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THEODOR STORM

(1817-1888)

HEODOR STORM is one of the masters of the German novelle. His range is somewhat limited, for he is intensely national, almost sectional. Born in Husum, a small town on the seacoast of Schleswig-Holstein, he had the Northerner's deep love for home; and all his work is colored by this love. After passing through the gymnasium of his native town, he went to Lübeck to prepare for the university. Here his love of poetry was awakened; and Goethe, Eichendorf, and Heine exerted an influence

upon him which he never outgrew. He studied law at Kiel and at Berlin, and settled down to a quiet practice at Husum. The revolutionary disturbances of 1848 drove him from his home, and led him to accept positions under the Prussian government; first at Potsdam, and then at Heiligenstadt in Southern Germany. During these latter years he acquired that intimate acquaintance with Southern manners and modes of thinking which he turned to artistic uses in some of his stories. He returned to Husum in 1864, where he held the position of landvogt until 1880. He then retired to his country home in Holstein; and some of his most delightful work was produced in his old age.

THEODOR STORM

Storm led the most uneventful of lives: happy in his family and conscientious in his official duties. In his literary work there is very curiously an ever-returning undertone of sadness, of lost hopes, of disappointed lives. He began his literary career as lyric poet,-by 'Liederbuch Dreier Freunde (Song-Book of Three Friends), a small volume published in 1843 in conjunction with Tycho and Theodor Mommsen. By their truth to nature and their simple pathos these poems promised to place Storm high among German lyric poets, had not his growing fame as story-teller led him to cultivate prose at the expense of poetry. His first great success was 'Immen-see,' published in 1850. Even to-day it is one of the most popular and best known of his works. It is a story of reminiscence, - an old man going back

to his youth to live over again, in the twilight hour, the days of his young lost love. This harking back to bygone times runs more, or

less through all of Storm's work. It determines the form,a tale told in the first person by an elderly speaker; and it colors the spirit, toning it down to the gray of sorrows outlived but not forgotten. Renunciation and resignation are the watchwords of most of his stories.

With his return home in 1864, a new and the most fruitful period of his work began, marked by a great advance in characterization and in firmness of touch; he is also more dramatic: 'In St. Jürgen' is an example. He next tried the artist novel, a favorite type with German writers. 'Psyche, published in 1875, has been especially praised by German critics. Some of his strongest work was done in the so-called chronicle novels,- romantic tales with a historic background, delineating North German life in the seventeenth century. 'Aquis Submersis' is one of the best of these, and by some critics considered the finest he ever wrote. 'Pole Poppenspäler' (Paul the Puppet-Player), written in 1877 for the children's magazine Deutsche Jugend, is one of his most charming stories. He composed it with the utmost care, on the principle that only the best is good enough for children, and that one should not "write down" to them. He has also cultivated the Märchen: of these, 'Die Regentrude' (RainGertrude) is a most happy example of the blending of the real with the fantastic.

After his retirement his country home became a Mecca for literary pilgrimages. He was a favorite of the German reading public, because of his poetical, dreamy sentiment, his simplicity, his love of home, and his finished workmanship. He knows how to create an atmosphere and to produce a mood; he is one of the great masters of the short story of character and sentiment.

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AFTER YEARS

From Immen-see'

NCE more years have fled. It is a warm spring afternoon; and a young man, with sunburnt and strongly marked features, strolls leisurely along a shady road leading down the side of a hill. His grave gray eyes seem watching attentively for some alteration in the monotonous features of the road, which is long in making its appearance. By-and-by a cart comes slowly up the hill. "Halloo, good friend," cries the

wanderer to the peasant trudging by its side, "does this road lead to Immen-see?"

"Straight on," replies the man, touching his round hat. "Is it far from here?"

"Your Honor's just there. You'll see the lake before you could half finish a pipe: the manor-house is close on to it."

The peasant went his way, and the other quickened his pace. under the trees. After a quarter of a mile their friendly shade ceased on the left hand; and the path lay along the ridge of a descent, wooded with ancient oaks, whose crests hardly reached the level on which the traveler stood. Beyond these a wide landscape was glowing in the sunlight. Far beneath him lay the lake, calm, dark-blue, almost encircled by green waving forests, which, opening on but one side, disclosed an extensive perspective, bounded in its turn by a blue mountain range. Exactly opposite, it seemed as if snow had been strown among the green foliage of the woods: this effect was caused by the fruit-trees, now in full blossom; and amidst them, crowning the bank of the lake, stood the whitewashed manor-house,- a substantial edifice covered with red tiles. A stork flew from the chimney and circled slowly over the water. "Immen-see!" cried the traveler. It almost seemed as if he had reached the end of his journey; for he stood several minutes perfectly motionless, gazing over the summits of the trees at his feet towards the opposite shore, where the reflection of the house lay gently quivering on the water. Then suddenly he continued his course.

The descent now became steep, so that the trees again shaded the path; but also shut out all view of the prospect beyond, of which a glimpse could only now and then be caught through their branches. Soon the ground again rose, and the woods were replaced by well-cultivated vineyards; on both sides of the road stood blossoming fruit-trees, among whose fragrant branches the bees were humming merrily and rifling the flowers. A stately man, clad in a brown coat, now advanced to meet our pedestrian; and when within a few paces he waved his cap in the air, and in a clear hearty voice joyfully exclaimed, "Welcome, brother Reinhardt! welcome to Immen-see! »

"God bless you, Eric! thanks for your kind welcome!" cried the other in answer.

Here the old friends met, and a hearty shaking of hands followed. "But is it really you?" said Eric after the first

greeting, as he looked closely into the grave countenance of his old schoolfellow.

"Certainly it is I. And you are your old self too, Eric; only you look, if possible, even more cheerful than you always used to do."

At these words a pleasant smile made Eric's simple features look even merrier than before. "Yes, brother Reinhardt," said he, once more pressing his friend's hand: "since then I have drawn the great prize. But you know all about that." Then, rubbing his hands and chuckling with inward satisfaction, he added, "That will be a surprise! She'd never expect him,-not him, to all eternity!".

"A surprise? To whom then?" demanded Reinhardt. "To Elizabeth."

"Elizabeth!

my visit?"

You do not mean that you have not told her of

"Not a word, brother Reinhardt! She's not expecting you, nor does mother either. I invited you quite privately, that the pleasure might be all the greater. You know how I enjoy carrying out my little plans sometimes."

Reinhardt grew thoughtful; and as they approached the house, he with difficulty drew breath. On the left hand the vineyards were soon succeeded by a large kitchen-garden, stretching down to the water's edge. Meanwhile the stork had descended to terra firma, and was marching gravely among the vegetable beds. "Halloo!" cried Eric, clapping his hands: "is that longlegged Egyptian stealing my short pea-sticks again?" The bird rose slowly, and perched on the roof of a new building, which, almost covered by the branches of the peach and apricot trees. trained against it, lay at the end of the kitchen garden. “That is the manufactory," said Eric. "I had that added two years ago. The business premises were built by my father, of blessed memory; the dwelling-house dates from my grandfather's time. So each generation gets forward a little."

As he spoke, they reached an open space, bounded on both sides by the business premises, and on the background by the manor-house, whose two wings were joined by a high garden wall; which did not, however, quite shut out all view of the rows of dark yew-trees within, and over which drooped here and there the clusters of the now flowering lilacs. Men with faces heated alike by toil and exposure came and went, and saluted the two

friends; and for each Eric had some order or inquiry respecting his daily work. At length they reached the house. A cool and spacious hall received them, at the end of which they entered a somewhat darker side passage. Here Eric opened a door, and they passed into a large garden-room. The thick foliage which covered the windows had filled both sides of this apartment with a sort of green twilight; but between these the wide-open folding-doors at once admitted the full splendor of the spring sunshine, and revealed the charming view of a garden, full of circular flower-beds and dark shady alleys, and divided down the centre by a broad walk, beyond which appeared the lake and the forest on its opposite shore. As the two companions entered, a breeze laden with delicious perfume from the parterres was wafted towards them.

On the terrace, facing the garden, sat a slight, girlish figure. She rose, and advanced to meet the new-comers; but half-way paused and stared at the stranger, motionless as though rooted to the spot. He smiled, and held his hand towards her. "Reinhardt!" cried she, "Reinhardt! My God! is it you? It is long since we met."

"Long indeed," said he,—and could utter no more; for as he heard her voice, a sharp bodily pang shot through his heart; and when he looked at her, she stood before him, the same sweet tender form to whom years ago, he had bidden farewell in his native place.

Eric, his whole face beaming with delight, had remained standing at the door. "Well, Elizabeth," said he, "what do you say to that? You didn't expect him,- not him, to all eternity!"

Elizabeth's eyes were turned with a look of sisterly affection towards him. "You are always so kind, Eric!" said she.

He took her small hand caressingly in his. "And now we have got him," said he, "we will not let him go again in a hurry. He has been so long away, we must make him one of ourselves. He looks quite a stranger. Only see what a fine gentleman he has become!"

Elizabeth stole a shy glance at the well-remembered face.

"It is only the time that we have not seen each other," said he.

At this moment her mother entered, a little key-basket jingling on her arm. "Mr. Werner!" exclaimed she, on perceiving Reinhardt; "a guest as welcome as unexpected!" And now