Love stories, German; Sisters -- Fiction; Suicide victims -- Fiction
"He who is always surrounded by love, and who has never known anything
but love, often learns most easily to suffice to himself. And yet in my
heart, too, there lay an inexhaustible store of love. I squandered it
on dumb creatures, petted the dogs, kissed the cats, and hugged the
geese. One of my passions was to play in the stable: there I lolled
about on the soft, warm straw, under the very hoofs of my special pets,
that never did me any harm; or I climbed into the manger, where I could
sit for hours and gaze lovingly into my friends' great brown eyes. But
my favourite place was in the dog-kennel. There they often found me
asleep at midday, and it was no easy matter to get me out again: for
Nero, who was as a rule so quiet and good, showed his teeth to any one,
even to his master, who came within reach of his chain on such
occasions. My tender affection extended also to the vegetable kingdom.
The rose-trees appeared to me like enchanted princesses, whose fate I
bitterly bewailed; the sunflowers were Catholic priests in full
canonicals, and the dahlias Polish maidservants with red head-dresses.
Thus I succeeded in assembling around me in the garden the whole human
world, and found the counterfeit presentment preferable to the
original, for it submitted in silence when I ordained its fate.
* * * * *
"The estate that my father had rented was the old feudal possession of
a Polish magnate, which lay close to the Prussian frontier, on a hill
whose one side sloped down gradually in a weed-grown park towards
barren fields, while the other dropped down precipitately towards a
rivulet, on whose opposite bank lay a dirty little Polish frontier
village.
"When one stood on the brink of the precipice one looked down upon the
tumble-down shingle roofs, through the crevices of which smoke issued
forth, and could see right into the midst of the wretched traffic of
the miry street, where half-naked children wallowed in the gutter,
women crouched idly on the doorsteps, and the men in ragged fustian
coats trooped, with their spades on their shoulders, towards the
alehouse.
"Verily there was little that was attractive about this small town, and
the rabble of frontier Cossacks, that trotted to and fro sleepily on
their cat-like nags, did not enhance its charms. But yet, to my
childish eyes, it was enveloped in inexpressible glamour, the sensation
of which creeps over me even to-day, when I picture to myself how,
bewitched by all these wonderful visions, I sat for hours motionless on
the grass, and stared down upon the throng in which the figures were no
larger than the wooden dolls in my box of toys.
"I had been forbidden to go down, nor had I any desire to do so, since
I had once been almost crushed to death between two wheels in the crowd
of the weekly market to which my father had taken me.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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