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We are at the beginning of a new era which will, it is to be hoped, bemarked by a general rapprochement between the nations. The need toknow and understand one another is being felt more and more. It followsthat the study of foreign languages will assume an ever-increasingimportance; indeed, so far as language, literature, and music areconcerned, one may safely assert that fas est et ab hoste doceri.
All those who wish to make acquaintance with the speech of theirneighbours, or who have allowed their former knowledge to grow rusty,will welcome this edition, which will enable them, independently ofbulky dictionaries, to devote to language study the moments of leisurewhich offer themselves in the course of the day.
The texts have been selected from the double point of view of theirliterary worth and of the usefulness of their vocabulary; in thetranslations, also, the endeavour has been to unite qualities of stylewith strict fidelity to the original.
Theodor W. Storm, poet and short-story writer (1817-1888), was born inSchleswig. He was called to the Bar in his native town, Husum, in1842, but had his licence to practise cancelled in 1853 for'Germanophilism,' and had to remove to Germany. It was only in 1864that he was able to return to Husum, where in 1874 he became a judgeof the Court of Appeals.
As early as 1843 he had made himself known as a lyrical poet of theRomantic School, but it was as a short-story writer that he first tooka prominent place in literature, making a most happy début withthe story entitled Immensee.
There followed a long series of tales, rich in fancy and in humour,although their inspiration is generally derived from the humble townand country life which formed his immediate environment; but he wrotenothing that excels, in depth and tenderness of feeling, the charmingstory of Immensee; and taking his work all in all, Storm stillranks to-day as a master of the short story in German literature, richthough it is in this form of prose-fiction.
One afternoon in the late autumn a well-dressed old man was walkingslowly down the street. He appeared to be returning home from a walk,for his buckle-shoes, which followed a fashion long since out of date,were covered with dust.
Under his arm he carried a long, gold-headed cane; his dark eyes, inwhich the whole of his long-lost youth seemed to have centred, andwhich contrasted strangely with his snow-white hair, gazed calmly onthe sights around him or peered into the town below as it lay beforehim, bathed in the haze of sunset. He appeared to be almost astranger, for of the passers-by only a few greeted him, although manya one involuntarily was compelled to gaze into those grave eyes.
At last he halted before a high, gabled house, cast one more glanceout toward the town, and then passed into the hall. At the sound ofthe door-bell some one in the room within drew aside the green curtainfrom a small window that looked out on to the hall, and the face of anold woman was seen behind it. The man made a sign to her with hiscane.
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