STRANGE FOLK.*
WHEN we spoke a week or two ago, in noticing the Swiss novel Soul and Money, of the advantage to English readers of good translations of foreign fiction, we assumed a discrimination on the part of publishers probably greater than that of amateur translators who do not so often feel the reading pulse, nor so anxiously diagnose the symptoms of morbid action. For instance, without denying, of course, Oelschliiger's ability, we can- not compliment Colonel Grant on his selection of this amorous tale for translation. Taking the subject into account, there is a very fair avoidance of anything seriously objectionable ; but the loves of doting old men, actresses, young ladies in male disguise, and novitiate priests have little novelty to recommend them, and are not agreeable to those who may peruse them without injury. Nor is there anything characteristic of Germany in green-room jealousies, managerial perplexities, the machinery of ovations and applause, and the private or rather professional lives of the actors and actresses. Then, again, Strange Folk, is one illustration the more of that objectionable form of tale eked out by a long secondary narrative occupying more than a third of the book, and introduced by one of the characters. So that it is, in fact, two tales welded together where they converge. And one of these contains two other shorter off- shoots, so that the artistic unity of the whole is "conspicuous by its absence,"—a defect not common, we are glad to think, in English novels. Nor is there the excuse that these convergent stories are necessary for the elucidation of existing conditions, though of course this is the one assumed. The main story is of a certain dreamy, vain, elderly Dr. Anselmus, who writes old-world romances and frets because he is not appreciated; his chief peculiarity is extreme sensitiveness to sounds, which supplies the motive for all his restless changes of abode, and affords some amusing scenes for the reader. He takes it so determinedly into his head at last to go into a convent as a lodger, that being trammelled with a beautiful niece, he is easily persuaded to let her go also in the character of a nephew and amanuensis. In the monastery, of course, a young novice falls into her company with whom she falls in love, and who, enjoying the sympathy of the handsome youthful guest, does not content himself with explaining that he had been designated by his mother to the priest- hood, but relates his whole previous history. In the course of this we have offshoot No. 1, the history of a low adventurer with whom he fell in at the theatre haunted by both of them ; and offshoot No. 2, that of the mother of the actress of his choice. The novice's story ended, and the sympathy of the female heart excited by his sorrows, the sex of the youthful amanuensis is not long in being discovered by the now attached and intimate * Strange Fork. Translated from the German of Hermann Oelsehlitger, by Lientenant-Colonel F. Grant. London: Longrnans, Green, and Co.
friend. Their hearts thus indissolubly united, the remainder of the book relates her uncle's anger and his measures to separate her from one set-apart for the Church ; and the retreat of Dr. Anselmus from the convent, and his reconciliation to his niece's lover on discovering that the first love of the latter was the daughter of his own first love, aided perhaps by the generous offer of the rich ex-novice to provide for the publishing of his latest romance with-
out delay and in the most costly style. But first we have the escape of the novice from the convent in the respectable garments of the middle-aged author, which affords an occasion for an mous- 'lug illustration of the doctor's romantic enthusiasm :— "With beating heart Dora followed the venerable man up the stairs. Bat how she laughed when the Superior opened Doctor Anselrnus's door, and her uncle appeared in cowl, capuch, and cord as a complete Capu- eine. How charming you look, uncle!' said Dora, with a laugh, taking his hand almost too much like a girl, and even the Superior himself began to laugh so heartily at the absurdity of the situation that Doctor Anselmus was obliged to join in the gaiety, and very soon, in conse- quence of immoderate fits of laughter, was obliged to hold his aching side with one hand and with the other to wipe away the tears from his eyes. The Superior could not sufficiently assure the learned Doctor how well the dress suited him; and the monk's cowl, which be now wore, did, in fact, harmonise very well with the melancholy ascetic expression of Doctor Anselmna's features, when he had left off laughing ; it really was very becoming to his pale, colourless cheeks, to his dark, black eyes, and to his lofty forehead. 'My wish,' said Doctor Aneolmus, is at last fulfilled,—the wish which I have had for many years, and which I have thought of in many painful times. Who would have thought that I should ever have been allowed to wear the garb of an order whose members I have so often envied in silence ? I was lying on my bed, and looking quietly at the cowl, when suddenly the wish came over me to see how it would become me. Ah! I put it on with a smile, and I shall take it off again with sadness."
The convent part of the story is strange enough, cer- tainly, or would be strange, if it were not, instead, unlikely and improbable. But the folk are not so strange—if we except the irritable romantic Dr. Anselmus and the unprincipled adventurer Joseph Breitsam—and our author felt this himself when he had to explain the appropriatenees of the catching title in the last page of his book. Setting aside the passage which describes the conduct of the beautiful and voluptuous model of an artist friend who frightens Dr. Anselmus from his home, and the passages in which the Doctor's passions in their turn are fired, first by the picture of a lovely Spaniard, and again by the personal charms of his own niece, the story does not offend. Indeed Marion the actress's love for Henry is true and pure as well as strong, and is described both with power and refinement ; though it is the unrestrained and confessed, it is, nevertheless, the virgin love of a beautiful girl who will not marry because she is sure that love would cease when it became a duty to love. But we think Lieutenant-Colonel Grant should have expunged, for Eng- lish readers, the account, to them, so revolting, of the uncle's brief passion for his niece, especially living as she was with him, as a daughter and under his sole care. It is true he explains in a note the legitimacy, in Germany, of marriages between uncle and niece,— which does not mend the matter for us but makes it worse,—but the paroxysm is so transient and the story is so independent of it that it should have been omitted entirely.
The most attractive part of the book is its picture of the old con- vent, or rather the impression which is left on the mind—for there is little of actual description—of the silent old grey building, in its deep and wide moat of rippling green water, backed by the wooded mountains of the Spessart ; and of the quiet, calm, colour- less, useless lives of the monks,—amused like old women with the most trivial things, and obedient and respectful to their vener- able and kindly and very deaf superior ; getting a little mild excitement and their only amusement in a game of skittles in the evening in the green alley of the convent garden, overshadowed by its ancient yews :—
" The alley on the right side of the garden had been turned into a skittle-ground. It was lighted by a single lamp hung over the skittle- ground, and another lamp was burning on a small table, at which a brother was sitting with chalk and a slate to mark each party's score. In the background was a long table, with a provision of stone tankards, which proved that the ten or twelve monks and the novice, who made up the society, required from time to time to refresh their wearied frames. In front the reverend Superior was sitting on a comfortable arm-chair, from which he had a good view of the game without taking part in it. The impression was curious, in seeing the monks engaged in this worldly pursuit, and Dora could hardly keep from laughing, when she saw an old father with a grey beard and steel spectacles on his red nose step up, select one of the bowls, and then tucking up his long woollen robe, stoop down, and troll it down the alley. Then the monk began to throw dr, .bout his leg, a well-known movement with enthusiastic skittle.players, performed after they have thrown the bowl, with the vain hope of giving it the proper twist. It was, indeed, too comical. It was far from being disagreeable to Dora that the alley was so badly lighted ; the bearded forms, in frock and cowl, moved about like shadows in the dim light, quite content with being able to see the clear light at the end of the alley."
The character of Dr. Anselmus is sketched with much power, but borders so closely on caricature as to shake from time to time the feeling of its reality. His vanity and irritable cap- tiousness are admirable, but his credulity and his nervousness carry us into the region of farce. As an illustration of the latter, we have the episode of the chessmen which he finds in the convent- garret,—it is a paraphrase of the Pickwickian discovery of " Bill Stumps his mark." Ile gloats over them like a miser, locks them up, and dreams that the trunk is broken open ; writes a treatise about them to prove that they are evidence that Germany had the honour of inventing chess ; reads an eloquent oration on the subject to the assembled monks, and as a climax, uncovers the precious relics,—when the excellent Superior wakens up, and asks how he came by the chessmen which Brother Erdmann had carved for him. The exhibitions of his nervousness, however, if they savour also of farce, are intensely comic, and, moreover, are only farce in so far as they excite the laughter of more well- balanced minds and less delicate-strung natures. We can well believe that the following is no exaggeration, but only a very graphic account of what keen observation has noted :—
" She was gazing thoughtfully on the river, the woods, and the fields. Suddenly something sparkled in the meadows and for a moment almost dazzled her. She shaded her oyes with her hands, and tried to see what it was. She soon made out a man on the other side of the stream, who was about to set to work again at his mowing, which he had left off to take a moment's rest, and was preparing to swing his glittering scythe through the luxuriant grass. Perhaps the scythe was not sharp enough, for the peasant took a whetstone which was hanging from his side and began to sharpen it. A. moment afterwards Doctor Anselmus rushed like a madman out of his room on to the terrace. His eyes were gleaming, and his pen was violently clenched in his hand. ' What is it? What is it ?' he cried. Dora could scarcely answer ; she was so startled.— ' What ?' she replied, what do you mean ?'—' Do you not hear it ?' said her uncle, and listened breathless. 'There—now—now again—do you not hear it? '—Dora laughed out aloud. 'Goodness,' she said, 'you do not mean the man mowing, who is sharpening his scythe in the meadow ?' —` Do I mean him ?' said Doctor Anselmus. Certainly I do mean him,' he went on, getting more excited : do mean that man in the meadow who is sharpening his scythe.'—' Why, does he disturb you ?' said Dora, laughing ; that would be too absurd.'—' Absurd ! ' shrieked out the Doctor. How in God's name can you call that absurd which is driving me mad, which is making me wretched and miserable ? Listen again—kling—ling—ling—ling! lathe man going to mow all the grass in the kingdom, that he is so long sharpening his scythe ? Do you not hear him ?'—' Certainly, I hear him quite well. But how pleasant and poetic it sounds in the still morning !'—' Dora, Dora, do you wish to drive me mad? I know very well what you would like to say ; you imagine that because this noise unfits me for work, and makes me ill and wretched— you imagine that I am a fool—you imagine—'— But uncle--' en- treated Dora.—' You have no idea how ill I am, how my nerves are un- strung; you do not know how much I am to be pitied; you cannot understand how an event of this kind disturbs me, and what a shock, what emotion an apparently innocent noise like this gives me.'—' The man has left off again,' said Dora, timidly.—' Has he ?' said Doctor Anselmus, and listened again. 'Is it possible ? I seem to hear him the whole time—kling—ling—ling : it goes on in my ears. But you are right, he has left off.'—' Now, uncle, you must set to work again That is my misfortune, groaned the Doctor, and walked up and down the terrace wringing his hands. ' That is my misfortune. I can work no more. I shall always imagine that I am hearing the man sharpening his scythe, and while I am trying to ascertain whether he is really doing so, or whether I am only the dupe of my imagination, I am unable to compose a single connected sentence, far less write it down.'—' That is curious,' said Dora. and added with slight irony : the distance of the vexatious scythe must be at least a mile.' Doctor Anselmus stepped up close to her, and appeared as if he wished to look through her. 'Do you envy me my good hearing ?' he asked with a hollow voice.—' No, but I admire it.'"
We have no space to remark on the clever and amusing descrip- tion of the light-hearted, unprincipled scoundrel Joseph Breitsam, who figures in the novice's account of his previous life. We do not wonder that Henry was jealous and angry at the intimacy which the beautiful actress dared not decline from the unscrupu- lous wielder of the pen of this theatrical critic.
We cannot compliment Lieutenant-Colonel Grant on the cor- rectness of his English, though the translation is so easy that the title-page alone reveals that his book was not written originally in English ; and we do not find the printing and binding very carefully supervised.
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