New-York tribune. [volume] (New York [N.Y.]) 1866-1924, 1916-12-17

The storm ,rhich follolcs, by Frau Cor IS n
Frqulein9 Gustaro Helene Witte, couples
genuine imaginative quality Uith marked tech
nicql skill. II has the high merit-perhdpS the
LioLest merit that short story can hdve-ot
creating a spacious atmosphere, Of suggesting
ideas lrbict transcend its olcn limitations IN
tHc icav Of form and content.
The symbolism of the bronze angel IS such
an idea. II dominates the story and gives 1t
an artistic unity. The bronze figure gets
1cf,,qIv into the ac1r at last only by going into
The Munitions Departments melting pot. But
the storm ,choso Development it determines rs
none the less a icar story, constructed against
a. icar background and truly rejecting tho an
teru1l os ircH as the external reactions " the
icGr
rTWAS a century-old house up in the Harz
Mountains in which the bronze angel
n spread his shining, gilded wings and smil-
inglv looked down on the human beings at his
feet. In his rounded, upstretched arms he
held high two sets Of candle sockets, from
which beautifully cut pendants of crystal hung,
and in which perfumed, yellowish wax candles
stood.
The sunbeams often stole through the ivy
bordered windows, lovingly stroked with their
warm fingers the angels wings and body
played about his curly head and drew dancing
rainbow colors out Of the crystals Of the candle
sockets. The mellow light scurred up and
down the brown, wainscoted walls so that
sometimes it seemed as if flames from the
candles futtered up and fared from side to
side. Yet they had never burned-those per
fumed, yellowish wax candles
Thoughtfully Regina looked up from her sew
ing to the angel, who smiled down at her:
when will your candles burn? Will it ever
happen? Will it happen soon?"
Her heart beat faster. A warm glow rose
10 her fresh, youthful face. She went to the
piano and let her fingers move softly across
the KEYS. Her voice sounded like peal OF
iubilaton through the sombre ROOM
"Und der Bach, die Baume ssgen's.
IND es rauscht's der Wind i'm Hahn,
IND die Nachtigallen schlagens:
Sic ist define, sic list dein."
Regina. why do you sing that song, that
particular song?"
II was weary voice-the voice OF woman
which interrupted the secret outpouring Of
the heart Of youth. The tall, thin figure of
Regjna's mother, never dressed In anything but
The deepest black, gided like shadow through
The room
Pardon me, mother-I didn't think
And Regina closed the piano and went back
10 her work.
Eyes, TO forget-that is the right Of youth,
came the embittered answer, as the dark figure
vanished through the door
Regina made no reply But her glance stole
I'D again 10 the angel, as if in friendly greet
ng. Outside the reddish gold of the setting
sun illuminated the crowns Of the old trees,
from whose shadow the brooklets dashed joy
fully toward the valley below. The herd
logged slowly down the mountain paths the
tinkling Of its bells came softly through the
evening calm and the brown bodies of the cows
stood out picturesquely against the background
Of green.
Regina gazed with delight at the familiar
picture. She rejoiced too, in the stalwart fig
ures Of the men in field gray who followed the
herd--in their freshness, their firm tread and
their cheerful voices She rejoiced that, COM
ing here for after-cure and recreation. often
after cruel suffering they had found again in
the tonic air Of the Harz their old buoyancy
and strength Here in the peace Of the noun
tains they had seen their wounds heal and their
spirits recover from the shock and terror of
war Here they had won back tranquility Of
soul. and eyes in which horror had once beer
reflected could now feast freely and quietly on
natures beauty.
Regina saw all this and rejoiced in it, for
her helping hand and her friendly speech had
also had a share in the work Of recovery
Nevertheless a shadow lay on her face-s