The Rider on the White Horse

  The Rider on the White Horse

  By Theodor Storm

  Start Publishing LLC

  Copyright © 2012 by Start Publishing LLC

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.

  First Start Publishing eBook edition October 2012

  Start Publishing is a registered trademark of Start Publishing LLC

  Manufactured in the United States of America

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  ISBN 978-0-62558-089-4

  What I am about to tell I learned nearly half a century ago in the house of my great-grand-mother, old Madame Fedderson, widow of the senator, while I was sitting beside her armchair, busy reading a magazine bound in blue pasteboard—I don’t remember whether it was a copy of the “Leipzig” or of “Pappes Hamburger Lesefrüchte.” I still remember with a shudder how meanwhile the light hand of the past eighty-year-old woman glided tenderly over the hair of her great-grandson. She herself and her time are buried long ago. In vain have I searched for that magazine, and therefore I am even less able to vouch for the truth of the statements in it than I am to defend them if anyone should question them; but of so much I can assure anyone, that since that time they have never been forgotten, even though no outer incident has revived them in my memory.

  It was in the third decade of our century, on an October afternoon—thus began the story-teller of that time—that I rode through a mighty storm along a North Frisian dike. For over an hour I had on my left the dreary marshland, already deserted by all the cattle; on my right, unpleasantly near me, the swamping waters of the North Sea. I saw nothing, however, but the yellowish-grey waves that beat against the dike unceasingly, as if they were roaring with rage, and that now and then bespattered me and my horse with dirty foam; behind them I could see only chaotic dusk which did not let me tell sky and earth apart, for even the half moon which now stood in the sky was most of the time covered by wandering clouds. It was ice cold; my clammy hands could scarcely hold the reins, and I did not wonder that the croaking and cackling crows and gulls were always letting themselves be swept inland by the storm. Nightfall had begun, and already I could no longer discern the hoof of my horse with any certainty. I had met no human soul, heard nothing but the screaming of the birds when they almost grazed me and my faithful mare with their long wings, and the raging of the wind and water. I cannot deny that now and then I wished that I were in safe quarters.

  It was the third day that this weather had lasted, and I had already allowed an especially dear relative to keep me longer than I should have done on his estate in one of the more northern districts. But to-day I could not stay longer. I had business in the city which was even now a few hours’ ride to the south, and in spite of all the persuasions of my cousin and his kind wife, in spite of the Perinette and Grand Richard apples still to be tried, I had ridden away.

  “Wait till you get to the sea,” he had called after me from his house door. “You will turn back. Your room shall be kept for you.”

  And really, for a moment, when a black layer of clouds spread pitch-darkness round me and at the same time the howling squalls were trying to force me and my horse down from the dike, the thought shot through my head: “Don’t be a fool! Turn back and stay with your friends in their warm nest.” But then it occurred to me that the way back would be longer than the way to my destination; and so I trotted on, pulling the collar of my coat up over my ears.

  But now something came toward me upon the dike; I heard nothing, but when the half moon shed its spare light, I believed that I could discern more and more clearly a dark figure, and soon, as it drew nearer, I saw that it sat on a horse, on a long-legged, haggard, white horse; a dark cloak was waving round its shoulders, and as it flew past me, two glowing eyes stared at me out of a pale face.

  Who was that? What did that man want? And now it came to my mind that I had not heard the beating of hoofs or any panting of the horse; and yet horse and rider had ridden close by me!

  Deep in thought over this I rode on, but I did not have much time to think, for straightway it flew past me again from behind; it seemed as if the flying cloak had grazed me, as if the apparition, just as it had done the first time, had rushed by me without a sound. Then I saw it farther and farther away from me, and suddenly it seemed as if a shadow were gliding down at the inland side of the dike.

  Somewhat hesitating, I rode on behind. When I had reached that place, hard by the “Koog,” the land won from the sea by damming it in, I saw water gleam from a great “Wehl,” as they call the breaks made into the land by the storm floods which remain as small but deep pools.

  In spite of the protecting dike, the water was remarkably calm; hence the rider could not have troubled it. Besides, I saw nothing more of him. Something else I saw now, however, which I greeted with pleasure: before me, from out of the “Koog,” a multitude of little scattered lights were glimmering up to me; they seemed to come from some of the rambling Frisian houses that lay isolated on more or less high mounds. But close in front of me, half way up the inland side of the dike lay a great house of this kind. On the south side, to the right of the house door, I saw all the windows illumined, and beyond, I perceived people and imagined that I could hear them in spite of the storm. My horse had of himself walked down to the road along the dike which led me up to the door of the house. I could easily see that it was a tavern, for in front of the windows I spied the so-called “ricks,” beams resting on two posts with great iron rings for hitching the cattle and horses that stopped there.

  I tied my horse to one of these and left him to the servant who met me as I entered the hall.

  “Is a meeting going on here?” I asked him, for now a noise of voices and clicking glasses rose clearly from the room beyond the door.

  “Aye, something of the sort,” the servant replied in Plattdeutsch, and later I learned that this dialect had been in full swing here, as well as the Frisian, for over a hundred years; “the dikemaster and the overseers and the other landholders! That’s on account of the high water!”

  When I entered, I saw about a dozen men sitting round a table that extended beneath the windows; a punch bowl stood upon it; and a particularly stately man seemed to dominate the party.

  I bowed and asked if I might sit down with them, a favor which was readily granted.

  “You had better keep watch here!” I said, turning to this man; “the weather outside is bad; there will be hard times for the dikes!”

  “Surely,” he replied, “but we here on the east side believe we are out of danger. Only over there on the other side it isn’t safe; the dikes there are mostly made more after old patterns; our chief dike was made in the last century. We got chilly outside a while ago; and you,” he added, “probably had the same experience. But we have to hold out a few hours longer here; we have reliable people outside, who report to us.” And before I could give my order to the host, a steaming glass was pushed in front of me.

  I soon found out that my pleasant neighbour was the dikemaster; we entered into conversation, and I began to tell him about my strange encounter on the dike. He grew attentive, and I noticed suddenly that all talk round about was silenced.

  “The rider on the white horse,” cried one of the company and a movement of fright stirred the others.

  The dikemaster had risen.

  “You don’t need to be afraid,” he spoke across the table, “that isn’t meant for us only; in the year ’17 it was meant for them too; may they be ready for the worst!”

  Now a horror came over me.

  “Pardon me!” I said. “What about this rider on the white horse?”

  Apart from the other
s, behind the stove, a small, haggard man in a little worn black coat sat somewhat bent over; one of his shoulders seemed a little deformed. He had not taken part with a single word in the conversation of the others, but his eyes, fringed as they were with dark lashes, although the scanty hair on his head was grey, showed clearly that he was not sitting there to sleep.

  Toward him the dikemaster pointed:

  “Our schoolmaster,” he said, raising his voice, “will be the one among us who can tell you that best—to be sure, only in his way, and not quite as accurately as my old house-keeper at home, Antje Vollmans, would manage to tell it.”

  “You are joking, dikemaster!” the somewhat feeble voice of the schoolmaster rose from behind the stove, “if you want to compare me to your silly dragon!”

  “Yes, that’s all right, schoolmaster!” replied the other, “but stories of that kind are supposed to be kept safest with dragons.”

  “Indeed!” said the little man, “in this we are not quite of the same opinion.” And a superior smile flitted over his delicate face.

  “You see,” the dikemaster whispered in my ear, “he is still a little proud; in his youth he once studied theology and it was only because of an unhappy courtship that he stayed hanging about his home as schoolmaster.”

  The schoolmaster had meanwhile come forward from his corner by the stove and had sat down beside me at the long table.

  “Come on! Tell the story, schoolmaster,” cried some of the younger members of the party.

  “Yes, indeed,” said the old man, turning toward me. “I will gladly oblige you; but there is a good deal of superstition mixed in with it, and it is quite a feat to tell the story without it.”

  “I must beg you not to leave the superstition out,” I replied. “You can trust me to sift the chaff from the wheat by myself!”

  The old man looked at me with an appreciative smile.

  Well, he said, in the middle of the last century, or rather, to be more exact, before and after the middle of that century, there was a dikemaster here who knew more about dikes and sluices than peasants and landowners usually do. But I suppose it was nevertheless not quite enough, for he had read little of what learned specialists had written about it; his knowledge, though he began in childhood, he had thought out all by himself. I dare say you have heard, sir, that the Frisians are good at arithmetic, and perhaps you have heard tell of our Hans Mommsen from Fahntoft, who was a peasant and yet could make chronometers, telescopes, and organs. Well, the father of this man who later became dikemaster was made out of this same stuff—to be sure, only a little. He had a few fens, where he planted turnips and beans and kept a cow grazing; once in a while in the fall and spring he also surveyed land, and in winter, when the northwest wind blew outside and shook his shutters, he sat in his room to scratch and prick with his instruments. The boy usually would sit by and look away from his primer or Bible to watch his father measure and calculate, and would thrust his hand into his blond hair. And one evening he asked the old man why something that he had written down had to be just so and could not be something different, and stated his own opinion about it. But his father, who did not know how to answer this, shook his head and said:

  “That I cannot tell you; anyway it is so, and you are mistaken. If you want to know more, search for a book to-morrow in a box in our attic; someone whose name is Euclid has written it; that will tell you.”

  The next day the boy had run up to the attic and soon had found the book, for there were not many books in the house anyway, but his father laughed when he laid it in front of him on the table. It was a Dutch Euclid, and Dutch, although it was half German, neither of them understood.

  “Yes, yes,” he said, “this book belonged to my father; he understood it; is there no German Euclid up there?”

  The boy, who spoke little, looked at his father quietly and said only: “May I keep it? There isn’t any German one.”

  And when the old man nodded, he showed him a second half-torn little book.

  “That too?” he asked again.

  “Take them both!” said Tede Haien; “they won’t be of much use of you.”

  But the second book was a little Dutch grammar, and as the winter was not over for a long while, by the time the gooseberries bloomed again in the garden it had helped the boy so far that he could almost entirely understand his Euclid, which at that time was much in vogue.

  I know perfectly well, sir, the story teller interrupted himself, that this same incident is also told of Hans Mommsen, but before his birth our people here have told the same of Hauke Haien—that was the name of the boy. You know well enough that as soon as a greater man has come, everything is heaped on him that his predecessor has done before him, either seriously or in fun.

  When the old man saw that the boy had no sense for cows or sheep and scarcely noticed when the beans were in bloom, which is the joy of every marshman, and when he considered that his little place might be kept up by a farmer and a boy, but not by a half-scholar and a hired man, inasmuch as he himself had not been over-prosperous, he sent his big boy to the dike, where he had to cart earth from Easter until Martinmas. “That will cure him of his Euclid,” he said to himself.

  And the boy carted; but his Euclid he always had with him in his pocket, and when the workmen ate their breakfast or lunch, he sat on his upturned wheelbarrow with the book in his hand. In autumn, when the tide rose higher and sometimes work had to be stopped, he did not go home with the others, but stayed and sat with his hands clasped over his knees on the seaward slope of the dike, and for hours watched the sombre waves of the North Sea beat always higher and higher against the grass-grown scar of the dike. Not until the water washed over his feet and the foam sprayed his face did he move a few feet higher, only to stay and sit on. He did not hear the splash of the water, or the scream of the gulls or strand birds that flew round him and almost grazed him with their wings, flashing their black eyes at his own; nor did he see how night spread over the wide wilderness of water. The only thing he saw was the edge of the surf, which at high tide was again and again hitting the same place with hard blows and before his very eyes washing away the grassy scar of the steep dike.

  After staring a long time, he would nod his head slowly and, without looking up, draw a curved line in the air, as if he could in this way give the dike a gentler slope. When it grew so dark that all earthly things vanished from his sight and only the surf roared in his ears, then he got up and marched home half drenched.

  One night when he came in this state into the room where his father was polishing his surveying instruments, the latter started. “What have you been doing out there?” he cried. “You might have drowned; the waters are biting into the dike to-day.”

  Hauke looked at him stubbornly.

  “Don’t you hear me? I say, you might have drowned!”

  “Yes,” said Hauke, “but I’m not drowned!”

  “No,” the old man answered after a while and looked into his face absently—“not this time.”

  “But,” Hauke returned, “our dikes aren’t worth anything.”

  “What’s that, boy?”

  “The dikes, I say.”

  “What about the dikes?”

  “They’re no good, father,” replied Hauke.

  The old man laughed in his face. “What’s the matter with you, boy? I suppose you are the prodigy from Lübeck.”

  But the boy would not be put down. “The waterside is too steep,” he said; “if it happens some day as it has happened before, we can drown here behind the dike too.”

  The old man pulled his tobacco out of his pocket, twisted off a piece and pushed it behind his teeth. “And how many loads have you pushed to-day?” he asked angrily, for he saw that the boy’s work on the dike had not been able to chase away his brainwork.

  “I don’t know, father,” said the boy; “about as many as the others did, or perhaps half a dozen more; but—the dikes have got to be changed!”

  “Well,” sai
d the old man with a short laugh, “perhaps you can manage to be made dikemaster; then you can change them.”

  “Yes, father,” replied the boy.

  The old man looked at him and swallowed a few times, then he walked out of the door. He did not know what to say to the boy.

  Even when, at the end of October, the work on the dike was over, his walk northward to the farm was the best entertainment for Hauke Haien. He looked forward to All Saints’ Day, the time when the equinoctial storms were wont to rage—a day on which we say that Friesland has a good right to mourn—just as children nowadays look forward to Christmas. When an early flood was coming, one could be sure that in spite of storm and bad weather, he would be lying all alone far out on the dike; and when the gulls chattered, when the waters pounded against the dike and as they rolled back swept big pieces of the grass cover with them into the sea, then one could have heard Hauke’s furious laughter.

  “You aren’t good for anything!” he cried out into the noise. “Just as the people are no good!” And at last, often in darkness, he trotted home from the wide water along the dike, until his tall figure had reached the low door under his father’s thatch roof and slipped into the little room.

  Sometimes he had brought home a handful of clay; then he sat down beside the old man, who now humoured him, and by the light of the thin tallow candle he kneaded all sorts of dike models, laid them in a flat dish with water and tried to imitate the washing away by the waves; or he took his slate and drew the profiles of the dikes toward the waterside as he thought they ought to be.

  He had no idea of keeping up intercourse with his schoolmates; it seemed, too, as if they did not care for this dreamer. When winter had come again and the frost had appeared, he wandered still farther out on the dike to points he had never reached before, until the boundless ice-covered sand flats lay before him.

  During the continuous frost in February, dead bodies were found washed ashore; they had lain on the frozen sand flats by the open sea. A young woman who had been present when they had taken the bodies into the village, stood talking fluently with old Haien.