Problematic Characters: A Novel

by Friedrich Spielhagen

On such days Castle Grenwitz looked more grim and lonely even than ordinarily. On other days, if no one else came there, the light of the sun at least entered in at the windows, and penetrated into all the rooms, even those locked-up staterooms in the upper stories, with their costly though faded brocade furniture, and greeted here and there a portrait which it knew now for a hundred years or more. On other days, if no one else was merry, the sparrows at least twittered, who had made their nests in the crevices of the old tower and the stucco-ornaments of the new addition, and who quarrelled as unconcernedly about their private affairs as if the baronial mansion was a common cottage or a miserable barn. And if you felt, in spite of all that, too lonely and deserted in the château, you could go down into the garden, where the flowers shone in much fairer and brighter colors than the tapestry and the chairs and the sofas in the staterooms, where gay butterflies hovered over the gay flowers, where the birds were caroling, the bees humming busily, and everywhere rich, active life was going on, full of joy and brightness for him who had eyes to see and ears to hear.

On rainy days all that was changed. Then the portraits on the wall could tell each other undisturbed old, old stories, to their hearts' content, and the curious sunlight would never so much as see them blush; then even the sparrows were at peace for a time, or fought at least in silence for the best and the driest places, and in the garden the flowers hung their rain-washed heads, and all the rich, gay life looked as if it had died out. In the wet walks and over the parterres cold winds played with each other, and mercilessly tore pretty, delicate flowers to pieces, and upset tall beanpoles, and swept up the trees to shake the branches, and make an infinite ado.

This melancholy weather harmonized with Oswald's state of mind. Since the day he had passed at Barnewitz a great change had taken place in him, which he could hardly explain himself. He felt as if suddenly a close veil had fallen on his eyes, which made everything look to him discolored and unattractive; he felt as if a hostile hand had mixed a drop of wormwood with his cup of life, from which he had recently drunk so eagerly. Even the image of the beautiful lady who was enthroned in the holiest of his heart seemed to have lost its magic power. Where was now all the happiness he used to feel when he recalled her and the sunny hours he had spent with her? Where the restless longing to see her face, to hear her voice? Where the feverish impatience with which he followed the course of the sun and wished for the night, so he might steal down the narrow stairs that led from his room into the garden and hasten to the forest, to spend hours and hours watching around the forest chapel? And yet he knew that she was mourning for him now in her solitude; that she had long since forgiven his boyish defiance and his childish impatience; that not a word of reproach, not a glance of reproof would receive him if he should return; that she would open her arms wide, and welcome him to her loving heart! Alas! It was not she whom he doubted, nor her love; it was himself and his own love that he doubted! Oldenburg's last words: Who of us is still able to love with all his heart? Who of us still has a whole heart? fell again and again upon his ear like the low tolling of a bell, like the song at the grave. And a voice which he could not silence whispered to him, wherever he went and stood, by night and by day: Not you! Not you!--Is it not written in the lines of your hand? Did not the brown woman in the forest see it at the first glance? Not you! Not you!--And when you fell at Melitta's feet, and when you stammered the vow of love and faithfulness, did she not hastily and anxiously close your lips, as if she wished to save you from the crime of perjury: Oh, do not swear! I may swear to you love now and evermore, but not you! not you!

Rainy weather! How the wind drives the big drops against the panes, so that they become dim, like eyes that have wept too much! How heavy and low the clouds are drifting, the gray mourning cloaks, as if they must touch the tops of the poplar trees on the castle wall with their hems! Ah! that I was lying out there beneath the wet black soil, relieved of all anguish of doubt or repentance! Ah! that I could partake of the deep peace of Nature! Be one with the elements! Rush along with the wind, flare up to heaven with the flame, pass away with the water of the stream in the ocean!

Are the wise men of the East right when they say that the whole life of man is but one great mistake? Are we all of us lost sons, who have forsaken our good old father's house to feed upon the husks? And is it true that we may return to him at any time, if we only wish to do so with all our heart? Who of us has still a whole heart for living or for dying? Not you! Not you!

Self-confidence is like the cloud sent by the gods, which surrounds us, and then we are enabled to walk unhurt through all the troubles of life, and when we fall to fall like heroes, with the death-wound on our brow or in our brave hearts. Doubt of ourselves is like a sudden vertigo, which seizes us on a steep height, which chills our blood, loosens the strength of our sinews, and at last hurls us irretrievably into the abyss.

In such painful moments man is apt to join any one who wanders merrily along the path of life, defying the perils of the road, as a lost child in the woods runs up to the first one it meets.

Such a bold wanderer Oswald thought his new acquaintance, and thus it came about that he sought in these evil days most industriously the company of Albert Timm, who was ever ready to laugh and to joke and to play tricks. This readiness surprised him all the more, as he was generally most fastidious in the choice of his friends.

Albert needed as little time to make himself perfectly at home in a new place as the Arab needs to pitch his tent. Arrangements he had none to make. He left it to his things, which were not many in number, to seek their place in his room. If one boot preferred standing bolt upright on top of a chair, and the other liked to lie on the floor, heel upwards--he did not object. If his dress-coat, the only really respectable garment he owned, preferred to forget its existence, rolled up in a little ball and put away between sorted linen in a corner of his melancholy little portmanteau, he did not disturb its enjoyment. And he himself, the happy owner of all these treasures, was standing there in his shirt-sleeves, in spite of the cool weather, bending over his drawing-board, whistling, drawing, singing, and laughing at Oswald, who came to visit him on account of what he called his mute's look.

"Dottore, dottore!" he said, "you look as if you suffered excruciating pain from the grog which I have drunk last night. Upon my word, you disgrace the weather! Did you ever sit, as a boy, in a garret window, sending from a short clay pipe beautiful soap-bubbles into the bright air, while down stairs among the leaden soldiers a half-finished exercise was lying, which was to earn you, a few hours later, a sound whipping on the part of your teacher? You see, that is a picture of life. Our knowledge is a half-finished exercise, and our best exercises remain fragments; the most brilliant soap-bubbles will burst, and the hardest whipping is forgotten in an hour or two. All is vanity, but especially our regret that all is vanity! Why? I did not make the world, and, as far as I know, you did not make it Why, then, should we two rack our brains about it? I rack my brains about nothing, for instance, not even about this line, which I have evidently made too short, and which I must now at random extend gracefully till it meets this angle--by the by, a most romantic corner of the wood, where I met a most charming little red-cheeked peasant girl, who, no doubt, is the cause of my mistake. Well, no matter! The account does not always tally, why else should we have fractions, and the Grenwitz entail remains, for all that, a very beautiful invention, especially for that poor boy Malte. Is the boy really as stupid as he looks?"