Dinner was served in a cool, shady room which looked out upon a
somewhat bald and very sunny garden, and the conversation soon became
quite animated. Oswald's residence at Grunwald was an inexhaustible
theme. His hostess was a native of that city, one of the many daughters
of a higher church dignitary there, who had just lived long enough to
procure for his son-in-law the best cure in the diocese. She was very
proud of her Doctor of Divinity, for the minister had actually obtained
that academic honor by a most erudite dissertation on the writings
which an obscure father of the church, of whom literally nothing was
known beyond the name, might possibly have left behind him. But Oswald
could not help noticing that he had certainly not been caught by her
personal attractions, and no longer wondered why the table was so small
and the house so quiet. The good lady also knew Professor Berger, and
some other families with whom Oswald had become acquainted. Thus they
could enjoy a delightful dish of gossip with each other, and Oswald
understood what devastation the double-edged sword of his hostess must,
in her time, have caused in a small town like Grunwald.
In the mean time the dessert had been put upon the table, and the
minister had opened a second bottle with a certain solemnity; the lady
had left them, and ordered coffee to be served in a garden-house. The
minister had lighted a cigar, unbuttoned his black satin waistcoat
half-way, and seemed to be determined to indulge himself in the
illusion that he had enjoyed a sybaritic feast. He summoned Oswald to
drink with him to the health of that most illustrious family with whom
he had the good fortune to reside, a compliment which Oswald returned
by offering a toast to his amiable, learned, and yet modest hostess.
"Many thanks, many thanks, my dear young friend," said the flattered
minister, pressing Oswald's hand over and over again. "Yes, you are
right, a learned, modest woman. Have you noticed that she corresponds
with more than one of our greatest literary men, and that she
contributes under the name of Primula to some of our magazines?"
"Is it possible?" said Oswald
"I assure you it is so, my dear friend, and you may imagine what
pleasure it gives me to read in the 'Correspondence' of the paper:
'Fashwitz, Primula Veris (that is Gustava's cipher), a thousand thanks
for your amiable letter;' or, 'You have given us great pleasure by
sending us your admirable poem; it will appear in the next number,'
etc."
"I can well imagine," replied Oswald, in an absent manner. "But had we
not better follow our charming hostess into the garden?"
"_Festina lente_," cried the minister, upon whom the wine began to tell
a little. "We shall not meet again as young as we are now. A good glass
of wine is a thing not to be treated lightly, and Gustava is too
generous to shorten our enjoyment. But the Bible tells us, that of
every good thing there are three; so let us have a third bottle." ...
"But, Jager, the coffee is getting cold," cried the piercing voice of
Primula Veris from the garden through the open window.
"We are coming, we are coming," replied the obedient husband. "I give
thanks for you and me, my dear young friend"--and with these words he
embraced Oswald; "my dear friend"--another embrace--"and----"
"But we forget that coffee is waiting for us," said Oswald, barely
escaping a third embrace and making his way to the garden, while the
minister, before following his guest, quickly poured the last contents
of the bottle into a glass and emptied it in a hurry, probably giving
thanks only for himself this time.
The garden was not exactly the most pleasant place in the world at that
hour of the day. The plantations were quite young yet; the small trees
scarcely as high as a man, and the garden appeared, therefore, most
prosaic and bare, affording no shadow anywhere. Oswald could not help
comparing it to the theology of his reverend host, even with regard to
the eminent place given here also to the practically useful. For the
vegetables were flourishing, while flowers were few and far between; a
few sun-flowers alone recalled the appearance of Primula Veris, and by
their tendency to turn always towards the sun, in whatever part of the
heavens it might stand, the practical philosophy of her illustrious
husband.
Fortunately, the bower in which coffee was served was thickly overgrown
with jessamine and afforded a welcome shelter against the sun, whose
rays were burning fiercely. Here they found the minister's wife, with a
work-basket by her side, in which Oswald discovered, with some
anticipation of evil, a small volume amid a host of sewing materials.
"Woe is me," he said to himself, "if that be a collection of Primula's
poems, taken from the magazines to which she contributes!"
He tried to interest the minister in his vegetables; he insisted upon
examining himself the great improvements which his host had made in
beehives; at last he spoke of the necessity which forced him to take
his leave at once--in fine, he did all that a man in his critical
situation can do, but all in vain!
"We could not think of letting you go in this heat," said Primula,
letting her hand gently glide into the work-basket, a movement which
did not escape Oswald. "We are not overshadowed here by the tall
pine-tree or the white poplar, but at least we are in the shade, and
you surely would not exchange that for the heat and dust of the
highroad? Out of question! Another cup, my honored guest? This is not
Falernian, as the great Roman calls it in the ode from which I quoted
just now, but a beverage which has become somewhat classic in its turn,
since our great Voss has sung 'its praises in his noble verses.' Tell
me, dear sir, has not the sojourn under our lowly roof reminded you of
certain parts of his lovely idyl? Have you not felt with me, that here,
far from the turmoil of the markets of men, the voice of poetry is
heard speaking to us distinctly?"
"Now the terrible event is approaching!" thought Oswald.
"I admire your gift," he said, "to bind so sweetly old and new things,
reality and poetry, into a common wreath, full of fragrance. I myself
have unfortunately of late come in contact with the prose of daily life
alone; and, I confess it with reluctance, I have done the thing I
formerly considered impossible, and reconciled myself with it, although
of course I have had to pay a penalty by losing all taste for the
charms of poetry."
"Oh, you must not think so," exclaimed Primula. "The well of poetry may
at times pour forth less abundant waters, but it never dries up
entirely. You accuse yourself of being no longer susceptible to the
charms of poetry. That--here she put her hand openly upon the little
volume in black and gold--that ought perhaps to deter me from my
purpose to read to you a few of those poems which you may have noticed,
under the pseudonym of Primula Veris, in several of our prominent
magazines. But my faith in the power of poetry, and especially of the
latent poetry of the heart, is too great to allow my being convinced of
the contrary by your self-condemnation. May I venture the attempt to
put the correctness of my views to the test?"
"How have I deserved such very great kindness?" murmured Oswald,
leaning back in full resignation, and closing the eyes in a manner
which fortunately is common to persons who are half asleep as well as
to those who are in ecstasy.
"I have given the title of Cornflowers to my little work," said
Primula, turning over the leaves in sweet bashfulness, "because most of
my poems have bloomed forth while I was walking through waving
wheatfields, and at all events amid rural surroundings."
"How clever!" breathed Oswald.
"Following the rules of the masters of our art, and imitating the
example of the Greeks, who placed a tragedy before a comedy, or rather,
who made the comedy always succeed the tragedy, I shall read you first
a serious, then a comic, then again...."
"Certainly, certainly; that will much enhance the charm of each poem,"
said Oswald, frightened at the endless perspective.
"Would you not rather, dearest Gustava----" said the minister.
"Let me have my choice," replied the poetess, in a soft but decisive
tone, and then, clearing her throat--
"On a Dead Mole."
"On what?" cried Oswald, starting up with amazement.
"Well, you see, dear friend," said Primula, "how the mere title already
electrifies you."
"Yes, indeed!" murmured Oswald, sinking back in his corner.
"On a Dead Mole," repeated the poetess, "which I found by the
wayside:--
"How do you lie so quiet there
With black and shining skin!
Your fate, alas! I cannot bear,
Poor fellow, black as sin!
They scorned you, they scoffed at you,
They said that you were blind!
They surely were but people who
Are of the same blind kind.
You do not show your face by day,
Like those to whom the world is dear;
Yet light shone on your honest way,
And in your heart 'twas clear!
And to the stars on God's own sky,
High in the heaven's dome,
You looked from your own hill on sly,
You little learned gnome.
You lived so quiet, harmless, still,
In honor and in truth below!
You did not steal, you did not kill,
Alas! and now you're lying low!
Now do you lie so quiet there
With black and shining skin!
Your fate, alas! I cannot bear,
Poor fellow, black as sin!"
"That is beautiful," said Oswald. "That is genuine lyric poetry, such
as we find but rarely in our day. Not the hot-house poetry, which
begins with reminiscences of Heine, strikes then a few of Lenau's
accords, and ends with a blast after Freiligrath's manner. What deep
genuine feeling there is in these stanzas! and yet such energy of
language. A fellow dark as sin, that is simple but beautiful; that you
have learnt from Goethe."
"You are really too kind, dear friend," said Primula, highly pleased.
"Indeed you make me blush by your liberal praise. But, pray be candid,
and tell me if you do not think that the whole is, after all, a little
too idealistic for our modern taste?"
"Perhaps for our realists, who certainly go too far in their demands,
and whose desire to make everything perfectly natural will probably
lead them ere long, when Faust is played, to bring a real poodle on the
stage, and to make him howl and yell by pinching his tail. But I am
sure you could satisfy even those gentlemen if you wished to do so."
"What do you think of this poem?" asked the poetess, "On my Rooster?"
Oswald leant back in his corner.
"Like Richard Duke of Normandy
My hero fought most bravely,
All trembled when they heard his crow:
Cockadoodledoo!"
"That is naive!" said Oswald.
"Is it not?" said Primula.
"He never stirred late at night
But in the morning early bright
The cattle woke, when they heard his crow:
Cockadoodledoo!
"He spared no pains for his lady love,
For her he scratched below, above,
She heard with ecstasy his crow:
Cockadoodledoo!
"Of genius boasts my hero not,
And poetry did not fall to his lot,
Yet do I love indeed his crow:
Cockadoodledoo!"
"Well, what do you say, dear friend?"
"What can I say," replied Oswald, "except that you have fully
accomplished your purpose. The hearer imagines he is in the
poultry-yard. The notes you strike are the very notes of nature; they
come from the heart of things. The poem is a little gem of the
realistic school of our day. But now, gifted lady, one more request:
However much it may enhance the value of a poem to hear it from the
eloquent lips of the poetess herself--I should not like the impression
which the last stanzas have produced to be effaced by another poem;
whatever else there may be in store for me, this is your highest
triumph."
"Only one more you must allow me to read. It forms, so to speak, a
trilogy with the other two, a summary of all that I have learnt by
close study of nature. May I begin?"
"I pray you will."
"To A Maybug lying on his Back."
"Oh thou Bacchante of a merry night of May!
Hast thou indulged in nectar of the flowers,
Hast thou enjoyed the fragrance of the bowers,
From evening until early break of day?
Hast thou forgotten, ah! that life is short?
That all below is destined for the silent grave,
Where lies the beauty now and all the brave,
The far renowned, the great of ev'ry sort?
I read with awe thy sad and solemn mien,
Where doubtful rhymes alone are written.
Alas! thy life was but an idle, glist'ning sheen,
By those thou lovedst thou art smitten,
Thou bug of May, thou image of false love!"
The fair reader ended. Oswald appeared to be plunged in silent delight;
Primula sat expectant, when suddenly the rolling of a carriage was
heard, which soon after stopped at the house.
"Oh mistress, oh mistress!" cried the parlor-maid, in a tone of great
anxiety.
Oswald felt relieved. Here was a visitor, and the reading, he hoped,
was brought to an end. Perhaps this even gave him an opportunity to end
his visit.
"It is the Pluggens family, dear Gustava," said the minister, who had
reconnoitred the new arrival through the garden-hedge. "The lady
herself, and her two daughters. Could you make a little haste." ...
"Excuse me, my dearest friend," said the poetess, hurriedly closing
the book; "but you know: as often as we attempt to take a bolder
flight----"
"Oh mistress, oh mistress!" cried the voice with increasing anxiety
from the garden-gate.
"I am coming," replied the poetess, in great perturbation, and hastened
on the sunny walk toward the house.
"Shall we not too----" suggested the minister.
"Excuse me, I pray, but I shall have to go," said Oswald, interrupting
him.
"But why, my dear sir? The lady is a most excellent person, and the
daughters, although not very beautiful----"
"And were they as fair as angels, I should have to deny myself the
pleasure of seeing them. Good-by! Good-by! Pray make my excuses to Mrs.
Jager. That gate there is open, is it not? _Au revoir._"
And so Oswald hurried towards the gate. The minister had far too good
an opinion of himself and his Primula to ascribe the "dear friend's"
precipitate flight to any other reason than his shyness and his
reluctance to meet this high and noble family, to whom he was unknown.
Oswald, in the mean time, made his way down the village street and out
into the open fields, and did not relax his steps until he was safe
under the fine old trees behind which, as he knew, was hid the estate
of Melitta.