Tales of Felons and of Fairies

Today I went out twice, as befits a rainless Sunday.

At perhaps six o'clock J. and I walked to the Kleistpark, where we played badminton rather badly, and read E.T.A. Hoffmann's Das Fräulein von Scuderi. J. read out loud, and I made corrections or explanations where necessary. We are at the point where Desgrais tells Mademoiselle de Scuderi that Olivier Brusson (who was imprisoned for the murder of René Cardillac) will only speak to her about the murder, and that the authorities want her to agree to an interview with Brusson. The Mademoiselle vigorously refuses to act as a tale-bearer for the law, but agrees to the interview. In the meantime Madelon Cardillac, the betrothed of the unfortunate suspect, is still probably weeping violently in her refuge in the Mademoiselle's home. I find the dramatic descriptions of Madelon's agony rather jarring, but I suppose that the constant lamenting and despair is excusable in light of the fact that her father has just died violently and that her fiancé is incarcerated on suspicion of causing it.

I do like how well E.T.A. Hoffmann depicts the peculiarly ambiguous feelings about crime -- grief if one is its victim, fear if one may be its victim, the rise of a mob mentality against the perpetrators, pity and horror, and on the other hand a certain callous sensationalist interest. But, as far as I remember, he doesn't describe the sensationalist interest. I, as the reader, do experience it, not about the murders so much as about the resolution of the identity of the murderer. Yet I wasn't callous enough not to be quite uncomfortable when the Mademoiselle remarked, à propos of the men who feared being murdered as they brought jewels to their mistresses, "A lover who fears thieves is not worthy of love." (The whole situation seems so absurd anyway. I'd say that a mistress who cannot do without jewellry, or a lover who believes that he must supply her with it, even at the threat of his life, is a very stupid person indeed. The sensible thing would have been to give other presents, like paintings, flowers, or good books -- if the lady could read.)

The author's views on crime and justice appeal to me very much in general. He particularly stresses that one must not use excessive and indiscriminate force against crime. At the same time he makes one feel the gravity of crime unusually clearly, without a trace of ghoulish interest or prying. I think that one major flaw of murder mysteries is that the enormity of murder is not portrayed clearly enough. This doesn't mean that I want to see or read about sobbing family members. Not only is that extremely insensitive, I also think that it doesn't accurately convey their situation anyway. As I understand it, the effects of bereavement often go beyond sorrow; the loss of a friend or family member can severely change the bereaved person's relations to other people, ability to live his normal life, and even his character in general. What I do mean is that, even if the deceased was unpleasant, his death should still be shown to be a horrid event, not through dramatic depictions of it so much as through a sober tone. As for humour, it may be a coping mechanism, but if one is only reading about a crime and not experiencing it, there is nothing to cope with, so the mechanism is, in my view, superfluous.

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After the trip to the Kleistpark I set off again to the St. Matthäus churchyard. Near the end of the Crellestraße, there were orange marigold blossoms scattered on the sidewalk, and there was a faint scent of roses.* In the graveyard itself there were few people, and the hush of evening had already settled on it. The mass of ivy over the gates is still flourishing green; the grass fresh and tender, with tiny white flies frolicking over it and daisies and dandelions speckling it, and mingled with clover leaves and gentle sprays of yarrow; the crowns of the trees sombre and massive; the trunks dark and strong and shadowy; the lighter grey gravestones and the church-like building offering a soft chiaroscuro effect. White impatiens, begonias in red and white, hydrangeas, and pink roses were blossoming on the graves. The sky was pale blue, and quite covered in thin, irregular whitish clouds. As I sat down, the fragrance of the grass wafted up toward me, and reminded me of Gray's elegy and his phrase, "incense-breathing Morn." When I left again, the setting sun was glowing through the trees.

*(In all other respects the sidewalks were dirty and unromantic enough; I've rarely seen as many dog droppings or encountered as many unsavoury aromas as I did during this excursion.)

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Yesterday night I translated some of the Grimms' fairy tales. Many incomplete translations are floating about on my laptop, but this time I managed to complete "Der Königssohn, der sich vor nichts fürchtete," "Das Rätselmärchen," "Schneeweißchen und Rosenrot," "Die Alte im Wald," and "Jungfrau Maleen." There were, however, some words that I didn't get, like "Lorche" in "Schneeweißchen und Rosenrot," and the dialect in "Jungfrau Maleen." A few years ago, I would try to translate as literally as possible, but now I care more about the fluency of the language and the suitability of words in the context. "Schneeweißchen und Rosenrot" used to be a favourite of mine, but I find it saccharine and preachy now, though it is redeemed by the delightfully misanthropic dwarf. I find "Die Alte im Wald" very intriguing too, because I like the idea of doves bringing keys, and finding fine beds and food and wardrobes inside grand trees.

Altogether one of the greatest charms in fairy tales is the scenes that are presented to the mind's eye. Take, for instance, the dwarf struggling with the great eagle behind the boulder on the heath, or being pulled through the reeds into the rippling waters by a very big and very determined fish; the clean, picturesque, lonely hut shaded over by patriarchal trees, with two beautiful rose bushes growing in front of it; the enchanted garden enclosed in an intricate iron fence and guarded by proud, stately lions; etc. But another charm is the atmosphere. "Jungfrau Maleen" is unusually compelling and deep in that respect. The metaphorical shadow of the tower in which the maiden is immured, and the wastelands of war and the dreariness of exile, the slow and weary passage of time, and the suffering of renunciation (voluntary and involuntary), make themselves felt to the very end.