Chapter XII

While this conversation was going on up in the gable room, Botho had taken a seat, not in the sheltered veranda, but at a primitive wooden table that was nailed on four posts in front of the veranda and afforded a fine view. He planned to take his evening meal here. He ordered fish, and as the “tench and dill” for which the tavern was famous was brought, the host came to ask what kind of wine the Herr Baron desired? (He gave him this title by mere chance.)

“I think,” said Botho, “Brauneberger, or let us say rather Rudesheimer would suit the delicate fish best, and to show guest and drink some of your own wine.”

The host bowed smilingly and soon came back with a dusty bottle, while the maid, a pretty Wendin in a woolen gown and a black head-kerchief, brought the glasses on a tray.

“Now let us see,” said Botho. “The bottle promise all sorts of good qualities. Too much dust and cobweb is always suspicious, but this … Ah, superb! This is the vintage of ’70, is it not? And now we must drink, but to what? To the prosperity of Hankel Ablage.”

The host was evidently delighted, and Botho, who saw what a good impression he was making, went on speaking in his own gentle and friendly way: “I find it charming here, and there is only one thing to be said against Hankel’s Ablage: its name”

“Yes,” agreed the host, “the name might be better and it is really unfortunate for us. And yet there is a reason for the name, Hankle’s Ablage really was an Albage, and so it is still called.”

“Very good. But this brings us no further forward than before. Why is it called an Ablage? And what is an Ablage?”

“Well, it is as much as to say a place for loading and unloading. The whole stretch of land hereabouts (and he pointed backward) was, in fact, always one great domain, and was called under Old Fritz and even earlier under the warrior kings the domain Wusterhausen. And the thirty villages as well as the forest and moorland all belonged to it. Now you see the thirty villages naturally had to obtain and use many things, or what amounts to the same thing, they had to have egress and ingress, and for both they needed from the beginning a harbor or a place to buy and sell, and the only doubt would have been what place they should choose for the purpose. They actually chose this place; this bay became a harbor, a mart, an “Ablage” for all that came and went, and since the fisher who lived here at that time was my grandfather Hankel, the place become “Hankel’s Ablage.”

“It is a pity,” said Botho, “that this cannot be so well and clearly explained to everyone,” and the host who felt encouraged by the interest shown was about to continue. But before he could begin, the cry of a bird was heard high in the air, and as Botho looked up curiously, he saw that two large, powerful birds, scarcely recognizable in the twilight, were flying above the water.

“Were those wild geese?”

“No, herons. The whole forest hereabouts is full of them. For that matter, it is regular hunting ground. There are huge numbers of wild boar and deer and woodcock, and among the reeds and rushes here ducks, and snipe.”

“Delightful,” said Botho, in whom the hunter was waking up. “Do you know snipe, woodcocks! One could almost wish to be in such pleasant circumstances also. Only it must be lonely here, too lonely.”

The host smiled to himself and Botho, who noticed this, became curious and said: “You laugh. But is it not so? For half an hour I have heard nothing but the water gurgling under the pier, and just now the call of the herons. I call that lonely, however beautiful it may be. And now and them a couple of big sailboats glide by, but they are all alike, or oat least they look very similar. And really each one seems to be a phantom ship. It is an still as death.”

“Certainly,” said the host. But, that is only as long as it lasts.”

“How so?”

“Yes,” repeated the host, “as long as it lasts. You speak of solitude, Here Baron, and for days together it is truly lonely here. And it might be so for weeks. But scarcely has the ice broken up and the spring come when we have guests and the Berliner has arrived.”

“When does he come?”

“Incredibly early. All in a moment there they are. See here, Here Baron, while I, who am hardened to the weather, am still staying indoors because the east wind blows and the March sun scorches, the Berliner already sits out of doors, lays his summer overcoat on the chair and orders pale ale. For if only the sun shines the Berliner speaks of beautiful weather. It is all the same to him if there is inflammation of the lungs or diptheria in every wind that blows. It is then that the he best likes to play grace-hoops, blistered from the reflected sunlight, my heart really aches for them, for there is not one among them whose skin will not peel off at least by the following day.”

Botho laughed. “Yes, indeed, the Berliners! And that reminds me, your Spree hereabouts must be the place where the oarsmen and yachtsmen meet to hold their regattas.”

“Certainly.” said the host. “But that is not saying very much. If there are good many, there may be fifty or perhaps a hundred. And then all is still again, and the water sports are over for weeks and months. No, club members are comfortable to deal with; by comparison they are endurable. But in June when the steamers come, it is bad. And then it will continue all summer, or at any rate a long, long time …”

“I believe you,” said Botho.

“Then a telegram comes every evening. ’Early to-morrow morning at nine o’clock we shall arrive by the steamer Alse. Party to send the day. 240 persons’. And then follow the names of those who have gotten up the affair. It does well enough for once. But the trouble is, it lasts so long. For how do such parties spend their time? They are out in the woods and field until it is growing dark, and then comes their dinner, and then they dance till eleven. Now you will say, ’That is nothing much,’ and it would not be anything much if the following day were a holiday. But the second day is like the first, and the third is like the second. Every evening at about eleven a steamer leaves with two hundred and forty person and every morning at nine a steamer arrives with just as many on board. And between whiles everything must be cleared away and tidied up. And so the night passes in airing, polishing and scrubbing, and when one counts up his receipts towards midnight one is already arriving. Naturally, everything has its good side, knows what he has been toiling for. “From nothing you get nothing,” says the proverb and it is quite true, and if I were to fill all the punch bowels that have been drunk here I should have to get a Heidelberg tun. It brings something in, certainly, and is quite right and proper. But according as one moves forward he also moves backward and pays with the best that he has, with his life and health. For what is life without sleep?”

“True, I already see,” said Botho, ”no happiness is complete. But then comes winter, and then you sleep like the seven sleepers.”

“Yes, if it does not happen to be New Year’s or Twelfth Night or Carnival. And these holidays come oftener than the calendar shows. You ought to see the life here when they arrive in sleighs or on skates from all the ten villages, and gather in the great hall that hands and chambermaids we don’t see one citified face among them, and the Berliners leave us in peace, but the farm hands and chambermaids have their day. Then we see otter skin caps and corduroy jackets with silver buttons, and all kinds of soldiers who are on leave are there also: Schwedter Dragoons and Furstenwald Uhlans, or perhaps Potsdam Hussars. And everyone is jealous and quarrelsome, and one cannot tell which they like best, dancing or fighting, and on the slightest pretext the villages are arrayed against each other in battle. And so with noise and turbulent sports they pass the whole long night and whole mountains of pancakes disappear, and only at dawn do they leave for home over the frozen river or over the snow.”

“Now I see plainly,” said Botho, “that you have not very much solitude or deathly stillness. But it is fortunate that I knew nothing about all this, or else I should not to have seen such a beautiful spot.… But as you said before; what is life without sleep? and I fell that you are right. I am tired, although it is still early; I think it must be the effect of the air and the water. And then I must go and see… Your good wife has taken so much trouble … Good night, I have talked quite enough.”

And thereupon he rose and went into the house, which had now grown very quite.