Here, there were already small shrubberies and circular flower-beds and in front, where the dune sloped downwards, a flight of steps led from the terrace to the beach and was continued by a pier built out to sea, which was also intended as a jetty for the steamers plying between Glücksburg and Copenhagen.

Christine was filled with admiration and joy far beyond her expectations and when, after going round the house, she walked up on to the flat roof and looked out over the splendid view spread before her, she forgot all the worries and forebodings that had continued to plague her even after she had accepted the idea of the new building; she called to the children still standing on the terrace to come up and share her pleasure. Holk saw how deeply she was moved and was just about to speak and thank her when she forestalled him: “Helmut, it’s almost a year since we last stood here on the dune and you asked me whether I would be happy here. I didn’t want to reply then.”

“And now?”

“Now I say yes, I am.”

[1] A strict pietistic Protestant sect founded in the eighteenth century, of which the English equivalent, very roughly, would be the Plymouth Brethren.

[2] Have you seen the castle? It towers by the sea. The clouds above drift by, all golden and pink.

[3] The winds and the waves all lay in deep peace. In tears I listened to a song of mourning from the hall.

2

Some weeks later, an old friend from her boarding-school days at Gnadenfrei, Julie von Dobschütz, also arrived. She was a young woman in somewhat straitened circumstances, originally invited to stay the summer. Soon, however, the countess felt that it would be pleasant to have her as a companion, friend, and governess, a feeling shared by Holk, since he was rather concerned at Christine’s isolation in the new castle. So Fräulein Dobschütz stayed on as governess to Asta and Axel, the two children. Asta was left entirely in her charge; but Axel changed his teacher when a young ordinand, by the name of Strehlke, joined the household.

All this had taken place seven years ago. The count and the countess had settled in at the new castle and were enjoying in actual fact the “happy days” that they had hoped to spend there. The love and affection that had bound them together over the years continued and although they sometimes had differences of opinion over educational and religious matters, they were not of so serious a nature as to endanger the peace of the household. It is true that recently, since the children had grown older, there had been no lack of such differences, which was hardly surprising in view of the diversity of character of the count and his wife. Holk, though a kind and excellent husband, was none the less a man of rather ordinary gifts and in any case markedly inferior to his wife, who was a far more talented woman. Of this there could be no doubt; but that it was so—and no one saw it more clearly than Holk himself—was nevertheless somewhat galling for him and there were times when he suffered from Christine’s virtues and wished for a rather less outstanding wife. At first, this had been only an unspoken feeling, one which he hardly admitted even to himself; but for some time now this feeling had been put into words; frequent disputes arose and although Julie Dobschütz had great diplomatic gifts and did not find much difficulty in smoothing things over, the fact remained that Christine, who had foreseen all this, began to think nostalgically of the old days when such things never, or hardly ever, occurred.

It was now the end of September 1859, and the harvest had long been gathered in. The swallows that nested round the arcades had left, a breeze was rising and the flag on the flat roof fluttered lazily to and fro. They were sitting under the front terrace overlooking the sea, with the big dining-room behind them; Julie was preparing the coffee. The countess was sitting at a near-by table talking to Schwarzkoppen, the principal of the seminary at Arnewieck, who had walked over, half an hour ago, with Baron Arne, to take advantage of the beautiful day and partake of Holk’s hospitality. Arne himself was strolling to and fro on the paved floor with his brother-in-law, stopping every now and then, entranced by the scene before his eyes: fishing-boats were setting out, the sea was gently rippling and overhead the sky hung blue, without a cloud to be seen, unless it were the black plume of smoke of a steamer on the horizon.

“You were right after all,” said Arne, “when you moved up here and built your ‘temple’ on this spot. I was against it then because moving and changing house seemed to me something improper, something modern that …”

“That was only suitable for the proletariat or a petty civil servant, you said.”

“Yes, I imagine that I must have said something of the sort. But meanwhile I have undergone conversion in many things, including that. However, be that as it may, one thing I do know is that, even if I am the same in politics or religion or agriculture, which are after all the most important things for people like ourselves, I still have to admit that it is quite delightful up here, so airy and healthy. I really think, Holk, that when you moved up here, you must have added fifteen years to your life.”

At that moment coffee was handed round by an old retainer wearing gaiters who had been in service with the count’s father. Both of them took it and drank.

“Quite delicious,” said Arne, “to tell you the truth, almost too delicious, especially for you, Holk. Coffee like that will take five years off the fifteen that I just promised you and those dull dogs who believe in homeopathy—highly respectable people, of course, but strongly against either Moka or Costa Rican—would perhaps subtract a little more. Apropos of homeopathy, have you heard of the homeopathic veterinary surgeon who has been in Lille-Grimsby for the last few weeks?”

And walking slowly up and down, the two brothers-in-law continued their conversation.

Meanwhile the countess was discussing quite another matter with Schwarzkoppen, who had left his parish in Wernigerode many years ago to come to Schleswig-Holstein on appointment as principal of the seminary. He had the reputation—and appearance—of a solid churchman, but—what was of almost greater importance for the countess—he was at the same time an authority on educational matters, matters which had recently become burning questions for the countess, as Asta was sixteen and Axel almost fifteen years old. Schwarzkoppen was now being consulted yet again on these delicate questions—and was making the most circumspect replies. When the countess perceived that, perhaps out of consideration for Holk, he was not prepared to give her his whole-hearted support, she let the matter drop and turned to another of her favourite projects, which she had also frequently discussed with the Principal, the erection of a family vault.

“What is happening about it?” asked Schwarzkoppen, glad to leave the question of education.

“I still haven’t dared discuss the matter,” said the countess, “because I am afraid my husband will refuse.”

“That is a mistake, my dear countess. Such a fear is always wrong, because, although it is intended to foster good relations, it always leads to discord and conflict.