I went away down the path to the beach. The path is steep, and the corn on either side stands thick and high, ...
I went away down the path to the beach. The path is steep, and the corn on either side stands thick and high, and a few steps took me out of sight of the house, the chestnuts, and the young man. The smack was lying some distance out, and the dinghy was tied to her stern. The fisher- man’s son’s head was visible in a peaceful position on a heap of ropes. It is difficult as well as embarrassing to shout, as I well knew, but somebody would have to, and as nobody was there but myself I was plainly the one to do it. I put my hands to my mouth, and not knowing the fisherman’s name called out Sie. It sounded not only feeble but rude. When I remembered the appearance of the golden-bearded Viking, his majestic presence and dreamy dignity, I was ashamed to find myself standing on a rock and calling him as loud as I could Sie.
The head on the ropes did not stir. I waved my handkerchief. The boy’s eyes were shut. Again I called out Sie, and thought it the most offensive of pronouns. The boy was asleep, and my plaintive cry went past him over the golden ripples towards Lauterbach.
Then the Englishman appeared against the sky, up on the ridge of the cornfield. He saw my dilemma, and taking his hands out of his pockets ran down. ‘Gnädiges Fräulein is in a fix,’ he observed in his admirably correct and yet so painful German.
‘She is,’ I said.
‘Shall I shout?’
‘Please.’
He shouted. The boy started up in alarm. The fisherman’s huge body reared up from the depths of the boat. In two minutes the dinghy was at the little plank jetty, and I was in it.
‘It was a very good idea to charter one of those romantic smacks to come over in,’ said the young man on the jetty wistfully.
‘They’re rather fishy,’ I replied, smiling, as we pushed off.
‘But so very romantic.’
‘Have you not observed that the German Fräulein is a romantic creature,’ — the dinghy began to move — ‘a beautiful mixture of intelligence, independence, and romance?’
‘Are you staying at Putbus?’
‘No. Good-bye. Thanks for coming down and shouting. You know your food will be quite cold and uneatable.’
‘I gathered from what you said before that it will be uneatable anyhow.’
The dinghy was moving fast. There was a rapidly-widening strip of golden water between myself and the young man on the jetty.
‘Not all of it,’ I said, raising my voice. ‘Try the compote. It is lovely compote. It is what you would call in England glorified gooseberry jam.’
‘Glorified gooseberry jam?’ echoed the young man, apparently much struck by these three English words. ‘Why,’ he added, speaking louder, for the golden strip had grown very wide, ‘you said that without the ghost of a foreign accent!’
‘Did I?’
The dinghy shot into the shadow of the fishing-smack. The Viking and the boy shipped their oars, helped me in, tied the dinghy to the stern, hoisted the sail, and we dropped away into the sunset.
The young man on the distant jetty raised his cap. He might have been a young archangel, standing there the centre of so much glory. Certainly a very personable young man.
The head on the ropes did not stir. I waved my handkerchief. The boy’s eyes were shut. Again I called out Sie, and thought it the most offensive of pronouns. The boy was asleep, and my plaintive cry went past him over the golden ripples towards Lauterbach.
Then the Englishman appeared against the sky, up on the ridge of the cornfield. He saw my dilemma, and taking his hands out of his pockets ran down. ‘Gnädiges Fräulein is in a fix,’ he observed in his admirably correct and yet so painful German.
‘She is,’ I said.
‘Shall I shout?’
‘Please.’
He shouted. The boy started up in alarm. The fisherman’s huge body reared up from the depths of the boat. In two minutes the dinghy was at the little plank jetty, and I was in it.
‘It was a very good idea to charter one of those romantic smacks to come over in,’ said the young man on the jetty wistfully.
‘They’re rather fishy,’ I replied, smiling, as we pushed off.
‘But so very romantic.’
‘Have you not observed that the German Fräulein is a romantic creature,’ — the dinghy began to move — ‘a beautiful mixture of intelligence, independence, and romance?’
‘Are you staying at Putbus?’
‘No. Good-bye. Thanks for coming down and shouting. You know your food will be quite cold and uneatable.’
‘I gathered from what you said before that it will be uneatable anyhow.’
The dinghy was moving fast. There was a rapidly-widening strip of golden water between myself and the young man on the jetty.
‘Not all of it,’ I said, raising my voice. ‘Try the compote. It is lovely compote. It is what you would call in England glorified gooseberry jam.’
‘Glorified gooseberry jam?’ echoed the young man, apparently much struck by these three English words. ‘Why,’ he added, speaking louder, for the golden strip had grown very wide, ‘you said that without the ghost of a foreign accent!’
‘Did I?’
The dinghy shot into the shadow of the fishing-smack. The Viking and the boy shipped their oars, helped me in, tied the dinghy to the stern, hoisted the sail, and we dropped away into the sunset.
The young man on the distant jetty raised his cap. He might have been a young archangel, standing there the centre of so much glory. Certainly a very personable young man.
Dieses Kapitel ist Teil des Buches The Adventures of Elizabeth in Rügen