the hunting-grounds

in the gardens of our small but spaciously arranged colony of villas there are huge trees—ancient giants which tower above the roofs. they offer a marked contrast to the tender saplings but recently planted. there can be no mistaking the fact that these trees are the original growth—the aboriginal inhabitants of this region. they are the pride and beauty of this still youthful settlement. they have been carefully preserved and tended—as far as this was possible. at those points where they happened to come into conflict with the surveyor’s lines or with the fences dividing the various lots or tracts of land, that is to say, where some mossy, silvery, venerable trunk happened to be standing precisely on the lines of demarcation, you will find that the fence has made a little loop around the tree-trunk or that a gap has been left in the concrete of the garden wall. in these openings the old ones now tower, half privately, half publicly, their naked branches loaded with snow or bedizened with their small-leafed, late-sprouting foliage.

these trees are of the species of the ash—a tree which loves dampness as few others do. this quality at the same time offers a very significant commentary upon the essential peculiarity of our strip of country. it is not yet so very long ago that human ingenuity succeeded in turning it into something capable of cultivation and occupation—possibly a decade and a half ago—no longer. before that it was a wilderness of swamps—a veritable brooding-place for gnats and mosquitoes—a waste in which willows, crippled poplars, and such-like gnarled and twisted arboreal stuff mirrored itself in stagnant pools. this region, you must know, is subject to inundation. a few metres under the surface there is a strata of water-tight soil. the ground has therefore always been swampy and water stood in every hollow. the draining of this fen was accomplished by lowering the surface of the river—i have no head for engineering, but some such expedient was made use of, with the result that the water which could not seep downward was induced to flow off laterally. hence there are many subterranean brooks which pour themselves into the river at different spots. solidity has thus been given to the soil, at least the greater part of it, for if you happen to know the district as bashan and i know it, you would be able to discover in the thickets down-stream many, a reedy sinkage which reminds you of pristine conditions. these are places of silence and secrecy, the damp coolth of which defies the hottest summer day, spots in which one is glad to rest and draw breath for a space.

the region really possesses its own peculiar character and is to be distinguished at first glance from the banks of the usual mountain river with their pine woods and mossy meadows. it has succeeded in retaining this original peculiarity even since it has come into the possession of the real estate company. even outside the gardens, the aboriginal and original vegetation maintains the upper hand over the imported and the transplanted. it is true that in the avenues and parks the horse-chestnut seems to thrive as well as the swift-growing maple. even beeches and all kinds of decorative shrubbery—but all these, including the alien poplar which towers and ranges in rows of sterile masculinity—are not native to the soil. i said that the ash was an indigenous tree here—it is to be found everywhere, and it is of all ages—from giants hundreds of years old to the soft shoots which, like so many weeds, sprout in masses from the gravel. it is the ash and its companions, the silver poplar and the aspen, the birch and the willow, both as a tree and a bush, which give distinctive character to this landscape. but these are all trees with small leaves, and this smallness and trimness of the foliage in conjunction with the frequently gigantic masses of the trees themselves, at once attract attention in this neighbourhood. the elm, however, is an exception, and we find it spreading its spacious leaves, fretted as by a jig-saw and shiny and sticky on their upper surface, to the sun. and everywhere there are great masses of creeping plants which weave themselves around the younger trunks in the woods and in a bewildering way entangle their leaves with these.

the slender alders form themselves into small groves in the hollows. the lime is scarcely to be met with at all, the oak never appears nor does the fir. yet there are firs upon the eastern declivities which form the frontiers of our territory, for here the soil changes and with it the vegetation. there they rear black against the heavens and peer, sentinel-like, upon us in our lower levels.

from this bluff to the river is not more than a hundred metres—i have paced the distance. it may be that the strip of riverbank widens, fan-like, a little farther down-stream, but this divergence is in no way important. it is, however, remarkable what a diversity of landscape this limited region affords—even, though one explore only the playground which lies along the river, explore it with restraint and moderation, like bashan and myself. our forays seldom exceed two hours, counting the advance and the retreat. the manifold nature of the views, however, and the fact that one is constantly able to change one’s walks and to arrange combinations that are eternally new, without ever becoming bored with the landscape, is due to the circumstance that it is divided into three very different regions or zones. one may devote oneself separately to any of these or one may combine them by means of slanting cross-paths. these three regions are the region of the river and its immediate bank on one side, the region of the bluff on the other, and the region of the forest in the middle.

the greater part of the breadth is occupied by the zone of the forest, the willow brakes, and the shrubbery of the bank—i find myself hunting for a word which will more perfectly fix and define this wonderful terrain than the word wood, and yet i am unable to find one. there can be no talk of a wood in the usual sense of the term—a kind of great pillared grove with moss and strewn leafage and tree-trunks of fairly uniform girth. the trees in our hunting-grounds are of different ages and circumference. huge patriarchs of the willow and poplar families are to be found among them, especially along the river, though they are also to be encountered in the inner woods. then there are others already full-grown which might be ten or fifteen years old, and finally a legion of thin stems—wild nurseries of nature’s own crop of young ashes, birches, and elders. these do not, however, call forth any impression of meagreness, because, as i have already indicated, they are all thickly wrapped about with creepers. these give an air of almost tropical luxuriance to the whole. yet i suspect that these creepers hinder the growth of their hosts, for during the years i have lived here, i do not remember having observed that any of these little stems had grown perceptibly thicker.

all trees belong to a closely-related species. the alder is a member of the birch family; in the last analysis the poplar is nothing else than a willow. and one might even say that all of them approach the fundamental type of the latter. all foresters and woodmen know that trees are quite ready to accept a certain adaptation to the character of the circumjacent vicinity—a certain imitation or mimicry of the dominant taste in lines and forms. it is the fantastic, witch-like, distorted line of the willow which prevails here—this faithful companion and attendant of still and of flowing waters, with the crooked finger, projecting, broom-like, branching boughs, and it is these features which the others obviously seek to imitate. the silver poplar crooks herself wholly in the style of the willow, and it is often difficult to tell her from the birch which, seduced by the genius loci, also frequently affects the most extravagant crookednesses—though i would not go so far as to say that this dear and friendly tree was not to be found, and numerously found, in exceedingly shapely specimens. these, when the afternoon light is fervent and favourable, are even most enchanting to the eye.

the region knows it as a small silvery trunk with sparse single leaves in the crown, as a sweet grown-up limber virgin with the prettiest of chalky stems and a trim and languishing way of letting the locks of her foliage hang. but it also makes its appearance as a creature of absolutely elephantine proportions with a waist which no man could span with his arms and a rind which has preserved traces of its erstwhile whiteness only high up towards the top, whilst near the ground it has become a coarse, calcined and fissured bark.

as to the soil—this has little resemblance to that of a forest. it is pebbly, full of clay and even sand, and no one would dream of calling it fertile. and yet within limits it is fertile—even to luxuriance. a tall grass flourishes upon it, though this often assumes a dry, sharply angular and meagre character. in winter it covers the ground like trampled hay. sometimes it degenerates into reeds, whilst in other parts it is soft, thick, and lush, mixed with hemlock, nettles, colt’s foot, all manner of creeping, leafy stuff, high, rocket-like thistles, and young and tender tree-shoots. it is a favourite hiding-place for pheasants and quail, and the vegetation runs in billows against the gnarled boles of the tree-roots. out of this chaos of undergrowth and ground thicket the wild vine and the wild hop-plant go gyrating up in spirals, draping broad-leaved garlands upon the trees and even in winter clinging to the trunks with tendrils which resemble hard and unbreakable wire.

this domain is neither forest nor park—it is an enchanted garden—nothing less. i will stoutly defend this term—even though it refers to a poor, limited, and even crippled bit of nature, the glories of which may be exhausted with a few simple botanical names. the ground is undulant; it rises and falls in regular waves. this feature gives a fine completeness to the views—the eye is led into the illimitable even at the sides. yes, even if this wood were to stretch for miles to the right and left, even if it were to be as broad as it is long, instead of merely measuring a hundred and some odd paces from the centre to the extreme edge on either side, one could not feel more secluded, more lost, or isolated. alone the ear is reminded by the regular and rushing sound of waters to the west that the river hovers within a friendly distance, near yet invisible. there are little gulches filled to the brim with bushes of elder, common privet, jasmine, and black elderberry, so that one’s lungs on steamy june days are almost overcome by perfume. and then again there are sinkages in the ground—mere gravel-pits along the slopes and bottoms of which only a few willow shoots and a little dry sage manage to flourish.

all this has not ceased to exert a magic influence upon me, even though the place, for many a year, has been as a daily haunt to me. in some way i am fantastically moved and touched by all this, for example, by the massed foliage of the ash-trees, which reminds me somehow of the contours of huge bulls. these creeping vines and reedy thickets, this dampness and this drouth, this meagre jungle—to sum up my impressions as a whole—affect me a little like being transported to the landscape of another period of the earth’s growth, even to a submarine landscape—as though one were wandering at the bottom of the sea. this vision has a certain contact with reality, for water once stood or ran everywhere hereabout, especially in those seepages which have now assumed the shape of square meadow-basins surrounded by nurseries of ash-trees and serve sheep for drink and pasture. one of these ponds lies directly behind my house.

my delectable wilderness is criss-crossed by paths, by strips of trampled grass and also by pebbly trails. obviously none of these were made, they simply grew through the agency of use. yet no man could say by whom these paths have been trodden into the soil. it is only now and then, and usually as an unpleasant exception, that bashan and i meet any one here. when such meetings do occur, my companion comes to a sudden halt in startled surprise and gives vent to a single muffled bark which gives a pretty clear expression to my own feelings in connection with the encounter. even on fine sunny afternoons in the summer, when great numbers of pedestrians from the city come pouring into the neighbourhood (it is always a few degrees cooler here than elsewhere), we two are able to wander quite undisturbed on the inner ways. the public is apparently unaware of these, besides, the river is a great attraction and draws them mightily. hugging its banks as closely as possible, that is, when there is no flooding, the human river wanders out into the countryside and then comes rolling back in the evening. at most we chance to stumble upon a pair of lovers kissing in the bushes. with wide, shy, yet insolent eyes, they regard us from their bower, as though stubbornly bent on challenging us, daring us to say anything against their being here, defying us to give any open disapproval of their remote and guerilla love-making—intimations which we silently answer in the negative by beating a flank retreat, bashan with that air of indifference with which all things that do not bear the scent of the wild about them affect him, and i with a perfectly inscrutable and expressionless face which allows no trace either of approval or disapproval to be seen.

but these paths are not the only means of traffic and communication in my domain. you will find streets there, or—to be more precise—preparations that may once have been streets, or were once destined to be such. it is like this: traces of the path-finding and path-clearing axe and of a sanguine spirit of enterprise in the realm of real estate reveal themselves for quite a distance beyond the built-up part of the country and the little villa colony. some speculative soul had peered deeply into the untold possibilities of the future, and had proceeded upon a bold and audacious plan. the society which had taken this tract of territory in hand some ten or fifteen years before had cherished plans far more magnificent than those which came to pass, for originally the colony was not to have been confined to the handful of villas which now stand there. building lots were plentiful, for more than a mile down-stream everything had been prepared, and is no doubt still prepared for possible buyers and for lovers of a settled suburban manner of life.

the councils of this syndicate had been dominated by large and lofty ideals. they had not contented themselves with building proper jetties along the banks, with the creation of riverside walks and quays and with the planting of parks and gardens. they had gone far beyond all this, the hand of cultivation had invaded the woods themselves, had made clearings, piled up gravel, united the wilderness by means of streets, a few lengthwise and still more crosswise. they are well-planned and handsome streets, or sketches of streets, in coarse macadam, with the hint of a curb and roomy sidewalks. on these, however, no one goes walking but bashan and myself—he upon the good and durable leather of his four paws—i upon hob-nailed boots, because of the macadam.

the villas which should long ago have risen hospitably along these streets, according to the calculations and intentions of the society, have, for the present, refused to materialise, even though i have set so excellent an example as to build my own house in these parts. they have remained absent, i say, for ten, for fifteen years, and so it is small wonder that a certain discouragement has settled down upon the neighbourhood, and that a disinclination for further expenditures and for the completion of that which was so magnificently begun, should make itself felt in the bosom of the society.

everything had progressed admirably up to a certain point. things had even gone so far as the christening of the new streets. for these thoroughfares without inhabitants have right and regular names, just like ordinary or orthodox streets in the city or in the civilised suburbs. but i would give much to know what dreamy soul or retrospective “highbrow” of a speculator had assigned them. there is a goethe and a schiller, a lessing and a heine street—there is even an adalbert stifter street upon which i stroll with particular sympathy and reverence in my hob-nailed boots. square stakes are visible, such as may be seen in at the corners of the raw and uncompleted streets in the suburbs where there are no corner houses. little blue enamelled shields with white letters are fastened to these stakes. these shields, alas, are not in the best condition. they have stood here far too long, giving a name to adumbrations of streets in which no one cares to live, and they have been singled out to bear the stigmata of disappointment, fiasco, and arrested development to which they give public expression. they are wrapped in an air of forlorn disquietude and neglect. nothing has been done for their upkeep nor for their renewal, and the weather and the sun have played havoc with them. the enamel, to a great extent, has split and cracked off, the white letters have been eaten away by rust, so that in place of their smooth and glittering whiteness there are only brown spots and gaps with hideous, jagged edges—disfigurements which tear the image of the name asunder and often render it illegible.

one of these blue enamelled signboards imposed a tremendous strain upon my intellect when i first came hither and penetrated this region on my tours of exploration. it was a signboard particularly long in shape and the word street (strasse) had been preserved without a break. but of the actual name which, as i have indicated, was very long, or rather had been very long, the letters were nearly all completely “blinded” or devoured by rust. the reddish-brownish gaps gave one some idea of their number, but nothing was decipherable except the half of a capital s and an e in the middle, and another e at the end. this riddle was a little too much for my astuteness—i was face to face with too many unknown quantities. so i stood there for a long time, my hands upon my back, staring at the long signboard and studying it closely. and then i gave it up and went strolling along the rudimentary pavement with bashan. but whilst i thought that i was occupying myself with other things, this particular thing kept working within the mnemonic depths of me. my sub-intelligence kept scenting out the destroyed name, and suddenly it shot into my consciousness. i stood still—as in a fright. i rushed back and once more planted myself in front of the signboard. i counted and compared and tested the elements of my guess. yes, it fitted, it “worked out!” we were wandering in the street which had been called “shakespeare.”

these signboards befit the streets which justify their metallic existence, and these streets the signboards which give them a local habitation and a name. both of them are dreamily and wonderfully lapped in forgetfulness and decay. they pursue their way through the wood which they have invaded—but the wood refuses to rest. it refuses to leave these streets inviolate for a decade or more until settlers choose to pitch their tents or villas here. so the wood calmly goes to work and makes preparations to close the streets, for the green things that grow here have no fear of gravel or macadam—they are used to it and thrive in it and on it. so everywhere upon the streets and upon the pavements the purple-headed thistles, the blue sage, silvery willow shrubs, and the green of young ash-tree sprouts begin to take root and shoot forth.

there can be no doubt—these park-like streets with the poetic names are running wild—the jungle is once more devouring them. whether one be disposed to lament the fact or rejoice over it—it is certain that in another ten years the goethe, schiller, and heine streets will no longer be passable, and will very likely have vanished utterly. at present, to be sure, there is no cause for complaint. surely, from a pictorial and romantic point of view, there are no lovelier streets in all the world than precisely these in precisely their present condition. nothing could be more grateful to the soul than to ramble through this negligence, this incompleteness—that is, when one is well and sturdily shod and need not fear the coarse gravel. it is edification to the spirit to survey the manifold wild vegetation of the tract and the groves of tiny-leafed trees fettered by their soft dampness—sweet glimpses which frame and shut in these perspectives. just such a group of trees was painted three hundred years ago by that great master of landscapes—he who came out of lorraine. but what am i saying?—such as he painted? it was this one—and none other—which he painted. he was here; he knew the region, and if that rhapsodical member of the real estate company who christened the streets in my park had not so rigidly restricted himself to literature, then one or the other of these rust-corroded signs might well cause me to guess at the name of claude lorraine.

i have now described the region of the central wood. but the sloping land towards the east also possesses charms which are not to be despised, at least so far as bashan and myself are concerned, and for reasons which will be revealed later. one might also call it the zone of the brook, for it is a brook which gives it an idyllic landscape quality. with the charm of its banks of forget-me-nots it forms a counterpart on the hitherside to the zone of the puissant river yonder—the roar and rushing turbulence of which one is still able to hear in this spot—but only very faintly and softly and only when the west wind is blowing. there where the first cross street, running from the avenue of poplars between the meadow ponds and the clumps of trees towards the slope, debouches at the foot of this slope, there is a path that leads towards the left. this is used in winter-time as a bob-sled run by the youth of the region, and slants towards the lower-lying levels.

where the run becomes level the brook begins its course, and it is here that master and dog love to amble beside it on the right bank or the left—which again affords variety—and also to make excursions along the slope with its variegated configuration. to the left extend meadows studded with trees. a country nursery lies not far away and reveals the back of its farm buildings. sheep are usually at pasture here, cropping the clover. they are under the chairmanship—so to speak—of a not very clever little girl in a red frock. this little girl seems to suffer from a veritable passion to rule and command. she is constantly crouching low, propping her hands upon her knees and shouting with all her might in a cacophonous voice. and yet she is horribly afraid of the ram, who takes on huge and majestic proportions on account of the thickness of his wool and who refuses to be bullied and does whatever he pleases.

whenever bashan’s appearance causes a panic among the sheep, the child invariably raises its hideous outcry, and these panics occur quite regularly and quite contrary to bashan’s intentions—for, if you could peer into his inmost soul, you would discover that sheep are a matter of absolute indifference to him. he treats them like so much empty air, and by his indifference and his scrupulous and even contemptuous carefulness he even seeks to prevent the outbreak of the dunderheaded hysteria which dominates their ranks. though their scent is certainly strong enough for my own nostrils (yet not unpleasantly so), it is not the scent of the wild that emanates from them, and so bashan, of course, has not the slightest interest in hounding them. nevertheless, a simple sudden motion on his part, or even his mere shaggy appearance, is sufficient to cause the whole herd, which but a moment ago was peacefully grazing, widely separated and bleating in the quavering treble of the lambs and in the deeper contralto and bass of the ewes and the ram, to go storming off in a solid mass neck and neck, whilst the stupid child, crouching low, shouts after them until her voice cracks and her eyes pop out of her head. bashan, however, looks up at me as much as to say: judge for yourself whether i am to blame. have i given them any cause for this?

on one occasion, however, something quite contrary happened, something perverse and incomprehensible—something still more extraordinary and unpleasant than the panic. one of the sheep, quite an ordinary specimen of its kind, of average size and average sheepish visage, with a small upward curving mouth which appeared to smile and gave an expression of almost mocking stupidity to its face, seemed to be spellbound and fascinated by bashan and came to join him. it simply followed him—detached itself from the herd, left the pasture and clung to bashan’s heels, quietly smiling in exaggerated foolishness, and following him whithersoever he turned. he left the path—the sheep did likewise; he ran and it followed at a gallop; he stood still, and it stood still—immediately behind him and smiling its mysterious mona lisa smile.

displeasure and embarrassment became visible in bashan’s face. the situation into which he had been plunged was really ridiculous. there was neither sense nor significance in it—neither in a good or a bad sense. the whole thing, confound it—was simply preposterous—nothing of the kind had ever happened to him—or to me. the sheep went farther and farther from its basis, but this did not seem to trouble it in the least. it followed the discomfited and irritated bashan farther and farther, visibly determined not to separate from him ever again, but to follow him whithersoever he might go. he remained close beside me, not so much out of fear, since there was no occasion for this, as out of shame at the dishonour of the situation in which he found himself. finally, as though his patience were at an end, he stood still, turned his head, and growled ominously. this caused the sheep to bleat, and its bleating sounded like the wicked laughter of a human being, which so terrified poor bashan that he ran away with his tail between his legs—and the sheep straight after him, with comic jumps and curvetings.

we were already at a considerable distance from the herd. in the meantime the half-witted little girl was screaming as though she would burst, still crouching and bending upon her knees and even drawing these up as high as her face, so that from a distance she looked like a raving and malformed gnome. and then a farm-maid, with an apron over her skirts came running up, either in answer to the cries of the obsessed little one or because she had noticed the happenings from afar. she came running, i say, with a pitchfork in one hand. with the other she supported her bodice, which, i surmise, was unsupported and which was visibly disposed to shake a trifle too violently as she ran. she came up panting and at once proceeded to shy the sheep, which was slowly pacing along, like bashan himself, into the proper direction with the fork, though without success. the sheep, it is true, sprang aside with a swift flank movement, but in an instant it was once more on bashan’s trail. nothing seemed to be able to induce it to give up.

i then realised that the only thing to do was to turn tail myself, and so i turned round. we all retraced our steps, bashan at my side, behind him the sheep, and behind the sheep the maid with the pitchfork, whilst the child in the red frock kept on yelling and stamping. it was not enough, however, that we should go back as far as the herd—it was necessary to finish the job and to proceed to the final destination. we were obliged to enter the farmyard and then the sheep-stable with the broad sliding-door which the maid with muscular arm rolled to one side before us. we thereupon marched in, and after we were all inside, we three were forced to make a swift and adroit escape so as to be able to shove the stable door to before the very nose of the beguiled sheep, making it a prisoner. it was only after this operation had been gone through that bashan and i were able to resume our interrupted promenade amidst the fervent thanks of the maid. during the entire walk, however, bashan persisted in maintaining a humble and disconsolate air.

so much for the sheep. closely adjacent to the farm buildings on the left there is an extensive colony of small market-gardens. these are owned and tended by the clerks and working men of the city, and are the source of much joy, exercise, and considerable supplies of cheap flowers and vegetables. the gardens have a cemetery-like effect with their many arbours and summer houses, built in imitation of tiny chapels and with their countless small, fenced-in plots. the whole is enclosed by a wooden fence with an ornamental gateway. no one, however, except the small amateur gardeners, is permitted to have admittance through this wooden grille. at times i see some bare-armed man there digging up his little vegetable garden, a square rod or so in size, and always it seems to me as though he were digging his own grave. beyond these gardens lie open meadows which are covered with mole-hills and which extend to the edge of the central wooded region. here, in addition to the mole-hills, there are also great numbers of field-mice—a fact which must be solemnly remarked in view of bashan and his multiform joy in the chase.

on the other side, that is to say, to the right, the brook and the slope continue—the latter, as i have already indicated, in diverse configuration. at first, covered with fir-trees, it displays a dusky and sunless visage. later it transforms itself to a sand-pit which warmly refracts the beams of the sun; still later it converts itself into a gravel-pit, and then to a cataract of bricks—just as though a house had been demolished higher up and the débris hurled down the slope. this has imposed temporary difficulties upon the course of the brook. but the brook rises equal to the occasion; its waters mount a trifle and spread themselves out, stained red by the dust of the broken brick and also discolouring the grass along the bank. after this they flow the dearer and the more gaily on their way with glistenings here and there upon the surface.

i have a great love for brooks, as i have for all bodies of water—from the ocean to the smallest, scum-covered puddle. when i happen to be in the mountains during the summer and chance to hear the secret splashing and gossip of such a streamlet, then i must follow the liquid call, even though it be distant, and i cannot rest until i have found its hiding-place. then, face to face, i make acquaintance with the talkative child of the crags and the heights. beautiful are the proud torrential brooks which come down in crystalline thunder between pines and steep terraces of stone, form green, ice-cold pools in rocky baths and basins, and then go plunging to the next step in a dissolution of snowy foam. but i am also fond of looking upon the brooks of the flatland, whether they be shallow, so as scarcely to cover the polished, silvery, and slippery pebbles of their beds, or as deep as little rivers which—protected on both banks by low, overhanging willows—go shouldering themselves forward with a vigorous thrust, flowing more swiftly in the middle than at the sides.

who, being free to make his choice, would not follow the course of the waters on his wanderings? the attraction which water exercises upon the normal man is natural and mystically sympathetic. man is a child of water. our bodies are nine-tenths water, and during a stage of our pre-natal development, we even have gills. as for myself, i gladly confess that the contemplation of water in every shape and form is for me the most immediate and poignant joy in nature—yes, i will even go so far as to say that true abstractedness, true self-forgetfulness, the real merging of my own circumscribed existence in the universal, is granted to me only when my eyes lose themselves in some great liquid mirror. thus, in the face of the sleeping or the charging and crashing of the on-rushing sea, i am like to be transported into a condition of such profound and organic dreams, of such a remote absence from myself, that all sense of time is lost and tedium becomes a thing without meaning, since hour upon hour spent in such identification and communion melt away as though they were but minutes. but i also love to lean upon the rail of a bridge that crosses a brook, and remain fixed to it as with thongs, losing myself in the vision of the flowing, streaming and whirling element—quite immune to the fear or impatience with which i ought to be filled in view of that other streaming and flowing that goes on about me—the swift, fluid flight of time. such love of the water, and all that water means, renders the tight little territory which i inhabit the more important and precious to me in that it is surrounded on both sides by water.

the local brook is of the simple and faithful species. there is nothing very remarkable about it—its character is based upon friendly averages. it is of a naiveté as clear as glass, without subtlety or deception, without an attempt to simulate depth by means of murkiness. it is shallow and dear and quite innocently reveals the fact that its bottom harbours castaway tin pots and the carcass of a lace-boot in a coat of green slime. it is, however, deep enough to serve as a habitation to pretty, silvery-gray and extremely nimble little fish, which, i presume, are minnows and which dart away in wide zigzag lines at our approach. my brook widens here and there into ponds with fine willows along the edges. one of these willows i always regard lovingly as i pass by. it grows—i had almost said she grows—close to the bluff, and thus at some distance from the water. but it stretches one of its boughs longingly towards the brook and has really succeeded in reaching the flowing water with the silvery foliage that plumes the tip of this bough. there it stands, with fay-like fingers wet in the stream and draws pleasure from the contact.

it is good to walk here, lightly assailed by the warm summer wind. the weather is warm, so it is probable that bashan will go wading into the brook to cool his belly—only his belly, for he has a distinct aversion to bringing the more elevated parts of his anatomy in contact with the water. there he stands, with his ears laid back and an expression of piety and alertness upon his face, and lets the water swirl around him and past him. after this he comes sidling up to me in order to shake himself—an operation which, according to his own conviction, must occur in my immediate vicinity. the vigour with which he shakes himself causes a thin spray of water and mud to fly my way. it is no use warding him off with flourished stick and intense objurgations. under no conditions will he tolerate any interference with anything that appears to him natural, inevitable, and according to the fitness of things.

farther on the brook, in pursuing its course towards the setting sun, reaches a small hamlet which commands a view towards the north—between the woods and the slope—and at the entrance to this hamlet lies the tavern. here the brook once more broadens into a pond. the women of the village kneel at the edge of this and wash their linen. a little foot-bridge crosses the stream. should you venture over you will set foot upon a road which leads from the village towards the city, running between the edge of the wood and the edge of the meadow. should you leave this road on the right you would be able to reach the river in a few steps by means of a wagon-road that cuts through the wood.

we are now within the zone of the river. the river itself lies before us green and streaked with white and full of liquid roarings. it is actually only a great mountain torrent. its everlasting rushing sound can be heard with a more or less muffled reverberation everywhere throughout the region. here it swells and crashes overwhelmingly upon the ears. it might, in fact, serve as a substitute for the sacred and sounding onset of the sea—if no sea is to be had. the ceaseless cry of innumerable land-gulls intermingles with the voice of the stream. in autumn and in winter, and even during the spring, these gulls go circling round and round the mouths of the overflow-pipes, filling the air with their screams. here they find their food until the season grows milder and permits them to make their way to the lakes in the hills—like the wild and half-wild ducks which also spend the cool and the cold months in the vicinity of the city, balance themselves on the waves, permit themselves to be carried by the current which turns them round and rocks them at will, and then just at the moment when some rapid or whirlpool threatens to engulf them, fly up with light and vibrant wing and settle down once more upon the water—a little farther up-stream.

the region of the river is arranged and classified as follows:—close to the edge of the wood there stretches a broad level of gravel. this is a continuation of the poplar avenue which i have mentioned so frequently, and runs, say, for about a kilometre down-stream, that is to say, to the little ferryman’s house—of which more anon. behind this the thicket comes closer to the river channel. the purpose of this desert of gravel is clear; it is the first and most prominent of the longitudinal streets, and was lavishly planned by the real estate company as a charming and picturesque esplanade for elegant turnouts—with visions of gentlemen on horseback approaching spick-and-span landaus and victorias glistening in their enamel and engaging in delicate badinage with smiling and “beauteous” ladies reclining at ease under dainty parasols.

close to the ferryman’s house there is a huge signboard in a state of advanced decreptitude. this proclaims what was to have been the immediate goal, the temporary termination of the carriage corso. for there in broad and blatant letters you may read that this corner site is for sale for the erection of a park café and a fashionable refreshment “establishment.” well, the purpose remains unfulfilled, and the building site is empty.

for in place of the park café, with its little tables, its hurrying waiters, and glass-and-cup sipping and straw-sucking guests, there is only the big wooden signboard—aslant—a resigned, collapsing bid without a bidder, and the corso itself only a waste of coarsest gravel, covered with willow bushes and with blue sage almost as thickly as the goethe or lessing streets.

alongside the esplanade, nearer to the river, there runs a smaller gravel way which is also overgrown with insurgent shrubbery. it is characterised by grass mounds which arise at intervals and from which telegraph-poles mount into the air. yet i am fond of frequenting this road on my walks, first because of the change, and second because the gravel permits of clean though somewhat difficult locomotion, when the clayey footpath yonder does not appear passable during days of heavy rain. this footpath, actually the real promenade, runs for miles along the river and then finally degenerates into wild, haphazard trails along the bank. it is lined along the riverside with saplings, maple and birch, and on the land side it is flanked by the mighty primitive inhabitants of the region—willows, aspens, and silver poplars—all of them colossal in their dimensions. the escarpment plunges steeply and sheerly towards the river-bed. it is protected by ingenious works of woven willow-withes and by a concrete armour along its lower parts against the mounting flood water which once or twice a year comes rolling hither—when the snows melt in the mountains or the rain overdoes itself. here and there the slope hospitably offers one the use of wooden steps, half ladders and half stairs, by means of which one may, with a fair degree of comfort, descend into the actual river-bed, which is usually quite dry. it is the reserve gravel bed of the big wild brook, and is about six metres wide.

the stream behaves like all other members of its family, the small as well as the smallest, that is to say, according to the weather and the water conditions in the upper mountain regions. sometimes its course will be a mere green flowing tunnel with the rocks scarcely covered and with the gulls appearing to stand stilt-legged on the very surface itself. and then, again, it will assume a most formidable character, swelling into a wide stream, filling its bed with gray watery fury and tumult, and bearing along in its headlong course all kinds of unseemly objects such as old baskets, pieces of wooden crates, bushes, and dead cats in its circling wrath, and showing a great disposition to flooding and to deeds of violence.

the reserve or overflow channel is also armoured against high water by the same parallel, slanting, and hurdle-like arrangements of willow branches. it is covered with beach-grass and wild oats as well as with the show-plant of the neighbourhood, the dry, omnipresent blue sage. it offers good walking, thanks to the strip of quay formed of tooled and even stone, which runs along the extreme limit of the water. this gives me a further, and in fact favourite, possibility of adding variety to my promenades.

it is true that the unyielding stone is not particularly good going, but one is fully recompensed by the intimate proximity of the water. then one is also able now and then to walk in the sand beside the quay. yes, there is real sand there between the gravel and the beach-grass, sand that is a trifle mixed with clay and not so sacredly pure as that of the sea, but nevertheless real sand that has been washed up. i am thus able to fancy myself strolling upon a real strand down there, inscrutably drawing my foot along the perilous edge of the salt flood. there is no lack of surgings, even if there is of surges, nor of the clamour of gulls, nor of that kind of space-annihilating monotony which lulls one into a sort of narcotic absentmindedness. the level cataracts are rushing and roaring all around, and halfway to the ferryman’s house—the voice of a waterfall joins the chorus—from over yonder where the canal, debouching at a slant, pours itself into a river. the body of this fall is arched, smooth, glassy like that of a fish, and an everlasting boiling tumult goes on at its base.

it is beautiful here when the sky is blue and the flat ferry decorated with a pennant in honour of the weather or some other festival occasion. there are other boats in this spot, but the ferry is fastened to a wire rope which in turn is fastened to another and thicker wire cable. this is stretched across the river in such a way as to let a pulley run along it. the current itself furnishes the motive power for the ferryboat and a pressure from the ferryman’s hand upon the rudder does the rest. the ferryman lives in the ferry-house with his wife and child, and this house lies a short distance from the upper footpath. it has a little garden and a hen-house, and is evidently an official dwelling and therefore rent-free. it is a kind of villa of liliputian proportions, lightly and whimsically built with little bays and gables, and appears to boast of two rooms below and two above. i love to sit on the bench in front of the garden close to the upper footpath. bashan then squats upon my foot; the hens of the ferryman amble about me and give their heads a forward jerk with every step. and usually the cock comes to perch upon the back of the bench and lets the green bersaglieri feathers of his tail hang down behind, sitting beside me thus and measuring me luridly from the side with his red eye.

i watch the traffic on the ferry. it could scarcely be called strenuous, nor even lively, for it consummates itself, at large and liberal intervals. so i find all the more pleasure in the scene when a man or a woman with a market-basket appears on the farther bank and demands to be carried across the river. for the poetic element in that fine call, “ferry ahoy!” remains full of human captivation as in ancient days, even though the action fulfils itself, as here, in new and progressive forms. double steps of wood for the coming and the departing traveller lead down the escarpment on both sides into the bed of the river and to the landing-places. and on both sides there is an electric button affixed to the rail.

a man appears on the other bank, stands still and peers across the water. no longer, however, as in former times, does he hollow his hands into a trumpet and shout through them. he walks towards the push-button, stretches out his arms and performs a slight pressure with his thumb. there is a clear, thin tinkle in the house of the ferryman. this is the modern “ferry ahoy!” and it is poetic even thus. there stands the prospective passenger and watches and waits. and almost at the very moment at which the bell tinkles, the ferryman comes out of his little house, just as though he had stood or sat behind the door, merely waiting for the signal. the ferryman, i repeat, comes out—and in his walk there is something which suggests that he has been set in motion directly by the pressure upon the push button—just as one may shoot at a door in a tiny hut among the targets in the shooting-galleries. if you chance to make a bull’s-eye, it flies open and a tiny figure comes out—say a milkmaid or a soldier.

without showing the slightest sign of undue haste the ferryman walks with swinging arms through his little garden, crosses the footpath, descends the wooden steps to the river, pushes off the ferry, and holds the rudder whilst the pulley runs along the taut wire, and the boat is driven across by the current. the boat bumps against the other bank; the stranger jumps in; upon reaching the hither bank he hands the ferryman a nickel coin and leaps up the wooden steps with alacrity. he has conquered the river, and turns either to the right or to the left. sometimes when the ferryman is prevented from being at his post, either through illness or more urgent household affairs, then his wife or even his child will come out of the house and fetch the stranger across. they are able to perform this office as well as he—even i could attend to it. the job of the ferryman is an easy one and requires no special capacity or training. surely he is a lucky man, this ferrymaster, in having such a job and being able to live in the neat dwarf villa. any fool would at once be able to step into his place, and the knowledge of this keeps him modest and grateful. on the way back to his house he greets me very politely (with grüss gott) as i sit there on the wooden bench between the dog and the rooster. it is clear that he wishes to remain on a good footing with every one.

a smell of tar, a wind brushing across the waters, and a plashing sound against the wooden sides of the boats. what more could i desire? sometimes i am seized by another memory of home. it comes upon me when the water is deep and still and there is a somewhat musty odour in the air, and then these things take me back to the laguna, back to venice, where i spent so many years of my youth. and then again there is storm and there is flood, and the everlasting rain comes pouring down. wrapped in a rubber coat, with wet and streaming face, i brace myself against the stiff west wind along the upper way, a wind that tears the young poplars from their poles and makes it clear why the trees here incline away from the west and have crowns which grow only from one side of the branches. when we go walking in rains such as these, bashan frequently stands still and shakes himself so that he is the dark centre of a dull, gray flurry of water. the river at such times is a different river. swollen, murky-yellow, it comes rolling on, wearing upon its face an ominous catastrophic look. this storm-flood is full of a lurching, crowding, tremendous haste, an insensate hurry. it usurps the entire reserve channel up to the very edge of the escarpment, and leaps up against the concrete walls, the protective works of willow boughs, so that one involuntarily utters thanks to the wise forethought which established these defences. the eerie thing about these flood-waters is that the river grows quiet, much quieter than usual, in fact it becomes almost silent. the customary surface rapids are no longer visible; the stream rolls too high for these. but the spots where these rapids were, are to be recognised by the deeper hollows and the higher waves, and by the fact that the crests of these waves curl over backwards and not forwards—like the waves of the current. the waterfall no longer plays a part, its glistening curved body is now flat and meagre, and the pother at its base has vanished through the height of the water level.

so far as bashan is concerned, his astonishment at such a change in the aspect of things is beyond expression. he remains in a state of constant amazement. he is unable to realise that the places in which he has been accustomed to trot and run should have vanished, should have utterly vanished—think of it!—and that there should be nothing there but water—water! in his fright he scampers up the escarpment in a kind of panic—away from the plunging, spattering flood and looks around at me with waggings of his tail, after which he casts further dubious glances at the water. a kind of embarrassment comes upon him—and he gives way to a trick of his—opening his mouth obliquely and thrusting his tongue into the corners—a play of feature which affects one as being as much human as it is animal. as a means of expression it is somewhat unrefined and subservient, but thoroughly comprehensible. the whole effect is about the same as would be conveyed by a rather simple-minded yokel in the face of an awkward situation, provided he went so far as to scratch his head as bashan scratches his neck.

having occupied myself in some detail with the zone of the river, and described the whole region, i believe that i have succeeded in giving my readers a picture of it. i rather like my own description of the place, or rather the place as presented in my description, but i like it still better as a piece of nature. for there is no doubt that as a piece of living nature, it is still more diversified and vivid, just as bashan himself is in reality warmer, more lively and lovable than in this counterfeit presentment. i am attached to this stretch of landscape and grateful to it, and so i have described it with something of the meticulosity with which the old dutch masters painted. it is my park and my solitude, and it is for this reason that i have sought to conjure it up before the reader’s eye. my thoughts and my dreams are mingled and intergrown with its scenes, like the leaves of its creepers with the stems of its trees.

i have looked upon it at all hours and at all seasons; in autumn when the chemical smell of the fading leaves fills the air, when the white legions of the thistle-down have all been blown to the winds, when the great beeches of the kurgarten spread a rust-coloured carpet of leaves about them on the meadows, and when afternoons dripping with gold merge into theatrically romantic twilights with the crescent moon swimming in the skies, with a milky brew of mist hovering over the levels and the afterglow of the sunset smouldering through the black silhouettes of the trees. and also in winter when all the gravel is covered with snow and soft and smooth, so that one may walk upon it in one’s rubber overshoes, and when the river goes shooting black between the pale frost-bound shores and the cry of hundreds of fresh-water gulls fills the air from morning to evening. nevertheless the easiest and most familiar intercourse with this landscape is during the mild months, when no special equipment in the way of defensive clothing is necessary, and one may go for a quick stroll for a quarter of an hour, betwixt and between two showers of rain, and, in passing, bend aside the branch of a black alder tree and cast a look into the wandering waves. it is possible that visitors have been to call upon me, and i have been left behind, stranded, as it were, within my own four walls, crushed by conversation, and with the breath of the strangers apparently still hanging in the air. it is good then to go at once and loaf for a little along the heine or schiller street, to draw a breath of fresh air and to anoint myself with nature. i look up to the heavens, peer into the green depths of the world of tender and delicate leaves, my nerves recover themselves and grow quiet—peace and serenity return to my spirit.

bashan is always with me on such forays. he had not been able to prevent an invasion of the house by the outer world in the shape of the visitors, even though he had lifted up his voice in loud and terrible protest. but that had done no good, and so he had stepped aside. and now he is jubilant that he and i are once more together in the hunting-grounds. with one ear turned carelessly inside out, and loping obliquely, as is the common habit of dogs—that is, with his hind legs moving not directly behind his front legs, but somewhat to the side, he goes trotting on the gravel in front of me. and suddenly i see that some tremendous emotion has seized him, body and soul. his short bobbed tail begins to wave furiously. his head lunges forward and to one side, his body stretches and extends itself. he jumps hither and thither, and the next moment, with his nose still glued to the ground, he goes darting off. he has struck a scent. he is on the spoor of a rabbit.