NIKOLAI M, KARAMZIN
again to the ocean waves; he left the tree, sat down
on the grass, and strummed a melancholy prelude on his
guitar, gazing unceasingly out to sea, while he sang softly the
following song (in Danish, a language which my friend Dr.
N.N. taught me in Geneva):
The laws do all condemn The
object of my love; But who, my
heart, could e'er Refuse your
sacred need?
What law is there more pure
Than that of heart's desire?
What call is there more strong
Than beauty's or than love's?
I love—I'll love fore'er; Curse
then my heart's desire, You
souls who know not pain, You
hearts who know not woe!
O Nature's realm most pure!
Your tender friend and son Is
innocent in all. 'Twas you that
gave me soul;
Benevolent your gifts That
her did so adorn; O
Nature! You desired That
Lila be my love!
Your lightnings struck close by,
But did not shatter us, When
we embraced and kissed And
our desire did slake.
0 Bornholm, Bornholm fair!
To you my heart would e'er
Return and dwell again,
But vainly do I weep;
I languish and I sigh!
Fore'er am I exiled
From shores of you, fair isle,
By the paternal curse!
97
And you, beloved mine! Yearn
you and live you still? Or have
you ended all In roaring
ocean's depths?
Oh, come to me, oh, come,
Beloved shade so dear! And I
will join you now In roaring
ocean's depths.
At that moment, impelled by an involuntary inner force,
I was on the point of rushing toward the stranger and em-
bracing him, but at that very instant the captain took me by
the hand and said that a favorable wind had filled our sail
and that we must lose no time. . . . We sailed. The youth,
flinging down his guitar and folding his arms, gazed out to
the blue sea in our wake.
The waves foamed under our ship's helm; the shore of
Gravesend concealed itself in the distance; the northern
provinces of England lay dark on the other end of the horizon;
at last all disappeared, and even the birds that for a long
time had soared over our heads now turned back toward
shore, as if terrified at that endless expanse of the sea. The
agitation of the murmuring waters and the foggy sky were
the only objects left in view, majestic and terrible. My friends!
To experience all the daring of the human spirit, one must
be on the open ocean where nothing but a thin plank, as Wie-
land says, separates us from a watery grave, but where the
skilled seaman, unfurling the sails, rushes on and in thought
already sees the luster of the gold that, in some other part of
the world, will reward his bold enterprise. Nil mortalibus
arduum est; nothing is impossible for mortals, I thought with
Horace, my gaze lost in the endlessness of Neptune's realm.
But soon a severe attack of seasickness made me lose con-
sciousness. For six days my eyes did not open, and my tired
heart, washed by the foam of the storm waves,* hardly beat
in my breast. On the seventh day I revived, and with a joyous
if pallid aspect mounted to the deck. The sun was already
sinking in the clear azure skies toward the West; the ocean,
* In truth, the foam of the waves often did wash over me, who
was lying unconscious on the deck of the ship.—Author's note.
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98
NIKOLAI M. KARAMZIN
The Island of Bornholm
99
illuminated by its golden rays, murmured; the ship flew with
full sail over the breast of the cleaving billows, which in vain
sought to outstrip it. All around us, at varying distances,
white, blue, and pink flags were unfurled, and on the right
hand lay something dark that resembled land,
"Where are we?" I asked the captain.
"Our trip has been propitious," he said, "we have passed
The Sound; the shores of Sweden have disappeared from our
sight. To starboard you can see the Danish island of Born-
holm, a place dangerous for shipping; there shoals and rocks
lie hidden on the sea bottom. When night approaches, we
shall anchor there."
The isle of Bornholm, the isle of Bornholm, I repeated in
my thoughts, and the image of the young stranger at Graves-
end arose in my mind. The mournful tones and words of his
song resounded in my ears.
They hold the secret of his heart, I thought, but who is he?
What laws condemn the love of an unhappy man? What curse
has exiled him from the shores of Bornholm, so dear to him?
Will I ever learn his history?
Meanwhile a strong wind carried us straight toward the
island. Its fierce cliffs already came into view, with boiling
streams that hurled themselves, roaring and foaming, down
from their heights into the ocean depths. It seemed inacces-
sible from all sides, from all sides walled by the hand of
majestic Nature; nothing but terror appeared on its gray crags.
With horror I saw the image of cold, silent eternity, the image
of implacable death and of that indescribable creative power
in the face of which all that is mortal must tremble.
The sun had sunk in the waves, and we cast anchor. The
wind had calmed down, and the sea scarcely rocked. I gazed
at the island, which with inexplicable force lured me to its
banks; a dark presentment spoke to me: Then you can
satisfy your curiosity, and Bornholm will remain forever in
your memory! Finally, learning that there were fishing huts
not far from the shore, I determined to ask the captain for a
boat and go to the island with two or three sailors. He told me
of the danger, of the rocks beneath the waters surface, but
seeing his passenger's resolution, he agreed to fulfill my
demand, on condition that early the next morning I return to
the ship.
We set out and safely reached the shore of a small calm
inlet. Here we were met by fishermen, a folk crude and rough,
raised on the cold element under the roar of ocean billows,
and unacquainted with a smile of friendly greeting. Hearing
that we desired to look over the island and spend the night
in one of their huts, they tied up our boat and led us through
a mountain of flintstone that was falling to pieces, up to their
dwellings. In half an hour we came out onto a broad green
plain on which, as in the Alpine valleys, low wooden cottages
were scattered, along with thickets and boulders. Here I left
my sailors, and myself went on farther to enjoy for yet a
while the pleasant sensations of evening; a boy of thirteen
served as my guide.
The scarlet glow had not yet died in the bright heaven; its
rosy light was strewn on the white granite boulders, and in
the distance, beyond a high hill, it lit up the sharp towers of
an old castle. The boy could not tell me to whom the castle
belonged.
"We do not go there," he said, "and God knows what goes
on there!"
I redoubled my steps and soon approached the great Gothic
edifice, surrounded by a deep moat and a high wall. Every-
where silence reigned; in the distance the sea sighed, and the
last ray of evening light died on the copper-sheathed tips of
the towers.
I walked around the castle—the gates were closed arid the
drawbridges raised. My guide was fearful, of what he himself
did not know, and begged me to go back to the huts, but
could a man impelled by curiosity heed such a request?
Night came on, and suddenly a voice resounded; the echo
repeated it, and again all was silent. From fright the boy
seized me with both hands, and trembled like a criminal at
execution. In a minute the voice resounded again and asked,
"Who is there?"
"A foreigner," I said, "brought to this island by curiosity.
If the law of hospitality is honored as a virtue in the walls
of your castle, then you will shelter a traveler in the dark time
of night."
There was no reply, but in a few minutes the
drawbridge thundered and dropped down from the tower;
with a noise the gate opened—a tall man clad in a long
black garment came to meet me, took me by the hand, and
led me into the castle. I turned around; the boy, my guide,
had hidden.