Produced by English translation produced by Michael Wooff
Elderflowers
A story by Wilhelm Raabe (1831-1910)
A Recollection of the 'House of Life'
I am a doctor, a general practitioner of long standing and amedical officer of health. Four years ago I was decorated with theOrder of the Red Eagle (Third Class) and, having been born someyears prior to the turn of the century, am therefore quite near tothe end of my biblical lifespan. I used to be married. Mychildren have done well for themselves. My sons are all standingon their own two feet and my daughter has found herself a goodhusband. I cannot complain of my heart and my nerves as they arerobust and have often held out when other people's, not withoutgood reason, would have failed. We doctors become, as it were,both inwardly and outwardly thick-skinned, and, as we become immuneto epidemic viruses, so nothing can prevent us from assuming rolesas loyal and imperturbable counsellors to unadulterated grief andinarticulate despair. Every man should do his duty and I hope thatI always do mine to the best of my ability. Doctors who think thattheir task is over once they have marked with a cross or some othersymbol the name of a dead patient on their list are bad doctors.Very often our hardest task is only just beginning then. We, whoseskill and knowledge have been shown to be so powerless, who are sooften not seen by the friends and relatives of our patients in themost favourable and equitable of lights, should still do our bestto find words of consolation for those relatives and friends. Thehours we must spend with and visits we must pay to those leftbehind after the coffin has been taken out of the house are muchmore painful than those we passed at the bedside of the hopelesscase.
All this has nothing to do, of course, with the observations thatfollow. I merely want to show, by means of an example, what awonderful thing the human soul is. Not without good reasons have Ientitled these personal memoirs "Elderflowers". The reader willpresently appreciate just what an influence Syringa vulgaris hashad on me.
It was a clear, cold day in January. The sun was shining andpacked snow crackled underfoot as people went past while the wheelsof carts made a shrill, squealing sound as they turned. Theweather was healthy and invigorating and I filled my lungs oncemore with a deep breath before ringing, at three o'clock in theafternoon, the doorbell of one of the stateliest mansions in one ofthe stateliest streets in the town.
I knew what I was doing when I strove to take with me as much humanwarmth as I possibly could into that elegant home. And yet nobodywas lying inside critically ill and there was no corpse there. Myscalpel would be superfluous and I would not even need to make outa prescription.
I did not have long to wait at the door. An old servant with acareworn face opened up to me and bowed his head in silentgreeting. I walked through the long and cold entrance hall andslowly ascended the wide staircase one step at a time.
I had of late climbed these stairs on numerous occasions, at allhours of the day and night. Upstairs, near a bend in the banister,stood a fine plaster cast of a pensive muse who, gracefullyenshrouded by her veils, had been given the attitude of leaning herchin on her hand. When the great city slept, when the light of thelamp, which the old servant carried in front of me, deep into thenight, came to rest on that pure, white shape, I gazed upon itsteadily in passing and tried to take with me something of thebust's lovely and eternal tranquillity behind that fateful doorwhere… but t