Effi Briest (21 page)

The portrait left much to be desired; otherwise, as already suggested, a sheen verging on opulence was everywhere manifest, and this was matched by the meal that was served. Everyone seemed to enjoy it, with the exception of Sidonie. She was sitting between Innstetten and Lindequist and when she caught sight of Cora, she said, ‘There’s that insufferable brat Cora again. Just look at her, Innstetten, the way she presents the little wine glasses, the affectation of it, she could be a waitress any day. Quite intolerable. And the way your friend Crampas is looking at her! That’s where it all starts. I ask you, where will it end?’

Innstetten basically agreed with her but found the tone she used for all her comments so offensively tart that he remarked sarcastically, ‘Yes, my dear lady, where will it end?
I
can’t imagine either’ – whereupon Sidonie turned away from him to her neighbour on the left, ‘Tell me Pastor, is that fourteen-year-old flirt in your class already?’

‘Yes my dear lady.’

‘Well, I’m afraid you must permit me to tell you that yours cannot be the right approach. I know it’s very difficult these days, but I also know that those upon whom the nurture of young souls is incumbent frequently fail
to bring the appropriate seriousness to the task. So there we are, the blame rests squarely with the parents and teachers.’

Lindequist, adopting the same tone as Innstetten, said she was absolutely right, but the spirit of the times was just
too
strong a force.

‘Spirit of the times!’ said Sidonie. ‘Don’t use that expression to me. I can’t bear to hear it, it’s an admission of utter weakness, a declaration of bankruptcy. I’ve seen it all; never grasp the nettle, avoid anything unpleasant. For duty is not easy. So people all too readily forget that we shall be called to account for what has been entrusted to us. Active intervention my dear Pastor, discipline. The flesh is weak of course, but…’

At that moment English roast beef appeared and Sidonie took a generous helping, not noticing Lindequist’s smile. And since she failed to notice it, it is not surprising that she carried on regardless, ‘All that you see here was bound to turn out like this; it was all muddled and wrong from the start. Ring, Ring – unless I’m mistaken there was once a legendary king of that name over in Sweden or somewhere like that. Just look at him, isn’t he behaving as if he was a direct descendant, and his mother, whom I knew in her time, used to take in ironing in Köslin.’

‘I don’t see anything wrong in that.’

‘See anything wrong? I don’t either. Anyway, there are worse things. But I think the least I can expect from you, as a man of the cloth, is that you acknowledge that there is a social order to be observed. A head forester is not much more than a forester, and no forester has wine-coolers and silver the like of this; it’s all quite inappropriate, and leads to children growing up like our Fräulein Cora here.’

Sidonie, prepared as ever to prophesy doom when the spirit moved her to unleash her pent-up wrath, would have launched there and then into her Cassandra act on the future, had not the steaming punchbowl – with which these Christmas reunions at the Rings’ were always concluded – at that moment appeared on the table, and with it the Christmas pastries, ingeniously stacked so that they far outdid the pyramid of cakes served with the coffee a few hours earlier. And now Ring himself, who had until then kept somewhat in the background, went into action with radiant solemnity and began filling the glasses in front of him, tall cut crystal goblets, pouring in a virtuoso arc, a feat that Frau von Padden who, though sadly absent on this occasion, was always good for an instant
aperçu
, had once called the ‘
remplissage en cascade à la Ring
.’ The liquid would curve golden red, and not a drop would be lost. And so it was today. Finally, when they all duly had their glasses in their hands – including Cora who had in the meantime installed herself with her golden red tresses on ‘Uncle Crampas’s lap – the old gentleman from Papenhagen rose, as is the custom at festivities of this sort, to propose
a toast to his dear head forester. There were all sorts of rings, he began, tree rings, curtain rings, wedding rings and as far as engagement rings were concerned – for now the time had probably come to mention them – there was fortunately every guarantee that one would be visible in this house in a very short time, adorning the ring-finger (in this case a ring-finger in two senses) of a pretty little fistikins…

‘Outrageous,’ muttered Sidonie to the pastor.

‘Yes my friends,’ Güldenklee went on, raising his voice, ‘there are many sorts of rings, and there is even a story we all know, which is called the story of the “three rings”, a Jewish story, which, like all that liberal fiddle-faddle, has caused and continues to cause nothing but confusion and disaster. May God help us in this. And now let me conclude, for I don’t wish to strain your patience and indulgence unduly. I’m not in favour of these three rings, my friends, I’m for
one
ring, for
one
ring who is all that a ring should be, a ring who sees all that is good in this old Pomeranian circle of ours, all who stand with God for King and Fatherland – and there are still some of them (loud acclamation) – who sees all that assembled round this his hospitable table.
That’s
the Ring I’m for. Here’s to him!’

Everybody joined in the toast and surrounded Ring who, while it lasted, had to hand over the
remplissage en cascade
to Crampas who was sitting opposite; the tutor however dashed from his place at the lower end of the table to the piano and struck up the first bars of the Prussian anthem, whereupon they all rose and solemnly joined in: ‘I am a Prussian… a Prussian will I be.’

‘It’s a beautiful song,’ said old Borcke to Innstetten immediately after the first verse, ‘they don’t have anything like that in other countries.’

‘No,’ said Innstetten, who didn’t much hold with this kind of patriotism, ‘in other countries they have other things.’

They sang all the verses, then it was announced that the carriages were at the door, and immediately afterwards everybody rose so as not to keep the horses waiting. For ‘consideration for the horses’ took precedence over all else in the district of Kessin too. In the hallway stood two pretty maids, Ring set store by that kind of thing, to help the guests on with their fur coats. Everybody was in high spirits, some more than a little merry, and the dispersal of the guests into their various vehicles seemed about to be accomplished swiftly and smoothly, when suddenly it was announced that Gieshübler’s sleigh was not there. Gieshübler himself was far too polite to appear concerned, far less make a fuss; in the end, since somebody had to say it, Crampas asked what the trouble was.

‘Mirambo can’t drive,’ said the groom. ‘When he was harnessing the horses the one on the left kicked him in the shins. He’s lying yelling in the stable.’

Naturally Dr Hannemann was called; he duly went out and after five minutes assured them with the true surgeon’s aplomb, ‘Yes, Mirambo must stay behind; the only thing for it at this stage is rest and cold compresses. Absolutely no cause for concern otherwise.’ That was some consolation, but didn’t solve the awkward problem of how Gieshübler’s sleigh was to be driven back, until Innstetten announced that he would stand in for Mirambo and personally convey the two luminaries, the doctor and the chemist, safely to their destination. Amid much laughter and some rather inebriated jokes at the expense of the most obliging Landrat in the land who was even willing to be parted from his young wife to be of assistance to a friend, this suggestion was accepted, and Innstetten with Gieshübler and the doctor in the back took the lead again. Crampas and Lindequist followed, and when Kruse drove up next with the Landrat’s sleigh, Sidonie approached Effi smiling and asked, since there was now an empty seat, if she might ride with her. ‘It’s always so stuffy in our coach; that’s how my father likes it. And besides, I should so like to have a chat with you. But just as far as Quappendorf. Where the road to Morgnitz branches off, I’ll get out and I’ll have to get back into our uncomfortable old crate. And besides, Papa smokes.’

Effi was not much pleased with this company and would rather have made the journey alone; but she had no choice, and so Fräulein Sidonie climbed in and hardly had the two ladies taken their seats when Kruse gave the horses a crack of his whip, and they set off down the head forester’s drive, from which they had a magnificent view of the sea, down some rather steep dunes towards the beach road which ran in an almost straight line for five miles to the Kessin Strand Hotel and then took a right turn through the Plantation and on into the town. No snow had fallen for a few hours, the air was fresh and the dim light of the crescent moon fell on the wide expanse of the darkening sea. Kruse drove along the very edge of the water, sometimes cutting through the foam on the breakers, and Effi, who was shivering a little, wrapped herself up tighter in her cloak, maintaining a prolonged and deliberate silence. She knew very well that the talk about the ‘stuffy coach’ had simply been a pretext, and that Sidonie had only joined her in order to tell her something unpleasant, which she was in no hurry to hear. Besides, she really was tired, perhaps from the walk in the forest, perhaps from the head forester’s punch too. Persuaded by Frau von Flemming who had been sitting beside her, she had addressed herself to it with a will. So she pretended to be asleep, closed her eyes and leaned her head further and further to the left.

‘You shouldn’t lean so far to the left, my dear lady. If the sleigh goes over a stone you’ll be thrown out. Your sleigh doesn’t even have a safety strap, I see, not even the hook for one.’

‘I can’t bear safety straps, there’s something rather prosaic about them. And then, the idea of being thrown out appeals to me, especially straight into the breakers. Rather a chilly bath of course, but what of it… Can you hear anything by the way?’

‘No.’

‘You don’t hear something like music?’

‘An organ?’

‘No, not an organ. That would make me think it was just the sea. No, it’s something else, an infinitely delicate sound, almost like a human voice…’

‘It’s a hallucination,’ said Sidonie who judged that the moment had come for her to strike. ‘You’re ill, it’s your nerves. You’re hearing voices. Pray God that you may hear the right voice too.’

‘I hear… well, of course it’s too silly, I know, otherwise I’d imagine I’d heard the mermaids singing… But tell me, what’s that? There’s something flashing high up into the sky. It must be the northern lights.’

‘Yes,’ said Sidonie. ‘Your ladyship behaves as if it were one of the wonders of the world. It’s no such thing. And if it were, we have to be on our guard against the cult of nature. It’s lucky by the way that we’re out of range and don’t have to listen to the head forester, that vainest of men, talking about the northern lights. He’d imagine the heavens were doing it for his benefit, I’ll be bound, to add a still more festive touch to his festivities. He’s a fool. Güldenklee could have found something better to do than toast him. And now he’s currying favour with the church, he recently made a presentation of an altar-cloth. Perhaps Cora had a hand in the embroidery. These hypocrites are to blame for everything, because their material interests are always uppermost and are added to the burden of those of us who are earnestly trying to save their souls.’

‘It’s so difficult to see into people’s hearts.’

‘Yes. It is. Except that in some cases it’s quite easy.’ Saying which she directed a penetrating look at the young woman, indeed one that bordered on effrontery.

Effi was silent and turned aside impatiently.

‘I say, in some cases it’s quite easy,’ repeated Sidonie, who had achieved her object, and so continued with an unruffled smile, ‘and our head forester is one of those transparent puzzles. I pity anybody who brings up children as he does, but there is
one
good thing about it, namely that it’s all plain to see in his case. And it’s just as true of his daughters. Cora will go to America and become a millionairess, or a Methodist preacher; whichever it is, she’s a lost woman. I’ve never seen a fourteen-year-old…’

At that moment the sleigh stopped and when the two ladies looked round to discover what the matter was, they noticed that to their right, about thirty
paces from them, the other two sleighs had also stopped – farthest away on the right the one Innstetten was driving, closer to them Crampas’s.

‘What is it?’ asked Effi.

Kruse turned half-round and said, ‘The Schloon, m’lady.’

‘The Schloon? What’s that? I don’t see anything.’

Kruse shook his head from one side to the other as if to say the question was more easily asked than answered. In which he was right. For nobody could say in so many words what the Schloon was. But at this awkward moment Fräulein Sidonie quickly came to his assistance, knowing as she did all about everything in these parts including, naturally, the Schloon.

‘Yes, my dear lady,’ said Sidonie, ‘things look bad. Not so much for me, I shall get through easily enough; because the coaches will be along soon, and they have big wheels and anyway our horses are used to this. But with these sleighs it’s a different matter; they get bogged down in the Schloon, so for better or worse you will have to make a detour.’

‘Bogged down! I’m afraid, my dear Fräulein Sidonie, I still don’t see at all. Is the Schloon a crevasse or something that will swallow up man and beast? I can’t imagine anything like that in this part of the world.’

‘Well, it
is
something very like that, but on a smaller scale; the Schloon is actually nothing but a miserable little stream that comes down here on the right from Lake Gothen and trickles through the dunes. In the summer it sometimes dries up completely and you drive over it without even noticing.’

‘And in the winter?’

‘Ah well, in the winter it’s a different story; not always, but often. Then it turns into a Soog.’

‘Goodness me, all these names, these words!’

‘Then it turns into a Soog, which is at its worst when the wind is blowing off the sea. Then the wind drives the sea water up into the little channel, but not so that you can see it. That’s the worst part of the whole thing. That’s what’s really dangerous. It all happens underground and the sand on the beach is saturated and full of water to a fair depth. And if you try to cross a stretch of sand like that, which actually isn’t sand any more, you sink in as if it were a marsh or a bog.’