The years from 1830 to 1848 were distinctively revolutionary years in

Germany, which until then had remained strongly conservative. The spirit

of political and social reformation, which had caused the great upheaval

of the French Revolution late in the eighteenth century, had made itself

felt much more slowly across the Rhine. Even the generous enthusiasm

that animated the German people in the War of Liberation against

Napoleon in 1813 had ebbed away into disappointment and lethargy when

the German princes forgot their pledges of internal reform. The policy

of the German and Austrian rulers was dominated by the reactionary

Austrian Prime Minister, Prince Metternich, a consistent champion of

aristocratic ideas and of the "divine right of Kings." The "Revolution

of July," 1830, however, which overthrew the Bourbon dynasty in France,

had its counterpart in popular movements that forced the granting of

constitutions or other liberal concessions in several German states;

and, though the policy of Metternich still remained dominant, the

liberal sentiment grew in power until the February revolution of 1848 in

Paris inspired similar upheavals in all Germany. Metternich himself was

now compelled to retire, Frederick William IV. of Prussia granted his

people a constitution, and the other German states seethed with revolt;

but the great liberal plan to unify Germany under the leadership of

Prussia was nullified by Frederick William's refusal to accept the

imperial crown from a democratic assembly.

The lyric poetry of Germany in these years inevitably reflected the

liberal sentiment of the time; it is always the radical emotion of any

revolutionary period that finds the most effective lyric expression, the

conservative state of mind being more characteristically prosaic. For

the group of ardent spirits who made themselves the heralds of the new

day, one of their number, the novelist and dramatist Karl Gutzkow, found

the name "Young Germany." Just as the "Storm and Stress" of 1770 to

1780, and the Romantic movement of the opening nineteenth century,

represented a spirit of sharp revolt against the then dominant

pseudo-classicism and rationalism, so "Young Germany" reacted

passionately against the moonlight sentimentality of the popular

romantic poets, as well as against the stupid political conservatism of

the time. The aim of the Young Germans was to bring literature down from

the clouds into vital contact with the immediate problems of the day.

Thus there was developed a body of literature strongly polemic in

purpose, quite hostile to the ideals of detachment and disinterested

worship of beauty that Goethe and Schiller in their classical period had

preached and practised. This literature took the form of fiction, drama,

and journalism, as well as of poetry. Indeed, the only important lyric

poet of the Young German group was HEINRICH HEINE (1797-1856), who had

begun his career with the most intimate poetry of personal confession,

in which the simplicity of the folk-song and the nature-feeling of the

romanticist are strongly tinged with wit and cynicism. Heine's

impatience with German conditions led him to expatriate himself, and

from his retreat in Paris to aim venomous shafts of satire at his native

land, with its "three dozen masters" and its philistine conservative

nightcaps and dumplings. This brilliant poet, with his marvelous mastery

of German lyric tones, expressed a wide range of poetic inspiration; but

he loved particularly to conceive of himself as an apostle of liberty,

an outpost of the revolutionary army, and none so well as he could tip

the barb with biting sarcasm and satire. Heine's personality was full

of seemingly inconsistent traits. He was both fanciful and rational,

serious and flippant, tender and cynical, reverent and impious; and he

could be at once a patriot and an alien. He was, to use his own phrase,

an "unfrocked romanticist"--at once a brilliant representative of the

poetry of self-expression and personal caprice, and an exemplar and

prophet of a new ideal, the "holy alliance of poetry with the cause of

the nations."

The different attitudes of thoughtful men toward the influences of the

time were variously reflected in the work of three leading poets, all

older than Heine, who contributed largely to the lyric output of the

period. ADELBERT VON CHAMISSO (1781-1835), of aristocratic French

descent, and using all the familiar romantic forms and motives, was yet

thoroughly democratic and prophetically modern in his unalloyed sympathy

with the impoverished victims of the social order. It was something new

for German poetry to find inspiration in the wrath of a beggar who

cannot pay his dog-tax, the sardonic piety of an old widow reduced to

penury by the exactions of the "gracious prince," or the laborious

resignation of an aged washerwoman.--The Silesian nobleman JOSEPH VON

EICHENDORFF (1788-1857), Prussian officer and civil official, was a

consistent conservative in his political attitude, a pious Catholic, and

a romanticist in every fibre of his poetic soul. His lyrics are the

purest echoes of folk-song and folk-lore, and the simplicity and

genuineness of his art give an undying charm to his songs of idyllic

meadows and woodlands, post-chaises, carefree wanderers, and lovely

maidens in picturesque settings; all suffused with gentle yearning and

melting into soft melody. Eichendorff's patriotism was of the

traditional type, echoing faintly the battle-hymns of the War of

Liberation. For the great liberal movement of the thirties and forties

he had neither sympathy nor comprehension.--FRIEDRICH RÜCKERT

(1788-1866), endowed with a fatal facility of lyric expression, a

virtuoso for whom no _tour-de-force_ was too difficult, lived most of

his life aloof from the political and social movements of his time. In

his youth his _Sonnets in Armor_ had done sturdy service in the national

awakening against Napoleon, but his maturer years were devoted to

domestic and academic interests. Every impression of his life, whether

deep or fleeting, was material for a poem or a cycle. He handled with

consummate skill the odd or complicated metres of eastern and southern

lyric forms, and he was most versatile as a translator of foreign

poetry, ancient and modern, occidental and oriental. His unusual formal

talent and mastery of language were a constant temptation to rapid and

superficial versifying; but there are in the vast mass of his production

many genuine poems of great beauty.

Two other poets of quite distinctive quality stood aloof from the

political interests of the time. The talented Westphalian Catholic

poetess ANNETTE VON DROSTE-HÜLSHOFF (1797-1848) has a place apart in her

generation, not only for the fine religious poems of her _Christian

Year_ (similar in plan to Keble's cycle), but also for her nature-lyrics

and songs of common life, which are marked by minute realistic detail

and refreshing originality of observation and sentiment. This pious

gentlewoman, usually so maidenly in her reserve, nevertheless expressed

something of the spirit of emancipation in her quiet protest against the

narrow conventional limits of the feminine life. But she would have

recoiled with horror from the reckless propaganda for sex-freedom that

was a part of the Young German campaign, as she also repudiated the

violence of the revolutionists of 1848.--If there is something masculine

in Fräulein von Droste's firm and plastic touch, there is something

almost feminine in the finely-chiseled lyrics of the Protestant pastor

EDUARD MÖRIKE (1804-1875), whose _Poems_ appeared in the same year

(1838), and blended the folk-song simplicity and melody of an

Eichendorff with the classical form-sense of a Keats. This Suabian

country vicar, the youngest member of the group about Uhland, lived in

the utmost serenity amid the troubles of revolutionary agitation,

devoted to his art, turning the common experiences of every day into

forms of beauty, or reviving with charming naïveté the romantic figures

of medieval poetry.

We emerge completely from the quietude and piety of these individualists

when we come to a group of men who were distinctively political poets.

Here we find the direct lyric expression of the revolutionary movement.

The first in the field was ANASTASIUS GRÜN (the pen-name of Count Anton

von Auersperg, 1806-1876). This Austrian nobleman boldly attacked the

reactionary policy of Metternich in his _Saunterings of a Viennese Poet_

(1831); with biting irony he pictures the fate of the Greek patriot

Hypsilantes, broken in health by the "hospitality" of Austrian

prison-fortresses, or describes the all-powerful minister-of-state

enjoying his social triumphs in the palace ball-room, while Austria

stands outside the gate vainly pleading for liberty. In another

collection entitled _Debris_ (1836) there are whole-hearted protests

against the political martyrdom of the best patriots, and the oppressive

despotism under which Italy groaned, with which Grün contrasts the

blessings of liberty in America.

Anastasius Grün was the forerunner. The period of the real dominance of

political poetry began with 1840, when a petty official in a Rhenish

village, Nikolaus Becker, electrified Germany with a martial poem, _The

German Rhine_, inspired by French threats of war with Prussia and of the

conquest of the Rhine territory. The same events inspired Max

Schneckenburger's _Wacht am Rhein_, which at the time could not compete

in popularity with Becker's poem, but in later years has quite

supplanted it as a permanent national song. German officialdom, which

had looked askance at all political poetry, easily saw the value to the

national defense of such patriotic strains, and now encouraged these

national singers with gifts and honors. But political poetry could not

be kept within officially recognized bounds. Inevitably it became

partisan and revolutionary in character. HEINRICH HOFFMANN (who styled

himself VON FALLERS-LEBEN after his birthplace; 1798-1874), one of the

most prolific lyric poets of Germany, had the knack of expressing the

common feeling in poems that became genuine national songs; the most

famous of these, _Deutschland, Deutschland über alles_ (1841), is still

sung wherever those who love Germany congregate. But from this

expression of the common German tradition Hoffmann went on to espouse

the liberal cause, and he had his taste of martyrdom when he lost his

professorship at Breslau because of his ironical _Unpolitical Songs_

(1840-42). Hoffmann was essentially an improviser, and sang only too

copiously in all the tones and fashions of German verse.

FERDINAND FREILIGRATH (1810-1876) gained immediate fame with the

brilliant color and tropical exuberance of his early oriental lyrics, of

which the much-declaimed _Lion's Ride_ is an excellent example. But

Freiligrath's strongest work was in the field of political poetry. He,

too, made sacrifices for the faith that was in him; he gave up a royal

pension and twice went into voluntary exile in order to be free to

express his liberal sentiments. He began, indeed, with the denial of any

partisan bias; but when the Revolution of 1848 broke, no other poet

found more daring and eloquent words for the spirit of revolt and of

democratic enthusiasm than Freiligrath. And when the war of 1870 again

brought new hope of German unity, Freiligrath sang in stirring measures

this national awakening.

GEORG HERWEGH (1817-1875), also driven into exile by his opposition to

the government, created a sensation with his _Poems of the Living_

(1841), which in ringing refrains incited to revolutionary action. But

when the deed followed the word, and Herwegh led an invading column of

laborers into Baden in 1848, he lacked the courage of the martyr and

fled from the peril of death. _GOTTFRIED KINKEL_ (1815-1882) also took

part in the insurrection in Baden, was captured, and condemned to life

imprisonment, but escaped with the aid of Carl Schurz in 1850. FRANZ

DINGELSTEDT (1814-1881), on the other hand, found his sarcastic _Songs

of a Political Night-Watchman_ (1842) no bar to appointment as director

of the theatres of Munich, Weimar and Vienna.

While the poets of the revolution were busily at work, the conservatives

were not altogether voiceless; nor were the notes of the romantic lyric

silenced. Indeed, men like Hoffmann, Herwegh, and Kinkel could not deny

the strong influence of the romantic motives and tones upon much of

their best poetry. One lyrist greater than any of them was dominated by

the romantic tradition--an Austrian nobleman of mingled German, Slavonic

and Hungarian blood, NIKOLAUS LENAU (the pen-name of Nikolaus Franz

Niembsch Edler von Strehlenau, 1802-1850). A gifted musician, Lenau was

also a master of the melody of words, and his nature-feeling was

unusually deep and true. Abnormally proud, self-centred and sensitive as

he was, Lenau was born to unhappiness and disillusionment; his journey

to America, begun with the most generous anticipations, ended in

homesickness and bitter disappointment. Before he had reached middle

life, his genius went out in the darkness of insanity. The picturesque

and the tragic fascinated Lenau; he could sing with genuine sympathy the

fate of dismembered Poland, or the lawless freedom of Hungarian rebels

and gipsies; but for the great political movements of the day he had

little regard. In the melodious interpretation of nature in sad and

quiet moods he had no rival.

Very different was the wholesome and chivalrous nature of the young

Moravian Count MORITZ VON STRACHWITZ (1822-1847), whose ballads are

unmatched in German literature for spirit and fire. Strachwitz despised

the democratic agitation of the revolutionists, and sang with fine

enthusiasm the coming of the strong man, who, after all the intrigues of

the demagogues, like another Alexander should cut the Gordian knot with

the sword.

With EMANUEL GEIBEL (1815-1884) we come to the voice of fair compromise

between the extremes. Geibel was a conservative liberal, honestly

patriotic without partisanship. Thus his _Twelve Sonnets for

Schleswig-Holstein_ (1846) were broadly German in inspiration, and his

love of liberty was matched by his aristocratic hatred of the mob.

Geibel succeeded in once more gaining the widest popularity, in days

filled with partisan clamor, for the pure lyric of romantic inspiration.

He was in a true sense the poet-laureate of his generation. Lacking in

real originality, he was yet sincere in the expression of his emotion,

and his faultless form clothed the utterance of a soul of rare purity

and nobility.

As in the days after the War of Liberation, so in the years following

the revolutionary movements of 1848, the generous hopes of the people

seemed doomed to perish in weariness and disappointment, and the voice

of democratic poetry was silenced. In the reaction that followed the

intoxication of liberal enthusiasm, with the failure of the attempt to

unify Germany under Prussian leadership, the German lands relapsed into

dull acquiescence in the old regime. But the seed of the new day had

been sown, and the harvest came in due time. Strachwitz's intuition was

justified; the strong man did appear, in the person of Bismarck, and the

"Gordian knot" was cut with the sword of the war of 1870. But the

liberal dream of 1848 was realized, also, in the creation of a unified

and powerful German Empire on a constitutional basis.

* * * * *

[Illustration: ANASTASIUS GRÜN]

ANASTASIUS GRÜN

A SALON SCENE[14] (1831)

Evening: In the festive halls the light of many candles gleams,

Shedding from the mirrors' crystal thousand-fold reflected beams.

In the sea of light are gliding, with a stately, solemn air,

Honored, venerable matrons, ladies young and very fair.

And among them wander slowly, clad in festive garments grand,

Here the valiant sons of battle, there the rulers of the land.

But on one that I see moving every eye is fixed with fear--

Few indeed among the chosen have the courage to draw near.

He it is by whose firm guidance Austrians' fortunes rise or sink,

He who in the Princes' Congress for them all must act and think.

But behold him now! How gracious, courteous, gentle he's to all,

And how modest, unassuming, and how kind to great and small!

In the light his orders sparkle with a faint and careless grace,

But a friendly, gentle smile is always playing on his face

When he plucks the ruddy rose leaves that some rounded bosom wears,

Or when, like to withered blossoms, kingdoms he asunder tears.

Equally enchanting is it, when he praises golden curls,

Or when, from anointed heads, the royal crowns away he hurls.

Yes, methinks 'tis heavenly rapture, which delights the happy man

Whom his words to Elba's fastness or to Munkacs' prison ban.

Could all Europe now but see him, so engaging, so gallant,

How the ladies, young and old, his winning smiles delight, enchant;

How the church's pious clergy, and the doughty men of war,

And the state's distinguished servants by his grace enraptured are.

Man of state and man of counsel, since you're in a mood so kind,

Since you're showing to all present such a gracious frame of mind,

See, without, a needy client standing waiting at your door

Whom the slightest sign of favor will make happy evermore.

And you do not need to fear him; he's intelligent and fair;

Hidden 'neath his homely garments, knife nor dagger does he wear.

'Tis the Austrian people, open, honest, courteous as can be.

See, they're pleading: "May we ask you for the freedom to be free?"

* * * * *

[Illustration: NICOLAUS LENAU]

NIKOLAUS LENAU

PRAYER[15] (1832)

Eye of darkness, dim dominioned,

Stay, enchant me with thy might,

Earnest, gentle, dreamy-pinioned,

Sweet, unfathomable night.

With magician's mantle cover

All this day-world from my sight,

That for aye thy form may hover

O'er my being, lovely night.

* * * * *

SEDGE SONGS[16] (1832)

I

In the west the sun departing

Leaves the weary day asleep,

And the willows trail their streamers

In these waters still and deep.

Flow, my bitter tears, flow ever;

All I love I leave behind;

Sadly whisper here the willows,

And the reed shakes in the wind.

Into my deep lonely sufferings

Tenderly you shine afar,

As athwart these reeds and rushes

Trembles soft yon evening star.

II

Oft at eve I love to saunter

Where the sedge sighs drearily,

By entangled hidden footpaths,

Love! and then I think of thee.

When the woods gloom dark and darker,

Sedges in the night-wind moan,

Then a faint mysterious wailing

Bids me weep, still weep alone.

And methinks I hear it wafted,

Thy sweet voice, remote yet clear,

Till thy song, descending slowly,

Sinks into the silent mere.

III

Angry sunset sky,

Thunder-clouds o'erhead,

Every breeze doth fly,

Sultry air and dead.

From the lurid storm

Pallid lightnings break,

Their swift transient form

Flashes through the lake.

And I seem to see

Thyself, wondrous nigh--

Streaming wild and free

Thy long tresses fly.

* * * * *

[Illustration: EVENING ON THE SHORE HANS AM ENDE]

SONGS BY THE LAKE[17] (1832)

I

In the sky the sun is failing,

And the weary day would sleep,

Here the willow fronds are trailing

In the water still and deep.

From my darling I must sever:

Stream, oh tears, stream forth amain!

In the breeze the rushes quiver

And the willow sighs in pain.

On my soul in silence grieving

Mild thou gleamest from afar,

As through rushes interweaving

Gleams the mirrored evening star.

IV

Sunset dull and drear;

Dark the clouds drive past;

Sultry, full of fear,

All the winds fly fast.

Through the sky's wild rack

Shoots the lightning pale;

O'er the waters black

Burns its flickering trail.

In the vivid glare

Half I see thy form,

And thy streaming hair

Flutters in the storm.

V

On the lake as it reposes

Dwells the moon with glow serene

Interweaving pallid roses

With the rushes' crown of green.

Stags from out the hillside bushes

Gaze aloft into the night,

Waterfowl amid the rushes

Vaguely stir with flutterings light

Down my tear-dim glance I bend now,

While through all my soul a rare

Thrill of thought toward thee doth tend now

Like an ecstasy of prayer.

* * * * *

THE POSTILION[18] (1833)

Passing lovely was the night,

Silver clouds flew o'er us,

Spring, methought, with splendor dight

Led the happy chorus.

Sleep-entranced lay wood and dale,

Empty now each by-way;

No one but the moonlight pale

Roamed upon the highway.

Breezes wandering in the gloom

Soft their footsteps numbered

Through Dame Nature's sleeping-room

Where her children slumbered.

Timidly the brook stole by,

While the beds of blossom

Breathed their perfume joyously

On the still night's bosom.

My postilion, heedless all,

Cracked his whip most gaily,

And his merry trumpet-call

Rang o'er hill and valley.

Hoofs beat steadily the while,

As the horses gamboled,

And along the shady aisle

Spiritedly rambled.

Grove and meadow gliding past

Vanished at a glimmer:

Peaceful towns were gone as fast,

Like to dreams that shimmer.

Midway in the Maytide trance

Tombs were shining whitely;

'Twas the churchyard met our glance--

None might view it lightly.

Close against the mountain braced

Ran the long white wall there,

And the cross, in sorrow placed,

Silent rose o'er all there.

Jehu straight, his humor spent,

Left his tuneful courses;

On the cross his gaze he bent

Then pulled up his horses.

"Here's where horse and coach must wait--

You may think it odd, sir:--

But up yonder, lies my mate

Underneath the sod, sir.

"Better lad was never born--

(Sir 'twas God's own pity!)

No one else could blow the horn

Half as shrill and pretty.

"So I stop beside the wall

Every time I pass here,

And I blow his favorite call

To him under grass here."

Toward the churchyard then he blew

One call after other,

That they might go ringing through

To his sleeping brother.

From the cliff each lively note

Echoing resounded,

As it were the dead man's throat

Answering strains had sounded.

On we went through field and hedge,

Loosened bridles jingling;

Long that echo from the ledge

In my ear kept tingling.

* * * * *

TO THE BELOVED FROM AFAR[19] (1838)

His sweet rose here oversea

I must gather sadly;

Which, beloved, unto thee

I would bring how gladly!

But alas! if o'er the foam

I this flower should carry,

It would fade ere I could come;

Roses may not tarry.

Farther let no mortal fare

Who would be a wooer,

Than unwithered he may bear

Blushing roses to her,

Or than nightingale may fly

For her nesting grasses,

Or than with the west wind's sigh

Her soft warbling passes.

* * * * *

THE THREE GIPSIES[20]

Three gipsy men I saw one day

Stretched out on the grass together,

As wearily o'er the sandy way

My wagon brushed the heather.

The first of the three was fiddling there

In the glow of evening pallid,

Playing a wild and passionate air,

The tune of some gipsy ballad.

From the second's pipe the smoke-wreaths curled,

He watched them melt at his leisure.

So full of content, it seemed the world

Had naught to add to his pleasure.

And what of the third?--He was fast asleep,

His harp to a bough confided;

The breezes across the strings did sweep,

A dream o'er his heart-strings glided.

The garb of all was worn and frayed,

With tatters grotesquely mended;

But flouting the world, and undismayed,

The three with fate contended.

They showed me how, by three-fold scoff,

When cares of life perplex us,

To smoke, or sleep, or fiddle them off,

And scorn the ills that vex us.

I passed them, but my gaze for long

Dwelt on the trio surly--

Their dark bronze features sharp and strong,

Their loose hair black and curly.

* * * * *

MY HEART[21] (1844)

Sleepless night, the rushing rain,

While my heart with ceaseless pain

Hears the mournful past subsiding

Or the uncertain future striding.

Heart, 'tis fatal thus to harken,

Let not fear thy courage darken,

Though the past be all regretting

And the future helpless fretting.

Onward, let what's mortal die.

Is the storm near, beat thou high.

Who came safe o'er Galilee

Makes the voyage now in thee.

* * * * *

EDUARD MÖRIKE

AN ERROR CHANCED[22] (1824)

An error chanced in the moonlight garden

Of a once inviolate love.

Shuddering I came on an outworn deceit,

And with sorrowing look, yet cruel,

Bade I the slender

Enchanting maiden

Leave me and wander far.

Alas! her lofty forehead

Was bowed, for she loved me well;

Yet did she go in silence

Into the dim gray

World outside.

Sick since then,

Wounded and woeful heart!

Never shall it be whole.

Meseems that, spun of the air, a thread of magic

Binds her yet to me, an unrestful bond;

It draws, it draws me faint with love toward her.

Might it yet be some day that on my threshold

I should find her, as erst, in the morning twilight,

Her traveler's bundle beside her,

And her eye true-heartedly looking up to me,

Saying, "See, I've come back,

Back once more from the lonely world!"

* * * * *

A SONG FOR TWO IN THE NIGHT[23] (1825)

_She_. How soft the night wind strokes the meadow grasses

And, breathing music, through the woodland passes!

Now that the upstart day is dumb,

One hears from the still earth a whispering throng

Of forces animate, with murmured song

Joining the zephyrs' well-attunèd hum.

_He_. I catch the tone from wondrous voices brimming,

Which sensuous on the warm wind drifts to me,

While, streaked with misty light uncertainly,

The very heavens in the glow are swimming.

_She_. The air like woven fabric seems to wave,

Then more transparent and more lustrous groweth;

Meantime a muted melody outgoeth

From happy fairies in their purple cave.

To sphere-wrought harmony

Sing they, and busily

The thread upon their silver spindles floweth.

_He_. Oh lovely night! how effortless and free

O'er samite black-though green by day--thou movest!

And to the whirring music that thou lovest

Thy foot advances imperceptibly.

Thus hour by hour thy step doth measure--

In trancèd self-forgetful pleasure

Thou'rt rapt; creation's soul is rapt with thee!

* * * * *

[Illustration: EDUARD MÖRIKE WEISS]

EARLY AWAY[24] (1828)

The morning frost shines gray

Along the misty field

Beneath the pallid way

Of early dawn revealed.

Amid the glow one sees

The day-star disappear;

Yet o'er the western trees

The moon is shining clear.

So, too, I send my glance

On distant scenes to dwell;

I see in torturing trance

The night of our farewell.

Blue eyes, a lake of bliss,

Swim dark before my sight,

Thy breath, I feel, thy kiss;

I hear thy whispering light.

My cheek upon thy breast

The streaming tears bedew,

Till, purple-black, is cast

A veil across my view.

The sun comes out; he glows,

And straight my dreams depart,

While from the cliffs he throws

A chill across my heart.

* * * * *

THE FORSAKEN MAIDEN[25] (1829)

Early when cocks do crow

Ere the stars dwindle,

Down to the hearth I go,

Fire must I kindle.

Fair leap the flames on high,

Sparks they whirl drunken;

I watch them listlessly

In sorrow sunken.

Sudden it comes to me,

Youth so fair seeming,

That all the night of thee

I have been dreaming.

Tears then on tears do run

For my false lover;

Thus has the day begun--

Would it were over!

* * * * *

WEYLA'S SONG[26] (1831)

Thou art Orplede, my land

Remotely gleaming;

The mist arises from thy sun-bright strand

To where the faces of the gods are beaming.

Primeval rivers spring renewed

Thy silver girdle weaving, child!

Before the godhead bow subdued

Kings, thy worshipers and watchers mild.

* * * * *

SECLUSION[27] (1832)

Let, oh world, ah let me be!

Tempt me not with gifts of pleasure.

Leave alone this heart to treasure

All its joy, its misery.

What my grief I can not say,

'Tis a strange, a wistful sorrow;

Yet through tears at every morrow

I behold the light of day.

When my weary soul finds rest

Oft a beam of rapture brightens

All the gloom of cloud, and lightens

This oppression in my breast.

Let, oh world, all, let me be!

Tempt me not with gifts of pleasure.

Leave alone this heart to treasure

All its joy, its misery.

* * * * *

THE SOLDIER'S BETROTHED[28] (1837)

Oh dear, if the king only knew

How brave is my sweetheart, how true!

He would give his heart's blood for the king,

But for me he would do the same thing.

My love has no ribbon or star,

No cross such as gentlemen wear,

A gen'ral he'll never become;

If only they'd leave him at home!

For stars there are three shining bright

O'er the Church of St. Mary each night;

We are bound by a rose-woven band,

And a house-cross is always at hand.

* * * * *

THE OLD WEATHERCOCK: AN IDYLL[29] (1840, 1852)

At Cleversulzbach in the Underland

A hundred and thirteen years did I stand

Up on the tower in wind and rain,

An ornament and a weathervane.

Through night and tempest gazing down,

Like a good old cock I watched the town.

The lightning oft my form has grazed,

The frost my scarlet comb o'erglazed,

And many a warm long summer's day,

In times when all seek shade who may,

The scorching sun with rage unslaked

My golden body well has baked.

So in my age all black I'd grown,

My beauteous glint and gleam was gone,

Till I at length, despised by all,

Was lifted from my pedestal.

Ah well! 'tis thus we run our race,

Another now must have my place.

Go strut, and preen, but don't forget

What court the wind will pay you yet!

Farewell, sweet landscape, mount and dell!

Vineyard and forest, fare ye well!

Belovèd tower, the roof's high ridge,

Churchyard and streamlet with its bridge;

Oh fountain, where the cattle throng

And sheep come trooping all day long,

With Hans to urge them on their way.

And Eva on the piebald gray!

Ye storks and swallows with your clatter,

And sparrows, how I'll miss your chatter!

For every bit of dirt seems dear

Which o'er my form you used to smear.

Goodby, my worthy friend the pastor,

And you, poor driveling old schoolmaster.

'Tis o'er, what cheered my heart so long.

The sound of organ, bells and song.

So from my, lofty perch I crew,

And would have sung much longer too,

When came a crooked devil's minion,

The slater 'twas in my opinion.

Who after many a knock and shake

Detached me wholly from my stake.

My poor old heart was broke at last

When from the roof he pulled me past

The bells which from their station glared

And on my fate in wonder stared,

But vexed themselves no more about me,

Thinking they'd hang as well without me.

Then to the scrap-heap I was brought,

For twopence by the blacksmith bought,

Which as he paid he said 'twas wonder

How much folk wanted for such plunder.

And there at noon of that same day

In grief before his hut I lay.

The time being May, a little tree

Shed snow-white blossoms over me,

While other chickens by the dozen

Unheeding cackled round their cousin.

'Twas then the pastor happened by,

Spoke to the smith, then smiling, "Hi!

And have you come to this, poor cock

A strange bird, Andrew, for your flock!

He'll hardly do to broil or roast;

For me though, I may fairly boast

Things must go hard if I've no place

For old church servants in hard case.

Bring him along then speedily

And drink a glass of wine with me."

The sooty lout with quick assent

Laughed, picked me up, and off we went.

A little more, and from my throat

Toward heaven I'd sent a joyous note.

Within the manse the strange new guest

Astounded all from most to least;

But soon each face, before afraid,

The glowing light of joy displayed.

Wife, maids and menfolks, girls and boys

Surrounded with a seven-fold noise

The giant rooster in the hall,

Welcoming, looking, handling all.

The man of God with jealous care

Took me himself and climbed the stair

To his own study, while the pack

Came stumbling after at his back.

Within these walls is peace enshrined!

Entering, we left the world behind.

I seemed to breathe a magic air,

Essence of books and learning rare,

Geranium scent and mignonette,

And faint tobacco lingering yet.

(To me of course all this was new.)

An ancient stove I noticed, too,

In the left corner in full view.

Quite like a tower its bulk was raised

Until its peak the ceiling grazed,

With pillared strength and flowery grace,

O most delightful resting-place!

On the top wreath as on a mast

The blacksmith set me firm and fast.

Behold my stove with reverent eyes!

Cathedral-like its noble size;

With store of pictures overwrought,

And rhymes that tell of pious thought.

Of such I learned full many a word,

While the old stove from out its hoard

Would draw them forth for young and old,

When the snow fell and winds blew cold.

Here you may see where on the tile

Stands Bishop Hatto's towered isle,

While rats and mice on every side

Swim through the Rhine's opposing tide.

The armed grooms in vain wage war,

The host of tails grows more and more,

Till thousands ranged in close array

Leap from the walls on those at bay

And seize the bishop in his room:

An awful death is now his doom;

Devoured straightway shall he be

To pay the price of perjury.

--There too Belshazzar's banquet shines,

Voluptuous women, costly wines;

But in the amazèd sight of all

The dread hand writes upon the wall.

--Lastly the pictures represent

How Sarah listens in the tent

While God Almighty, come to earth,

Foretells to Abraham the birth

Of Isaac and his seed thereafter.

Sarah cannot restrain her laughter,

Since both are well advanced in years.

God asks when he the laughter hears:

"Doth Sarah laugh then at God's will,

And doubt if this he may fulfil?"

Her indiscretion to recall

She says, "I did not laugh at all."

Which commonly would be a lie;

But God prefers to pass it by,

Since 'tis not done with malice dark,

And she's a lady patriarch.

Now that I'm here, I think with reason

That winter is the fairest season

How smooth the daily current flows

To ev'ry week's belovèd close!

--Just about nine on Friday night,

Sole by the lamp's reposeful light

My master with a mind perplexed

Sets out to choose his Sunday text.

Before the stove a while he stands,

Walks to and fro with twisted hands,

And vainly struggles to determine

The theme on which to thread his sermon.

Now and again amid his doubt

He lifts the window and looks out.

--Oh cooling surge of starlit air,

Pour on my brow your tide so rare!

I see where Verrenberg doth glimmer,

And Shepherds' Knoll with snows a-shimmer.

He sits him down to write at last,

Dips pen and makes the A and O,

Which o'er his "Preface" always go.

I meanwhile from my post on high

Ne'er from my master turn an eye,

Look at him now, with far-off gaze

Pondering, testing every phrase;

The snuffer once he seizes quick

And cleans of soot the flaming wick;

Then oft in deep abstraction, he

Murmurs a sentence audibly,

Which I with outstretched bill peck up

And fill with lore my eager crop.

So do we come by smooth gradation

To where begins the "Application."

"Eleven!" comes the watchman's shout.

My master hears and turns about.

"Bedtime!" He rises, takes the light,

Nor ever hears my shrill "good-night!"

Alone in darkness then I'd be;

That has no terrors, though, for me.

Behind the wainscot sharply picking

I hear a while the death-clock ticking,

I hear the marten vainly scoop

The earth around the chicken-coop.

Along the eaves the night-wind brushes,

And through far trees the tempest rushes--

Bird Wood's the name that forest bears,

Where rude old Winter raves and tears.

Now splits a beech with such a crack

That all the valleys echo it back.

--My goodness! when these sounds I hear

I'm glad a pious stove's so near,

Which warms you so the long hours through

That night seems fraught with blessings too.

--Just now I well might feel afraid,

When thieves and murderers ply their trade;

'Tis lucky, faith, for those who are

Secured from harm by bolt and bar.

How could I call so men would hear me

If some one raised a ladder near me?

When thoughts like this attack my brain

The sweat runs down my back like rain.

At two, thank God! again at three,

A cock-crow rises clear and free,

And with the morning bell at five

My whole heart, now once more alive,

High in my breast with rapture springs,

When finally the watchman sings

"Arise, good friends, for Jesus' sake,

For bright and fair the day doth break."

Soon after this, an hour at most,

My spurs are growing stiff with frost

When in comes Lisa, hums some snatches,

And rakes the fire until it catches.

Then from below, quite savory too,

I scent the steam of onion stew.

At length my master enters gay,

Fresh for the business of the day.

On Saturday a worthy priest

Should keep his room, his house at least;

Not visit or distract his brain,

Turning his thoughts to things profane.

My master was not tempted so,

But once--don't let it out, you know--

He squandered all his precious wits

Making a titmouse trap for Fritz--

Right here, and talked and had a smoke;

To me, I'll own, it seemed a joke.

The blessed Sabbath now is here.

The church-bells call both far and near,

The organ sounds so loud to me

I think I'm in the sacristy.

There's not a soul in all the house;

I hear a fly, and then a mouse.

The sunlight now the window reaches

And through the cactus stems it stretches,

Fain o'er the walnut desk to glide,

Some ancient cabinet-maker's pride.

There it beholds with searching looks

Concordances and children's books,

On wafer-box and seal it dances

And lights the inkwell with its glances;

Across the sand it strikes its wedge,

Is cut upon the penknife's edge,

Across the armchair freely roams,

Then to the bookcase with its tomes.

There clad in parchment and in leather

The Suabian Fathers stand together:

Andrea, Bengel, Riegers two,

And Oetinger are well in view.

The sun each golden name reads o'er

And with a kiss he gilds yet more.

As Hiller's "Harp" his fingers touch--

Hark! does it ring? It lacks not much.

With that a spider slim and small

Begins upon my frame to crawl,

And, never asking my goodwill,

Suspends his web from neck to bill.

I don't disturb myself a whit,

Just wait and watch him for a bit.

For him it is a lucky hap

That I'm disposed to take a nap.--

But tell me now if anywhere

An old church cock might better fare.

A twinge of longing now and then

Will vex, no doubt, the happiest men.

In summer I could wish outside

Upon the dove-cote roof to bide,

With just beneath the garden bright

And stretch of greensward too in sight.

Or else again in winter time,

When, as today, the weather's prime:--

Now I've begun, I'll say it out

We've got a sleigh here, staunch and stout,

All colored, yellow, black and green;

Just freshly painted, neat and clean;

And on the dashboard proudly strutting

A strange, new-fangled fowl is sitting:

Now if they'd have me fixed up right--

The whole expense would be but slight--

I'd stand there quite as well as he

And none need feel ashamed of me!

--Fool! I reply, accept your fate,

And be not so immoderate.

Perhaps 'twould suit your high behest

If some one, for a common jest,

Would take you, stove and all, away

And set you up there on the sleigh,

With all the family round you too:

Man, woman, child--the whole blest crew!

Old image, what! so shameless yet,

And prone on gauds your mind to set?

Think on your latter end at last!

Your hundredth year's already past.

* * * * *

THINK OF IT, MY SOUL![30] (1852)

Somewhere a pine is green,

Just where who knoweth,

And in a garth unseen

A rose-tree bloweth.

These are ordained for thee--

Think, oh soul, fixedly--

Over thy grave to be;

Swift the time floweth.

Two black steeds on the down

Briskly are faring,

Or on their way to town

Canter uncaring.

These may with heavy tread

Slowly convey the dead

E'en ere the shoes be shed

They now are wearing.

* * * * *

ERINNA TO SAPPHO[31] (1863)

(Erinna was a Greek poetess, a friend and pupil of Sappho of Lesbos.

She died at the age of nineteen.)

"Many the paths to Hades," an ancient proverb

Tells us, "and one of them thou thyself shalt follow,

Doubt not!" My sweetest Sappho, who can doubt it?

Tells not each day the old tale?

Yet the foreboding word in a youthful bosom

Rankles not, as a fisher bred by the seashore,

Deafened by use, perceives the breaker's thunder no more.

--Strangely, however, today my heart misgave me. Attend:

Sunny the glow of morn-tide, pouring

Through the trees of my well-walled garden,

Roused the slugabed (so of late thou calledst Erinna)

Early up from her sultry couch.

Full was my soul of quiet, although my blood beat

Quick with uncertain waves o'er the thin cheek's pallor.

Then, as I loosed the plaits of my shining tresses,

Parting with nard-moist comb above my forehead

The veil of hair--in the glass my own glance met me.

Eyes, strange eyes, I said, what will ye?

Spirit of me, that within there dwelled securely as yet,

Occultly wed to my living senses--

Demon-like, half smiling thy solemn message,

Thou dost nod to me, Death presaging!

--Ha! all at once like lightning a thrill went through me,

Or as a deadly arrow with sable feathers

Whizzing had grazed my temples,

So that, with hands pressed over my face, a long time

Dumb-struck I sat, while my thought reeled at the frightful abyss.

Tearless at first I pondered,

Weighing the terror of Death;

Till I bethought me of thee, my Sappho,

And of my comrades all,

And of the muses' lore,

When straightway the tears ran fast.

But there on the table gleamed a beautiful hair-net, thy gift,

Costly handwork of Byssos, spangled with golden bees.

This, when next in the flowery festal season

We shall worship the glorious child of Demeter,

This will I offer to her for thy and my sake,

So may she favor us both (for she much availeth),

That no mourning lock thou untimely sever

From thy beloved head for thy poor Erinna.

* * * * *

MOZART'S JOURNEY FROM VIENNA TO PRAGUE

(about 1850)

A ROMANCE OF HIS PRIVATE LIFE

BY EDUARD MÖRIKE

TRANSLATED BY FLORENCE LEONARD

In the fall of the year 1787 Mozart and his wife undertook a journey to

Prague, where he was to finish and bring out his masterpiece, _Don

Juan_.

Eleven o'clock of the fourteenth of September found them well on their

way and in the best of spirits. They had been traveling two days, and

were about one hundred and twenty miles from Vienna, among the beautiful

Mährische mountains. The splendid coach, drawn by three post-horses,

belonged to an elderly Frau Volkstett, wife of General Volkstett, who

prided herself on her intimacy with the Mozarts and on the favors she

had shown them. The carriage was painted a bright yellowish-red, the

body adorned with garlands of gay-colored flowers, the wheels finished

with narrow stripes of gold. The high top was fitted with stiff leather

curtains, now drawn back and fastened.

The dress of the travelers was simple, for the new clothes to be worn at

court were carefully packed in the trunk. Mozart wore an embroidered

waistcoat of a somewhat faded blue, his ordinary brown coat--with a row

of large, curiously fashioned gilt buttons--black silk stockings and

small-clothes, and shoes with gilt buckles. As the day grew warm,

unusually warm for September, he had taken off both hat and coat and was

sitting in his shirt-sleeves, bare headed, serenely chatting. His thick

hair, drawn back into a braid, was powdered even more carelessly than

usual.

Frau Mozart's hair, a wealth of light brown curls, never disfigured by

powder, fell, half unfastened, upon her shoulders. She wore a

traveling-suit of striped stuff--light green and white.

They were slowly ascending a gentle slope, where rich fields alternated

with long stretches of woodland, when Mozart exclaimed: "How many woods

we have passed every day of our journey, and I hardly noticed them, much

less thought of going into them! Postilion, stop and let your horses

rest a bit, while we get some of those blue-bells yonder in the shade!"

As they rose to leave the coach they became aware of a slight accident

for which the master had to take the blame. Through his carelessness a

bottle of choice perfume had lost its cork, and its contents had run,

unperceived, over clothing and carriage cushions. "I might have known

it," lamented Frau Mozart, "I have smelled it this long while! Oh dear!

A whole bottle of real 'Rosée d'Aurore!' I was as careful of it as if it

had been gold!"

"Never mind, little goose," was Mozart's comforting answer. "This was

the only way that your sacred smelling-stuff would do us any good. The

air was like an oven here, and all your fanning made it no cooler. But

presently the carriage was comfortable--you said it was because I poured

a couple of drops on my _jabot_--and we could talk and enjoy our journey

instead of hanging our heads like sheep in a butcher's cart. It will

last all the rest of the way. Come now, let us stick our two Vienna

noses into this green wilderness!"

They climbed the bank arm-in-arm, and strolled into the shade of the

pines, which grew deeper and deeper, till only here and there a stray

sunbeam lighted up the green mossy carpet. So cool was the air that

Mozart soon had to put on the coat, which, but for his prudent wife, he

would have left behind.

Presently he stopped and looked up through the rows of lofty

tree-trunks. "How beautiful!" he cried. "It is like being

in church! This is a real wood, a whole family of trees! No human

hand planted them, but they seem to have come and stood there just

because it is pleasant to live and grow in company. To think that I have

traveled half over Europe, have seen the Alps and the ocean, and yet,

happening to come into an ordinary Bohemian pine-woods, I am astonished

that such a thing actually exists; not as a poetic fiction like the

nymphs and fauns, but really living, drawn out of the earth by moisture

and sunshine! Imagine the deer, with his wonderful antlers, at home

here, and the mischievous squirrel, the wood-cock, and the jay!" He

stooped and picked a mushroom, praised its deep red color and delicate

white lines, and put a handful of cones into his pocket.

"Any one would think that you had never walked a dozen steps in the

Prater," said his wife; "these same rare cones and mushrooms are to be

found there too!"

"The Prater! Heavens, how can you mention it! What is there in the

Prater but carriages and swords, gowns and fans, music and hubbub! As

for the trees, large as they are--well, even the acorns on the ground

seem like second cousins to the old corks lying beside them! You could

walk there two hours, and still smell waiters and sauces!"

"Oh, what a speech from a man whose greatest pleasure is to eat a good

supper in the Prater!"

After they had returned to the carriage and sat watching the smiling

fields which stretched away to the mountains behind them, Mozart

exclaimed: "Indeed the earth is beautiful, and no one can be blamed for

wanting to stay on it as long as possible. Thank God, I feel as fresh

and strong as ever, and ready for a thousand things as soon as my new

opera is finished and brought out. But how much there is in the outside

world, and how much at home, both wonderful and beautiful, that I know

nothing about! Beauties of nature, sciences, and both fine arts and

useful arts! That black charcoal-burner there by his kiln knows just as

much as I do about many things. And I should like well enough to look

into some subjects that aren't connected with my own trade!"

"The other day," interrupted his wife, "I came across your old

pocket-calendar for '85. There were three or four special memoranda at

the end. One read: 'About the middle of October they are to cast the

great lions at the imperial brass foundry.' Another was underlined twice

'Call on Professor Gottner.' Who is he?"

"Oh Oh yes, I remember! That kind old gentleman in the observatory, who

invites me there now and then. I meant, long ago, to take you to see the

moon and the man in it. They have a new telescope, so strong that they

can see distinctly mountains and valleys and chasms, and, on the side

where the sun does not fall, the shadows of the mountains. Two years ago

I planned to go there! Shameful!"

"Well, the moon will not run away!"

"But it is so with everything. It is too hard to think of all that one

puts off and loses, not duties to God and to man only, but pure

pleasures--those small innocent pleasures which are within one's grasp

every day!"

Madame Mozart could not or would not turn his thoughts into another

channel, and could only agree with him as he went on: "Have I ever been

able to have a whole hour of pleasure with my own children? Even they

can be only half enjoyed! The boys have one ride on my knee, chase me

once around the room, and stop. I must shake them off and go! I cannot

remember that we have had once a whole day in the country together, at

Easter or Whitsuntide, in garden or woods or meadows to grow young again

among the children and flowers. And meanwhile life is gradually slipping

and running and rushing away from us! Dear Lord! To think of it!"

With such self-reproach began a serious conversation. How sad that

Mozart, passionate as he was, keenly alive to all the beauties of the

world, and full of the highest aspirations, never knew peace and

contentment, in spite of all that he enjoyed and created

in his short life. The reason is easily found in those weaknesses,

apparently unconquerable, which were so large a part of his

character. The man's needs were many; his fondness for society

extraordinarily great. Honored and sought by all the families of

rank, he seldom refused an invitation to a fête or social gathering of

any sort. He had, besides, his own circle of friends whom he entertained

of a Sunday evening, and often at dinner at his own well-ordered table.

Occasionally, to the inconvenience of his wife, he would bring in

unexpected guests of diverse gifts, any one whom he might happen to

meet--amateurs, fellow-artists, singers, poets. An idle hanger-on whose

only merit lay in his companionable mood or in his jests, was as welcome

as a gifted connoisseur or a distinguished musician. But the greater

part of his recreation Mozart sought away from home. He was to be found

almost every afternoon at billiards in the Kaffeehaus, and many an

evening at the inn. He enjoyed both driving and riding, frequented balls

and masquerades--a finished dancer--and took part in popular

celebrations also, masquerading regularly on St. Bridget's Day as

Pierrot.

These pleasures, sometimes wild and extravagant, sometimes quieter in

tone, were designed to refresh the severely taxed brain after extreme

labors; and in the mysterious ways of genius they bore fruit in later

days. But unfortunately he was so bent on enjoying to the full every

moment of pleasure that there was room for no other consideration,

whether of prudence or duty, of self-preservation or of economy. Both in

his amusements and in his creative activity Mozart knew no limits. Part

of the night was always devoted to composition; early in the morning,

often even while in bed, he finished his work. Then, driving or walking,

he made the rounds of his lessons, which generally took a part of the

afternoon also. "We take a great deal of trouble for our pupils, and it

is often hard not to lose patience," he wrote to one of his

patrons. "Because we are well recommended as pianists and

teachers of music we load ourselves down with pupils, and

are always willing to add another; if only the bills are

promptly paid it does not matter whether the new student be a

Hungarian mustachio from the engineer corps, whom Satan has tempted to

wade through thorough-bass and counterpoint, or the haughtiest little

countess who receives us in a fury, as she would Master Coquerel, the

hair-dresser, if we do not arrive on the stroke of the hour." So, when

weary with the occupations of his profession, school-work, and

rehearsals as well as private lessons, and in need of refreshment, he

gave his nerves a seeming restorative only in new excitement. His health

began to suffer, and ever-recurring fits of melancholy were certainly

fostered, if not actually induced, by his ill health; and the

premonition of his early death, which for a long time haunted him, was

finally fulfilled. The deepest melancholy and remorse were the bitter

fruits of every pleasure which he tasted; yet we know that even these

troubled streams emptied pure and clear in the deep spring from which

all joy and all woe flowed in marvelous melodies.

The effects of Mozart's illness showed most plainly when at home. The

temptation to spend his money foolishly and carelessly was very great.

It was due, as a matter of course, to one of his most lovely traits. If

any one in need came to him to borrow money or to ask his name as

security, he consented at once with smiling generosity and without

making arrangements to insure the return of the loan. The means which

such generosity, added to the needs of his household, required, were out

of all proportion to his actual income. The sums which he received from

theatres and concerts, from publishers and pupils, together with the

Emperor's pension, were the smaller because the public taste was far

from declaring itself in favor of Mozart's compositions. The very

beauty, depth, and fulness of his music were, in general, opposed to the

easily understood compositions then in favor. To be sure,

the Viennese public could not get enough of _Die Entführung

aus dem Serail_, thanks to its popular element. But, on the

other hand, several years later _Figaro_ made a most unexpected

and lamentable fiasco, in comparison with the success of its

pleasing, though quite insignificant rival _Cosa rara_--and not

alone through the intrigue of the manager. It was the same _Figaro_

which, soon after, the cultivated and unprejudiced people of Prague

received with such enthusiasm that the master, in gratitude, determined

to write his next great opera for them.

But despite the unfavorable period and the influence of his enemies,

Mozart, if he had been more prudent and circumspect, might have received

a very considerable sum from his art. As it was, he was in arrears after

every enterprise, even when full houses shouted their applause to him.

So circumstances, his own nature, and his own faults conspired to keep

him from prosperity.

And what a sad life was that of Frau Mozart! She was young and of a

cheerful disposition, musical, and of a musical family, and had the best

will in the world to stop the mischief at the outset, and, failing in

that, to make up for the loss in great things by saving in small

affairs. But she lacked, perhaps, skill and experience. She held the

purse, and kept the account of the house expenses. Every claim, every

bill, every vexation was carried to her. How often must she have choked

back the tears when to such distress and want, painful embarrassment,

and fear of open disgrace, was added the melancholy of her husband, in

which he would remain for days, accomplishing nothing, refusing all

comfort, and either sighing and complaining, or sitting silent in a

corner, thinking continually of death! But she seldom lost courage, and

almost always her clear judgment found counsel and relief, though it

might be but temporary. In reality she could make no radical change in

the situation. If she persuaded him in seriousness or in jest, by

entreaties or by coaxing, to eat his supper and spend his

evening with his family, she had gained but little. Perhaps,

touched by the sight of his wife's distress, he would curse his bad

habits and promise all that she asked--even more. But to no purpose; he

would soon, unexpectedly, find himself in the old ruts again. One is

tempted to believe that he could not do otherwise, and that a code of

morals, totally different from our ideas of right and wrong, of

necessity controlled him.

Yet Frau Constanze hoped continually for a favorable turn of affairs, a

great improvement in their financial condition, which could hardly fail

to follow Mozart's increasing fame. If the anxiety which always pressed

upon him, more or less, could be lightened; if, instead of devoting half

his strength and time to earning money he could live only for his art,

and, moreover, could enjoy with a clear conscience those pleasures which

he needed for body and mind, then he would grow calmer and more natural.

She hoped, indeed, for an opportunity to leave Vienna, for, in spite of

his affection for the place, she was convinced that he would never

prosper there. Some decisive step toward the realization of her plans

and wishes she promised herself as the result of the new opera, for

which they were now on their way to Prague.

The composition was more than half written. Trusty friends and competent

judges who had heard the beginning of the work talked of it with such

enthusiasm that many of Mozart's enemies, even, were prepared to hear,

within six months, that his _Don Juan_ had taken all Germany by storm.

His more prudent and moderate friends, who took into consideration the

state of the public taste, hardly expected an immediate and universal

success; and with these the master himself secretly agreed.

Constanze, however, was like all women. If once they hope, particularly

in a righteous cause, they are less apt than men are to give heed to

discouraging features. She still held fast to her favorable opinion, and

had, even now, new occasion to defend it. She did so in her gay and

lively fashion, the more earnestly because Mozart's spirits had fallen

decidedly in the course of the previous conversation. She described

minutely how, after their return, she should use the hundred ducats

which the manager at Prague would pay for the score. That sum would

supply their most pressing needs, and they could live comfortably till

spring.

"Your Herr Bondine will make some money with this opera, you may be

sure; and if he is half as honest as you think him, he will give you

later also a fair per cent. of the price that other theatres pay him for

their copies of _Don Juan_. But, even if he doesn't, there are plenty of

other good things that might happen to us; they are more probable too!"

"What, for instance?"

"A little bird told me that the King of Prussia needs a leader for his

orchestra."

"Oh!"

"A general music director, I mean. Let me build you an air-castle! That

weakness I got from my mother."

"Build away! The higher the better!"

"No, my air-castles are very real ones! In a year from now they'll be

reporting--"

"If the Pope to Gretchen comes a-courting!"

"Keep quiet, you ridiculous goose! I tell you by the first of next

September there will be no 'Imperial Court Composer' of the name of Wolf

Mozart to be found in Vienna."

"May the foxes bite you for that!"

"I hear already what our old friends are saying and gossiping about us."

"What, then?"

"Well, a little after nine o'clock one fine morning our old friend and

admirer Frau Volkstett comes sailing at full speed across the Kahlmarkt.

She has been away for three months. That famous visit to her

brother-in-law in Saxony, that we have heard about every day, has at

last come off. She returned yesterday, and cannot wait any

longer to see her dear friend, the Colonel's wife. Upstairs she goes

and knocks at the door, and does not wait for an answer. You may imagine

the rejoicing and the embracing an both sides. 'Now dearest, best Frau

Colonel,' she begins after the greetings are over, 'I have so many

messages for you. Guess from whom? I didn't come straight from Stendal,

but by way of Brandenburg.'

"'What! Not through Berlin! You haven't been with the Mozarts?' 'Yes,

ten heavenly days!' 'Oh, my dear, good Frau General, tell me all about

them! How are our dear people? Do they like Berlin as well as ever? I

can hardly imagine Mozart living in Berlin! How does he act? How does he

look?' 'Mozart! You should see him! This summer the King sent him to

Karlsbad. When would that have occurred to his dear Emperor Joseph? They

had but just returned when I arrived. He is fairly radiant with health

and good spirits, as sound and solid and lively as quicksilver, with

happiness and comfort beaming from his countenance.'"

And then the speaker began to paint in the brightest colors the glories

of the new position. From their dwelling on Unter den Linden, from their

garden and country-house to the brilliant scenes of public activity and

the smaller circle of the court--where he was to play accompaniments for

the Queen--all were vividly described. She recited, with the greatest

ease, whole conversations, and the most delightful anecdotes. Indeed she

seemed more familiar with Berlin, Potsdam, and Sans Souci than with the

palace at Schönbrunn and the Emperor Joseph's castle. She was, moreover,

cunning enough to depict our hero with many new domestic virtues which

had developed on the firm ground of the Berlin life, and among which

Frau Volkstett had perceived (as a most remarkable phenomenon and a

proof that extremes sometimes meet) the disposition of a veritable

little miser--and it made him altogether most charming.

"'Yes, think of it! He is sure of his three thousand thalers,

and for what? For directing a chamber concert once a week, and

the opera twice. Ah, Frau Colonel, I have seen him, our dear, precious

little man, in the midst of his excellent orchestra who adore him! I sat

with Frau Mozart in her box almost opposite the King's box. And what was

on the posters, do you think? Look, please! I brought it for you,

wrapped around a little souvenir from the Mozarts and myself. Look, read

it, printed in letters a yard long!' 'Heaven forbid! Not _Tarare_!'

'Yes! What cannot one live to see! Two years ago, when Mozart wrote _Don

Juan_, and the wretched, malicious, yellow, old Salieri was preparing to

repeat in Vienna the triumph which he had won with his piece, in Paris,

and to show our good plain public, contented with _Cosa rara_, a hawk or

two; while he and his arch-accomplice were plotting to present _Don

Juan_ just as they had presented _Figaro_, mutilated, ruined, I vowed

that if the infamous _Tarare_ was ever given, nothing should hire me to

go to see it. And I kept my word. When everybody else ran to hear

it--you too, Frau Colonel--I sat by my fire with my cat in my lap, and

ate my supper. Several times after that, too. But now imagine! _Tarare_

on the Berlin stage, the work of his deadly foe, conducted by Mozart

himself!' 'You must certainly go,' he said, 'if it is only to be able to

say in Vienna whether I had a hair clipped from Absalom's head. I wish

he were here himself! The jealous old sheep should see that I do not

need to bungle another person's composition in order to show off my

own.'"

"Brava! Bravissima!" shouted Mozart, and taking his wife by the ears he

kissed her and teased her till the play with the bright bubbles of an

imaginary future--which, sad to say, were never in the least to be

realized--ended finally in laughter and jollity.

Meanwhile they had long ago reached the valley, and were approaching a

town, behind which lay the small modern palace of Count Schinzberg. In

this town they were to feed the horses, to rest, and to take their

noonday meal.

The inn where they stopped stood alone near the end of the village

where an avenue of poplar trees led to the count's garden, not six

hundred paces away. After they had alighted, Mozart, as usual, left to

his wife the arrangements for dinner, and ordered for himself a glass of

wine, while she asked only for water and a quiet room where she could

get a little sleep. The host led the way upstairs, and Mozart, now

singing, now whistling, brought up the rear. The room was newly

whitewashed, clean, and fresh. The ancient articles of furniture were of

noble descent; they had probably once adorned the dwelling of the Count.

The clean white bed was covered with a painted canopy, resting upon

slender green posts, whose silken curtains were long ago replaced by a

more ordinary stuff. Constanze prepared for her nap, Mozart promising to

wake her in time for dinner. She bolted the door behind him, and he

descended to seek entertainment in the coffee-room. Here, however, no

one but the host was to be seen, and, since his conversation suited

Mozart no better than his wine, the master proposed a walk to the palace

garden while dinner was preparing. Respectable strangers, he was told,

were allowed to enter the grounds; besides, the family were away for the

day.

A short walk brought him to the gate, which stood open; then he slowly

followed a path overhung by tall old linden-trees, till he suddenly came

upon the palace which stood a little to the left. It was a light,

plaster building, in the Italian style, with a broad, double flight of

steps in front; the slate-covered roof was finished in the usual manner,

with a balustrade, and was adorned with statues of gods and goddesses.

Our master turned toward the shrubbery, and, passing many flower-beds

still gay with blossoms, took his leisurely way through a dark grove of

pines until he came to an open space where a fountain was playing. The

rather large oval basin was surrounded with carefully kept orange-trees,

interspersed with laurels and oleanders; a smooth gravel

walk upon which an arbor opened ran around the fountain. It was a most

tempting resting-place, and Mozart threw himself down upon the rustic

bench which stood by a table within the arbor.

Listening to the splash of the water, and watching an orange-tree which

stood, heavy with fruit, apart from the rest, our friend was carried

away by visions of the South and favorite memories of his childhood.

Smiling thoughtfully, he reached toward the nearest orange, as if to

take the tempting fruit in his hand. But closely connected with that

scene of his youth there flashed upon him a long-forgotten,

half-effaced, musical memory, which he pondered long and tried to follow

out. Then his glance brightened, and darted here and there; an idea had

come to him, and he worked it out eagerly. Absently he grasped the

orange again--it broke from the tree and remained in his hand. He looked

at it, but did not see it; indeed, his artistic abstraction went so far

that, after rolling the fragrant fruit back and forth before his nose,

while his lips moved silently with the melody which was singing itself

to him, he presently took from his pocket an enameled case, and with a

small silver-handled knife slowly cut open the fruit. Perhaps he had a

vague sense of thirst, but, if so, the fragrance of the open fruit

allayed it. He looked long at the inner surfaces, then fitted them

gently together, opened them again, and again put them together.

Just then steps approached the arbor. Mozart started, suddenly

remembering where he was and what he had done. He was about to hide the

orange, but stopped, either from pride or because he was too late. A

tall, broad-shouldered man in livery, the head-gardener, stood before

him. He had evidently seen the last guilty movement, and stopped,

amazed. Mozart, likewise, was too much surprised to speak, and, sitting

as if nailed to his chair, half laughing yet blushing, looked the

gardener somewhat boldly in the face with his big, blue eyes. Then--it

would have been most amusing for a third person--with a sort of defiant

courage he set the apparently uninjured orange in the middle of the

table.

"I beg your pardon, sir," began the gardener rather angrily, as he

looked at Mozart's unprepossessing clothing, "I do not know whom I have

the honor--"

"Kapellmeister Mozart, of Vienna."

"You are acquainted in the palace, I presume."

"I am a stranger, merely passing through the village. Is the Count at

home?"

"No."

"His wife?"

"She is engaged and would hardly see you." Mozart rose, as if he would

go.

"With your permission, sir, how do you happen to be pilfering here?"

"What!" cried Mozart. "Pilfering! The devil! Do you believe, then, that

I meant to steal and eat that thing?"

"I believe what I see, sir. Those oranges are counted, and I am

responsible for them. That tree was just to be carried to the house for

an entertainment. I cannot let you go until I have reported the matter

and you yourself have told how it happened."

"Very well. Be assured that I will wait here." The gardener hesitated,

and Mozart, thinking that perhaps he expected a fee, felt in his pocket;

but he found nothing.

Two men now came by, lifted the tree upon a barrow and carried it away.

Meanwhile Mozart had taken a piece of paper from his pocket-book, and,

as the gardener did not stir, began to write:

"_Dear Madam_.--Here I sit, miserable, in your Paradise, like Adam of

old, after he had tasted the apple. The mischief is done, and I cannot

even put the blame on a good Eve, for she is at the inn sleeping the

sleep of innocence in a canopy-bed, surrounded by Graces and Cupids. If

you require it I will give you an account of my offense, which is

incomprehensible even to myself.

"I am covered with confusion, and remain

"Your most obedient servant,

"W. A. MOZART.

"On the way to Prague."

He hastily folded the note and handed it to the impatient servant.

The fellow had scarcely gone when a carriage rolled up to the opposite

side of the palace. In it was the Count, who had brought with him, from

a neighboring estate, his niece and her fiancé, a young and wealthy

Baron. The betrothal had just taken place at the house of the latter's

invalid mother; but the event was also to be celebrated at the Count's

palace, which had always been a second home to his niece. The Countess,

with her son, Lieutenant Max, had returned from the betrothal somewhat

earlier, in order to complete arrangements at the palace. Now corridors

and stairways were alive with servants, and only with difficulty did the

gardener finally reach the antechamber and hand the note to the

Countess. She did not stop to open it, but, without noticing what the

messenger said, hurried away. He waited and waited, but she did not come

back. One servant after another ran past him--waiters, chambermaids,

valets; he asked for the Count, only to be told "He is dressing." At

last he found Count Max in his own room; but he was talking with the

Baron, and for fear the gardener would let slip something which the

Baron was not to know beforehand, cut the message short with: "Go along,

I'll be there in a moment." Then there was quite a long while to wait

before father and son at last appeared together, and heard the fatal

news.

"That is outrageous," cried the fat, good-natured, but somewhat hasty

Count. "That is an impossible story! A Vienna musician is he? Some

ragamuffin, who walks along the high-road and helps himself to whatever

he sees!"

"I beg your pardon, sir. He doesn't look just like that. I thinks he's

not quite right in the head, sir, and he seems to be very proud. He says

his name is 'Moser.' He is waiting downstairs. I told Franz to keep an

eye on him."

"The deuce! What good will that do, now? Even if I should have the fool

arrested, it wouldn't mend matters. I've told you a thousand times that

the front gates were to be kept locked! Besides, it couldn't have

happened if you had had things ready at the proper time!"

Just then the Countess, pleased and excited, entered the room with the

open note in her hand. "Do you know who is downstairs?" she exclaimed.

"For goodness' sake, read that note! Mozart from Vienna, the composer!

Some body must go at once and invite him in! I'm afraid he will be gone!

What will he think of me? You treated him very politely, I hope, Velten.

What was it that happened?"

"What happened?" interrupted the Count, whose wrath was not immediately

assuaged by the prospect of a visit from a famous man. "The madman

pulled one of the nine oranges from the tree which was for Eugenie.

Monster! So the point of our joke is gone, and Max may as well tear up

his poem."

"Oh, no!" she answered, earnestly; "the gap can easily be filled. Leave

that to me. But go, both of you, release the good man, and persuade him

to come in, if you possibly can. He shall not go further today if we can

coax him to stay. If you do not find him in the garden, go to the inn

and bring him and his wife too. Fate could not have provided a greater

gift or a finer surprise for Eugenie today."

"No, indeed," answered Max, "that was my first thought, too. Come, Papa!

And"--as they descended the staircase--"you may be quite easy about the

verses. The ninth Muse will not desert me; instead, I can use the

accident to especial advantage."

"Impossible!"

"Not at all!"

"Well, if that is so--I take your word for it--we will do the lunatic

all possible honor."

While all this was going on in the palace, our quasi-prisoner, not very

anxious over the outcome of the affair, had busied himself some time in

writing. Then, as no one appeared, he began to walk uneasily up and

down. Presently came an urgent message from the inn, that dinner was

ready long ago and the postilion was anxious to start; would

he please come at once. So he packed up his papers and was just

about to leave, when the two men appeared before the arbor.

The Count greeted him in his jovial, rather noisy fashion, and would

hear not a word of apology, but insisted that Mozart should accompany

him to the house, for the afternoon and evening at least.

"You are so well known to us, my dear Maestro, that I doubt if you could

find a family where your name is spoken more often, or with greater

enthusiasm. My niece sings and plays, she spends almost the whole day at

her piano, knows your works by heart, and has had the greatest desire to

meet you, particularly since the last of your concerts. She had been

promised an invitation from Princess Gallizin, in Vienna, in a few

weeks--a house where you often play, I hear. But now you are going to

Prague, and no one knows whether you will ever come back to us. Take

today and tomorrow for rest; let us send away your traveling carriage

and be responsible for the remainder of your journey."

The composer, who would willingly have sacrificed upon the altar of

friendship or of pleasure ten times as much as was asked of him now, did

not hesitate long. He insisted, however, that very early next morning

they must continue their journey. Count Max craved the pleasure of

bringing Frau Mozart and of attending to all necessary matters at the

inn; he would walk over, and a carriage should follow immediately.

Count Max inherited from both father and mother a lively imagination,

and had, besides, talent and inclination for _belles lettres_. As an

officer he was distinguished rather for his learning and culture than

because of fondness for military life. He was well read in French

literature, and at a time when German verse was of small account in the

higher circles had won appreciation for uncommon ease of style--writing

after such models as Hagedorn and Götz. The betrothal had offered him,

as we already learned, a particularly happy occasion for the exercise

of his gifts.

He found Madame Mozart seated at the table, where she had already begun

the meal, talking with the inn-keeper's daughter. She was too well used

to Mozart's habits of forming acquaintances and accepting impromptu

invitations to be greatly surprised at the appearance and message of the

young officer. With undisguised pleasure she prepared to accompany him,

and thoughtfully and quickly gave all necessary orders. Satchels were

repacked, the inn-keeper was paid, the postilion dismissed, and, without

too great anxiety over her toilet, she herself made ready, and drove off

in high spirits to the palace, never guessing in what a strange fashion

her spouse had introduced himself there.

He, meanwhile, was most comfortably and delightfully entertained. He had

met Eugenie, a most lovely creature, fair and slender, gay in shining

crimson silk and costly lace, with a white ribbon studded with pearls in

her hair. The Baron, too, was presented, a man of gentle and frank

disposition, but little older than his fiancée and seemingly well suited

to her.

The jovial host, almost too generous with his jests and stories, led the

conversation; refreshments were offered, which our traveler did not

refuse. Then some one opened the piano, upon which _Figaro_ was lying,

and Eugenie began to sing, to the Baron's accompaniment, Susanne's

passionate aria in the garden scene. The embarrassment which for a

moment made her bright color come and go, fled with the first notes from

her lips, and she sang as if inspired.

Mozart was evidently surprised. As she finished he went to her with

unaffected pleasure. "How can one praise you, dear child," he said.

"Such singing is like the sunshine, which praises itself best because it

does every one good. It is to the soul like a refreshing bath to a

child; he laughs, and wonders, and is content. Not every day, I assure

you, do we composers hear ourselves sung with such purity

and simplicity--with such perfection!" and he seized her hand

and kissed it heartily. Mozart's amiability and kindness, no less than

his high appreciation of her talent, touched Eugenie deeply, and her

eyes filled with tears of pleasure.

At that moment Madame Mozart entered, and immediately after appeared

other guests who had been expected--a family of distant relatives, of

whom one, Franziska, had been from childhood Eugenie's intimate friend.

When all the greetings and congratulations were over, Mozart seated

himself at the piano. He played a part of one of his concertos, which

Eugenie happened to be learning. It was a great delight to have the

artist and his genius so near--within one's own walls. The composition

was one of those brilliant ones in which pure Beauty, in a fit of

caprice, seems to have lent herself to the service of Elegance, but,

only half disguised in changing forms and dazzling lights, betrays in

every movement her own nobility and pours out lavishly her glorious

pathos.

The Countess noticed that most of the listeners, even Eugenie herself,

were divided between seeing and hearing, although they gave the close

attention and kept the perfect silence which were due to such enchanting

playing. Indeed it was not easy to resist a throng of distracting and

wondering thoughts as one watched the composer--his erect, almost stiff

position, his good-natured face, the graceful movements of his small

hands and curved fingers.

Turning to Madame Mozart, as the playing ceased, the Count began: "When

it is necessary to give a compliment to a composer--not everybody's

business--how easy it is for kings and emperors. All words are equally

good and equally extraordinary in their mouths; they dare to say

whatever they please. And how comfortable it must be, for instance, to

sit close behind Herr Mozart's chair, and, at the final chord of a

brilliant Fantasia, to clap the modest and learned man on the shoulder

and say: 'My dear Mozart, you are a Jack-at-all-trades!' And the word goes

like wild-fire through the hall: 'What did he say?' 'He said Mozart was a

Jack-at-all-trades!' and everybody who fiddles or pipes a song or

composes is enraptured over the expression. In short, that is the way of

the great, the familiar manner of the emperors, and quite inimitable. I

have always envied the Friedrichs and the Josefs that faculty, but never

more than now when I quite despair of finding in my mind's pockets the

suitable coin!"

The Count's jest provoked a laugh, as usual, and the guests followed

their hostess toward the dining-hall, where the fragrance of flowers and

refreshingly cool air greeted them. They took their places at the table,

Mozart opposite Eugenie and the Baron. His neighbor on one side was a

little elderly lady, an unmarried aunt of Franziska's; on the other side

was the charming young niece who soon commended herself to him by her

wit and gaiety. Frau Constanze sat between the host and her friendly

guide, the Lieutenant. The lower end of the table was empty. In the

centre stood two large _epergnes_, heaped with fruits and flowers. The

walls were hung with rich festoons, and all the appointments indicated

an extensive banquet. Upon tables and side-boards were the choicest

wines, from the deepest red to the pale yellow, whose sparkling foam

crowns the second half of the feast. For some time the conversation,

carried on from all sides, had been general. But when the Count, who,

from the first, had been hinting at Mozart's adventure in the garden,

came mysteriously nearer and nearer to it, so that some were smiling,

others puzzling their brains to know what it all meant, Mozart at last

took the cue.

"I will truthfully confess," he began, "how I came to have the honor of

an acquaintance with this noble house. I do not play a very dignified

rôle in the tale; in fact, I came within a hair's breadth of sitting,

not here at this bountiful table, but hungry and alone in the most

remote dungeon of the palace, watching the spider-webs on the wall."

"It must, indeed, be a pretty story," cried Madame Mozart.

Then Mozart related minutely all that we already know, to the great

entertainment of his audience. There was no end to the merriment, even

the gentle Eugenie shaking with uncontrollable laughter.

"Well," he went on, "according to the proverb I need not mind your

laughter, for I have made my small profit out of the affair, as you will

soon see. But first hear how it happened that an old fellow could so

forget himself. A reminiscence of my childhood was to blame for it.

"In the spring of 1770, a thirteen-year-old boy, I traveled with my

father in Italy. We went from Rome to Naples, where I had already played

twice in the conservatory and several times in other places.

"The nobility and clergy had shown us many attentions, but especially

attracted to us was a certain Abbé, who flattered himself that he was a

connoisseur, and who, moreover, had some influence at court. The day

before we left he conducted us, with some other acquaintances, into a

royal garden, the Villa Reale, situated upon a beautiful street, close

to the sea. A company of Sicilian comedians were performing there--'Sons

of Neptune' was one of the many names they gave themselves.

"With many distinguished spectators, among whom were the young and

lovely Queen Carolina and two princesses, we sat on benches ranged in

long rows in a gallery shaded with awnings, while the waves splashed

against the wall below. The many-colored sea reflected the glorious

heavens; directly before us rose Vesuvius; on the left gleamed the

gentle curve of the shore.

"The first part of the entertainment was rather uninteresting. A float

which lay on the water had served as a stage. But the second part

consisted of rowing, swimming, and diving, and every detail has always

remained fresh in my memory.

"From opposite sides of the water two graceful light boats approached

each other, bent, as it seemed, upon a pleasure-trip. The larger one,

gorgeously painted, with a gilded prow, was provided with a

quarter-deck, and had, besides the rowers' seats, a slender mast and a

sail. Five youths, ideally handsome, with bared shoulders and limbs,

were busy about the boat, or were amusing themselves with a like number

of maidens, their sweethearts. One of these, who was sitting in the

centre of the deck twining wreaths of flowers, was noticeable as well

for her beauty as for her dress. The others waited upon her, stretched

an awning to shield her from the sun, and passed her flowers from the

basket. One, a flute player, sat at her feet, and accompanied with her

clear tones the singing of the others. The beauty in the centre had her

own particular admirer; yet the pair seemed rather indifferent to each

other, and I thought the youth almost rude.

"Meanwhile the other boat had come nearer. It was more simply fashioned,

and carried youths only. The colors of the first boat were red, but the

crew of this one wore green. They stopped at sight of the others, nodded

greetings to the maidens, and made signs that they wished to become

better acquainted. Thereupon the liveliest of the girls took a rose from

her bosom, and roguishly held it on high, as if to ask whether such a

gift would be welcome. She was answered with enthusiasm. The red youths

looked on, sullen and contemptuous, but could not object when several of

the maidens proposed to throw to the poor strangers at least enough to

keep them from starving. A basket of oranges--probably only yellow

balls--stood on deck; and now began a charming display, accompanied by

music from the quay.

"One of the girls tossed from light fingers a couple of oranges; back

they came from fingers in the other boat, as light. On they went, back

and forth, and as one girl after another joined in the sport dozens of

oranges were soon flying through the air. Only one, the beauty in the

middle of the boat, took no part, except to look on, curiously, from

her comfortable couch. We could not sufficiently admire the skill on

both sides. The boats circled slowly about, turning now the prow, now

the sides, toward each other. There were about two dozen balls

continually in the air, yet they seemed many more, sometimes falling in

regular figures, sometimes rising high in lofty curves, almost never

going astray, but seeming to be attracted by some mysterious power in

the outstretched hands.

"The ear was quite as well entertained as the eye--with charming

melodies, Sicilian airs, dances, Saltorelli, _Canzoni a ballo_--a long

medley woven together like a garland. The youngest princess, an

impulsive little creature, about my own age, kept nodding her head in

time to the music. Her smile and her eyes with their long lashes I can

see to this day.

"Now let me briefly describe the rest of the entertainment, though it

has nothing to do with my affair in the garden. You could hardly imagine

anything prettier. The play with the balls gradually ceased, and then,

all of a sudden, one of the youths of the green colors drew out of the

water a net with which he seemed to have been playing. To the general

surprise, a huge shining fish lay in it. The boy's companions sprang to

seize it, but it slipped from their hands to the sea, as if it had

really been alive. This was only a ruse, however, to lure the red youths

from their boat; and they fell into the trap. They, as well as those of

the green, threw themselves into the water after the fish. So began a

lively and most amusing chase. At last the green swimmers, seeing their

opportunity, boarded the red boat, which now had only the maidens to

defend it. The noblest of the enemy, as handsome as a god, hastened

joyfully to the beautiful maiden, who received him with rapture,

heedless of the despairing shrieks of the others. All efforts of the red

to recover their boat were vain; they were beaten back with oars and

weapons. Their futile rage and struggles, the cries and prayers of the

maidens, the music--now changed in tone--the waters--all made a scene

beyond description, and the audience applauded wildly. Then suddenly the

sail was loosed, and out of it sprang to the bowsprit a rosy,

silver-winged boy, with bow and arrows and quiver; the oars began to

move, the sail filled, and the boat glided away, as if under the

guidance of the god, to a little island. Thither, after signals of truce

had been exchanged, the red youths hastened after boarding the deserted

boat. The unhappy maidens were released, but the fairest one of all

sailed away, of her own free will, with her lover. And that was the end

of the comedy."

"I think," whispered Eugenie to the Baron, in the pause that followed,

"that we had there a complete symphony in the true Mozart spirit. Am I

not right? Hasn't it just the grace of _Figaro_?"

But just as the Baron would have repeated this remark to Mozart, the

composer continued: "It is seventeen years since I was in Italy. But who

that has once seen Italy, Naples especially, even with the eyes of a

child, will ever forget it? Yet I have never recalled that last

beautiful day more vividly than today in your garden. When I closed my

eyes the last veil vanished, and I saw the lovely spot--sea and shore,

mountain and city, the gay throng of people, and the wonderful game of

ball. I seemed to hear the same music--a stream of joyful melodies, old

and new, strange and familiar, one after another. Presently a little

dance-song came along, in six-eighth measure, something quite new to me.

Hold on, I thought, that is a devilishly cute little tune! I listened

more closely. Good Heavens! That is Masetto, that is Zerlina!" He smiled

and nodded at Madame Mozart, who guessed what was coming.

"It was this way," he went on; "there was a little, simple number of my

first act unfinished--the duet and chorus of a country wedding. Two

months ago, when in composing my score I came to this number, the right

theme did not present itself at the first attempt. It should be a simple

child-like melody, sparkling with joy--a fresh bunch of flowers tucked

in among a maiden's fluttering ribbons. So, because one should not

force such a thing, and because such trifles often come of themselves, I

left that number, and was so engrossed in the rest of the work that I

almost forgot it. Today, while we were driving along, just outside the

village, the text came into my head; but I cannot remember that I

thought much about it. Yet, only an hour later, in the arbor by the

fountain, I caught just the right _motif_, more happily than I could

have found it in any other way, at any other time. An artist has strange

experiences now and then, but such a thing never happened to me be fore.

For to find a melody exactly fitted to the verse--but I must not

anticipate. The bird had only his head out of the shell, and I proceeded

to pull off the rest of it! Meantime Zerlina's dance floated before my

eyes, and, somehow, too, the view on the Gulf of Naples. I heard the

voices of the bridal couple, and the chorus of peasants, men and girls."

Here Mozart gayly hummed the beginning of the song. "Meantime my hands

had done the mischief, Nemesis was lurking near, and suddenly appeared

in the shape of the dreadful man in livery. Had an eruption of Vesuvius

suddenly destroyed and buried with its rain of ashes audience and

actors, the whole majesty of Parthenope, on that heavenly day by the

sea, I could not have been more surprised or horrified. The fiend!

People do not easily make me so hot! His face was as hard as bronze--and

very like the terrible Emperor Tiberius, too! If the servant looks like

that, thought I, what must His Grace the Count be! But to tell the truth

I counted--and not without reason--on the protection of the ladies. For

I overheard the fat hostess of the inn telling my wife, Constanze there,

who is somewhat curious in disposition, all the most interesting facts

about the family, and so I knew--"

Here Madame Mozart had to interrupt him and give them most positive

assurance that he was the one who asked the questions, and a lively and

amusing discussion followed.

"However that may be," he said at last, "I heard something about a

favorite foster-daughter who, besides being beautiful, was goodness

itself, and sang like an angel. '_Per Dio_!' I said to myself, as I

remembered that, 'that will help you out of your scrape! Sit down and

write out the song as far as you can, explain your behavior truthfully,

and they will think it all a good joke.' No sooner said than done! I had

time enough, and found a blank piece of paper--and here is the result! I

place it in these fair hands, an impromptu wedding-song, if you will

accept it!"

He held out the neatly written manuscript toward Eugenie, but the Count

anticipated her, and quickly taking it himself, said: "Have patience a

moment longer, my dear!"

At his signal the folding-doors of the salon opened, and servants

appeared, bringing in the fateful orange-tree, which they put at the

foot of the table, placing on each side a slender myrtle-tree. An

inscription fastened to the orange-tree proclaimed it the property of

Eugenie; but in front of it, upon a porcelain plate, was seen, as the

napkin which covered it was lifted, an orange, cut in pieces, and beside

it the count placed Mozart's autograph note.

"I believe," said the Countess, after the mirth had subsided, "that

Eugenie does not know what that tree really is. She does not recognize

her old friend with all its fruit and blossoms."

Incredulous, Eugenie looked first at the tree, then at her uncle. "It

isn't possible," she said; "I knew very well that it couldn't be saved."

"And so you think that we have found another to take its place? That

would have been worth while! No! I shall have to do as they do in the

play, when the long-lost son or brother proves his identity by his moles

and scars! Look at that knot, and at this crack, which you must have

noticed a hundred times. Is it your tree or isn't it?"

Eugenie could doubt no longer, and her surprise and delight knew no

bounds. To the Count's family this tree always suggested the story of a

most excellent woman, who lived more than a hundred years before their

day, and who well deserves a word in passing.

The Count's grandfather--a statesman of such repute in Vienna that he

had been honored with the confidence of two successive rulers--was as

happy in his private life as in his public life; for he possessed a most

excellent wife, Renate Leonore. During her repeated visits to France she

came in contact with the brilliant court of Louis XIV., and with the

most distinguished men and women of the day. She sympathized with the

ever-varying intellectual pleasures of the court without sacrificing in

the least her strong, inborn sense of honor and propriety. On this very

account, perhaps, she was the leader of a certain naïve opposition, and

her correspondence gives many a hint of the courage and independence

with which she could defend her sound principles and firm opinions, and

could attack her adversary in his weakest spot, all without giving

offense.

Her lively interest in all the personages whom one could meet at the

house of a Ninon, in the centres of cultivation and learning, was

nevertheless so modest and so well controlled that she was honored with

the friendship of one of the noblest women of the time--Mme. de Sévigné.

The Count, after his grandmother's death, had found in an old oaken

chest, full of interesting papers, the most charming letters from the

Marquise and her daughter.

From the hand of Mme. de Sévigné, indeed, she had received, during a

fête at Trianon, the sprig from an orange-tree, which she had planted

and which became in Germany a flourishing tree. For perhaps twenty-five

years it grew under her care, and afterward was treated with the

greatest solicitude by children and grandchildren. Prized for its own

actual worth, it was treasured the more as the living symbol of an age

which, intellectually, was then regarded as little less than divine--an

age in which we, today, can find little that is truly admirable, but

which was preparing the way for events, only a few years distant from

our innocent story, which shook the world.

To the bequest of her excellent ancestor Eugenie showed much devotion,

and her uncle had often said that the tree should some day belong to

her. The greater was her disappointment then, when, during her absence

in the preceding spring, the leaves of the precious tree began to turn

yellow and many branches died. The gardener gave it up for lost, since

he could find no particular cause for its fading, and did not succeed in

reviving it. But the Count, advised by a skilful friend, had it placed

in a room by itself and treated according to one of the strange and

mysterious prescriptions which exist among the country folk, and his

hope of surprising his beloved niece with her old friend in all its new

strength and fruitfulness was realized beyond expectation. Repressing

his impatience, and anxious, moreover, lest those oranges which had

ripened first should fall from the tree, he had postponed the surprise

for several weeks, until the day of the betrothal; and there is no need

of further excuse for the good man's emotion, when, at the last moment,

he found that a stranger had robbed him of his pleasure.

But the Lieutenant had long before dinner found opportunity to arrange

his poetical contribution to the festive presentation, and had altered

the close of his verses, which might otherwise have been almost too

serious. Now he rose and drew forth his manuscript, and, turning to

Eugenie, began to read.

The oft-sung tree of the Hesperides--so ran the story--sprang up, ages

ago, in the garden of Juno on a western island, as a wedding gift from

Mother Earth, and was watched over by three nymphs, gifted with song. A

shoot from this tree had often wished for a similar fate, for the custom

of bestowing one of his race on a royal bride had descended from gods to

mortals. After long and vain waiting, the maiden to whom he might turn

his fond glances seemed at last to be found. She was kind to him and

lingered by him often. But the proud laurel (devoted to the Muses), his

neighbor beside the spring, roused his jealousy by threatening to steal

from the talented beauty all thought of love for man. In vain the myrtle

comforted him and taught him patience by her own example; finally the

absence of his beloved increased his malady till it became well-nigh

fatal.

But summer brought back the absent one, and, happily, with a changed

heart. Town, palace, and garden received her with the greatest joy.

Roses and lilies, more radiant than ever, looked up with modest rapture;

shrubs and trees nodded greetings to her; but for one, the noblest, she

came alas! too late. His leaves were withered, and only the lifeless

stem and the dry tips of his branches were left. He would never know his

kind friend again. And how she wept and mourned over him!

But Apollo heard her voice from afar, and, coming nearer, looked with

compassion upon her grief. He touched the tree with his all-healing

hands. Immediately the sap began to stir and rise in the trunk; young

leaves unfolded; white, nectar-laden flowers opened here and there.

Yes--for what cannot the immortals do-the beautiful, round fruits

appeared, three times three, the number of the nine sisters; they grew

and grew, their young green changing before his eyes to the color of

gold. Phoebus--so ended the poem--

Phoebus, in his work rejoicing,

Counts the fruit; but, ah! the sight

Tempts him. In another moment

Doth he yield to appetite.

Smiling, plucks the god of music

One sweet orange from the tree

"Share with me the fruit, thou fair one,

And this, slice shall Amor's be."

The verses were received with shouts of applause, and Max was readily

pardoned for the unexpected ending which had so completely altered the

really charming effect which he had made in the first version.

Franziska, whose ready wit had already been called out by the Count and

Mozart, suddenly left the table, and returning brought with her a large

old English engraving which had hung, little heeded, in a distant room.

"It must be true, as I have always heard, that there is nothing new

under the sun," she cried, as she set up the picture at the end of the

table. "Here in the Golden Age is the same scene which we have heard

about today. I hope that Apollo will recognize himself in this

situation."

"Excellent," answered Max. "There we have the god just as he is bending

thoughtfully over the sacred spring. And, look! behind him in the

thicket is an old Satyr watching him. I would take my oath that Apollo

is thinking of some long-forgotten Acadian dances which old Chiron

taught him to play on the cithern when he was young."

"Exactly," applauded Franziska, who was standing behind Mozart's chair.

Turning to him, she continued, "Do you see that bough heavy with fruit,

bending down toward the god?"

"Yes; that is the olive-tree, which was sacred to him."

"Not at all. Those are the finest oranges. And in a moment--in a fit of

abstraction--he will pick one."

"Instead," cried Mozart, "he will stop this roguish mouth with a

thousand kisses." And catching her by the arm he vowed that she should

not go until she had paid the forfeit--which was promptly done.

"Max, read us what is written beneath the picture," said the Countess.

"They are verses from a celebrated ode of Horace.[32] The poet Ramler,

of Berlin, made a fine translation of them a while ago. It is in most

beautiful rhythm. How splendid is even this one passage:

"--And he, who never more

Will from his shoulders lay aside the bow,

Who in the pure dew of Castalia's fountain

Laves loosened hair; who holds the Lycian thicket

And his own native wood--

Apollo! Delian and Pataréan King."

"Beautiful!" exclaimed the Count, "but it needs a little explanation

here and there. For instance, 'He who will never lay aside the bow,'

would, of course, mean in plain prose, 'He who was always a most

diligent fiddler.' But, Mozart, you are sowing discord in two gentle

hearts."

"How so?"

"Eugenie is envying her friend--and with good reason."

"Ah! you have discovered my weak point. But what would the Herr Baron

say?"

"I could forgive for once."

"Very well, then; I shall not neglect my opportunity. But you need not

be alarmed, Herr Baron. There is no danger as long as the god does not

lend me his countenance and his long yellow hair. I wish he would. I

would give him on the spot Mozart's braid and his very best hair-ribbon

besides."

"Apollo would have to be careful, in future, how he gracefully laved his

new French finery in the Castalian fountain," laughed Franziska.

With such exchange of jests the merriment grew; the wines were passed,

many a toast was offered, and Mozart soon fell into his way of talking

in rhyme. The Lieutenant was an able second, and his father, also, would

not be outdone; indeed, once or twice the latter succeeded remarkably

well. But such conversations cannot well be repeated, because the very

elements which make them irresistible at the time--the gaiety of the

mood and the charm of personality in word and look--are lacking.

Among the toasts was one proposed by Franziska's aunt--that Mozart

should live to write many more immortal works. "Exactly! I am with you

in that," cried Mozart, and they eagerly touched glasses. Then the Count

began to sing--with much power and certainty, thanks to his inspiration:

"Here's to Mozart's latest score;

May he write us many more."

_Max_.

"Works, da Ponte, such as you

(Mighty Schikaneder, too),"

_Mozart_.

"And Mozart, even, until now

Never thought of once, I vow."

_The Count_.

"Works that you shall live to see,

Great arch-thief of Italy;

That shall drive you to despair,

Clever Signor Bonbonnière."

_Max_.

"You may have a hundred years,"

_Mozart_.

"Unless you with all your wares,"

_All three, con forza_.

"Straight _zum Teufel_ first repair,

Clever Monsieur Bonbonnière."

The Count was loth to stop singing, and the last four lines of the

impromptu terzetto suddenly became a so-called "endless canon," and

Franziska's aunt had wit and confidence enough to add all sorts of

ornamentation in her quavering soprano. Mozart promised afterward to

write out the song at leisure, according to the rules of the art, and he

did send it to the Count after he returned to Vienna.

Eugenie had long ago quietly examined her inheritance from the

shrubbery of "Tiberius," and presently some one asked to hear the new

duet from her and Mozart. The uncle was glad to join in the chorus, and

all rose and hastened to the piano, in the large salon.

The charming composition aroused the greatest enthusiasm; but its very

character was a temptation to put music to another use, and indeed it

was Mozart himself who gave the signal, as he left the piano, to ask

Franziska for a waltz, while Max took up his violin. The Count was not

slow in doing the honors for Madame Mozart, and one after another joined

in the dance. Even Franziska's aunt became young again as she trod the

minuet with the gallant Lieutenant. Finally, as Mozart and the fair

Eugenie finished the last dance, he claimed his promised privilege.

It was now almost sunset, and the garden was cool and pleasant. There

the Countess invited the ladies to rest and refresh themselves, while

the Count led the way to the billiard room, for Mozart was known to be

fond of the game.

We will follow the ladies.

After they had walked about they ascended a little slope, half inclosed

by a high vine-covered trellis. From the hill they could look off into

the fields, and down into the streets of the village. The last rosy rays

of sunlight shone in through the leaves.

"Could we not sit here for a little," suggested the Countess, "if Madame

Mozart would tell us about herself and her husband?"

Madame Mozart was willing enough, and her eager listeners drew their

chairs close about her.

"I will tell you a story that you must know in order to understand a

little plan of mine. I wish to give to the Baroness-to-be a souvenir of

a very unusual kind. It is no article of luxury or of fashion but it is

interesting solely because of its history."

"What can it be, Eugenie?" asked Franziska. "Perhaps the ink-bottle of

some famous man." "Not a bad guess. You shall see the treasure within

an hour; it is in my trunk. Now for the story and with your permission

it shall begin back a year or more.

"The winter before last, Mozart's health caused me much anxiety, on

account of his increasing nervousness and despondency. Although he was

now and then in unnaturally high spirits when in company, yet at home he

was generally silent and depressed, or sighing and ailing. The physician

recommended dieting and exercise in the country. But his patient paid

little heed to the good advice; it was not easy to follow a prescription

which took so much time and was so directly contrary to all his plans

and habits. Then the doctor frightened him with a long lecture on

breathing, the human blood, corpuscles, phlogiston, and such unheard-of

things; there were dissertations on Nature and her purposes in eating,

drinking, and digestion--a subject of which Mozart was, till then, as

ignorant as a five-year-old child.

"The lesson made a distinct impression. For the doctor had hardly been

gone a half hour when I found my husband, deep in thought but of a

cheerful countenance, sitting in his room and examining a walking-stick

which he had ferreted out of a closet full of old things. I supposed

that he had entirely forgotten it. It was a handsome stick, with a large

head of lapis lazuli, and had belonged to my father. But no one had ever

before seen a cane in Mozart's hand, and I had to laugh at him.

"'You see,' he cried, 'I have surrendered myself to my cure, with all

its appurtenances. I will drink the water, and take exercise every day

in the open air, with this stick as my companion. I have been thinking

about it; there is our neighbor, the privy-councilor, who cannot even

cross the street to visit his best friend without his cane; tradesmen

and officers, chancellors and shop-keepers, when they go with their

families on Sunday for a stroll in the country, carry each one his

trusty cane. And I have noticed how in the Stephansplatz, a quarter of

an hour before church or court, the worthy citizens stand talking in

groups and leaning on their stout sticks, which, one can see, are the

firm supports of their industry, order, and tranquillity. In short, this

old-fashioned and rather homely custom must be a blessing and a comfort.

You may not believe it, but I am really impatient to go off with this

good friend for my first constitutional across the bridge. We are

already slightly acquainted, and I hope that we are partners for life.'

"The partnership was but a brief one, however. On the third day of their

strolls the companion failed to return. Another was procured, and lasted

somewhat longer; and, at any rate, I was thankful to Mozart's sudden

fancy for canes, since it helped him for three whole weeks to carry out

the doctor's instructions. Good results began to appear; we had almost

never seen him so bright and cheerful. But after a while the fancy

passed, and I was in despair again. Then it happened that, after a very

fatiguing day, he went with some friends who were passing through Vienna

to a musical soirée. He promised faithfully that he would stay but an

hour, but those are always the occasions when people most abuse his

kindness, once he is seated at the piano and lost in music; for he sits

there like a man in a balloon, miles above the earth, where one cannot

hear the clocks strike. I sent twice for him, in the middle of the

night; but the servant could not even get a word with him. At last, at

three in the morning, he came home, and I made up my mind that I must be

very severe with him all day."

Here Madame Mozart passed over some circumstances in silence. It was not

unlikely that the Signora Malerbi (a woman with whom Frau Constanze had

good reason to be angry) would have gone also to this soirée. The young

Roman singer had, through Mozart's influence, obtained a place in the

opera, and without doubt her coquetry had assisted her in winning his

favor. Indeed, some gossips would have it that she had made a conquest

of him, and had kept him for months on the rack. However that may have

been, she conducted herself afterward in the most impertinent and

ungrateful manner, and even permitted herself to jest at the expense of

her benefactor. So it was quite like her to speak of Mozart to one of

her more fortunate admirers as _un piccolo grifo raso_ (a little

well-shaven pig). The comparison, worthy of a Circe, was the more

irritating because one must confess that it contained a grain of truth.

As Mozart was returning from this soirée (at which, as it happened, the

singer was not present), a somewhat excited friend was so indiscreet as

to repeat to him the spiteful remark. It was the more amazing to him

because it was the first unmistakable proof of the utter ingratitude of

his protegée. In his great indignation he did not notice the extreme

coolness of Frau Constanze's reception. Without stopping to take breath

he poured out his grievance, and well-nigh roused her pity; yet she held

conscientiously to her determination that he should not so easily escape

punishment. So when he awoke from a sound sleep shortly after noon, he

found neither wife nor children at home, and the table was spread for

him alone.

Ever since Mozart's marriage there had been little which could make him

so unhappy as any slight cloud between his better half and himself. If

he had only known how heavy an anxiety had burdened her during the past

few days! But, as usual, she had put off as long as possible the

unpleasant communication. Her money was now almost spent, and there was

no prospect that they should soon have more. Although Mozart did not

guess this state of affairs, yet his heart sank with discouragement and

uncertainty. He did not wish to eat; he could not stay in the house. He

dressed himself quickly, to go out into the air. On the table he left an

open note in Italian:

"You have taken a fair revenge, and treated me quite as I deserved.

But be kind and smile again when I come home, I beg you. I should like

to turn Carthusian or Trappist and make amends for my sins."

Then he took his hat, but not his cane--that had had its

day--and set off.

Since we have excused Frau Constanze from telling so much of her story

we may as well spare her a little longer. The good man sauntered along

past the market toward the armory--it was a warm, sunshiny, summer

afternoon--and slowly and thoughtfully crossed the Hof, and, turning to

the left, climbed the Mölkenbastei, thus avoiding the greetings of

several acquaintances who were just entering the town.

Although the silent sentinel who paced up and down beside the cannon did

not disturb him, he stopped but a few minutes to enjoy the beautiful

view across the green meadows and over the suburbs to the Kahlenberg.

The peaceful calm of nature was too little in sympathy with his

thoughts. With a sigh he set out across the esplanade, and so went on,

without any particular aim, through the Alser-Vorstadt.

At the end of Währinger Street there was an inn, with a bowling alley;

the proprietor, a master rope-maker, was as well known for his good beer

as for the excellence of his ropes. Mozart heard the balls and saw a

dozen or more guests within. A half-unconscious desire to forget himself

among natural and unassuming people moved him to enter the garden. He

sat down at one of the tables--but little shaded by the small

trees--with an inspector of the water-works and two other Philistines,

ordered his glass of beer, joined in their conversation, and watched the

bowling.

Not far from the bowling-ground, toward the house, was the open shop of

the rope-maker. It was a small room, full to overflowing; for, besides

the necessaries of his trade, he had for sale all kinds of dishes and

utensils for kitchen, cellar, and farm-oil and wagon grease, also seeds

of various kinds, and dill and cheap brandy. A girl, who had to serve

the guests and at the same time attend to the shop, was busy with a

countryman, who, leading his little boy by the hand, had just stepped up

to make a few purchases--a measure for fruit, a brush, a whip. He

would choose one article, try it, lay it down, take up a second and a

third, and go back, uncertainly, to the first one; he could not decide

upon any one. The girl went off several times to wait on the guests,

came back, and with the utmost patience helped him make his choice.

Mozart, on a bench near the alley, saw and heard, with great amusement,

all that was going on. As much as he was interested in the good,

sensible girl, with her calm and earnest countenance, he was still more

entertained by the countryman who, even after he had gone, left Mozart

much to think about. The master, for the time being, had changed places

with him; he felt how important in his eyes was the small transaction,

how anxiously and conscientiously the prices, differing only by a few

kreutzers, were considered. "Now," he thought, "the man will go home to

his wife and tell her of his purchases, and the children will all wait

until the sack is opened, to see if it holds anything for them; while

the good wife will hasten to bring the supper and the mug of fresh

home-brewed cider, for which her husband has been keeping his appetite

all day. If only I could be as happy and independent waiting only on

Nature, and enjoying her blessings though they be hard to win! But if my

art demands of me a different kind of work, that I would not, after all,

exchange for anything in the world, why should I meanwhile remain in

circumstances which are just the opposite of such a simple and innocent

life? If I had a little land in a pleasant spot near the village, and a

little house, then I could really live. In the mornings I could work

diligently at my scores; all the rest of the time I could spend with my

family. I could plant trees, visit my garden, in the fall gather apples

and pears with my boys, now and then take a trip to town for an opera,

or have a friend or two with me--what delight! Well, who knows what may

happen!"

He walked up to the shop, spoke to the girl, and began to examine her

stock more closely. His mind had not quite descended from its idyllic

flight, and the clean, smooth, shining wood, with its fresh smell,

attracted him. It suddenly occurred to him that he would pick out

several articles for his wife, such as she might need or might like to

have. At his suggestion, Constanze had, a long time ago, rented a little

piece of ground outside the Kärnthner Thor, and had raised a few

vegetables; so now it seemed quite fitting to invest in a long rake and

a small rake and a spade. Then, as he looked further, he did honor to

his principles of economy by denying himself, with an effort and after

some deliberation, a most tempting churn. To make up for this, however,

he chose a deep dish with a cover and a prettily carved handle; for it

seemed a most useful article. It was made of narrow strips of wood,

light and dark, and was carefully varnished. There was also a

particularly fine choice of spoons, bread-boards, and plates of all

sizes, and a salt-box of simple construction to hang on the wall.

At last he spied a stout stick, which had a handle covered with leather

and studded with brass nails. As the strange customer seemed somewhat

undecided about this also, the girl remarked with a smile that that was

hardly a suitable stick for a gentleman to carry. "You are right,

child," he answered. "I think I have seen butchers carry such sticks.

No, I will not have it. But all the other things which we have laid out

you may bring to me today or tomorrow." And he gave his name and

address. Then he went back to the table to finish his beer. Only one of

his former companions was sitting there, a master-tinker.

"The girl there has had a good day for once," he remarked. "Her uncle

gives her a commission on all that she sells."

Mozart was now more pleased with his purchase than ever. But his

interest was to become still greater. For, in a moment, as the girl

passed near, the tinker called out, "Well, Crescenz, how is your friend

the locksmith? Will he soon be filing his own iron?" "Oh," she answered

without stopping, "that iron is still growing deep in the mountain."

"She is a good goose," said the tinsmith. "For a long time she kept

house for her stepfather, and took care of him when he was ill; but

after he died it came out that he had spent all her money. Since that

she has lived with her uncle, and she is a treasure, in the shop, in the

inn, and with the children. There is a fine young apprentice who would

have liked to marry her long ago, but there is a hitch somewhere."

"How so? Has he nothing to live on?"

"They both have saved a little, but not enough. Now comes word of a good

situation and a part of a house in Ghent. Her uncle could easily lend

them the little money that they need, but of course he will not let her

go. He has good friends in the council and in the union, and the young

fellow is meeting with all sorts of difficulties."

"The wretches!" cried Mozart, so loud that the other looked around

anxiously, fearing that they might have been overheard. "And is there no

one who could speak the right word or show those fellows a fist? The

villains! We will get the best of them yet."

The tinker was on thorns. He tried, clumsily enough, to moderate his

statements, and almost contradicted himself. But Mozart would not

listen. "Shame on you, how you chatter! That's just the way with all of

you as soon as you have to answer for anything!" And with that he turned

on his heel and left the astonished tinker. He hastened to the girl, who

was busy with new guests: "Come early tomorrow, and give my respects to

your good friend. I hope that your affairs will prosper." She was too

busy and too much surprised to thank him.

He retraced his way to the city at a quick pace, for the incident had

stirred his blood. Wholly occupied with the affairs of the poor young

couple, he ran over in his mind a list of his friends and acquaintances

who might be able to help them. Then, since it was necessary to have

more particulars from the girl before he could decide upon any step, he

dismissed the subject from his thoughts and hastened eagerly toward

home.

He confidently expected a more than cordial welcome and a kiss at the

door, and longing redoubled his haste. Presently the postman called to

him and handed him a small but heavy parcel, which was addressed in a

fair clear hand which he at once recognized. He stepped into the first

shop to give the messenger his receipt, but when once in the street

again his impatience was not to be checked, so he broke the seal, and,

now walking, now standing still, devoured his letter.

"I was sitting at my sewing-table," continued Madame Mozart, in her

story, "and heard my husband come upstairs and ask the servant for me.

His step and tone were more cheerful and gay than I had expected, and

more so than I quite liked. He went first to his room, but came

immediately to me. 'Good-evening!' he said. I answered him quietly,

without looking up. After walking across the room once or twice, with a

smothered yawn he took up the fly-clap from behind the door--a most

unusual proceeding--and remarking, 'Where do all these flies come from?'

began to slap about, as loudly as possible. The noise is particularly

unpleasant to him, and I had been careful not to let him hear it. 'H'm,'

I thought, 'when he does it himself it's another matter.' Besides, I had

not noticed many flies. His strange behavior vexed me much. 'Six at a

blow!' he cried. 'Do you see?' No answer. Then he laid something on the

table before me, so near that I could not help seeing it without lifting

my eyes from my work. It was nothing less than a heap of ducats. He kept

on with his nonsense behind my back, talking to himself, and giving a

slap now and then. 'The disagreeable good-for-nothing beasts! What were

they put in the world for"' _Pitsch_. 'To be killed, I suppose!'

_Patsch_. 'Natural history teaches us how rapidly their numbers

multiply.' _Pitsch, patsch_. 'In my house they are soon dispatched. Ah,

_maledette! disperate_! Here are twenty more. Do you want them?'

And he came and laid down another pile of gold. I had had hard work to

keep from laughing, and could hold out no longer. He fell on my neck and

we laughed as if for a wager.

"'But where did the money come from' I asked, as he shook the last

pieces from the roll. 'From Prince Esterhazy,[33]rough Haydn. Read the

letter.' I read:

"'Eisenstadt, Etc.

"'_My good friend_.--His Highness has, to my great delight, intrusted

me with the errand of sending to you these 60 ducats. We have been

playing your quartettes again, and his Highness was even more charmed

and delighted than at the first hearing, three months ago. He said to

me (I must write it word for word): "When Mozart dedicated these

works to you, he thought to honor you alone. Yet he cannot take it

amiss if I find in them a compliment to myself also. Tell him that I

think as highly of his genius as you do, and more than that he could not

wish." "Amen," said I. Are you satisfied?

"'_Postscript_ (for the ear of the good wife).--Take care that the

acknowledgment be not too long delayed. A note from Mozart himself

would be best. We must not lose so favorable a breeze.'

"'You angel! You divine creature!' cried Mozart again and again. It

would be hard to say which pleased him most, the letter, or the praise

of the prince, or the money. I confess that just then the money appealed

most to me. We passed a very happy evening, as you may guess.

"Of the affair in the suburb I heard neither that day nor the next. The

whole week went by; no Crescenz appeared, and my husband, in a whirl of

engagements, soon forgot her. One Sunday evening we had a small

musicale. Captain Wasselt, Count Hardegg, and others were there. During

a pause I was called out, and there was the outfit. I went back to the

room and asked, 'Have you ordered a lot of woodenware from the

Alservorsstadt?'

"'By thunder, so I did! I suppose the girl is here? Tell her to come

in.'

"So in she came, quite at ease, with rakes, spades, and all,

and apologized for her delay, saying that she had forgotten the

name of the street and had only just found it. Mozart took the things

from her, one after another, and handed them to me with great

satisfaction. I thanked him and was pleased with everything, praising

and admiring, though I wondered all the time what he had bought the

garden tools for.

"'For your garden,' he said.

"'Goodness! we gave that up long ago, because the river did so much

damage; and besides we never had good luck with it. I told you, and you

didn't object.'

"'What! And so the asparagus that we had this spring--'

"'Was always from the market!'

"'Hear that! If I had only known it! And I praised it just out of pity

for your poor garden, when really the stalks were no bigger than Dutch

quills.'

"The guests enjoyed the fun, and I had to give them some of the

unnecessary articles at once. And when Mozart inquired of the girl about

the prospects of her marriage, and encouraged her to speak freely,

assuring her that whatever assistance we could offer should be quietly

given and cause her no trouble, she told her story with so much modesty

and discretion that she quite won her audience, and was sent away much

encouraged.

"'Those people must be helped,' said the Captain. 'The tricks of the

union do not amount to much. I know some one who will see to that. The

important thing is a contribution toward the expenses of the house and

the furniture. Let us give a benefit concert, admission fee _ad

libitum_!'

"The suggestion found hearty approval. Somebody picked up the salt-box

and said: 'We must have an historic introduction, with a description of

Herr Mozart's purchase, and an account of his philanthropic spirit; and

we will put this box on the table to receive the contributions and

arrange the rakes as decorations.' This did not happen, however, though

the concert came off; and what with the receipts of the concert and

outside contributions, the young couple had more than enough for their

housekeeping outfit, and also the other obstacles were quickly removed.

"The Duscheks, in Prague, dear friends of ours, with whom we are to

stay, heard the story, and Frau Duschek asked for some of the woodenware

as souvenirs. So I laid aside two which I thought were suitable, and was

taking them to her.

"But since we have made another artist friend by the way, one who is,

too, about to provide her wedding furnishings, and who will not despise

what Mozart has chosen, I will divide my gift, and you, Eugenie, may

choose between a lovely open-work rod for stirring chocolate and the

salt-box, which is decorated with a tasteful tulip. My advice is to take

the salt-box; salt, as I have heard, is a symbol of home and

hospitality, and with the gift go the best and most affectionate

wishes."

So ended Madame Mozart's story. How pleased and gratified her listeners

were is easily to be imagined. Their delight was redoubled when, in the

presence of the whole party, the interesting articles were brought out,

and the model of patriarchal simplicity was formally presented. This,

the Count vowed, should have in the silver-chest of its present owner

and all her posterity, as important a place as that of the Florentine

master's famous work.

It was, by this time, almost eight o'clock and tea-time, and soon our

master was pressingly reminded of his promise to show his friends _Don

Juan_, which lay under lock and key, but, happily, not too deep down in

his trunk. Mozart was ready and willing, and by the time he had told the

story of the plot and had brought the libretto, the lights were burning

at the piano.

We could wish that our readers could here realize a touch, at least, of

that peculiar sensation with which a single chord, floating from a

window as we pass, stops us and holds us spellbound--a touch of that

pleasant suspense with which we sit before the curtain in the theatre

while the orchestra is still tuning! Or am I wrong? Can the soul stand

more deeply in awe of everlasting beauty than when pausing before any

sublime and tragic work of art--Macbeth, OEdipus, or whatever it may be?

Man wishes and yet fears to be moved beyond his ordinary habit; he feels

that the Infinite will touch him, and he shrinks before it in the very

moment when it draws him most strongly. Reverence for perfect art is

present, too; the thought of enjoying a heavenly miracle--of being able

and being permitted to make it one's own--stirs an emotion--pride, if

you will--which is perhaps the purest and happiest of which we are

capable.

This little company, however, was on very different ground from ours.

They were about to hear, for the first time, a work which has been

familiar to us from childhood. If one subtracts the very enviable

pleasure of hearing it through its creator, we have the advantage of

them; for in one hearing they could not fully appreciate and understand

such a work, even if they had heard the whole of it.

Of the eighteen numbers which were already written the composer did not

give the half (in the authority from which we have our statement we find

only the last number, the sextet, expressly mentioned), and he played

them in a free sort of transcription, singing here and there as he felt

disposed. Of his wife it is only told that she sang two arias. We might

guess, since her voice was said to be as strong as it was sweet, that

she chose Donna Anna's _Or sai, chi l'onore_, and one of Zerlina's two

arias.

In all probability Eugenie and her fiancé were the only listeners who,

in spirit, taste, and judgment, were what Mozart could wish. They sat

far back in the room, Eugenie motionless as a statue, and so engrossed

that, in the short pauses when the rest of the audience expressed their

interest or showed their delight in involuntary exclamations, she

gave only the briefest replies to the Baron's occasional remarks.

When Mozart stopped, after the beautiful sextet, and conversation began

again, he showed himself particularly pleased with the Baron's comments.

They spoke of the close of the opera, and of the first performance,

announced for an early date in November; and when some one remarked that

certain portions yet to be written must be a gigantic task, the master

smiled, and Constanze said to the Countess, so loudly that Mozart must

needs hear: "He has ideas which he works at secretly; before me,

sometimes."

"You are playing your part badly, my dear," he interrupted. "What if I

should want to begin anew? And, to tell the truth, I'd rather like to."

"Leporello!" cried the Count, springing up and nodding to a servant.

"Bring some wine. Sillery--three bottles."

"No, if you please. That is past; my husband will not drink more than he

still has in his glass."

"May it bring him luck--and so to every one!"

"Good heavens! What have I done," lamented Constanze, looking at the

clock. "It is nearly eleven, and we must start early tomorrow. How shall

we manage?"

"Don't manage at all, dear Frau Mozart."

"Sometimes," began Mozart, "things work out very strangely. What will my

Stanzl say when she learns that the piece of work which you are going to

hear came to life at this very hour of the night, just before I was to

go on a journey?"

"Is it possible! When? Oh! three weeks ago, when you were to go to

Eisenstadt."

"Exactly. This is how it came about. I came in after ten (you were fast

asleep) from dinner at the Richters'. and intended to go to bed early,

as I had promised, for I was to start very early in the morning.

Meanwhile Veit had lighted the candles on the writing-table, as usual. I

made ready for bed mechanically, and then thought I would take just a

look at the last notes I had written. But, cruel fate! with woman's

deuced inconvenient spirit of order you had cleared up the room and

packed the music--for the Prince wished to see a number or two from the

opera. I hunted, grumbled, scolded-all in vain. Then my eye fell on a

sealed envelope from Abbate--his pot-hooks in the address. Yes; he had

sent me the rest of his revised text, which I had not hoped to see for

months. I sat down with great curiosity and began to read, and was

enraptured to find how well the fellow understood what I wanted. It was

all much simpler, more condensed, and at the same time fuller. The scene

in the churchyard and the _finale_, with the disappearance of the hero,

were greatly improved. 'But, my excellent poet,' I said to myself, 'you

need not have loaded me with heaven and hell a second time, so

carelessly.'

"Now, it is never my habit to write any number out of order, be it never

so tempting; that is a mistake which may be too severely punished. Yet

there are exceptions, and, in short, the scene near the statue of the

governor, the warning which, coming suddenly from the grave of the

murdered man, interrupts so horribly the laughter of the revelers--that

scene was already in my head. I struck a chord, and felt that I had

knocked at the right door, behind which lay all the legion of horrors to

be let loose in the _finale_. First came out an adagio--D-minor, only

four measures; then a second, with five. 'There will be an extraordinary

effect in the theatre,' thought I, 'when the strongest wind instruments

accompany the voice.' Now you shall hear it, as well as it can be done

without the orchestra."

He snuffed out the candles beside him, and that fearful choral, "Your

laughter shall be ended ere the dawn," rang through the death-like

stillness of the room. The notes of the silver trumpet fell through the

blue night as if from another sphere--ice-cold, cutting through nerve

and marrow. "Who is here? Answer!" they heard Don Juan ask. Then the

choral, monotonous as before, bade the ruthless youth leave the dead in

peace.

After this warning had rung out its last notes, Mozart went on: "Now, as

you can think, there was no stopping. When the ice begins to break at

the edge, the whole lake cracks and snaps from end to end.

Involuntarily, I took up the thread at Don Juan's midnight feast, when

Donna Elvira has just departed and the ghost enters in response to the

invitation. Listen!"

And then the whole, long, horrible dialogue followed. When the human

voices have become silent, the voice of the dead speaks again. After

that first fearful greeting, in which the half-transformed being refuses

the earthly nourishment offered him, how strangely and horribly moves

the unsteady voice up and down in that singular scale! He demands speedy

repentance; the spirit's time is short, the way it must travel, long.

And Don Juan, in monstrous obstinacy withstanding the eternal commands,

beneath the growing influence of the dark spirits, struggles and writhes

and finally perishes, keeping to the last, nevertheless, that wonderful

expression of majesty in every gesture. How heart and flesh tremble with

delight and terror! It is a feeling like that with which one watches the

mighty spectacle of an unrestrained force of nature, or the burning of a

splendid ship. In spite of ourselves, we sympathize with the blind

majesty, and, shuddering, share the pain of its self-destruction.

The composer paused. For a while no one could speak. Finally, the

Countess, with voice still unsteady, said "Will you give us some idea of

your own feelings when you laid down the pen that night?"

He looked up at her as if waked from a dream, hesitated a moment, and

then said, half to the Countess, half to his wife: "Yes, my head swam at

last. I had written this dialogue and the chorus of demons, in fever

heat, by the open window, and, after resting a moment, I rose to go to

your room, that I might talk a little and cool off. But another thought

stopped me half way to the door." His glance fell, and his voice

betrayed his emotion. "I said to myself, 'If you should die tonight and

leave your score just here, could you rest in your grave?' My eye fell

on the wick of the light in my hand and on the mountain of melted wax.

The thought that it suggested was painful. 'Then,' I went on, 'if after

this, sooner or later, some one else were to complete the opera, perhaps

even an Italian, and found all the numbers but one, up to the

seventeenth--so many sound, ripe fruits, lying ready to his hand in the

long grass-if he dreaded the finale, and found, unhoped for, the rocks

for its construction close by--he might well laugh in his sleeve.

Perhaps he would be tempted to rob me of my honor. He would burn his

fingers, though, for I have many a good friend who knows my stamp and

would see that I had my rights.'

"Then I thanked God and went back, and thanked your good angel, dear

wife, who held his hand so long over your brow, and kept you sleeping so

soundly that you could not once call to me. When at last I did go to bed

and you asked me the hour, I told you you were two hours younger than

you were, for it was nearly four; and now you will understand why you

could not get me to leave the feathers at six, and why you had to

dismiss the coach and order it for another day."

"Certainly," answered Constanze; "but the sly man must not think that I

was so stupid as not to know something of what was going on. You didn't

need, on that account, to keep your beautiful new numbers all to

yourself."

"That was not the reason."

"No, I know. You wanted to keep your treasure away from criticism yet a

little while."

"I am glad," cried the good-natured host, "that we shall not need to

grieve the heart of a noble Vienna coachman to-morrow, when Herr

Mozart cannot arise. The order, 'Hans, you may unharness!' always makes

one sad."

This indirect invitation for a longer stay, which was heartily seconded

by the rest of the family, obliged the travelers to explain their urgent

reason for declining it; yet they readily agreed that the start need not

be made so early as to interfere with a meeting at breakfast.

They stood, talking in groups, a little while longer. Mozart looked

about him, apparently for Eugenie; since she was not there he turned

naïvely with his question to Franziska.

"What do you think, on the whole, of our Don Juan? Can you prophesy

anything good for him?"

"In the name of my aunt, I will answer as well as I can," was the

laughing reply. "My opinion is that if Don Juan does not set the world

mad, the good Lord may shut up his music chests for years to come, and

give mankind to understand--"

"And give mankind," corrected the Count, "the bag-pipes to play on, and

harden the hearts of the people so that they worship Baal."

"The Lord preserve us!" laughed Mozart. "But in the course of the next

sixty or seventy years, long after I am gone, will arise many false

prophets."

Eugenie approached, with the Baron and Max; the conversation took a new

turn, growing ever more earnest and serious, and the composer, ere the

company separated, rejoiced in many a word of encouragement and good

cheer. Finally, long after midnight, all retired; nor, till then, had

any one felt weary.

Next day--for the fair weather still held--at ten o'clock a handsome

coach, loaded with the effects of the two travelers, stood in the

courtyard. The Count, with Mozart, was waiting for the horses to be put

in, and asked the master how the carriage pleased him.

"Very well, indeed; it seems most comfortable." "Good! Then be so kind

as to keep it to remind you of me."

"What! You are not in earnest?"

"Why not?"

"Holy Sixtus and Calixtus! Constanze, here!" he called up to the window

where, with the others, she sat looking out. "The coach is mine. You

will ride hereafter in your own carriage."

He embraced the smiling donor, and examined his new possession on all

sides; finally he threw open the door and jumped in, exclaiming: "I feel

as rich and happy as Ritter Gluck. What eyes they will make in Vienna!"

"I hope," said the Countess, "when you return from Prague, to see your

carriage again, all hung with wreaths."

Soon after this last happy scene the much-praised carriage moved away

with the departing guests, and rolled rapidly toward the road to Prague.

At Wittingau the Count's horses were to be exchanged for post-horses,

with which they would continue their journey.

When such excellent people have enlivened our houses by their presence,

have given us new impulses through their fresh spirits, and have made us

feel the blessings of dispensing hospitality, their departure leaves an

uncomfortable sense of vacancy and interruption, at least for the rest

of the day, and especially if we are left to ourselves. The latter case,

at least, was not true with our friends in the palace. Franziska's

parents and aunt soon followed the Mozarts. Franziska herself, the

Baron, and Max of course, remained. Eugenie, with whom we are especially

concerned, because she appreciated more deeply than the others the

priceless experience she had had--she, one would think, could not feel

in the least unhappy or troubled. Her pure happiness in the truly

beloved man to whom she was now formally betrothed would drown all other

considerations; rather, the most noble and lovely things which could

move her heart must be mingled with that other happiness. So would

it have been, perhaps, if she could have lived only in the present, or

in joyful retrospect. But she had been moved by anxiety while Frau

Mozart was telling her story, and the apprehension increased all the

while that Mozart was playing, in spite of the ineffable charm beneath

the mysterious horror of the music, and was brought to a climax by his

own story of his night work. She felt sure that this man's energy would

speedily and inevitably destroy him; that he could be but a fleeting

apparition in this world, which was unable to appreciate the profusion

of his gifts.

This thought, mingled with many others and with echoes of Don Juan, had

surged through her troubled brain the night before, and it was almost

daylight when she fell asleep. Now, the three women had seated

themselves in the garden with their work; the men bore them company, and

when the conversation, as was natural, turned upon Mozart, Eugenie did

not conceal her apprehensions. No one shared them in the least, although

the Baron understood her fully. She tried to rid herself of the feeling,

and her friends, particularly her uncle, brought to her mind the most

positive and cheering proofs that she was wrong. How gladly she heard

them! She was almost ready to believe that she had been foolishly

alarmed.

Some moments afterward, as she passed through the large hall which had

just been swept and put in order, where the half-drawn green damask

curtains made a soft twilight, she stopped sadly before the piano. It

was like a dream, to think who had sat there but a few hours before. She

looked long and thoughtfully at the keys which _he_ had touched last;

then she softly closed the lid and took away the key, in jealous care

lest some other hand should open it too soon. As she went away, she

happened to return to its place a book of songs; an old leaf fell out,

the copy of a Bohemian folk-song, which Franziska, and she too, had sung

long ago. She took it up, not without emotion, for in her present mood

the most natural occurrence might easily seem an oracle. And the

simple verses, as she read them through again, brought the hot tears to

her eyes:

"A pine-tree stands in a forest--who knows where?

A rose-tree in some garden fair doth grow;

Remember they are waiting there, my soul,

Till o'er thy grave they bend to whisper and to blow.

"Far in the pasture two black colts are feeding.

Toward home they canter when the master calls;

They shall go slowly with thee to thy grave,

Perchance ere from their hoofs the gleaming iron falls."

* * * * *

[Illustration: ANNETTE VON DROSTE-HÜLSHOFF]

ANNETTE ELIZABETH VON DROSTE-HÜLSHOFF

PENTECOST[34] (1839)

The day was still, the sun's bright glare

Fell sheer upon the Temple's beauteous wall

Withered by tropic heat, the air

Let, like a bird, its listless pinions fall.

Behold a group, young men and gray,

And women, kneeling; silence holds them all;

They mutely pray!

Where is the faithful Comforter

Whom, parting, Thou didst promise to Thine own?

They trust Thy word which cannot err,

But sad and full of fear the time has grown.

The hour draws nigh; for forty days

And forty wakeful nights toward Thee we've thrown

Our weeping gaze.

Where is He? Hour on hour doth steal,

And minute after minute swells the doubt.

Where doth He bide? And though a seal

Be on the mouth, the soul must yet speak out.

Hot winds blow, in the sandy lake

The panting tiger moans and rolls about,

Parched is the snake.

But hark! a murmur rises now,

Swelling and swelling like a storm's advance,

Yet standing grass-blades do not bow,

And the still palm-tree listens in a trance.

Why seem these men to quake with fear

While each on other casts a wondering glance?

Behold! 'Tis here!

'Tis here, 'tis here! the quivering light

Rests on each head; what floods of ecstasy

Throng in our veins with wondrous might!

The future dawns; the flood-gates open free;

Resistless pours the mighty Word;

Now as a herald's call, now whisperingly,

Its tone is heard.

Oh Light, oh Comforter, but there

Alas! and but to them art Thou revealed

And not to us, not everywhere

Where drooping souls for comfort have appealed!

I yearn for day that never breaks;

Oh shine, before this eye is wholly sealed,

Which weeps and wakes.

* * * * *

THE HOUSE IN THE HEATH[35] (1841)

Beneath yon fir trees in the west,

The sunset round it glowing,

A cottage lies like bird on nest,

With thatch roof hardly showing.

And there across the window-sill

Leans out a white-starred heifer;

She snorts and stamps; then breathes her fill

Of evening's balmy zephyr.

Near-by reposes, hedged with thorn,

A garden neatly tended;

The sunflower looks about with scorn;

The bell-flower's head is bended.

And in the garden kneels a child,

She weeds or merely dallies,

A lily plucks with gesture mild

And wanders down the alleys.

A shepherd group in distance dim

Lie stretched upon the heather,

And with a simple evening hymn

Wake the still breeze together.

And from the roomy threshing hall

The hammer strokes ring cheery,

The plane gives forth a crunching drawl,

The rasping saw sounds weary.

The evening star now greets the scene

And smoothly soars above it,

And o'er the cottage stands serene;

He seems in truth to love it.

A vision with such beauty crowned,

Had pious monks observed it,

They straight upon a golden ground

Had painted and preserved it.

The carpenter, the herdsmen there

A pious choral sounding;

The maiden with the lily fair,

And peace the whole surrounding;

The wondrous star that beams on all

From out the fields of heaven--

May it not be that in the stall

The Christ is born this even?

[Illustration: HANS AM ENDE THE FARM HOUSE]

* * * * *

THE BOY ON THE MOOR[36] (1841)

'Tis an eerie thing o'er the moor to fare

When the eddies of peat-smoke justle,

When the wraiths of mist whirl here and there

And wind-blown tendrils tussle,

When every step starts a hidden spring

And the trodden moss-tufts hiss and sing

'Tis an eerie thing o'er the moor to fare

When the tangled reed-beds rustle.

The child with his primer sets out alone

And speeds as if he were hunted,

The wind goes by with a hollow moan--

There's a noise in the hedge-row stunted.

'Tis the turf-digger's ghost, near-by he dwells,

And for drink his master's turf he sells.

"Whoo! whoo!" comes a sound like a stray cow's groan;

The poor boy's courage is daunted.

Then stumps loom up beside the ditch,

Uncannily nod the bushes,

The boy running on, each nerve a twitch,

Through a jungle of spear-grass pushes.

And where it trickles and crackles apace

Is the Spinner's unholy hiding-place,

The home of the cursèd Spinning-witch

Who turns her wheel 'mid the rushes.

On, ever on, goes the fearsome rout,

In pursuit through that region fenny,

At each wild stride the bubbles burst out,

And the sounds from beneath are many.

Until at length from the midst of the din

Comes the squeak of a spectral violin,

That must be the rascally fiddler lout

Who ran off with the bridal penny!

The turf splits open, and from the hole

Bursts forth an unhappy sighing,

"Alas, alas, for my wretched soul!"

'Tis poor damned Margaret crying!

The lad he leaps like a wounded deer,

And were not his guardian angel near

Some digger might find in a marshy knoll

Where his little bleached bones were lying.

But the ground grows firmer beneath his feet,

And there from over the meadow

A lamp is flickering homely-sweet;

The boy at the edge of the shadow

Looks back as he pauses to take his breath,

And in his glance is the fear of death.

'Twas eerie there 'mid the sedge and peat,

Ah, that was a place to dread, O!

* * * * *

ON THE TOWER[37] (1842)

I stand aloft on the balcony,

The starlings around me crying,

And let like maenad my hair stream free

To the storm o'er the ramparts flying.

Oh headlong wind, on this narrow ledge

I would I could try thy muscle

And, breast to breast, two steps from the edge,

Fight it out in a deadly tussle.

Beneath me I see, like hounds at play,

How billow on billow dashes;

Yea, tossing aloft the glittering spray,

The fierce throng hisses and clashes.

Oh, might I leap into the raging flood

And urge on the pack to harry

The hidden glades of the coral wood,

For the walrus, a worthy quarry!

From yonder mast a flag streams out

As bold as a royal pennant;

I can watch the good ship lunge about

From this tower of which I am tenant;

But oh, might I be in the battling ship,

Might I seize the rudder and steer her,

How gay o'er the foaming reef we'd slip

Like the sea-gulls circling near her!

Were I a hunter wandering free,

Or a soldier in some sort of fashion,

Or if I at least a man might be,

The heav'ns would grant me my passion.

But now I must sit as fine and still

As a child in its best of dresses,

And only in secret may have my will

And give to the wind my tresses.

* * * * *