Produced by Michael Wooff, with German from the original
text, and his own translation.
German Moonlight
A Story by Wilhelm Raabe (1831-1910)
Let me state my case calmly and without any undue fuss. I am, evenby German standards, an uncommonly prudent person and I know how tokeep my five senses under control. Apart from that, I am a lawyerand father to three sons. Neither during lilac time nor when thereare hibiscus, sunflowers and asters on the ground am I in the habitof laying myself open to sentimental and romantic mood-swings. I donot keep a diary, but my legal appointments books are stored instrict chronological order, year by year, on my library shelves.First of all I have to tell you that, in the year 1867, acting onmedical advice, because of the sea air and the salt water, I foundmyself on the island of Sylt and that, while I was there, I made theacquaintance of someone—a quite extraordinary acquaintance.
It goes without saying that I cannot stop myself by means of anaccount in writing of my own experiences and feelings fromcorrecting or corroborating things often felt and even morefrequently depicted and described in letters or printed matter. Theimpression made by the lapping of waves, sand dunes and dune grass,the flight of seagulls and, above all, the west wind on everyone whohas had to wash off the dust and sweat of German officialdom is apleasant and invigorating one. These things did not fail to have thesame effect on me either given that the efforts that preceded thesaid invigoration were no less strenuous.
I lived on the periphery of two villages, Tinnum and Westerland, andtherefore had a walk of at least half an hour to cover in order toreach the beach and the health-giving briny. A not much shorter walkled from there to the good fellow who took us every day at noon fora consideration back again. As a German civil servant used tomoderation I set no great store by domestic bliss or even luxury. AsI had taken with me seven of my twenty-one pipes, I could have setup home for myself in a megalithic tomb and not have feltuncomfortable.
Good. I lived with a baker who heated his oven with jetsam wood,that is to say wood bought at beach auctions that came from thespars and timberwork of ships that had foundered on the sand. Ihelped him from time to time to split this wood and felt pleasantlystimulated here by the task—at home I devote myself to this choremore for health reasons.
At home I saw and split my firewood in my leisure time, whereas hereI did things for fun or carefully perused some papers on the Houseof Brunswick inheritance that I had brought with me in my suitcase.During what would have been my business hours I went for walks alongthe beach.
When you stay in a place like this to take the waters everythingtakes that much longer. At home I walk every day and in everyweather round the purpose-built walls of the town where I carry outmy duties as a public servant. On Sylt I had lunch, lay down on adune for an hour for an afternoon nap and then ran along the beachtowards the north of the island, sometimes getting as far as the RedCliff, but usually only as far as the bathing huts of Wenningstedt.
As the sea like a washerwoman of both sexes cannot keep things tohim or herself, but throws everything back, these runs were neverwithout a certain charm. Even though I am by nature a prosaicperson, I can nevertheless feel sadness when I turn a dead seallying on its back over onto its belly and have thoughts about my ownmortality as I do so.
Good—or rather on this occasion: even better! I had been on thislong