deep winter. The sky has poured sacks of snow over the forests, the trees are stiff and hard as glass. A red moon rises, a red sun creeps through the hazy day. The nights are like grottoes of blue ice. The snow creaks, foxes bark in the forest. Otherwise, nothing stirs. The cold eats away at the eyes. — Today the sun shone through the haze, and the valley glittered far and wide with joy. A premonition of spring trembled deep in the earth. I looked at the sun; it seemed to me as if I must be as transparent as glass. It warmed me in a completely different way than the most cheerful fire. And I thought that spring was beautiful. A blossoming, smiling apple tree by the path, a smiling sun, a smiling meadow, a shepherdess curling her mouth up to her ears and laughing, just like the sun—that is spring. I slipped into my loden jacket, put on my high boots, took my stick and my green hat, and left. The house lies deserted, the stables and barns deserted, covered with thick cushions of white snow. They have sunk into the earth. The windows are black. The cattle and horses have been sold, the maids and farmhands have left. Well, I didn’t stop them. They wanted to find other work. It was too lonely up here in the mountain forest, they said. I didn’t stop them. Only old Maria stayed with me. Wrapped in cloths, she sits in her little room, like a chestnut seller in the cold street. She is growing old and freezing. In the evening, however, a yellow patch of light falls from the window of the servants’ room onto the snow in the courtyard. Who else is in the servants’ room? The monk. Back and forth he paces, in his cloak, with his large hat on his head. He has no peace. He is atoning for something. For what? It is nobody’s business. I swing my stick and walk into the quiet forest. I smile. I push back my hat and want to laugh and sing. But as soon as I open my lips to laugh and sing, something holds me back. I do n’t know what it is. It is a strange feeling. What kind of feeling is it? Emotion, sympathy, sadness, joy? A little of everything. The snow in the forest between the pale, spotted trunks of the beech trees is a pale blue. Yellow paths, yellow stripes, that is the sun. The sky shimmers white. The treetops are as if wrapped in thick cotton wool. A twig stirs, a small white snake glides down. Of many bushes , only individual twigs are visible, peeking out from the pile of snow. Deer and fox tracks run across the path. A pile of crow feathers lies in the forest. A jay laughs in the distance. The ditches are frozen, and when I poke the ice with my walking stick, Long discs fall, splintering, into the frosted grass. A mirror-smooth pool. I take a run and whizz over it. It’s not cold. The air is fresh, and every time you breathe it in, you feel like you’re sipping ice water. There lies a meadow at the edge of the forest, looking like a giant’s cleanly laid bed. In summer, yellow umbels stand there, dripping honey. The meadow is called “Honey Droplets.” And I think of summer. Summer is sweat, honey, and fire, I think, and a hot kiss in my dreams. I walk through the forest, for hours, up, down, up, down. I have to reach out well; the path to the Otternbrücklein hunting grounds is long. It is lonely, lonely and solemn. The white death dwells in the forest. I’m entering unfamiliar territory. Axe blows resound in the forest. It’s beautiful, so quiet, so solemn, these axe blows. You think you can hear the heart of the forest beating. The feeling that someone is nearby is comforting. You don’t want anything from them, you don’t even see them, and yet it’s comforting to know they’re there. Yes! I’m startled and step behind a tree. A wolf! No, a fox. It flies past in a wide arc, its thick tail dragging through the snow . I smile. Why was I afraid? Never in my life have I been timid. I reach out vigorously. Hochwald. That’s Otternbrücklein territory. There lies the lumberjack’s hut. Father Giselher sits in front of the door in dark Sunday clothes. His face is serious, and he looks neither right nor left. His sturdy hands rest on his knees, resting like him. “Good day, Father Giselher!” I call, waving my hat. “Good day.” “I haven’t had a chance to visit you in a long time, Father Giselher,” I say. I ‘m at a loss. Youth and happiness are selfish. They wouldn’t have eyes and ears for others. Yes, he’s still angry because we didn’t take the pastor back then. He looks neither left nor right. But death demands reconciliation. “Thank you for coming. Just step in, she lies inside. ” “Who?” Who lay inside? “Her day’s work is done. She bore and raised fourteen children. Her duty is fulfilled. The Lord knows what He does.” I breathed a sigh of relief and entered the hut. It was dim here; a tall candle burned. Beside it shimmered the peacefully slumbering, hollow-cheeked face of an old woman. The woman lay stretched out in a wide, sturdy coffin. Her mouth was drawn inward and almost circular; death had made everything pointed: the nose, the cheekbones, the chin. The hands lay in the sunken lap of the dead woman, yellow with blue nails. Around the coffin sat the dead woman’s children, their hands clasped. There were probably ten of them, of all sizes, girls with light-blond, sticking-out pigtails and boys with nut-brown faces and messy hair. A slender girl of seventeen sat on a chair, darning a sock. At her feet crouched a small child, playing with beans. All had red ears and red noses, for it was cold in the hut. They turned their faces toward me when I entered, but they didn’t move. They remained silent, their hands clasped. “I’m Ingeborg’s husband,” I whispered to the girl darning the sock. I was ashamed to say this. “Mother is dead—hohoho!” sobbed the girl, and large tears fell onto the sock. Hohoho—they all cried around her, and they stopped when the nurse stopped. The child on the floor crawled under the coffin, one bean having rolled away. And the dead woman smiled peacefully in the light of the single candle. There she lies! That’s Ingeborg’s mother! That’s Ingeborg’s mother! She’s dead. Look, the one who gave birth to Ingeborg has died! I couldn’t stop myself; I burst into sobs. That’s Ingeborg’s mother! Isn’t that Ingeborg’s forehead? Oh, yes! Ah, that’s Ingeborg’s chin! I sobbed and bent over the dead woman, stroking her cold, damp cheeks. She’s Ingeborg’s mother, isn’t she? “I must get ready,” said the eldest girl. “They’ll be here soon to fetch Mother.” Wouldn’t I help her put on Mother’s stocking? Oh, yes, I’d be happy to help her put on Mother’s stocking. The stocking was wet with the girl’s tears. I looked at her. “What’s your name?” I asked, smiling softly. There was so much in that face— “Maria—oh, now Mother is dead!” “Won’t you come to me, Maria?” I whispered. My voice refused to speak. I had forgotten that there was a dead woman in the room. ” To manage my household?” They needed her here. I looked at the siblings. In every face, I found something—something. Father Giselher’s deep, calm voice became audible outside the door, coughing and talking. Father Giselher opened the door. “Come in!” Through the crack, one could see the head of a white horse, next to it the round, frost-red face of a farmhand. A number of old men and women entered, so that the room was full of people. They whispered, coughed, and a woman began to cry; it sounded like giggling. An old man said in a nasal, half-whispered voice: “There she lies, our Mother Giselher.” And a white-haired, deformed old woman hissed: ” She had a beautiful death,” and everyone nodded their heads. “She rests in God.” Father Giselher pushed his way through the group. He picked up a thick book and stood behind the candle. His figure was as erect as ever, and his bearded head sat firmly and composedly on his broad shoulders. His eyes were clear and bright. And he opened the book and began to read. We stood around the coffin with our hands folded, the elderly and the elderly, the children, and I, too, listened with bowed head and folded hands, like the others. “It is written in God’s Word,” Father Giselher read, “in the Psalms of David, Psalm 39, verses 6 to 8: Behold, my days are but a hand’s breadth with you, and my life is nothing before you. All people are like nothing, who live so securely! Sela. They walk along like shadows and cause themselves much vain anxiety, gathering things together and not knowing who will get them. Now, Lord, what shall I comfort myself in? I hope in you.” Father Giselher closed the book. “I hope in you! Brothers and sisters in the Lord—our hopes on this earth are vain, what shall I comfort myself in? I hope in you.” Father Giselher spoke and spoke. His voice sounded loud and powerful, and his watery, shining blue eyes wandered around in a circle. Father Giselher spoke at length about the virtues of the deceased and the glory of the heavenly kingdom and God’s supreme grace. When he pronounced the name of God or the Savior, the men and women bowed their heads. Then he fell silent, and after a short pause, as if on a signal, they all began to pray the Lord’s Prayer. Everyone’s eyes moistened, but Father Giselher’s remained dry. Father Giselher stepped to the coffin and said: “I look at you, and I will not see you for the last time. I will see you again up there, as God is true, and joy will be in our hearts.” The coffin was closed and carried out and placed on the cart. The farmer’s boy said, “Hush!” and the white horse neighed and stamped through the snow. Father Giselher walked beside the coffin, the small group of children followed him, then came the procession of old women and men, and I walked far behind them all. Maria and the small child remained behind in the hut. “Goodbye, Maria,” I said softly and looked at her. She had golden hair and blue eyes. The
white horse stamped through the snow and nodded with every step , the children tripped, and the old, shrunken men and women hobbled and limped, wrapped in cloths, behind the swaying coffin. The forest began to smoke all around. Fine snow fell. The slope went steeply downhill. Then from the depths came the melancholy tinkling of a bell. The children began to weep bitterly. And I pressed my hands over my face and wept like children. I wept softly so that no one could hear me. Softly and incessantly, and the more I wept, the lighter my heart became, and I thought I would never be able to stop weeping. Before me swayed the procession, the old people and old women, the children, the coffin. Fine snow fell from the sky. The bell called from the valley. And I wept, wept, on and on, and ever more violently, wept, wept — — — Chapter 39. Spring is coming. Summer is coming. Does no one live in this house? — No! Windows are shattered, the gutter hangs over the roof, many shutters are closed and sparrows are nesting in them. Summer is passing. Autumn is coming. Does no one live in this house? No! Winter is coming. The house lies silent in the woods. People come, knocking, knocking — No one lives in this house. No! How did this year pass? I won’t say. No, I won’t tell anyone , not even my friend Karl, not even me. It is blotted out, this year. I have forgotten everything, everything, I don’t remember anything anymore. I know that I went around, carefully dressed and shaved, that I was always sitting over books. What did I do at night? I have forgotten that. I planted a rose bed in the park, I can confess that, I can also confess that in the white rooms a lamp burned at night. Sometimes. Not every night. I can also confess that sometimes in the evening I peered out of the gable windows, down the street, and waited—not every day, by the way. Fresh bouquets also occasionally stood in the white rooms. I can also confess that on May 25th, a candle burned day and night in my dark room, and I—no! I didn’t go beyond the park, not out of the house. I did n’t feel like it. The house door was locked, no one came in. I had given my orders to old Maria and the monk, and they obeyed! I saw everything that came up the Bergstrasse. Nothing could escape me. One day, a gentleman in traveling clothes and a lady with fiery red hair came up the Bergstrasse. She was also in traveling clothes. I saw them coming, stood behind the door, fear filled me. They pounded, pounded. The fear grew within me, my heart stood still, I held my breath . No, I have nothing in common with people anymore. I can never speak openly with anyone again, not even with my friend Karl, never again. The gentleman said, “Has he gone away after all?” The lady said, “Certainly not!” Then the gentleman said, “We’ll slip it under the door. He’ll be pleased.” A while passed, then newspapers pushed in. The tips of thin, white fingers appeared. The lady said softly, “I feel sorry for him!” She meant me . . . I breathed again. They were major English newspapers. A business card lay among them. We ‘ve just come from London! Best wishes! I read these newspapers: “Tristan and Isolde” — “Merlin” by Holger Hunt — — Ingeborg Hunt Giselher. Triumphs, triumphs! — Nothing else happened this year. But, a book by Karl did arrive. Karl’s new book. It was called “Storm.” There were gnarled oaks that roared and creaked, shook and laughed. — Look! The year passed. I have forgotten how. Then I looked at the world with different eyes. Spring came again! Once more it came. Chapter 40. It is spring. I sit on the steps of my house and smoke from my short pipe. The smoke swirls out merrily. The sun shines, the world is green. Green and transparent as glass is the meadow, the foliage of the beeches. Blue and transparent as glass is the sky. The sun shines. The birds sing, Dew drips from the trees. I smoke my pipe and smile. The world is beautiful! Life is beautiful! There lies the valley, shimmering and green. A small flag waves from the forest over there . The apple trees are in blossom by the road. A road-builder is paving the way, the brass band on his hat sparkles like a crown. Peace and beauty have descended from heaven to earth, I think. The sun is pouring burning wine from jugs over the world, as it once did. I smile. There’s a ringing in the forest, in the valley. A girl comes down the mountain road, a slender peasant girl, a white scarf wrapped around her head, a bundle in her hand. Gold sparkles beneath her headscarf. She nods at me, her teeth and eyes flashing. Child, child, why do you sparkle with your eyes and smile? Do you go into the forest looking for a lover? It’s spring, beware, child! “Good morning!” calls the girl in a ringing voice and walks down the street. And I get up. This voice— Do I suddenly have a fire in my head? And I smile and let out a cry, like a falcon hovering in the ether . I go into the house and tear out all my white hair. — — — — — — — Dusk falls over the valley, all is quiet, the village is asleep. I sit on a well that stands in front of the hut, far outside the village. The well chatters and my heart trembles. A girl steps out of the hut, a jug in her hand. I get up. “Good evening, Maria.” The girl starts and peeks out from under her headscarf. Pale gray stars can be seen on the headscarf. Gold sparkles under the cloth. “Good evening, Brother-in-law.” “A beautiful evening, Maria?” “Yes!” “How beautiful, Maria! It is spring. I came here to talk to you. A roadworker told me where you live now.” Do I have anything to say to her about Ingeborg? “No, no! Let’s not talk about Ingeborg. We want to talk about the two of us, haha! But since you ‘re talking about Ingeborg, I can tell you something. Be proud of Ingeborg, you hear, she’s your sister. They celebrate her, they bend their knees before her. — But let’s not talk about her. Let’s talk about us!” Marie fills the jug with water, and the jug gurgles, laughs, and sings, ever louder. What do I want? Talk to her! A voice calls from the hut. “The farmer is calling.” Maria goes inside. In the forest lies a small meadow, and Maria is plowing, a cow is pulling the plow. I step out of the forest, rifle on my shoulder. “Here I am again,” I say cheerfully. I make my voice uninhibited and young . Maria is silent. “The farmer came along the other day—haha! It’s so beautiful today! The whole world is burning!” I look under Maria’s white headscarf. Yes, I came to her, straight to her, I say, and gently place my hand on her shoulder. Maria looks at me, startled. There’s a sparkle in her eyes. Yes, yes, straight to her! “I love you, Maria, you can believe it!” Maria quickly lowers her head. Pale blue stars are visible on Maria’s white headscarf. “I love you, Maria—what do you say to that? Never—never have I loved a girl so much.” I say it very quietly and am no longer smiling. My eyes are moist. “I beg you, sir—” “Haha, don’t you hear me calling you “you”? You shall come into my house, you shall be the mistress, Maria—speak—” Maria looks at me, her face as white as the headscarf. It is silent. A bird sings. In the distance, a shepherd plays his flute. Dü — düdüdü — düdü — it sounds bright, like love and happiness. Maria slowly backs away, as if she were afraid of me. I smile. “You’re quite pale, Maria. I frightened you. How clumsy I was I do.” She should give me her hand. “No, no!” Maria steps back. She ponders, she ponders for so long that I feel afraid. Then she says, and the blood returns to her cheeks: “I beg you, go. That can’t be true,” she says hastily. “Look, sir, think about it, I’m a peasant girl, you’re a prince, you have a castle, fields and forests—” Maria says it kindly and gently. “Haha.” I laugh. “As for the prince—that’s—a form—that’s—and—” I nod and leave. A thought races through my head. “Goodbye, Maria!” I disappear into the forest. One mustn’t be stupid around young girls. Freshly tackled, always on to the goal! I go home and write a letter and seal it with the coat of arms. I step into the courtyard, the letter with the large seal in my hand. I go to the window of the servants’ room and knock. The monk comes out and takes off his hat. I say to him: “Do you see this letter here? Take it into town. It belongs to the notary. Don’t lose it, for there is something in it for you too. I once treated you unfairly in front of all the servants, I have n’t forgotten it—and you always stroked Pazzo so kindly. I noticed it. I haven’t forgotten old Maria either. Hurry.” It is night. The earth lies dark, and the sky is bright, glittering with stars. I sit on the bench under the birch tree and gaze at the castle. I smile. A small happiness. Do you hear what is beating in my heart? I think of a little hut in the forest, of the smell of manure, of a pretty cow. Of a face in the candlelight. How beautiful it will be when I am allowed to look at that face! Dreams sway in my head. How lovely women are! When they only say hello! What a sound it makes! When they’re asleep—there’s breathing beneath the ceiling, it’s breathing so loudly! I look at all the windows of the castle. I can still see nothing. But suddenly a room is lit, then another, then another. A pane of glass shatters, and smoke billows out. The castle is ablaze. Hundreds of thousands of red dervishes howl and dance in the halls and on the gable. Then the door is flung open, and a figure in a shift runs out, screaming loudly. It’s old Maria. She screams and runs across the meadow, down the street, into the forest. Her shift is bright red and billows around her thin , bare legs. I hadn’t thought of her at all. A glorious, fresh morning. Smoke drifts over the forest. I step out of the forest onto the meadow; Maria is plowing. “Here I am, Maria.” Maria puts her apron over her face and bursts into sobs. “Oh, Lord, Lord, what have you done?” “Do you see now that I love you?” I ask softly. I am the grass at her feet. “Oh, Lord, Lord, what have you done!” I stand there, perplexed. The cow turns her head and looks at me. A bird sings. Like yesterday, the shepherd’s flute blows in the distance. “Listen, Maria,” I say, “don’t cry. What a good heart you have, Maria. I love you, — now –?” Maria cries into her apron. “Oh, Lord, Lord! What have you ever done!” “Then be quiet, Maria. You see, we’ll have a hut, a cow. It will be beautiful. When the birds sing, when the rain falls –” Maria shakes her head. I turn pale, I feel it. How? I think and turn pale. I speak. “Then tell me, Maria, what’s the matter? Can’t you love me? I saw it in your eyes the other day — Ingeborg — haha, how do I say it, Maria –” Maria shakes her head. “Oh, Lord, Lord.” I stand still. My lips twitch. I feel desperate for a moment. “Do you love someone else, Maria? Tell me?” I ask softly. “Say it openly.” Maria nods. “Yes,” she says, sobbing, “what have you done? Lord!” “Well, calm down, Maria. Well then — –. Farewell. Maria, give me the Hand. Don’t you want it?” Maria takes one hand off her apron and offers it to me. “Goodbye, Maria.” I leave. A few steps, then I return. I have something in my pocket for her. Maria is still standing there, the apron over her face, crying. “Maria,” I say, “I would like to give you at least something. Perhaps you’ll like it?” I pull a small green vase out of my pocket. “Here, take it. You can put flowers in it that your beloved gives you. Don’t you want to take it?” Maria takes her hand off her apron, and I place the vase in her beautiful brown hand. “Goodbye, Maria!” Maria cries. I look at her once more—then I walk into the forest. I turn around; Maria still has the apron over her face. The branches cover her. I reach the road and walk along it, down into the valley. The sun rises over the hills. I walk and walk. Many thoughts buzz through my head. I go on and on, on and on. I’m still a little sad, but it will soon be over — — — I’m striding along briskly — — Now I live in the steppe, where the sun is blinding and every tiny piece of grass casts a polished turquoise-blue shadow. Night has fallen. I lie in the grass, arms folded beneath my head, and watch the stars moving across the sky. I also watch the stars in the northwest. It is night, not a sound in the steppe, in the sky the stars shine solemnly and beautifully. Dew falls on every creature. End.
Printed by W. Drugulin in Leipzig. Gustaf af Gejerstam Women’s Power. Novel. 6th millennium. Book 2 marks, hardcover 3 marks. The Book of the Little Brother. Novel. 10th millennium. Each volume book 3.50 marks, hardcover 4.50 marks. The Comedy of Marriage. Novel. 6,000. Forest and Lake. Novellas. 4,000. Struggle of Souls. Novel. 4,000. Old Letters. Novellas. 4,000. “Women’s Power”: There are passages in this book that are cause for jubilation, and passages of a beauty of melancholy that only the author of “The Book of the Little Brother” could write. Here is a heartfelt work of art that one cannot pass through without being enriched and delighted. Nationalzeitung, Berlin “The Book of the Little Brother”: We see here with trepidation and reverence how a great poet transfigures his deepest pain through his art. This enchanting book depicts dying happiness, depicts it so intimately, warmly, and with a majestic serenity that we walk as if in the shadow of eternity. German Literature and Art Newspaper “The Comedy of Marriage”: In close emotional connection with his delightfully delicate and melancholy “Book of the Little Brother,” the poet leads us into the narrow, yet incomparably deeply moving world of a marriage that falls apart strangely. Every word written here was surely a drop of blood; the power and depth of the mood, this entire delicious fragrance, cannot be described. Breslau Newspaper “Forest and Lake”: This Swedish poet has the enviable gift of portraying the sublime peace of the forest with the simplest and truest, yet incredibly poetic words, and of completely captivating us with his stories: forest and lake and people and the sky above them: all a single, wondrous atmosphere. Literary Watch: Otto Erich Hartleben: The Serenyi. Novellas, 6th edition. Published by 2 M., published by 3 M. The Story of the Torn Button. 16th edition. Published by 2 M. The Hospitable Pastor. Novellas. 20th ed., vol. 2, ed. 3 M. The Roman Painter. Novellas. 6th ed., vol. 2, ed. 3 M. “The Story of the Torn Button”: Here a humorous genius of the first order is revealed . Hartleben makes no jokes; no sharp, sophisticated wordplay, no cleverly calculated situations are intended to offset the cost of the effect. It is unique and Only his golden humor, which permeates everything; we sip it down like a noble, clear, shimmering Rhine wine of the finest vintage, and a pleasant sense of well-being envelops us as we enjoy it. Reichsanzeiger, Berlin “The Hospitable Pastor”: In the cheerful tale of “The Hospitable Pastor,” Hartleben has provided a German counterpart to Maupassant’s hilarious Maison Tellier. Admirable is the roguish subtlety with which he has so concealed the main joke of the plot that, for example, a truly innocent, worldly-uninitiated girl could read the whole story and would be as little aware as the unsuspecting pastor of Stolberg of what had actually happened. We do not want to deprive anyone of the surprising pleasure that this delightful farce must provide every reader by hinting at the plot. Berner Bund “The Roman Painter”: These charming, sparkling prose pieces, in which one notices that their author only wrote them when he felt an irresistible, urgent desire to do so, all have the rare quality that one can read them half a dozen times and find delight in them each time . Hartleben is one of the most unconstrained and humorous of our modern authors. Ostdeutsche Rundschau Hermann Hesse Peter Camenzind. Novel, 33rd ed., hardcover, 4 marks. Under the Wheel. Novel. 15th ed., hardcover, 3.50 marks, hardcover, 4.50 marks. “Peter Camenzind”: It is a delightful, vibrant book, one of those books that, after we read it, exerts a silent power over our souls. This creation by Hesse is so rich and, for the most part, of such mature artistry that it may be placed alongside the best of what his compatriots Keller and Meyer have created. Der Tag, Berlin “Unterm Rad”: This novel is a good, profound, powerful book, even more refined than “Camenzind,” permeated by a capable masculinity, a blessing for the reader, trusting, convincing, proclaiming a lively, passionate sense of nature, free of aesthetic ailments – a clear Swabian book, a thoroughly German novel. Münchener Neueste Nachrichten Friedrich Huch Geschwister. Novel. 2nd ed. Gov. 3.50 Mk., hardcover 4.50 Mk. Wandlungen. Novel. 2nd ed. Gov. 2.50 marks, n. 3.50 marks. “Siblings”: A full, heartfelt cult of beauty pervades the entire work; every line expresses the poet’s profound emotion, whose essence reveals pure harmony. It is infinitely pleasant to encounter such a spirit and listen to his well-structured sentences. Allgemeine Zeitung, Munich “Siblings”: It is impossible to convey the impression made by this strange book in dry words. It is delicate, fragrant, and atmospheric like a poem. Neue Züricher Zeitung E. v. Keyserling Beate and Mareile. Novel. n. 3 marks, n. 4 marks. Sultry Days. Novellas. n. 2 marks, n. 3 marks. “Beate and Mareile”: This elegant castle story, a sparingly but virtuosically toned, distinguished watercolor, is enchanting in its unpretentious naturalness. If this condensed, worldly, superior, and poetically inspired story could be administered—perhaps in lozenge form like a medicine—the anemia of German production would be remedied. Wiener Abendpost “Beate and Mareile” is the work of a distinguished, psychologically wonderfully sensitive artist, endowed with keen powers of observation and artistic concentration. The literary echo George Meredith Richard Feverel. Novel. Price 4 marks, born 5 marks. The Egoist. Novel. Price 6 marks, born 7.50 marks. “Richard Feverel”: The novel is rich in events and brilliantly observed and drawn character portraits, among which are female figures of touching beauty and warm-blooded physicality . Königsberger Allgemeine Zeitung “The Egoist”: An artistic spirit of inexhaustible abundance takes hold here into life and shows it to us through the small glimpse of just one family, but what a stream of movement he knows how to unleash against this narrow background. Wit, satire, humor, a brilliant abundance of profound wisdom rushes from his sparkling spirit and envelops and plays around his characters, so that in the end one hardly knows which of his artistic qualities most strongly captures our admiration of this philosopher and poet . Freistatt, Munich Thomas Mann Buddenbrooks. Novel. 37th ed. Book. 5 marks, hardback. 6 marks. Tristan. Novellas. 6th ed. Book. 3.50 marks, hardback. 4.50 marks. Fiorenza. Three Acts. 2nd ed. Book. 2.50 marks, hardback. 3.50 marks. “Buddenbrooks”: This novel remains an indestructible book. It will grow with time and be read by many generations to come; One of those works of art that are truly transcendent beyond day and age, that do not sweep one away in a storm, but gradually and irresistibly overwhelm with gentle persuasion. Berliner Tageblatt “Tristan”: If one compares the Tristan volume with “Buddenbrooks,” one has a promise for the future that our people can rejoice in . Hannoverscher Courier Jakob Wassermann The Story of Young Renate Fuchs. Novel. 9th edition. Hardcover. 6 marks, hardcover. 7.50 marks. Alexander in Babylon. Novel. 3rd edition. Hardcover. 3.50, hardcover. 4.50. “Alexander in Babylon”: With this tale of the illness of a giant mind, Wassermann has created a work of art that surpasses most old-style historical novels. Kreuzzeitung, Berlin “The Story of Young Renate Fuchs”: Every great, liberating book must be a book of redemption and rebirth. This is a book about the redemption of women, “who begin to distrust old sensual prejudices, who experience their fate, their female destiny, and no longer wish to be serfs.” — Since Keller’s “Green Henry,” no such interesting and profound novel has appeared in German. The Future Hermann Stehr Leonore Griebel. Novel. Published 3 marks, born 4 marks. The Buried God. Novel. 2nd edition. Published 4 marks, born 5 marks. “The Buried God”: once again the lonely teacher in the unknown Silesian village has created a work, dark, deeply stirring, of tremendous tragedy; once again this new novel testifies to the prophetic eye of the psychologist, who interweaves the characters and fates of his characters with uncanny necessity, relentlessly until the final, shattering catastrophe . . . . The language has a strange glow; Between the lines one can hear the sound of suppressed sobs, and from beginning to end one feels the strong and boundless love and respect with which the poet explores all the highs and lows of the human soul. Bremer Bürgerzeitung Emil Strauß Der Engelwirt. A Swabian Story. Published 3 marks, published 4 marks. Freund Hein. Novel. 14th edition. Published 4 marks, published 5 marks. Kreuzungen. Novel. 6th edition. Published 4 marks, published 5 marks. Perhaps Strauß’s previous novel, “Freund Hein,” was more gripping; perhaps this truly significant book touched our hearts more strongly and more directly because it came more directly from the depths of a true poet’s heart. Therefore , “Kreuzungen,” which Strauß now followed, is no less a work of art, a complete and well-rounded one. They are perhaps, in the truest sense, even more of a work of art than “Freund Hein,” insofar as it is precisely in them that a completely balanced, purposefully self- contained, objective creative power admirably emerges. . . Even more mature than before, Strauss now stands almost Goetheanally above his material; more mature not only as an artist, but also as a person, he now allows that homely, sovereign humor to emerge more strongly, which had already flashed up in occasional glimpses in “Freund Hein.” Hamburger Fremdenblatt Notes on the transcription In the original, Chapter 24 is followed by Chapter 24 again. This and all subsequent chapter numbers have been silently corrected. Obvious printing errors have been corrected. You have followed Ingeborg’s journey: the hesitation, the awakening, the growth —and perhaps the quiet decision that transforms a life. Bernhard Kellermann reminds us that courage often begins in silence: in a look, a word, a step that suddenly becomes possible. What remains is the realization that dignity and love are not granted, but fought for. If this journey has touched you, take its questions with you: What holds us back? What calls us forward? And what does the voice we have long ignored sound like? May Ingeborg’s trail remind you to trust your own inner voice. Thank you for listening.

Tauche ein in Bernhard Kellermanns „Ingeborg“ – ein fesselnder Gesellschafts- und Liebesroman aus dem frühen 20. Jahrhundert. Zwischen künstlerischen Kreisen, bürgerlichen Erwartungen und dem pulsierenden Berlin entfaltet sich die Geschichte einer jungen Frau, die zwischen Gefühl und Pflicht ihren eigenen Weg sucht. ✨📖

• Worum geht’s? 🧵
– Ingeborg liebt leidenschaftlich – doch Konventionen, Gerüchte und Machtspiele stellen ihre Zukunft auf die Probe.
– Großstadtflair, Salonkultur und psychologische Tiefe zeichnen ein lebendiges Panorama der Zeit.

• Warum hören? 🎧
– Zeitloses Thema: Selbstbestimmung vs. gesellschaftliche Normen.
– Poetische Sprache, messerscharfe Beobachtungen und fein gezeichnete Charaktere.
– Perfekt zum Abschalten, Genießen und Nachdenken.

• Für wen geeignet? 🎯
– Fans von deutschsprachigen Klassikern und psychologischen Romanen.
– Hörerinnen und Hörer, die Berlin-Atmosphäre und tiefe Figurenstudien lieben.

• Über den Autor ✍️
– Bernhard Kellermann (1879–1951) war einer der meistgelesenen deutschsprachigen Erzähler seiner Zeit; bekannt für „Der Tunnel“ – und hier mit einer berührenden Innenansicht weiblicher Lebensentwürfe.

• Hörempfehlung 🕯️
– Am besten mit Kopfhörern hören, Kapitelweise genießen und Lieblingsstellen markieren.

• Unterstütze den Kanal ❤️
– Abonniere für mehr hochwertige Hörbücher in deutscher Sprache: [https://bit.ly/HörbücherDeutsch
-](https://bit.ly/HörbücherDeutsch
-) Like, kommentiere und teile dieses Video – so hilfst du, Klassiker lebendig zu halten! 🙌

-Ingeborg – Berliner Liebesdrama & Gesellschaftsroman 🎭💔🏙️ [https://youtu.be/v_V_42wuwVo]
-Unterm Birnbaum 🍃🌳 – Ein packendes Drama von Theodor Fontane[https://youtu.be/wblOI-IHBRM]
-Tonio Kröger 🎭✨ von Thomas Mann – Ein Meisterwerk der Literatur[https://youtu.be/IcM2Jj4I2-g]
-Schach von Wuthenow ♟️ Der dramatische Kampf um Macht und Ehre 🏰[https://youtu.be/v7VYHT0_Quk]

#Ingeborg #BernhardKellermann #HörbuchDeutsch #DeutscheKlassiker #Gesellschaftsroman #Liebesroman #BerlinRoman #KlassikerHören #LiteraturPodcast #GanzesHörbuch #KostenlosesHörbuch #DeutscheLiteratur #PsychologischerRoman #Literaturgeschichte #ProjektGutenberg #Vorlesung #Hörgenuss #Kultur #Bücherliebe #Storytime

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00:51:37 Chapter 6.
00:56:35 Chapter 7.
01:11:59 Chapter 8.
01:17:26 Chapter 9.
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02:25:48 Chapter 14.
02:34:38 Chapter 15.
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03:27:36 Chapter 19.
03:46:17 Chapter 20.
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04:13:36 Chapter 23.
04:19:43 Chapter 24.
04:31:59 Chapter 25.
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04:36:30 Chapter 27.
04:50:19 Chapter 28.
04:55:53 Chapter 29.
05:09:29 Chapter 30.
05:11:53 Chapter 31.
05:22:04 Chapter 32.
05:45:23 Chapter 33.
06:01:56 Chapter 34.
06:05:00 Chapter 35.
06:09:11 Chapter 36.
06:12:08 Chapter 37.
06:22:09 Chapter 38.
06:38:03 Chapter 39.
06:41:53 Chapter 40.