To an end, and the musicians
Sat exhausted and yet happy
That they had so well succeeded.
Now the prelate of St. Blasien
Stepped forth bowing quite politely
To the band, and as a clever
Connoisseur and statesman spoke thus:
"Heavy wounds have been inflicted
On our land while war was raging,
And throughout our German country
Rudeness was predominating.
Therefore it deserves great praise, thus
With the Muses to take refuge.
This refreshes and ennobles,
Civilises human beings,
So that war and strife are silenced.
All these frescoes on the walls here
Show no ordinary talent;
And still more this feast of music
Makes me think well of the players
Who my ears have thus delighted,
Brought my happy youth before me,
Took me back to fair Italia,
When in Rome I listened to the
Tones of Cavalieri's Daphne,
And idyllic pastoral longing
Filled my heart to overflowing.
Therefore, my dear friends, continue
Thus to worship at Art's altar.
Let the harmony of sound keep
Far from you all strife and discord.
Oh how pleasant it would be, if
Such a spirit were but common!"
Deeply moved by these high praises
From a man of such rich knowledge,
The whole orchestra, delighted,
Bowed to him when he had finished.
Highly pleased, the Baron also
Walked around, gave hearty greetings;
And to testify his thanks--for
Words alone don't suit a Baron--
Ordered from his well-stocked cellars
A huge cask of beer brought up there.
"'Twas well done, my good musicians,
Most efficient chapel-master!
Where the devil have you picked up
All these pretty compositions?
And you, Fludribus, have also
Painted well; suits me exactly.
Other times, 'tis true, may come yet
When our goddesses must wear more
Draperies than you have painted;
But a gray old soldier does not
Blame you for a little nudeness.
Therefore, let us ring our glasses
To our noble guest's good health, and
To the excellent musicians.
Yes, for aught I care, we'll drink to
The fair shivering painted deities,
That the winter in the Rhine-land
May not prove too rigorous for them."
Margaretta thought it wiser
Now to leave the room, well knowing
That the party might get noisy.
On the threshold she gave Werner
Her fair hand with grateful feeling.
'Tis most likely that the pressure
Of the hand was full of meaning;
But no chronicle doth tell us:
Was it homage to the artist,
Or a sign of deeper interest?
Glasses rang and foaming bumpers,
And there was some heavy drinking;
But my song must keep the secret
Of the fate of late returners;
Also hide the sudden drowning
Which the hat of the lank teacher
Suffered in the Rhine that night.
But at midnight, when the last guest
For his home long since had started,
Low the chestnut trees were whispering.
Said the one: "Oh fresco paintings!"
Said the other: "Oh thou ding dong!"
Then the first: "I see the future--
See there two remorseless workmen,
See two monstrous painting-brushes,
See two buckets full of whitewash.
And they quietly daub over,
With a heavy coating, heroes,
Deities, and Fludribus.
Other ages--other pictures!"
Said the other: "In the far-off
Future I hear from the same place
Glees resounding from male voices.
Rising to our lofty summits,
Simple touching German music.
Other ages--other music!"
Both together added: "True love
Will endure throughout all ages!"
NINTH PART.
TEACHING AND LEARNING.
Winds and the swift river's current
Hardly had swept off the dulcet
Melodies of Monteverde,
When the people in the city
Held no other conversation
Than of this great feast of music.
Not, however, of the spirit
Of the melodies they'd heard then,
Neither of the deep emotion
Which was in their souls awakened,
Were they speaking; they disputed
Who received the Baron's thanks first
At the end of the performance;
Whom the Abbot had distinguished
Most that evening by his praises;
And what finally was served up
From the kitchen and the cellar.
As the tail of a dead lizard
Still, when life has long departed,
With spasmodic jerks is writhing:
So the memory of great actions
Still lives on in daily gossip.
But with thoughts above such nonsense
Margaretta took an early
Solitary walk next morning
To the honeysuckle arbour,
There to dream of last night's music,
Specially of Werner's solo,
Which still through her soul was thrilling
Like a message of sweet love.
But what saw she? In the arbour
On the little rustic table
She beheld the very trumpet.
Like the magic horn of Huon,
Wondrous mysteries containing;
Dumb, but full of deep expression,
Like a star it sparkled there.
Margaretta stood confounded
At the arbour's shady entrance:
"Came he here? And now, where is he?
Wherefore has he left his trumpet
Here so wholly unprotected?
Easily a worm might crawl in,
Or a thief might come and steal it.
Shall I take it to the castle,
Take it in my careful keeping?
No, I'll go, do nothing with it,
Should indeed have gone before."
But she tarried, for her eyes were
Held in durance by the trumpet,
Like a shad caught by the fish-hook.
"Oh, I wonder," she was thinking,
"Whether my breath would be able
From its depths a tone to waken.
Oh I much should like to know this!
No one sees what I am doing,
All around no living being.
Only my old Hiddigeigei
Licks the dew from off the box-tree;
Only insects in the sand here
Follow out their digging instinct,
And the caterpillars gently
Up and down the arbour crawl."
So the maiden shyly entered,
Shyly she took up the trumpet,
To her rosy lips she pressed it;
But with fright she well-nigh trembled
At her breath to sound transforming
In the trumpet's golden calyx.
Which the air was bearing farther,
Farther--ah, who knoweth where?
But she cannot stop the fun now,
And with sounds discordant, horrid,
Fit to rend the ears to pieces,
So disturbed the morning stillness,
That the poor cat Hiddigeigei's
Long black hair stood up like bristles,
Like the sharp quills of a hedgehog.
Raising then his paw to cover
His offended ear, he spoke thus:
"Suffer on, my valiant cat-heart,
Which so much has borne already,
Also bear this maiden's music!
We, we understand the laws well,
Which do regulate and govern
Sound, enigma of creation.
And we know the charm mysterious
Which invisibly through space floats,
And, intangible a phantom,
Penetrates our hearing organs,
And in beasts' as well as men's hearts
Wakes up love, delight and longing,
Raving madness and wild frenzy.
And yet, we must bear this insult,
That when nightly in sweet mewing
We our love-pangs are outpouring,
Men will only laugh and mock us,
And our finest compositions
Rudely brand as caterwauling.
And in spite of this we witness
That these same fault-finding beings
Can produce such horrid sounds as
Those which I have just now heard.
Are such tones not like a nosegay
Made of straw, and thorns, and nettles,
In the midst a prickly thistle?
And in presence of this maiden
Who the trumpet there is blowing,
Can a man then without blushing
E'er sneer at our caterwauling?
But, thou valiant heart, be patient!
Suffer now, the time will yet come
When this self-sufficient monster,
Man, will steal from us the true art
Of expressing all his feelings;
When the whole world in its struggle
For the highest form of culture
Will adopt our style of music.
For in history, there is justice.
She redresses every wrong."
But besides old Hiddigeigei,
Standing far down by the river
There was still another listener
To these first attempts at blowing,
Who felt anger more than pleasure.
It was Werner. He came early
With his trumpet to the garden,
Wanted to compose a song there
In that quiet morning-hour.
First, however, his dear trumpet
He laid on the rustic table.
Then stood musing by the stone-wall
Gazing at the rapid river.
"Yes, I see, your waves preserve still
Their old course and disposition,
Ever toward the ocean rushing,
As my heart for my love striveth.
Who now from the goal is farthest,
Clear green river, thou or I?"
All this train of thought was broken
By the stork from the old tower,
Who, full of a father's pride, had
Taken his young brood to ramble
On the Rhine-shore for the first time.
'Twas amusing to young Werner
How just then the old stork gravely,
On the sand with stealthy cunning,
Closely a poor eel was watching,
Who of various worms was making
There a comfortable meal.
He, however, who was wielding
O'er the little worms the strand-law,
Soon himself will serve as breakfast.
For the greater eats the lesser,
And the greatest eats the great ones.
In this simple manner nature
Solves the knotty social question.
No more did his smoothness help him,
No more his sleek body's wriggling,
No more his spasmodic beating
With his tail so strong and supple.
Tightly held in the indented
Beak of the determined parent,
He was given to the hopeful
Stork-brood, now to be divided;
And they held with noisy clatter
Solemnly their morning-feast.
Nearer to observe this, Werner
Had descended to the Rhine-bank,
And he seemed in no great hurry
To commence his composition.
There he sat himself down gently
On the insect-covered moss-bank.
Shaded by a silvery willow,
And it gave him much amusement
Thus to be a silent witness
Of this banquet of the storks.
Pleasures, yet, of all descriptions
Are but fleeting on our planet.
Even to the most contented
Doth it happen that fate often
Like a meteor bursts upon them.
Only a short time had Werner
Viewed this scene when he was startled
By the tones of his own trumpet,
Which like keen-edged Pandour daggers
Deep into his soul were cutting.
"'Tis the gardener's saucy youngster
Who my trumpet thus is blowing,"
Said young Werner, in his anger
Starting from his seat so quickly
That the storks thereby much frightened,
Fluttering upward sought the tower;
And so quickly that they even
Had no time to take the eel off.
Like a poor old torso lay he
On the sand so pitifully;
And the chronicles are silent
Whether the old father stork came
Ever back to take his booty.
Werner meanwhile to the garden
Climbed up; to the shady arbour
On the soft green sward he's walking,
That the pebbly footpath may not
By the noise betray his coming.
In the very act of sinning
Doth he wish to catch the rascal,
And to beat time to his music
On his back without relenting.
Thus he comes up to the arbour,
With his hand raised high in anger.
But, as if 'twere struck by lightning,
To his side it dropped down quickly,
And the stroke remained, like German
Unity and other projects,
Only an ideal dream.
Then beheld he Margaretta
Pressing to her lips the trumpet,
And her rosy cheeks are puffed out
Like those trumpet-blowing angels'
In the church of Fridolinus.
Up she starts now as a thief would
In the neighbour's yard detected,
And the trumpet drops abruptly
From the touch of her soft lips.
Werner covered her confusion
Through a clever maze of language;
And with ardour he commences
On the spot to teach the maiden
The first steps in trumpet-blowing
In strict order, with due method;
Shows the instrument's construction,
How to use the lips in blowing,
That true tones may be forthcoming.
Margaretta listened docile.
And before she is aware, new
Tones she finds she is awaking
From the trumpet which young Werner
With low bows had handed to her.
Easily from him she learneth
What her father's cuirassiers blew
As the call to charge in battle;
Only a few notes and simple,
But most pithy and inspiring.
Love is, there can be no question,
Of all teachers the most skilful;
And what years of earnest study
Do not conquer, he is winning
With the charm of an entreaty,
With the magic of a look.
E'en a common Flemish blacksmith
Once became through love's sweet passion
In advanced age a great painter.
Happy teacher, happy scholar,
In the honeysuckle arbour!
'Twas as if the only safety
Of the German empire rested
On this trumpet-call's performance.
But within their souls was stirring
Quite a different melody:
That sweet song, old as creation,
Of the bliss of youthful lovers;
True, a song without the words yet,
But they had divined its meaning,
And beneath a playful manner
Hid the blissful consciousness,
Startled by this trumpet-blowing
Came the Baron reconnoitring,
Tried to frown, but soon his anger
Was converted into pleasure,
When he heard his child there blowing
The old fanfar of his horsemen.
Friendly spoke he to young Werner:
"You are truly in your office
A most ardent zeal unfolding.
If you go on in this manner,
We shall see most wondrous things yet.
The old stable-door which harshly
Creaks and groans upon its hinges,
Even in the pond the bull-frogs
May perhaps change for the better,
Through your trumpet's magic charm."
Werner held, however, henceforth
His dear trumpet as a jewel,
Which the richest Basel merchant,
With the fullest bag of money,
Could not ever purchase from him;
For the lips of Margaretta
Made it sacred by their touch.
TENTH PART.
YOUNG WERNER IN THE GNOME'S CAVE.
From the Feldberg tears a raging
Foaming torrent through the forests
To the Rhine--its name is Wehra.
In the narrow valley standeth
'Midst the rocks a single fir-tree;
In the branches sat the haggard
Wicked wood-sprite Meysenhartus,
Who to-day behaved quite badly:
Showing his sharp teeth and grinning,
Tore a branch off from the fir-tree,
And kept gnawing at a pine-cone;
Clambered often quite indignant
Up and down just like a squirrel;
From the wings of a poor night-owl
Roughly plucked out several feathers;
And while mocking the old fir-tree
Rocked himself upon its summit.
"High old fir-tree, green old fir-tree!
I with thee would ne'er my lot change.
Firmly rooted must thou stand there,
And take everything that happens;
Never canst thou quit thy station.
And if ever Fate ordaineth.
Thou to far-off lands shalt wander,
Men have first to come with axes;
With hard strokes they hack and cut thee,
Deep into thy flesh, till falling;
And then strip unmercifully
All thy skin from off thy body;
Throw thee next into the Rhine, and
Make thee swim as far as Holland.
And if e'er they pay the honour
On a frigate to erect thee
As a proud and stately mast, still
Thou art but a smooth-skinned fir-tree,
Without roots there lonely standing;
And thou yearnest on the ocean
For thy old home in the forest,
Till at last a flash of lightning
Mast and ship and all destroyeth.
High old fir-tree, green old fir-tree!
I with thee would ne'er my lot change!"
Said the fir-tree: "Everybody
Must accept the sphere he's born in,
And fulfil his duties fully.
So we think here in the forest;
And 'tis well so, at least better
Than to hop will-o'-the-wisp like,
Playing pranks and doing mischief,
Men and cattle oft misleading,
And the stupid wanderer's curses
As reward home with thee taking.
Anyhow, no one cares for thee.
For, at best, a peasant sayeth,
Devil take this Meysenhartus!
But they're others who write volumes
Proving thou hast no existence;
That to lose one's way at night-time
Comes from fogs and drunken frolics.
Oh the spirit-shares stand badly!
On the highway I would rather
As a paving-stone be lying,
Than to be a third-class spirit,
Like the wood-sprite Meysenhartus."
Said the spirit: "Thou knowest nothing
Of all this, my noble fir-tree.
Meysenhartus and his brothers
O'er the globe rule powerfully;
Everywhere throughout creation
Are wrong tracks, and also people
Who upon these same paths wander.
And whenever, gay or mournful,
Someone goes upon a wrong track,
He has been by us deluded.
Let them doubt if there are spirits;
Still they are in our dominion.
And to-day you'll see me leading
Someone far astray to show him
That the spirits are in numbers."
From the hill came Master Werner.
Deeply musing o'er his love-dream
He had wandered through the forest,
And as far as man is happy
Here below, he was; and buoyant
Hope and joy his heart were filling.
Many burning thoughts were passing
Through his brain, as if they shortly
Into love-songs might be growing,
Just as caterpillars later
Into butterflies develop.
Homeward now he would be turning;
But the wood-sprite Meysenhartus
Hid with dust the right path from him,
And young Werner, absent-minded,
'Stead of river-ward went inland.
Now again the wood-sprite grinning
Clambered to the fir-tree's summit,
Rocking gaily in the branches.
"He is caught!" so said he, mocking.
Werner paying no attention,
Went up through the Hasel valley,
Till he came to a steep mountain,
To a corner cool and shady.
Holly, sloe, and climbing ivy
Grew around the rocks luxuriant,
While near by a clear spring rippled.
Through the bushes stepped young Werner
To refresh himself by drinking.
Strongly tangled was the brushwood,
And upon it he trod firmly.
Then upon his ear broke squeaking
Wailing tones, as from a mole which
At his subterranean labour
Caught in traps and now detected,
Roughly is jerked up to daylight.
From the grass rose something crackling;
Lo, there stood a gray-clad pygmy,
Hardly three feet high, and hunchbacked;
But his face was clear and gentle,
And his odd small eyes looked clever.
Gracefully he let the long ends
Of his garment on the ground trail,
And said, limping: "Sir, you have been
Treading on my foot most rudely."
Said young Werner: "I am sorry."
Now the pygmy: "And what business
Have you in our vale at all?"
Said young Werner: "I by no means
Wish to seek for the acquaintance
Of such injudicious pygmies,
Who like grasshoppers are skipping,
And are asking silly questions."
Said the pygmy: "Thus ye all speak,
All ye rude and clumsy mortals;
Ever with your big feet tramping
Till the ground beneath you trembles.
And yet you are only clinging
To the surface like the chafers
Which are nestling in the tree-bark;
Thinking that you rule creation,
But entirely ignoring
All those spirits which, though silent,
On the heights, in depths, are working.
Oh ye rude and clumsy mortals!
Shut up proudly in your houses,
You are groaning with hard labour.
In the hot-house of your noddles
Are some plants called art and science,
And you even brag of such weeds.
By the lime-spar and rock-crystal!
You have much to learn, I tell you,
Ere the truth you will see dawning!"
Said young Werner: "It is lucky
That to-day I feel so peaceful,
Else I should have taken pleasure
By your long gray beard to hang you
On the holly bushes yonder!
But my heart to-day is glowing
With the sunshine of my love-dreams,
Which you with your spars and crystals
Never can be comprehending.
Oh, to-day I could embrace all,
And be kind to everybody.
Say then who you are, and whether
I can be of any service."
Then the dwarf said: "This sounds better.
To your questions I will answer.
To the race of gnomes belong I,
Who in crevices are living;
Down in subterranean caverns,
Watch there gold and silver treasures,
Grind and polish bright the crystals,
Carry coals to the eternal
Fire in the earth's deep centre;
And we heat there well. Without us
You here would have long since frozen.
From Vesuvius and Mount Etna
You can see our furnace smoking.
E'en for you ungrateful mortals,
Though unseen, we're ever working;
And sweet lullabies are singing
In the mountains to your rivers,
That no harm they may be doing;
Keep the crumbling rocks from falling,
Chain the ice up in the glaciers;
Boil for you the pungent rock-salt,
Also mix much healing matter
With the springs from which you're drinking.
Never ceasing, and enormous
Is the gray gnomes' daily labour
In the bowels of the earth.
Formerly they used to know us;
Wise and clever men and women,
Grave old priests descended to us
In the depths, where to our labour
They oft listened, and they spoke thus:
"In the caves the gods are dwelling."
But you have become estranged since;
Still, we willingly will open
To your gaze our hidden treasures;
And we hold in great affection
All the travelling German scholars;
For their hearts are kind and generous,
And they see much more than others.
You seem also one, so follow!
Here my cave is, in this valley;
If you can but stoop a little,
I will show you where to enter."
Said young Werner: "I am ready."
Thereupon the little pygmy
From the rock pushed back some brushwood,
When appeared a small low passage.
"Light is needed here for mortals,"
Said the gnome, who now was rubbing
Two hard flints, and soon had lighted
By the sparks a piece of pine-wood.
With this torch he went ahead then;
Werner followed, often stooping,
Often even well-nigh creeping,
For the rocks were nearly meeting.
Soon, however, widely opened
At the passage end a cavern
Of gigantic height and grandeur.
Slender columns there supported
Lofty arches of the ceiling;
From the walls the gray stalactites
Hung in various patterns twining,
Marvellous, yet graceful textures;
Some like tears which from the walls dropped,
Others like the richly twisted
Branches of gigantic corals.
An unearthly bluish colour
All throughout the space was glowing,
Mingled with the glaring torch-light
From the sharp-edged stones reflected.
From the depths a rushing sound rose
As from distant mountain-streams.
Werner gazed at all this splendour,
Felt as in a dream transported
To some strange and lofty temple,
And his heart was filled with awe.
"My young friend," now said the pygmy,
"Tell me, pray, what are you thinking
Of the gnome's secluded dwelling?
This is but a place for work-days.
Fairer ones far in the North lie,
Also in the Alpine caverns;
But Italia owns the fairest,
On the rocky shore of Capri,
In the Mediterranean Sea.
O'er the sea's blue waters rise up
The stalactites' lofty arches,
And the waves in the dark cavern
With blue magic light are gleaming,
And the tide protects the entrance.
The Italian gnomes there often
Bathe and frolic with the daughters
Of old Nereus, the sea-god,
And the sailor shuns the grotto.
But perhaps in later ages
May a sunday-child look in there,
Like thyself a travelling minstrel,
Or a merry-hearted artist.
But now, come, we must go farther!"
Downward stepped he with the torch-light
Ever farther, Werner saw how
Huge chaotic rocky masses
Lay in heaps of wild confusion,
Over which was rushing foaming,
To the bottomless abyss, a river.
Over steep and high rocks clambering,
They now entered a new passage.
It looked home-like, a large square-room,
Of high rocky walls constructed,
Fitted for a hermitage;
Round about stood slender columns.
Ever dropping from the ceiling
And through centuries increasing
Had stalactites slowly formed them;
And some others stood half finished
In the process of formation.
Now the gnome knocked on the columns,
And mysterious solemn tones rang
Out in deep harmonious rhythm.
"They are tuned," he said, "according
To the harmony of the spheres."
In this room a rock was lying.
Smooth and round, just like a table;
And there motionless and silent
Sat a man--looked as if sleeping,
Leaned his head upon his right hand.
Stony were his lordly features,
And the flame of life no longer
Played o'er them; and doubtless many
Tears had his sad eyes been shedding.
Petrified they now were hanging
In his beard and from his robes.
Werner gazed at him with terror
And he asked: "Is this a statue,
Or a man of flesh and blood?"