ACT I_The German Classics of the Nineteenth and Twentieth Centuries, Volume 06 Masterpieces of German Literature Translated into English. in Twenty Volumes

VOLUME VI

HEINRICH HEINE

FRANZ GRILLPARZER

LUDWIG VAN BEETHOVEN

THE GERMAN CLASSICS

Masterpieces of German Literature

TRANSLATED INTO ENGLISH

Patrons' Edition

IN TWENTY VOLUMES

ILLUSTRATED

1914

CONTRIBUTORS AND TRANSLATORS

VOLUME VI

CONTENTS OF VOLUME VI

HEINRICH HEINE

The Life of Heinrich Heine. By William Guild Howard

Poems

Dedication. Translated by Sir Theodore Martin

Songs. Translators: Sir Theodore Martin, Charles Wharton Stork, T.

Brooksbank

A Lyrical Intermezzo. Translators: T. Brooksbank, Sir Theodore

Martin, J.E. Wallis, Richard Garnett, Alma Strettell, Franklin Johnson,

Charles G. Leland, Charles Wharton Stork

Sonnets. Translators: T. Brooksbank, Edgar Alfred Bowring

Poor Peter. Translated by Alma Strettell

The Two Grenadiers. Translated by W.H. Furness

Belshazzar. Translated by John Todhunter

The Pilgrimage to Kevlaar. Translated by Sir Theodore Martin

The Return Home. Translators: Sir Theodore Martin. Kate

Freiligrath-Kroeker, James Thomson, Elizabeth Barrett Browning

Twilight. Translated by Kate Freiligrath-Kroeker

Hail to the Sea. Translated by Kate Freiligrath-Kroeker

In the Harbor. Translated by Kate Freiligrath-Kroeker

A New Spring. Translators: Kate Freiligrath-Kroeker, Charles Wharton

Stork

Abroad. Translated by Margaret Armour

The Sphinx. Translated by Sir Theodore Martin

Germany. Translated by Margaret Armour

Enfant Perdu. Translated by Lord Houghton

The Battlefield of Hastings. Translated by Margaret Armour

The Asra. Translated by Margaret Armour

The Passion Flower. Translated by Charles Wharton Stork

Prose

The Journey to the Harz. Translated by Charles Godfrey Leland

Boyhood Days. Translated by Charles Godfrey Leland

English Fragments--Dialogue on the Thames; London; Wellington.

Translated by Charles Godfrey Leland

Lafayette. Translated by Charles Godfrey Leland

The Romantic School. Translated by Charles Godfrey Leland

The Rabbi of Bacharach. Translated by Charles Godfrey Leland

FRANZ GRILLPARZER

The Life of Franz Grillparzer. By William Guild Howard

Medea. Translated by Theodore A. Miller

The Jewess of Toledo. Translated by George Henry Danton and Annina

Periam Danton

The Poor Musician. Translated by Alfred Remy

My Journey to Weimar. Translated by Alfred Remy

LUDWIG VAN BEETHOVEN

Beethoven as a Letter Writer. By Walter R. Spalding

Beethoven's Letters. Translated by J.S. Shedlock

ILLUSTRATIONS--VOLUME VI

Emperor William I at a Court Reception-Frontispiece

Heinrich Heine. By W. Krauskopf

Heinrich Heine. By E. Hader

The Lorelei Fountain in New York. By Herter

Spring's Awakening. By Ludwig von Hofmann

Flower Fantasy. By Ludwig von Hofmann

Poor Peter. By P. Grotjohann

The Two Grenadiers. By P. Grotjohann

Rocky Coast. By Ludwig von Hofmann

Play of the Waves. By Arnold Böcklin

Market Place, Göttingen

Old Imperial Palace, Goslar

The Witches' Dancing Ground

The Brocken Inn About 1830

The Falls of the Ilse

View from St. Andreasberg

Johann Wilhelm Monument, Düsseldorf

The Duke of Wellington. By d'Orsay

Bacharach on the Rhine

House in Bacharach

Franz Grillparzer

Franz Grillparzer and Kaethi Fröhlich in 1823

Grillparzer's House in Spiegelgasse

Grillparzer's Room in the House of the Sisters Fröhlich

Franz Grillparzer in His Sixtieth Year

The Grillparzer Monument at Vienna

Medea. By Anselm Feuerbach

Medea. From the Grillparzer Monument at Vienna

Beethoven. By Max Klinger

THE LIFE OF HEINRICH HEINE

BY WILLIAM GUILD HOWARD, A.M.

Assistant Professor of German, Harvard University

The history of German literature makes mention of few men more

self-centered and at the same time more unreserved than Heinrich

Heine. It may be said that everything which Heine wrote gives us, and

was intended to give us, first of all some new impression of the

writer; so that after a perusal of his works we know him in all his

strength and weakness, as we can know only an amiable and

communicative egotist; moreover, besides losing no opportunity for

self-expression, both in and out of season, Heine published a good

deal of frankly autobiographical matter, and wrote memoirs, only

fragments of which have come down to us, but of which more than has

yet appeared will perhaps ultimately be made accessible. Heine's life,

then, is to us for the most part an open book. Nevertheless, there are

many obscure passages in it, and there remain many questions not to be

answered with certainty, the first of which is as to the date of his

birth. His own statements on this subject are contradictory, and the

original records are lost. But it seems probable that he was born on

the thirteenth of December, 1797, the eldest child of Jewish parents

recently domiciled at Düsseldorf on the Rhine.

The parentage, the place, and the time were almost equally significant

aspects of the constellation under which young Harry Heine--for so he

was first named--began his earthly career. He was born a Jew in a

German city which, with a brief interruption, was for the first

sixteen years of his life administered by the French. The citizens of

Düsseldorf in general had little reason, except for high taxes and the

hardships incident to conscription in the French armies, to complain

of the foreign dominion. Their trade flourished, they were given

better laws, and the machinery of justice was made much less

cumbersome than it had been before. But especially the Jews hailed the

French as deliverers; for now for the first time they were relieved of

political disabilities and were placed upon a footing of equality with

the gentile population. To Jew and gentile alike the military

achievements of the French were a source of satisfaction and

admiration; and when the Emperor of the French himself came to town,

as Heine saw him do in 1810, we can easily understand how the

enthusiasm of the boy surrounded the person of Napoleon, and the idea

that he was supposed to represent, with a glamor that never lost its

fascination for the man. To Heine, Napoleon was the incarnation of the

French Revolution, the glorious new-comer who took by storm the

intrenched strongholds of hereditary privilege, the dauntless leader

in whose army every common soldier carried a field marshal's baton in

his knapsack. If later we find Heine mercilessly assailing the

repressive and reactionary aristocracy of Germany, we shall not

lightly accuse him of lack of patriotism. He could not be expected to

hold dear institutions of which he felt only the burden, without a

share in the sentiment which gives stability even to institutions that

have outlived their usefulness. Nor shall we call him a traitor for

loving the French, a people to whom his people owed so much, and to

whom he was spiritually akin.

French influences, almost as early as Hebrew or German, were among the

formative forces brought to bear upon the quick-witted but not

precocious boy. Heine's parents were orthodox, but by no means bigoted

Jews. We read with amazement that one of the plans of the mother,

ambitious for her firstborn, was to make of him a Roman Catholic

priest. The boy's father, Samson Heine, was a rather unsuccessful

member of a family which in other representatives--particularly

Samson's brother Salomon in Hamburg--attained to wealth and prominence

in the world of finance.

[Illustration: W. KRAUSKOPF HEINRICH HEINE After a Drawing in the

Possession of Mr. Carl Meinert in Dessau]

Samson Heine seems to have been too easy-going, self-indulgent, and

ostentatious, to have made the most of the talents that he

unquestionably had. Among his foibles was a certain fondness for the

pageantry of war, and he was in all his glory as an officer of the

local militia. To his son Gustav he transmitted real military

capacity, which led to a distinguished career and a patent of nobility

in the Austrian service. Harry Heine inherited his father's more

amiable but less strenuous qualities. Inquisitive and alert, he was

rather impulsive than determined, and his practical mother had her

trials in directing him toward preparation for a life work, the

particular field of which neither she nor he could readily choose.

Peira, or Betty, Heine was a stronger character than her husband; and

in her family, several members of which had taken high rank as

physicians, there had prevailed a higher degree of intellectual

culture than the Heines had attained to. She not only managed the

household with prudence and energy, but also took the chief care of

the education of the children. To both parents Harry Heine paid the

homage of true filial affection; and of the happiness of the home

life, _The Book Le Grand_ and a number of poems bear unmistakable

witness. The poem "My child, we were two children" gives a true

account of Harry and his sister Charlotte at play.

In Düsseldorf, Heine's formal education culminated in attendance in

the upper classes of a Lyceum, organized upon the model of a French

Lycée and with a corps of teachers recruited chiefly from the ranks of

the Roman Catholic clergy. The spirit of the institution was

rationalistic and the discipline wholesome. Here Heine made solid

acquisitions in history, literature, and the elements of philosophy.

Outside of school, he was an eager spectator, not merely of stirring

events in the world of politics, but also of many a picturesque

manifestation of popular life--a spectator often rather than a

participant; for as a Jew he stood beyond the pale of both the German

and the Roman Catholic traditions that gave and give to the cities of

the Rhineland their characteristic naïve gaiety and harmless

superstition. Such a poem as _The Pilgrimage to Kevlaar_ would be

amazing as coming from an unbeliever, did we not see in it evidence of

the poet's capacity for perfect sympathetic adoption of the spirit of

his early environment. The same is true of many another poetic

expression of simple faith, whether in Christianity or in the

mythology of German folk-lore.

Interest in medieval Catholicism and in folk-lore is one of the most

prominent traits in the Romantic movement, which reached its

culmination during the boyhood of Heine. The history of Heine's

connection with this movement is foreshadowed by the circumstances of

his first contact with it. He tells us that the first book he ever

read was _Don Quixote_ (in the translation by Tieck). At about the

same time he read _Gulliver's Travels_, the tales of noble robbers

written by Goethe's brother-in-law, Vulpius, the wildly fantastic

stories of E.T.A. Hoffmann, Schiller's _Robbers_; but also Uhland's

ballads, and the songs collected by Arnim and Brentano in _The Boy's

Magic Horn_. That is to say: At the time when in school a critical and

skeptical mind was being developed in him by descendants of the age of

enlightenment, his private reading led him for the most part into the

region of romanticism in its most exaggerated form. At the time,

furthermore, when he took healthy romantic interest in the picturesque

Dusseldorf life, his imagination was morbidly stimulated by furtive

visits to a woman reputed to be a witch, and to her niece, the

daughter of a hangman. His earliest poems, the _Dream Pictures_,

belong in an atmosphere charged with witchery, crime, and the

irresponsibility of nightmare. This coincidence of incompatible

tendencies will later be seen to account for much of the mystery in

Heine's problematic character.

It having been decided, perhaps because the downfall of Napoleon shut

the door of all other opportunity, that Heine should embark upon a

mercantile career, he was given a brief apprenticeship, in 1815 at

Frankfurt, in the following years at Hamburg, under the immediate

patronage of his uncle Salomon who, in 1818, even established the

young poet in a dry goods business of his own. The only result of

these experiments was the demonstration of Heine's total inaptitude

for commercial pursuits. But the uncle was magnanimous and offered his

nephew the means necessary for a university course in law, with a view

to subsequent practice in Hamburg. Accordingly, after some brushing up

of Latin at home, Heine in the fall of 1819 was matriculated as a

student at the University of Bonn.

In spite of failure to accomplish his immediate purpose, Heine had not

sojourned in vain at Hamburg. He had gained the good will of an

opulent uncle whose bounty he continued almost uninterruptedly to

enjoy to the end of his days. But in a purpose that lay much nearer to

his heart he had failed lamentably; for, always sensitive to the

charms of the other sex, Heine had conceived an overpowering passion

for his cousin Amalie, the daughter of Salomon, only to meet with

scornful rebuffs at the hands of the coquettish and worldly-minded

heiress. There is no reason to suppose that Amalie ever took her

cousin's advances seriously. Her father certainly did not so take

them. On the other hand, there is equally little reason to doubt the

sincerity and depth of Heine's feelings, first of unfounded hope, then

of persistent despair that pursued him in the midst of other

occupations and even in the fleeting joys of other loves. The most

touching poems included among the _Youthful Sorrows_ of his first

volume were inspired by Amalie Heine.

At Bonn Heine was a diligent student. Though never a roysterer, he

took part in various extra-academic enterprises, was a member of the

_Burschenschaft_, that democratic-patriotic organization so gravely

suspected by the reactionary governments, and made many friends. He

duly studied history and law; he heard Ernst Moritz Arndt interpret

the _Germania_ of Tacitus; but more especially did he profit by

official and personal relations with A.W. Schlegel, who taught Heine

what he himself knew best, namely, the secret of literary form and the

art of metrical expression.

The fall of 1820 saw Heine at Göttingen, the Hanoverian university to

which, shortly before, the Americans Ticknor and Everett had repaired

and at which in that very year Bancroft had attained his degree of

doctor of philosophy. Here, however, Heine was repelled by the

aristocratic exclusiveness of the Hanoverian squires who gave the tone

to student society, as well as by the mummified dryness of the

professors. In marked contrast to the patriotic and romantic spirit of

Bonn he noted here with amazement that the distinguished Germanist

Benecke lectured on the _Nibelungenlied_ to an auditory of nine. His

own residence was destined this time to be brief; for serious quarrels

coming to the ear of the faculty, he was, on January 23, 1821,

advised to withdraw; and in April he enrolled himself as a student at

the University of Berlin.

The next three years were filled with manifold activities. As a

student Heine was deeply impressed by the absolute philosophy

expounded by Hegel; as a Jew he lent a willing hand to the endeavors

of an association recently founded for the amelioration of the social

and political condition of the Hebrews; in the drawing room of Rahel

Levin, now the wife of Varnhagen von Ense, he came in touch with

gifted men and women who were ardent admirers of Goethe, and some of

whom, a quarter of a century before, had befriended Friedrich

Schlegel; and in the subterranean restaurant of Lutter and Wegener he

joined in the revels of Hoffmann, Grabbe, and other eccentric

geniuses. Heine now began to be known as a man of letters. After

having, from 1817 on, printed occasional poems in newspapers and

magazines, he published in December, 1821 (with the date 1822), his

first volume, entitled simply _Poems_; he wrote newspaper articles on

Berlin and on Poland, which he visited in the summer of 1822; and in

the spring of 1823 he published _Tragedies together with a Lyrical

Intermezzo_--two very romantic and undramatic plays in verse,

separated in the volume by a short series of lyrical poems.

Meanwhile Amalie Heine had been married and Harry's parents had moved

to Lüneburg. Regret for the loss of Amalie soon gave way to a new

passion for a very young girl, whose identity remains uncertain, but

who was probably Amalie's little sister Therese. In any case, Heine

met the new love on the occasion of a visit to Lüneburg and Hamburg in

the spring of 1823, and was haunted by her image during the summer

spent at Cuxhaven. Here Heine first saw the sea. In less exalted moods

he dallied with fisher maidens; he did not forget Amalie; but the

youthful grace and purity of Therese dominate most of the poems of

this summer. The return from the watering place gave Heine the title

_The Return Home_ for this collection of pieces which, when published

in 1826, was dedicated to Frau Varnhagen von Ense.

Uncle Salomon, to whom the _Tragedies_ had been affectionately

inscribed, was not displeased with the growing literary reputation of

his nephew. But he saw no sense in the idea that Heine already

entertained of settling in Paris. He insisted that the young man

should complete his studies; and so, in January, 1824, Heine once more

betook himself to Göttingen, where on the twenty-first of July, 1825,

he was duly promoted _Doctor utriusque Juris_. In the summer of 1824

he made the trip through the Hartz mountains which served as the basis

of _The Journey to the Hartz_; immediately before his promotion he

submitted to baptism in the Lutheran church as Christian Johann

Heinrich Heine.

Submission is the right word for this conversion. It was an act of

expediency such as other ambitious men found unavoidable in those

days; but Heine performed it in a spirit of bitterness caused not so

much by a sense of apostasy as by contempt for the conventional

Christianity that he now embraced. There can be no sharper contrast

than that presented by such a poem as _The Pilgrimage to Kevlaar_ and

sundry satirical pieces not included in this volume.

Two vacations at Norderney, where Heine renewed and deepened

acquaintance with his beloved North Sea, not very resolute attempts to

take up the practice of law in Hamburg, a trip to London, vain hopes

of a professorship in Munich, a sojourn in Italy, vacillations between

Hamburg, Berlin, and the North Sea, complete the narrative of Heine's

movements to the end of the first period of his life. He was now Heine

the writer: poet, journalist, and novelist. _The Journey to the

Hartz_, first published in a magazine, _Der Gesellschafter_, in

January and February, 1826, was issued in May of that year by Campe in

Hamburg, as the first volume of _Pictures of Travel_, beginning with

the poems of _The Return Home_ and concluding with the first group of

hymns to the North Sea, written at Norderney in the previous year.

_Pictures of Travel II_, issued in 1827, consisted of the second cycle

of poems on the _North Sea_, an account in prose of life on the

island, entitled _Norderney, The Book Le Grand_, to which epigrams by

Immermann were appended, and extracts from _Letters from Berlin_

published in 1822. _Pictures of Travel III_ (1830) began with

experiences in Italy, but degenerated into a provoked but ruthless

attack upon Platen. _Pictures of Travel IV_ (1831) included _English

Fragments_, the record of Heine's observations in London, and _The

City of Lucca_, a supplementary chapter on Italy. In October, 1827,

Heine collected under the title _Book of Songs_ nearly all of his

poems written up to that time.

The first period in Heine's life closes with the year 1831. The

Parisian revolution of July, 1830, had turned the eyes of all Europe

toward the land in which political experiments are made for the

benefit of mankind. Many a German was attracted thither, and not

without reason Heine hoped to find there a more promising field for

the employment of his talents than with all his wanderings he had

discovered in Germany. Toward the end of May, 1831, he arrived in

Paris, and Paris was thenceforth his home until his death on the

seventeenth of February, 1856.

In the preface to the second edition of the _Book of Songs_, written

at Paris in 1837, Heine confessed that for some time past he had felt

a certain repugnance to versification; that the poems therewith

offered for the second time to the public were the product of a time

when, in contrast to the present, the flame of truth had rather heated

than clarified his mind; and expressed the hope that his recent

political, theological, and philosophical writings--all springing from

the same idea and intention as the poems--might atone for any weakness

in the poems. Heine wrote poetry after 1831, and he wrote prose before

1831; but in a general way what he says of his two periods is correct:

before his emigration he was primarily a poet, and afterwards

primarily a critic, journalist, and popular historian. In his first

period he wrote chiefly about his own experiences; in his second,

chiefly about affairs past and present in which he was interested.

As to the works of the first period, we might hesitate to say whether

the _Pictures of Travel_ or the _Book of Songs_ were the more

characteristic product. In whichever way our judgment finally

inclined, we should declare that the _Pictures of Travel_ were

essentially prosified poems and that the poems were, in their

collected form, versified _Pictures of Travel_; and that both,

moreover, were dominated, as the writings after 1831 were dominated,

by a romantically tinged longing for individual liberty.

The title _Pictures of Travel_, to which Heine gave so definite a

connotation, is not in itself a true index to the multifarious

contents of the series of traveler's notes, any more than the volumes

taken each by itself were units. Pages of verse followed pages of

prose; and in the _Journey to the Hartz_, verse interspersed in prose

emphasizes the lyrical character of the composition. Heine does indeed

give pictures of some of the scenes that he visits; but he also

narrates his passage from point to point; and at every point he sets

forth his recollections, his thoughts, his dreams, his personal

reaction upon any idea that comes into his head; so that the

substance, especially of the _Journey to the Hartz_, is less what was

to be seen in the Hartz than what was suggested to a very lively

imagination; and we admire the agility with which the writer jumps

from place to place quite as much as the suppleness with which he can

at will unconditionally subject himself to the genius of a single

locality. For Heine is capable of writing straightforward descriptive

prose, as well-ordered and as matter-of-fact as a narrative of

Kleist's. But the world of reality, where everything has an assignable

reason for its being and doing, is not the world into which he most

delights to conduct us. This world, on the contrary, is that in which

the water "murmurs and rustles so wonderfully, the birds pour forth

broken love-sick strains, the trees whisper as if with a thousand

maidens' tongues, the odd mountain flowers peep up at us as if with a

thousand maidens' eyes, stretching out to us their curious, broad,

drolly scalloped leaves; the sunrays flash here and there in sport,

the herbs, as though endowed with reason, are telling one another

their green legends, all seems enchanted"--in other words, a

wonderland disturbed by no doubts on the part of a rationalistic

Alice. And a further secret of this fascinating, though in the long

run exasperating style, is the sublime audacity with which Heine

dances now on one foot and now on the other, leaving you at every

moment in amused perplexity, whether you shall next find him standing

firmly on mother earth or bounding upward to recline on the clouds.

"A mixture of description of nature, wit, poetry, and observation à la

Washington Irving" Heine himself called the _Journey to the Hartz_.

The novelty lay in the mixture, and in the fact that though the

ingredients are, so to speak, potentized in the highest degree, they

are brought to nearly perfect congruence and fusion by the

irresistible solvent of the second named. The _Journey to the Hartz_

is a work of wit, in the present sense, and in the older sense of

that word. It is a product of superior intelligence--not a _Sketch

Book_, but a single canvas with an infinitude of details; not a

_Sentimental Journey_--although Heine can outdo Sterne in

sentimentality, he too persistently outdoes him also in satire--the

work, fragmentary and outwardly formless, is in essence thoroughly

informed by a two-fold purpose: to ridicule pedantry and philistinism,

and to extol nature and the life of those uncorrupted by the world.

A similar unity is unmistakable in the _Book of Songs_. It would be

difficult to find another volume of poems so cunningly composed. If we

examine the book in its most obvious aspect, we find it beginning with

_Youthful Sorrows_ and ending with hymns to the North Sea; passing,

that is to say, from the most subjective to the most objective of

Heine's poetic expressions. The first of the _Youthful Sorrows_ are

_Dream Pictures_, crude and grotesque imitations of an inferior

romantic _genre_; the _North Sea Pictures_ are magnificent attempts in

highly original form to catch the elusive moods of a great natural

element which before Heine had played but little part in German

poetry. From the _Dream Pictures_ we proceed to _Songs_ (a very simple

love story told in forms as nearly conventional as Heine ever used),

to _Romances_ which, with the notable exception of _The Two

Grenadiers_ and _Belshazzar_, are relatively feeble attempts at the

objectivation of personal suffering; and thence to _Sonnets_, direct

communications to particular persons. Thereupon follow the _Lyrical

Intermezzo_ and the _Return Home_, each with a prologue and an

epilogue, and with several series of pieces which, like the _Songs_

above mentioned, are printed without titles and are successive

sentences or paragraphs in the poet's own love story. This he tells

over and over again, without monotony, because the story gains in

significance as the lover gains in experience, because each time he

finds for it a new set of symbols, and because the symbols become more

and more objective as the poet's horizon broadens. Then come a few

pieces of religious content (culminating in _The Pilgrimage to

Kevlaar_), the poems in the _Journey to the Hartz_ (the most striking

of which are animated by the poetry of folk-lore)--these poems clearly

transitional to the poetry of the ocean which Heine wrote with such

vigor in the two cycles on the North Sea. The movement is a steady

climax.

The truth of the foregoing observations can be tested only by an

examination of the entire _Book of Songs_. The total effect is one of

arrangement. The order of the sections is chronological; the order of

the poems within the sections is logical; and some poems were altered

to make them fit into the scheme. Each was originally the expression

of a moment; and the peculiarity of Heine as a lyric poet is his

disposition to fix a moment, however fleeting, and to utter a feeling,

of however slight consequence to humanity it might at first blush seem

to be. In the _Journey to the Hartz_ he never lost an opportunity to

make a point; in his lyrical confessions he suppressed no impulse to

self-revelation; and seldom did his mastery of form fail to ennoble

even the meanest substance.

Some of Heine's most perfect products are his smallest. Whether,

however, a slight substance can be fittingly presented only in the

briefest forms, or a larger matter calls for extended treatment, the

method is the same, and the merit lies in the justness and

suggestiveness of details. Single points, or points in juxtaposition

or in succession, not the developed continuity of a line, are the

means to the effect which Heine seeks. Connecting links are left to be

supplied by the imagination of the reader. Even in such a narrative

poem as _Belshazzar_ the movement is _staccato_; we are invited to

contemplate a series of moments; and if the subject is impiety and

swift retribution, we are left to infer the fact from the evidence

presented; there is neither editorial introduction nor moralizing

conclusion. Similarly with _The Two Grenadiers_, a presentation of

character in circumstance, a translation of pictorial details into

terms of action and prophecy; and most strikingly in _The Pilgrimage

to Kevlaar_, a poem of such fundamentally pictorial quality that it

has been called a triptych, three depicted scenes in a little

religious drama.

It is in pieces like these that we find Heine most successfully making

of himself the interpreter of objects in the outside world. The number

of such objects is greater than is everywhere believed--though

naturally his success is surest in the case of objects congenial to

him, and the variety of these is not great. Indeed, the outside world,

even when he appears to treat it most objectively, proves upon closer

examination to be in the vast majority of cases only a treasure-trove

of symbols for the expression of his inner self. Thus, _Poor Peter_ is

the narrative of a humble youth unfortunate in love, but poor Peter's

story is Heine's; otherwise, we may be sure, Heine would not have

thought it worth the telling. Nothing could seem to be less the

property of Heine than _The Lorelei_; nevertheless, he has given to

this borrowed subject so personal a turn that instead of the siren we

see a human maiden, serenely indifferent to the effect of her charms,

which so take the luckless lover that, like the boatman, he, Heine, is

probably doomed ere long to death in the waves.

Toward the outside world, then, Heine's habitual attitude is not that

of an interpreter; it is that of an artist who seeks the means of

expression where they may be found. He does not, like Goethe and

Mörike, read out of the phenomena of nature and of life what these

phenomena in themselves contain; he reads into them what he wishes

them to say. _The Book of Songs_ is a human document, but it is no

document of the life of humanity; it is a collection of kaleidoscopic

views of one life, a life not fortified by wholesome coöperation with

men nor nourished with the strength of nature, but vivifying nature

with its own emotions. Heine has treated many a situation with

overwhelming pathos, but none from which he was himself so completely

absent as Mörike from the kitchen of The _Forsaken Maiden_. Goethe's

"Hush'd on the hill" is an apostrophe to himself; but peace which the

world cannot give and cannot take away is the atmosphere of that poem;

whereas Heine's "The shades of the summer evening lie" gets its

principal effectiveness from fantastic contributions of the poet's own

imagination.

The length to which Heine goes in attributing human emotions to nature

is hardly to be paralleled before or since. His aim not being the

reproduction of reality, nor yet the objectivation of ideas, his

poetry is essentially a poetry of tropes-that is, the conception and

presentation of things not as they are but as they may be conceived to

be. A simple illustration of this method may be seen in _The

Herd-Boy_. Uhland wrote a poem on a very similar subject, _The Boy's

Mountain Song_. But the contrast between Uhland's hardy, active,

public-spirited youth and Heine's sleepy, amorous individualist is no

more striking than the difference between Uhland's rhetorical and

Heine's tropical method. Heine's poem is an elaboration of the single

metaphor with which it begins: "Kingly is the herd-boy's calling." The

poem _Pine and Palm_, in which Heine expresses his hopeless separation

from the maiden of whom he dreams--incidentally attributing to Amalie

a feeling of sadness and solitude to which she was a stranger--is a

bolder example of romantic self-projection into nature. But not the

boldest that Heine offers us. He transports us to India, and there--

The violets titter, caressing,

Peeping up as the planets appear,

And the roses, their warm love confessing,

Whisper words, soft perfumed, to each ear.

Nor does he allow us to question the occurrence of these marvels; how

do we know what takes place on the banks of the Ganges, whither we are

borne on the wings of song? This, indeed, would be Heine's answer to

any criticism based upon Ruskin's notion as to the "pathetic fallacy."

If the setting is such as to induce in us the proper mood, we readily

enter the non-rational realm, and with credulous delight contemplate

wonders such as we too have seen in our dreams; just as we find the

romantic syntheses of sound and odor, or of sound and color,

legitimate attempts to express the inexpressible. The atmosphere of

prose, to be sure, is less favorable to Heine's habitual indulgence in

romantic tropes.

Somewhat blunted by over-employment is another romantic instrument,

eminently characteristic of Heine, namely, irony. Nothing could be

more trenchant than his bland assumption of the point of view of the

Jew-baiter, the hypocrite, or the slave-trader. It is as perfect as

his adoption of childlike faith in _The Pilgrimage to Kevlaar_. Many a

time he attains an effect of ironical contrast by the juxtaposition of

incongruous poems, as when a deification of his beloved is followed by

a cynical utterance of a different kind of love. But often the

incongruity is within the poem itself, and the poet, destroying the

illusion of his created image, gets a melancholy satisfaction from

derision of his own grief. This procedure perfectly symbolizes a

distracted mind; it undoubtedly suggests a superior point of view,

from which the tribulations of an insignificant individual are seen to

be insignificant; but in a larger sense it symbolizes the very

instability and waywardness of Heine himself. His emotions were

unquestionably deep and recurrent, but they were not constant. His

devotion to ideals did not preclude indulgence in very unideal

pleasures; and his love of Amalie and Therese, hopeless from the

beginning, could not, except in especially fortunate moments, avoid

erring in the direction either of sentimentality or of bitterness. But

Heine was too keenly intellectual to be indulgent of sentimentality,

and too caustic to restrain bitterness. Hence the bitter-sweet of many

of his pieces, so agreeably stimulating and so suggestive of an

elastic temperament.

There is, however, a still more pervasive incongruity between this

temperament and the forms in which it expressed itself. Heine's love

poems--two-thirds of the _Book of Songs_--are written in the very

simplest of verses, mostly quatrains of easy and seemingly inevitable

structure. Heine learned the art of making them from the _Magic Horn_,

from Uhland, and from Eichendorff, and he carried the art to the

highest pitch of virtuosity. They are the forms of the German

Folk-song, a fit vehicle for homely sentiments and those elemental

passions which come and go like the tide in a humble heart, because

the humble heart is single and yields unresistingly to their flow. But

Heine's heart was not single, his passion was complex, and the

greatest of his ironies was his use of the most unsophisticated of

forms for his most sophisticated substances. This, indeed, was what

made his love poetry so novel and so piquant to his contemporaries;

this is one of the qualities that keep it alive today; but it is a

highly individual device which succeeded only with this individual;

and that it was a device adopted from no lack of capacity in other

measures appears from the perfection of Heine's sonnets and the

incomparable free rhythmic verses of the _North Sea_ cycles.

Taken all in all, _The Book of Songs_ was a unique collection, making

much of little, and making it with an amazing economy of means.

III

Heine's first period, to 1831, when he was primarily a literary

artist, nearly coincides with the epoch of the Restoration

(1815-1830). Politically, this time was unproductive in Germany, and

the very considerable activity in science, philosophy, poetry,

painting, and other fine arts stood in no immediate relation to

national exigencies. There was indeed plenty of agitation in the

circles of the _Burschenschaft_, and there were sporadic efforts to

obtain from reluctant princes the constitutions promised as a reward

for the rising against Napoleon; but as a whole the people of the

various states seemed passive, and whatever was accomplished was the

work of individuals, with or without royal patronage, and, in the

main, in continuation of romantic tendencies. But with the Revolution

of July, 1830, the political situation in Germany became somewhat more

acute, demands for emancipation took more tangible form, and the

so-called "Young Germans "--Wienbarg, Gutzkow, Laube, Mundt, Börne,

and others-endeavored in essays, novels, plays, and pamphlets to stir

up public interest in questions of political, social, and religious

reform.

Many passages in Heine's _Pictures of Travel_ breathe the spirit of

the Young German propaganda--the celebrated confession of faith, for

example, in the _Journey to the Hartz_, in which he declares himself a

knight of the holy spirit of iconoclastic democracy. In Paris he

actively enlisted in the cause, and for about fifteen years continued,

as a journalist, the kind of expository and polemic writing that he

had developed in the later volumes of the _Pictures of Travel_.

Regarding himself, like many an expatriate, as a mediator between the

country of his birth and the country of his adoption, he wrote for

German papers accounts of events in the political and artistic world

of France, and for French periodicals more ambitious essays on the

history of religion, philosophy, and recent literature in Germany.

Most of the works of this time were published in both French and

German, and Heine arranged also for the appearance of the _Pictures of

Travel_ and the _Book of Songs_ in French translations. To all intents

and purposes he became a Frenchman; from 1836 or 1837 until 1848 he

was the recipient of an annual pension of 4,800 francs from the French

government; he has even been suspected of having become a French

citizen. But he in no sense curbed his tongue when speaking of French

affairs, nor was he free from longing to be once more in his native

land.

In Germany, however, he was commonly regarded as a traitor; and at the

same time the Young Germans, with the more influential of whom he soon

quarreled, looked upon him as a renegade; so that there was a peculiar

inappropriateness in the notorious decree of the Bundesrat at

Frankfurt, voted December 10, 1835, and impotently forbidding the

circulation in Germany of the writings of the Young Germans: Heine,

Gutzkow, Laube, Wienbarg, and Mundt--in that order. But the occupants

of insecure thrones have a fine scent for the odor of sedition, and

Heine was an untiring sapper and miner in the modern army moving

against the strongholds of aristocrats and priests. A keen observer in

Hamburg who was resolved, though not in the manner of the Young

Germans, to do his part in furthering social reform, Friedrich Hebbel,

wrote to a friend in March, 1836: "Our time is one in which action

destined to be decisive for a thousand years is being prepared. What

artillery did not accomplish at Leipzig must now be done by pens in

Paris."

During the first years of his sojourn in Paris Heine entered gleefully

into all the enjoyment and stimulation that the gay capital had to

offer. "I feel like a fish in water" is a common expression of

contentment with one's surroundings; but when one fish inquires after

the health of another, he now says, Heine told a friend, "I feel like

Heine in Paris." The well-accredited German poet quickly secured

admission to the circle of artists, journalists, politicians, and

reformers, and became a familiar figure on the boulevards. In October,

1834, be made the acquaintance of a young Frenchwoman, Crescence

Eugenie Mirat, or Mathilde, as he called her, and fell violently in

love with her. She was a woman of great personal attractiveness, but

entirely without education, frivolous, and passionate. They were soon

united; not for long, Heine thought, and he made efforts to escape

from her seductive charms, but ineffectually; and like Tannhäuser, he

was drawn back to his Frau Venus with an attachment passing all

understanding. From December, 1835, Heine regarded her as his wife,

and in 1841 they were married. But Mathilde was no good housekeeper;

Heine was frequently in financial straits; he quarreled with his

relatives, as well as with literary adversaries in Germany and

France; and only after considerable negotiation was peace declared,

and the continuation of a regular allowance arranged with Uncle

Salomon.

[Illustration: HEINRICH HEINE E. HADER]

Moreover, Heine's health was undermined. In the latter thirties he

suffered often from headaches and afflictions of the eyes; in the

middle of the forties paralysis of the spinal cord began to manifest

itself; and for the last ten years of his life he was a hopelessly

stricken invalid, finally doomed for five years to that "mattress

grave" which his fortitude no less than his woeful humor has

pathetically glorified. His wife cared for him dutifully, he was

visited by many distinguished men of letters, and in 1855 a

ministering angel came to him in the person of Elise von Krinitz

("Camille Selden") whom he called "_Die Mouche_" and for whom he wrote

his last poem, _The Passion Flower_, a kind of apology for his life.

Meantime contentions, tribulations, and a wasting frame seemed only to

sharpen the wits of the indomitable warrior. _New Songs_ (1844)

contains, along with negligible cynical pieces, a number of love songs

no whit inferior to those of the _Book of Songs_, romances, and

scorching political satires. The _Romanzero_ (1851) is not unfairly

represented by such a masterpiece as _The Battlefield of Hastings_.

And from this last period we have two quasi-epic poems: _Atta Troll_

(1847; written in 1842) and _Germany_ (1844), the fruit of the first

of Heine's two trips across the Rhine.

Historically and poetically, _Atta Troll_ is one of the most

remarkable of Heine's works. He calls it _Das letzte freie Waldlied

der Romantik_ ("The last free forest-song of romanticism.") Having for

its principal scene the most romantic spot in Europe, the valley of

Roncesvaux, and for its principal character a dancing bear, the

impersonation of those good characters and talentless men who, in the

early forties, endeavored to translate the prose of Young Germany into

poetry, the poem flies to the merriest, maddest height of romanticism

in order by the aid of magic to kill the bear and therewith the vogue

of poetry degraded to practical purposes. Heine knew whereof he

spoke; for he had himself been a mad romanticist, a Young German, and

a political poet; and he was a true prophet; for, though he did not

himself enter the promised land, he lived to see, in the more refined

romanticism of the Munich School and the poetic realism of Hebbel and

Ludwig, the dawn of a new day in the history of German literature.

Heine did not enter the promised land. Neither can we truthfully say

that he saw it as it was destined to be. His eye was on the present,

and in the present he more clearly discerned what ought not to be than

what gave promise of a better future. In the war for the liberation of

humanity he professed to be, and he was, a brave soldier; but he

lacked the soldier's prime requisite, discipline. He never took a

city, because he could not rule his spirit. Democracy was inscribed

upon his banner, sympathy for the disenfranchised bound him to it, but

not that charity which seeketh not her own, nor the loyalty that

abides the day when imperfection shall become perfection. Sarcasm was

his weapon, ridicule his plan of campaign, and destruction his only

accomplishment.

We shall not say that the things destroyed by Heine deserved a better

fate. We shall not think of him either as a leader or as a follower in

a great national movement. He was not the one man of his generation

through whom the national consciousness, even national discontent,

found expression; he was the man whose self-expressions aroused the

widest interest and touched the tenderest chords. To be called perhaps

an alien, and certainly no monumental German character, Heine

nevertheless made use, with consummate artistry, of the fulness of

German culture at a time when many of the after-born staggered under

the weight of a heritage greater than they could bear.

[Illustration: THE LORELEI FOUNTAIN In NEW YORK BY HERTER]

HEINRICH HEINE

* * * * *

DEDICATION[1] (1822)

I have had dreams of wild love wildly nursed,

Of myrtles, mignonette, and silken tresses,

Of lips, whose blames belie the kiss that blesses,

Of dirge-like songs to dirge-like airs rehearsed.

My dreams have paled and faded long ago,

Faded the very form they most adored,

Nothing is left me but what once I poured

Into pathetic verse with feverish glow.

Thou, orphaned song, art left. Do thou, too, fade!

Go, seek that visioned form long lost in night,

And say from me--if you upon it light--

With airy breath I greet that airy shade!

* * * * *

SONGS (1822)

1 [2]

Oh, fair cradle of my sorrow,

Oh, fair tomb of peace for me,

Oh, fair town, my last good-morrow,

Last farewell I say to thee!

Fare thee well, thou threshold holy,

Where my lady's footsteps stir,

And that spot, still worshipped lowly,

Where mine eyes first looked on her!

Had I but beheld thee never,

Thee, my bosom's beauteous queen,

Wretched now, and wretched ever,

Oh, I should not thus have been!

Touch thy heart?--I would not dare that:

Ne'er did I thy love implore;

Might I only breathe the air that

Thou didst breathe, I asked no more.

Yet I could not brook thy spurning,

Nor thy cruel words of scorn;

Madness in my brain is burning,

And my heart is sick and torn.

So I go, downcast and dreary,

With my pilgrim staff to stray,

Till I lay my head aweary

In some cool grave far away.

2 [3]

Cliff and castle quiver grayly

From the mirror of the Rhine

Where my little boat swims gaily;

Round her prow the ripples shine.

Heart at ease I watch them thronging--

Waves of gold with crisping crest,

Till awakes a half-lulled longing

Cherished deep within my breast.

Temptingly the ripples greet me

Luring toward the gulf beneath,

Yet I know that should they meet me

They would drag me to my death.

Lovely visage, treacherous bosom,

Guile beneath and smile above,

Stream, thy dimpling wavelet's blossom

Laughs as falsely as my love.

3[4]

I despaired at first--believing

I should never bear it. Now

I have borne it--I have borne it.

Only never ask me How.

* * * * *

A LYRICAL INTERMEZZO (1822-23)

1[5]

'Twas in the glorious month of May,

When all the buds were blowing,

I felt--ah me, how sweet it was!--

Love in my heart a-growing.

'Twas in the glorious month of May,

When all the birds were quiring,

In burning words I told her all

My yearning, my aspiring.

2[6]

Where'er my bitter tear-drops fall,

The fairest flowers arise;

And into choirs of nightingales

Are turned my bosom's sighs.

And wilt thou love me, thine shall be

The fairest flowers that spring,

And at thy window evermore

The nightingales shall sing.

3[7]

The rose and the lily, the moon and the dove,

Once loved I them all with a perfect love.

I love them no longer, I love alone

The Lovely, the Graceful, the Pure, the One

Who twines in one wreath all their beauty and love,

And rose is, and lily, and moon and dove.

4[8]

Dear, when I look into thine eyes,

My deepest sorrow straightway flies;

But when I kiss thy mouth, ah, then

No thought remains of bygone pain!

And when I lean upon thy breast,

No dream of heaven could be more blest;

But, when thou say'st thou lovest me,

I fall to weeping bitterly.

5[9]

Thy face, that fair, sweet face I know,

I dreamed of it awhile ago;

It is an angel's face, so mild--

And yet, so sadly pale, poor child!

Only the lips are rosy bright,

But soon cold Death will kiss them white,

And quench the light of Paradise

That shines from out those earnest eyes.

6[10]

Lean close thy cheek against my cheek,

That our tears together may blend, love,

And press thy heart upon my heart,

That from both one flame may ascend, love!

[Illustration: SPRING'S AWAKENING _From the Painting by Ludwig von

Hofmann._]

And while in that flame so doubly bright

Our tears are falling and burning,

And while in my arms I clasp thee tight

I will die with love and yearning.

7[11]

I'll breathe my soul and its secret

In the lily's chalice white;

The lily shall thrill and reëcho

A song of my heart's delight.

The song shall quiver and tremble,

Even as did the kiss

That her rosy lips once gave me

In a moment of wondrous bliss.

8[12]

The stars have stood unmoving

Upon the heavenly plains

For ages, gazing each on each,

With all a lover's pains.

They speak a noble language,

Copious and rich and strong;

Yet none of your greatest schoolmen

Can understand that tongue.

But I have learnt it, and never

Can forget it for my part--

For I used as my only grammar

The face of the joy of my heart.

9[13]

On the wings of song far sweeping,

Heart's dearest, with me thou'lt go

Away where the Ganges is creeping;

Its loveliest garden I know--

A garden where roses are burning

In the moonlight all silent there;

Where the lotus-flowers are yearning

For their sister belovèd and fair.

The violets titter, caressing,

Peeping up as the planets appear,

And the roses, their warm love confessing,

Whisper words, soft-perfumed, to each ear.

And, gracefully lurking or leaping,

The gentle gazelles come round:

While afar, deep rushing and sweeping,

The waves of the Ganges sound.

We'll lie there in slumber sinking

Neath the palm-trees by the stream,

Rapture and rest deep drinking,

Dreaming the happiest dream.

10[14]

The lotos flower is troubled

By the sun's too garish gleam,

She droops, and with folded petals

Awaiteth the night in a dream.

'Tis the moon has won her favor,

His light her spirit doth wake,

Her virgin bloom she unveileth

All gladly for his dear sake.

Unfolding and glowing and shining

She yearns toward his cloudy height;

She trembles to tears and to perfume

With pain of her love's delight.

[Illustration: FLOWER FANTASY _Train the Painting by Ludwig von

Hofmann._]

11[15]

The Rhine's bright wave serenely

Reflects as it passes by

Cologne that lifts her queenly

Cathedral towers on high.

A picture hangs in the dome there,

On leather with gold bedight,

Whose beauty oft when I roam there

Sheds hope on my troubled night.

For cherubs and flowers are wreathing

Our Lady with tender grace;

Her eyes, cheeks, and lips half-breathing

Resemble my loved one's face.

12[16]

I am not wroth, my own lost love, although

My heart is breaking--wroth I am not, no!

For all thou dost in diamonds blaze, no ray

Of light into thy heart's night finds its way.

I saw thee in a dream. Oh, piteous sight!

I saw thy heart all empty, all in night;

I saw the serpent gnawing at thy heart;

I saw how wretched, O my love, thou art!

13[17]

When thou shalt lie, my darling, low

In the dark grave, where they hide thee,

Then down to thee I will surely go,

And nestle in beside thee.

Wildly I'll kiss and clasp thee there,

Pale, cold, and silent lying;

Shout, shudder, weep in dumb despair,

Beside my dead love dying.

The midnight calls, up rise the dead,

And dance in airy swarms there;

We twain quit not our earthly bed,

I lie wrapt in your arms there.

Up rise the dead; the Judgment-day

To bliss or anguish calls them;

We twain lie on as before we lay,

And heed not what befalls them.

14[18]

A young man loved a maiden,

But she for another has sigh'd;

That other, he loves another,

And makes her at length his bride.

The maiden marries, in anger,

The first adventurous wight

That chance may fling before her;

The youth is in piteous plight.

The story is old as ages,

Yet happens again and again;

The last to whom it happen'd,

His heart is rent in twain.

15[19]

A lonely pine is standing

On the crest of a northern height;

He sleeps, and a snow-wrought mantle

Enshrouds him through the night.

He's dreaming of a palm-tree

Afar in a tropic land,

That grieves alone in silence

'Mid quivering leagues of sand.

16[20]

My love, we were sitting together

In a skiff, thou and I alone;

'Twas night, very still was the weather,

Still the great sea we floated on.

Fair isles in the moonlight were lying,

Like spirits, asleep in a trance;

Their strains of sweet music were sighing,

And the mists heaved in an eery dance.

And ever, more sweet, the strains rose there,

The mists flitted lightly and free;

But we floated on with our woes there,

Forlorn on that wide, wide sea.

17[21]

I see thee nightly in dreams, my sweet,

Thine eyes the old welcome making,

And I fling me down at thy dear feet

With the cry of a heart that is breaking.

Thou lookest at me in woful wise

With a smile so sad and holy,

And pearly tear-drops from thine eyes

Steal silently and slowly.

Whispering a word, thou lay'st on my hair

A wreath with sad cypress shotten;

awake, the wreath is no longer there,

And the word I have forgotten.

* * * * *

SONNETS (1822)

TO MY MOTHER

1[22]

I have been wont to bear my head on high,

Haughty and stern am I of mood and mien;

Yea, though a king should gaze on me, I ween,

I should not at his gaze cast down my eye.

But I will speak, dear Mother, candidly:

When most puffed up my haughty mood hath been,

At thy sweet presence, blissful and serene,

I feel the shudder of humility.

Does thy soul all unknown my soul subdue,

Thy lofty soul that pierces all things through

And speeds on lightning wings to heaven's blue?

Or am I racked by what my memories tell

Of frequent deeds which caused thy heart to swell--

That beauteous heart which loved me, ah! too well.

2[23]

With foolish fancy I deserted thee;

I fain would search the whole world through to learn

If in it I perchance could love discern,

That I might love embrace right lovingly.

I sought for love as far as eye could see,

My hands extending at each door in turn,

Begging them not my prayer for love to spurn--

Cold hate alone they laughing gave to me.

And ever search'd I after love; yes, ever

Search'd after love, but love discover'd never,

And so I homeward went with troubled thought;

But thou wert there to welcome me again,

And, ah, what in thy dear eye floated then

That was the sweet love I so long had sought.

* * * * *

[Illustration: POOR PETER _From the Painting by P. Grotjohann_]

POOR PETER[24] (1822)

Grete and Hans come dancing by,

They shout for very glee;

Poor Peter stands all silently,

And white as chalk is he.

Grete and Hans were wed this morn,

And shine in bright array;

But ah, poor Peter stands forlorn,

Dressed for a working-day.

He mutters, as with wistful eyes

He gazes at them still:

"'Twere easy--were I not too wise--

To do myself some ill...."

"An aching sorrow fills my breast,

My heart is like to break;

It leaves me neither peace nor rest,

And all for Grete's sake.

"It drives me to her side, as though

She still could comfort me;

But in her eyes there's something now

That makes me turn and flee.

"I climb the highest hilltop where

I am at least alone;

And standing in the stillness there

I weep and make my moan."

Poor Peter wanders slowly by;

So pale is he, so dull and shy,

The very neighbors in the street

Turn round to gaze, when him they meet.

The maids speak low: "He looks, I ween,

As though the grave his bed had been."

Ah no, good maids, ye should have said

"The grave will soon become his bed."

He lost his sweetheart--so, may be,

The grave is best for such as he;

There he may sleep the years away,

And rest until the Judgment-day.

* * * * *

THE TWO GRENADIERS[25] (1822)

To France were traveling two grenadiers,

From prison in Russia returning,

And when they came to the German frontiers,

They hung down their heads in mourning.

There came the heart-breaking news to their ears

That France was by fortune forsaken;

Scattered and slain were her brave grenadiers,

And Napoleon, Napoleon was taken.

Then wept together those two grenadiers

O'er their country's departed glory;

"Woe's me," cried one, in the midst of his tears,

"My old wound--how it burns at the story!"

The other said: "The end has come,

What avails any longer living

Yet have I a wife and child at home,

For an absent father grieving.

"Who cares for wife? Who cares for child?

Dearer thoughts in my bosom awaken;

Go beg, wife and child, when with hunger wild,

For Napoleon, Napoleon is taken!

"Oh, grant me, brother, my only prayer,

When death my eyes is closing:

Take me to France, and bury me there;

In France be my ashes reposing.

"This cross of the Legion of Honor bright,

Let it lie near my heart, upon me;

Give me my musket in my hand,

And gird my sabre on me.

"So will I lie, and arise no more,

My watch like a sentinel keeping,

Till I hear the cannon's thundering roar,

And the squadrons above me sweeping.

"Then the Emperor comes! and his banners wave,

With their eagles o'er him bending,

And I will come forth, all in arms, from my grave,

Napoleon, Napoleon attending!"

[Illustration: THE TWO GRENADIERS _From the Painting by P. Grotjohann_]

* * * * *

BELSHAZZAR[26] (1822)

To midnight now the night drew on;

In slumber deep lay Babylon.

The King's house only was all aflare,

For the King's wild crew were at revel there.

Up there in the King's own banquet hall,

Belshazzar held royal festival.

The satraps were marshaled in glittering line

And emptied their beakers of sparkling wine.

The beakers they clinked, and the satraps' hurras

in the ears of the stiff-necked King rang his praise.

The King's hot cheeks were with revel dyed,

The wine made swell his heart with pride.

Blind madness his haughty stomach spurred,

And he slandered the Godhead with sinful word,

And strutting in pride he blasphemed, the crowd

Of servile courtiers applauding loud.

The King commanded with haughty stare;

The slave was gone, and again was there.

Much wealth of gold on his head bare he;

'Twas reft from Jehovah's sanctuary.

And the King took hold of a sacred cup

With his impious hand, and they filled it up;

And he drank to the bottom in one deep draught,

And loud, the foam on his lips, he laughed:

"Jehovah! Thy glories I spit upon;

I am the King of Babylon!"

But scarce had the awful words been said

When the King's heart withered with secret dread.

The boisterous laughter was stifled all,

And corpselike still did wax the hall;

Lo! lo! on the whited wall there came

The likeness of a man's hand in flame,

And wrote, and wrote, in letters of flame,

And wrote and vanished, and no more came.

The King stark-staring sat, a-quail,

With knees a-knocking, and face death-pale,

The satraps' blood ran cold--none stirred;

They sat like statues, without a word.

The Magians came; but none of them all

Could read those letters of flame on the wall.

But in that same night of his vaunting vain

By his satraps' hand was Belshazzar slain.

* * * * *

THE PILGRIMAGE TO KEVLAAR[27] (1823)

The mother stood at the window;

Her son lay in bed, alas!

"Will you not get up, dear William,

To see the procession pass?"

"O mother, I am so ailing,

I neither can hear nor see;

I think of my poor dead Gretchen,

And my heart grows faint in me."

"Get up, we will go to Kevlaar;

Your book and your rosary take;

The Mother of God will heal you,

And cure your heart of its ache."

The Church's banners are waving,

They are chanting a hymn divine;

'Tis at Köln is that procession,

At Köln upon the Rhine.

With the throng the mother follows;

Her son she leads with her; and now

They both of them sing in the chorus,

"Ever honored, O Mary, be thou!"

The Mother of God at Kevlaar

Is drest in her richest array;

She has many a cure on hand there,

Many sick folk come to her today.

And her, for their votive offerings,

The suffering sick folk greet

With limbs that in wax are molded,

Many waxen hands and feet.

And whoso a wax hand offers,

His hand is healed of its sore;

And whoso a wax foot offers,

His foot it will pain him no more.

To Kevlaar went many on crutches

Who now on the tight-rope bound,

And many play now on the fiddle

Had there not one finger sound.

The mother she took a wax taper,

And of it a heart she makes

"Give that to the Mother of Jesus,

She will cure thee of all thy aches."

With a sigh her son took the wax heart,

He went to the shrine with a sigh;

His words from his heart trickle sadly,

As trickle the tears from his eye.

"Thou blest above all that are blest,

Thou virgin unspotted divine,

Thou Queen of the Heavens, before thee

I lay all my anguish and pine.

"I lived with my mother at Köln,

At Köln in the town that is there,

The town that has hundreds many

Of chapels and churches fair.

"And Gretchen she lived there near us,

But now she is dead, well-a-day!

O Mary! a wax heart I bring thee,

Heal thou my heart's wound, I pray!

"Heal thou my heart of its anguish,

And early and late, I vow,

With its whole strength to pray and to sing, too,

'Ever honored, O Mary, be thou!'"

The suffering son and his mother

In their little bed-chamber slept;

Then the Mother of God came softly,

And close to the sleepers crept.

She bent down over the sick one,

And softly her hand did lay

On his heart, with a smile so tender,

And presently vanished away.

The mother sees all in her dreaming,

And other things too she marked;

Then up from her slumber she wakened,

So loudly the town dogs barked.

There lay her son, to his full length

Stretched out, and he was dead;

And the light on his pale cheek flitted

Of the morning's dawning red.

She folded her hands together,

She felt as she knew not how,

And softly she sang and devoutly,

"Ever honored, O Mary, be thou!"

* * * * *

THE RETURN HOME (1823-24)

1[28]

Once upon my life's dark pathway

Gleamed a phantom of delight;

Now that phantom fair has vanished,

I am wholly wrapt in night.

Children in the dark, they suffer

At their heart a spasm of fear;

And, their inward pain to deaden,

Sing aloud, that all may hear.

I, a madcap child, now childlike

In the dark to sing am fain;

If my song be not delightsome,

It at least has eased my pain.

2[29]

We sat at the fisherman's cottage,

And gazed upon the sea;

Then came the mists of evening,

And rose up silently.

The lights within the lighthouse

Were kindled one by one,

We saw still a ship in the distance

On the dim horizon alone.

We spoke of tempest and shipwreck,

Of sailors and of their life,

And how 'twixt clouds and billows

They're tossed, 'twixt joy and strife.

We spoke of distant countries

From North to South that range,

Of strange fantastic nations,

And their customs quaint and strange.

The Ganges is flooded with splendor,

And perfumes waft through the air,

And gentle people are kneeling

To Lotos flowers fair.

In Lapland the people are dirty,

Flat-headed, large-mouthed, and small;

They squat round the fire and, frying

Their fishes, they shout and they squall.

The girls all gravely listened,

Not a word was spoken at last;

The ship we could see no longer,

Darkness was settling so fast.

3[30]

You lovely fisher-maiden,

Bring now the boat to land;

Come here and sit beside me,

We'll prattle hand in hand.

Your head lay on my bosom,

Nor be afraid of me;

Do you not trust all fearless

Daily the great wild sea?

My heart is like the sea, dear,

Has storm, and ebb, and flow,

And many purest pearl-gems

Within its dim depth glow.

4[31]

My child, we were two children,

Small, merry by childhood's law;

We used to creep to the henhouse,

And hide ourselves in the straw.

We crowed like cocks, and whenever

The passers near us drew--

"Cock-a-doodle!" They thought

'Twas a real cock that crew.

The boxes about our courtyard

We carpeted to our mind,

And lived there both together--

Kept house in a noble kind.

The neighbor's old cat often

Came to pay us a visit;

We made her a bow and courtesy,

Each with a compliment in it.

After her health we asked,

Our care and regard to evince--

(We have made the very same speeches

To many an old cat since).

We also sat and wisely

Discoursed, as old folks do,

Complaining how all went better

In those good old times we knew--

How love, and truth, and believing

Had left the world to itself,

And how so dear was the coffee,

And how so rare was the pelf.

The children's games are over,

The rest is over with youth--

The world, the good games, the good times,

The belief, and the love, and the truth.

5[32]

E'en as a lovely flower,

So fair, so pure thou art;

I gaze on thee, and sadness

Comes stealing o'er my heart.

My hands I fain had folded

Upon thy soft brown hair,

Praying that God may keep thee

So lovely, pure, and fair.

6[33]

I would that my love and its sadness

Might a single word convey,

The joyous breezes should bear it,

And merrily waft it away.

They should waft it to thee, beloved,

This soft and wailful word,

At every hour thou shouldst hear it,

Where'er thou art 'twould be heard.

And when in the night's first slumber

Thine eyes scarce closing seem,

Still should my word pursue thee

Into thy deepest dream.

7[34]

The shades of the summer evening lie

On the forest and meadows green;

The golden moon shines in the azure sky

Through balm-breathing air serene.

The cricket is chirping the brooklet near,

In the water a something stirs,

And the wanderer can in the stillness hear

A plash and a sigh through the furze.

There all by herself the fairy bright

Is bathing down in the stream;

Her arms and throat, bewitching and white,

In the moonshine glance and gleam.

8[35]

I know not what evil is coming,

But my heart feels sad and cold;

A song in my head keeps humming,

A tale from the times of old.

The air is fresh and it darkles,

And smoothly flows the Rhine;

The peak of the mountain sparkles

In the fading sunset-shine.

The loveliest wonderful maiden

On high is sitting there,

With golden jewels braiden,

And she combs her golden hair.

With a golden comb sits combing,

And ever the while sings she

A marvelous song through the gloaming

Of magical melody.

It hath caught the boatman, and bound him

In the spell of a wild, sad love;

He sees not the rocks around him,

He sees only her above.

The waves through the pass keep swinging,

But boatman or boat is none;

And this with her mighty singing

The Lorelei hath done.

[Illustration: ROCKY COAST _From the Painting by Ludwig von Hofmann._]

* * * * *

TWILIGHT[36] (1825-26)

By the dim sea-shore

Lonely I sat, and thought-afflicted.

The sun sank low, and sinking he shed

Rose and vermilion upon the waters,

And the white foaming waves,

Urged on by the tide,

Foamed and murmured yet nearer and nearer--

A curious jumble of whispering and wailing,

A soft rippling laughter and sobbing and sighing,

And in between all a low lullaby singing.

Methought I heard ancient forgotten legends,

The world-old sweet stories,

Which once, as a boy,

I heard from my playmates,

When, of a summer's evening,

We crouched down to tell stories

On the stones of the doorstep,

With small listening hearts,

And bright curious eyes;

While the big grown-up girls

Were sitting opposite

At flowery and fragrant windows,

Their rosy faces

Smiling and moonshine-illumined.

* * * * *

HAIL TO THE SEA[37] (1825-26)

Thalatta! Thalatta!

Hail to thee, thou eternal sea!

Hail to thee, ten thousand times, hail!

With rejoicing heart

I bid thee welcome,

As once, long ago, did welcome thee

Ten thousand Greek hearts--

Hardship-battling, homesick-yearning,

World-renowned Greek hearts.

The billows surged,

They foamed and murmured,

The sun poured down, as in haste,

Flickering ripples of rosy light;

Long strings of frightened sea-gulls

Flutter away shrill screaming;

War-horses trample, and shields clash loudly,

And far resounds the triumphant cry:

Thalatta! Thalatta!

Hail to thee, thou eternal sea!

Like accents of home thy waters are whispering,

And dreams of childhood lustrous I see

Through thy limpid and crystalline wave,

Calling to mind the dear old memories

Of dear and delightful toys,

Of all the glittering Christmas presents,

Of all the red-branched forests of coral,

The pearls, the goldfish and bright-colored shells,

Which thou dost hide mysteriously

Deep down in thy clear house of crystal.

Oh, how have I languished in dreary exile!

Like unto a withered flower

In the botanist's capsule of tin,

My heart lay dead in my breast.

Methought I was prisoned a long sad winter,

A sick man kept in a darkened chamber;

And now I suddenly leave it,

And outside meets me the dazzling Spring,

Tenderly verdant and sun-awakened;

And rustling trees shed snowy petals,

And tender young flowers gaze on me

With their bright fragrant eyes,

And the air is full of laughter and gladness,

And rich with the breath of blossoms,

And in the blue sky the birds are singing--

Thalatta! Thalatta!

Oh, my brave Anabasis-heart!

How often, ah! how sadly often

Wast thou pressed hard by the North's fair Barbarians!

From large and conquering eyes

They shot forth burning arrows;

With crooked words as sharp as a rapier

They threatened to pierce my bosom;

With cuneiform angular missives they battered

My poor stunned brains;

In vain I held out my shield for protection,

The arrows hissed and the blows rained down,

And hard pressed I was pushed to the sea

By the North's fair Barbarians--

And, breathing freely, I greet the sea,

The sea my deliverer, the sea my friend--

Thalatta! Thalatta!

[Illustration: PLAY OF THE WAVES _From the Painting by Arnold Böcklin_]

* * * * *

IN THE HARBOR[38] (1825-26)

Happy is he who hath reached the safe harbor,

Leaving behind him the stormy wild ocean,

And now sits cosy and warm

In the good old Town-Cellar of Bremen.

How sweet and homelike the world is reflected,

In the chalice green of Rhinewine Rummer.

And how the dancing microcosm

Sunnily glides down the thirsty throat!

Everything I behold in the glass--

History, old and new, of the nations,

Both Turks and Greeks, and Hegel and Gans,

Forests of citron and big reviews,

Berlin and Shilda, and Tunis and Hamburg;

But, above all, thy image, Beloved,

And thy dear little head on a gold-ground of Rhenish!

Oh, how fair, how fair art thou, Dearest!

Thou art as fair as the rose!

Not like the Rose of Shiras,

That bride of the nightingale, sung by Hafis,

Not like the Rose of Sharon,

That mystic red rose, exalted by prophets--

Thou art like the "Rose, of the Bremen Town-Cellar,"

Which is the Rose of Roses;

The older it grows the sweeter it blossoms,

And its breath divine it hath all entranced me,

It hath inspired and kindled my soul;

And had not the Town-Cellar Master gripped me

With firm grip and steady,

I should have stumbled!

That excellent man! We sat together

And drank like brothers;

We spoke of wonderful mystic things,

We sighed and sank in each other's arms,

And me to the faith of love he converted;

I drank to the health of my bitterest foes,

And I forgave all bad poets sincerely,

Even as I may one day be forgiven;

I wept with devotion, and at length

The doors of salvation were opened unto me,

Where the sacred Vats, the twelve Apostles,

Silently preach, yet oh, so plainly,

Unto all nations.

These be men forsooth!

Of humble exterior, in jackets of wood,

Yet within they are fairer and more enlightened

Than all the Temple's proud Levites,

Or the courtiers and followers of Herod,

Though decked out in gold and in purple;

Have I not constantly said:

Not with the herd of common low people,

But in the best and politest of circles

The King of Heaven was sure to dwell!

Hallelujah! How lovely the whisper

Of Bethel's palm-trees!

How fragrant the myrtle-trees of Hebron!

How sings the Jordan and reels with joy!

My immortal spirit likewise is reeling,

And I reel in company, and, joyously reeling,

Leads me upstairs and into the daylight

That excellent Town-Cellar Master of Bremen.

Thou excellent Town-Cellar Master of Bremen!

Dost see on the housetops the little angels

Sitting aloft, all tipsy and singing?

The burning sun up yonder

Is but a fiery and drunken nose--

The Universe Spirit's red nose;

And round the Universe Spirit's red nose

Reels the whole drunken world.

* * * * *

A NEW SPRING (1831)

1[39]

Soft and gently through my soul

Sweetest bells are ringing,

Speed you forth, my little song,

Of springtime blithely singing!

Speed you onward to a house

Where sweet flowers are fleeting!

If, perchance, a rose you see,

Say, I send her greeting!

2[40]

Thy deep blue eyes enchant me,

So lovingly they glow;

My gazing soul grows dreamy,

My words come strange and slow.

Thy deep blue eyes enchant me

Wherever I may go:

An ocean of azure fancies

O'erwhelms me with its flow.

3[41]

Was once an ancient monarch,

Heavy his heart, his locks were gray,

This poor and aged monarch

Took a wife so young and gay.

Was once a page-boy handsome,

With lightsome heart and curly hair,

The silken train he carried

Of the queen so young and fair.

Dost know the old, old story?

It sounds so sweet, so sad to tell--

Both were obliged to perish,

They loved each other too well.

* * * * *

ABROAD[42] (1834)

Oh I had once a beauteous Fatherland!

High used to seem

The oak--so high!--the violets nodded kind--

It was a dream.

In German I was kissed, in German told

(You scarce would deem

How sweetly rang the words): "I love thee well!--"

It was a dream.

* * * * *

THE SPHINX[43] (1839)

It is the fairy forest old,

With lime-tree blossoms scented!

The moonshine with its mystic light

My soul and sense enchanted.

On, on I roamed, and, as I went,

Sweet music o'er me rose there;

It is the nightingale--she sings

Of love and lovers' woes there.

She sings of love and lovers' woes,

Hearts blest, and hearts forsaken:

So sad is her mirth, so glad her sob,

Dreams long forgot awaken.

Still on I roamed, and, as I went,

I saw before me lowering

On a great wide lawn a stately pile,

With gables peaked and towering.

Closed were its windows, everywhere

A hush, a gloom, past telling;

It seemed as though silent Death within

These empty halls were dwelling.

A Sphinx lay there before the door,

Half-brutish and half-human,

A lioness in trunk and claws,

In head and breasts a woman.

A lovely woman! The pale cheek

Spoke of desires that wasted;

The hushed lips curved into a smile,

That wooed them to be tasted.

The nightingale so sweetly sang,

I yielded to their wooing;

And as I kissed that winning face,

I sealed my own undoing.

The marble image thrilled with life,

The stone began to quiver;

She drank my kisses' burning flame

With fierce convulsive shiver.

She almost drank my breath away;

And, to her passion bending,

She clasped me close, with her lion claws

My hapless body rending.

Delicious torture, rapturous pang!

The pain, the bliss, unbounded!

Her lips, their kiss was heaven to me,

Her claws, oh, how they wounded.

The nightingale sang: "O beauteous Sphinx!

O love, love! say, why this is,

That with the anguish of death itself

Thou minglest all thy blisses?

"Oh beauteous Sphinx, oh, answer me,

That riddle strange unloosing!

For many, many thousand years

Have I on it been musing!"

GERMANY[44] (1842)

Germany's still a little child,

But he's nursed by the sun, though tender;

He is not suckled on soothing milk,

But on flames of burning splendor.

One grows apace on such a diet;

It fires the blood from languor.

Ye neighbors' children, have a care

This urchin how ye anger!

He is an awkward infant giant;

The oak by the roots uptearing,

He'll beat you till your backs are sore,

And crack your crowns for daring.

He is like Siegfried, the noble child,

That song-and-saga wonder;

Who, when his fabled sword was forged,

His anvil cleft in sunder!

To you, who will our Dragon slay,

Shall Siegfried's strength be given.

Hurrah! how joyfully your nurse

Will laugh on you from heaven!

The Dragon's hoard of royal gems

You'll win, with none to share it.

Hurrah! how bright the golden crown

Will sparkle when you wear it!

* * * * *

ENFANT PERDU[45] (1851)

In Freedom's War, of "Thirty Years" and more,

A lonely outpost have I held--in vain!

With no triumphant hope or prize in store,

Without a thought to see my home again.

I watched both day and night; I could not sleep

Like my well-tented comrades far behind,

Though near enough to let their snoring keep

A friend awake, if e'er to doze inclined.

And thus, when solitude my spirits shook,

Or fear--for all but fools know fear sometimes--

To rouse myself and them, I piped and took

A gay revenge in all my wanton rhymes.

Yes! there I stood, my musket always ready,

And when some sneaking rascal showed his head,

My eye was vigilant, my aim was steady,

And gave his brains an extra dose of lead.

But war and justice have far different laws,

And worthless acts are often done right well;

The rascals' shots were better than their cause,

And I was hit--and hit again, and fell!

That outpost is abandoned; while the one

Lies in the dust, the rest in troops depart;

Unconquered--I have done what could be done,

With sword unbroken, and with broken heart.

* * * * *

THE BATTLEFIELD OF HASTINGS[46] (1855)

Deeply the Abbot of Waltham sighed

When he heard the news of woe:

How King Harold had come to a pitiful end,

And on Hastings field lay low.

Asgod and Ailrik, two of his monks,

On the mission drear he sped

To search for the corse on the battle-plain

Among the bloody dead.

The monks arose and went sadly forth,

And returned as heavy-hearted.

"O Father, the world's a bitter world,

And evil days have started.

"For fallen, alack! is the better man;

The Bastard has won, and knaves

And scutcheoned thieves divide the land,

And make the freemen slaves.

"The veriest rascals from Normandy,

In Britain are lords and sirs.

I saw a tailor from Bayeux ride

With a pair of golden spurs.

"O woe to all who are Saxon born!

Ye Saxon saints, beware!

For high in heaven though ye dwell,

Shame yet may be your share.

"Ah, now we know what the comet meant

That rode, blood-red and dire,

Across the midnight firmament

This year on a broom of fire.

"'Twas an evil star, and Hastings' field

Has fulfilled the omen dread.

We went upon the battle-plain,

And sought among the dead.

"While still there lingered any hope

We sought, but sought in vain;

King Harold's corse we could not find

Among the bloody slain."

Asgod and Ailrik spake and ceased.

The Abbot wrung his hands.

Awhile he pondered, then he sighed,

"Now mark ye my commands.

"By the stone of the bard at Grendelfield,

Just midway through the wood,

One, Edith of the Swan's Neck, dwells

In a hovel poor and rude.

"They named her thus, because her neck

Was once as slim and white

As any swan's--when, long ago,

She was the king's delight.

"He loved and kissed, forsook, forgot,

For such is the way of men.

Time runs his course with a rapid foot;

It is sixteen years since then.

"To this woman, brethren, ye shall go,

And she will follow you fain

To the battle-field; the woman's eye

Will not seek the king in vain.

"Thereafter to Waltham Abbey here

His body ye shall bring,

That Christian burial he may have,

While for his soul we sing."

The messengers reached the hut in the wood

At the hour of midnight drear.

"Wake, Edith of the Swan's Neck, rise

And follow without fear.

"The Duke of Normandy has won

The battle, to our bane.

On the field of Hastings, where he fought,

The king is lying slain.

"Arise and come with us; we seek

His body among the dead.

To Waltham Abbey it shall be borne.

'Twas thus our Abbot said."

The woman arose and girded her gown,

And silently went behind

The hurrying monks. Her grizzly hair

Streamed wildly on the wind.

Barefoot through bog and bush and briar

She followed and did not stay,

Till Hastings and the cliffs of chalk

They saw at dawn of day.

The mist, that like a sheet of white

The field of battle cloaked,

Melted anon; with hideous din

The daws flew up and croaked.

In thousands on the bloody plain

Lay strewn the piteous corses,

Wounded and torn and maimed and stripped,

Among the fallen horses.

The woman stopped not for the blood;

She waded barefoot through,

And from her fixed and staring eyes

The arrowy glances flew.

Long, with the panting monks behind,

And pausing but to scare

The greedy ravens from their food,

She searched with eager care.

She searched and toiled the livelong day,

Until the night was nigh;

Then sudden from her breast there burst

A shrill and awful cry.

For on the battle-field at last

His body she had found.

She kissed, without a tear or word,

The wan face on the ground.

She kissed his brow, she kissed his mouth,

She clasped him close, and pressed

Her poor lips to the bloody wounds

That gaped upon his breast.

His shoulder stark she kisses too,

When, searching, she discovers

Three little scars her teeth had made

When they were happy lovers.

The monks had been and gotten boughs,

And of these boughs they made

A simple bier, whereon the corse

Of the fallen king was laid.

To Waltham Abbey to his tomb

The king was thus removed;

And Edith of the Swan's Neck walked

By the body that she loved.

She chanted litanies for his soul

With a childish, weird lament

That shuddered through the night. The monks

Prayed softly as they went.

* * * * *

THE ASRA[47] (1855)

Every evening in the twilight,

To and fro beside the fountain

Where the waters whitely murmured,

Walked the Sultan's lovely daughter.

And a youth, a slave, was standing

Every evening by the fountain

Where the waters whitely murmured;

And his cheek grew pale and paler.

Till one eve the lovely princess

Paused and asked him on a sudden:

"I would know thy name and country;

I would know thy home and kindred."

And the slave replied, "Mohammed

Is my name; my home is Yemen;

And my people are the Asras;

When they love, they love and die."

* * * * *

THE PASSION FLOWER[48] (1856)

I dreamt that once upon a summer night

Beneath the pallid moonlight's eerie glimmer

I saw where, wrought in marble dimly bright,

A ruin of the Renaissance did shimmer.

Yet here and there, in simple Doric form,

A pillar like some solitary giant

Rose from the mass, and, fearless of the storm,

Reared toward the firmament its head defiant.

O'er all that place a heap of wreckage lay,

Triglyphs and pediments and carven portals,

With centaur, sphinx, chimera, satyrs gay--

Figures of fabled monsters and of mortals.

A marble-wrought sarcophagus reposed

Unharmed 'mid fragments of these fabled creatures;

Its lidless depth a dead man's form inclosed,

The pain-wrung face now calm with softened features.

A group of straining caryatides

With steadfast neck the casket's weight supported,

Along both sides whereof there ran a frieze

Of chiseled figures, wondrous ill-assorted.

First one might see where, decked in bright array,

A train of lewd Olympians proudly glided,

Then Adam and Dame Eve, not far away,

With fig-leaf aprons modestly provided.

Next came the people of the Trojan war--

Paris, Achilles, Helen, aged Nestor;

Moses and Aaron, too, with many more--

As Judith, Holofernes, Haman, Esther.

Such forms as Cupid's one could likewise see,

Phoebus Apollo, Vulcan, Lady Venus,

Pluto and Proserpine and Mercury,

God Bacchus and Priapus and Silenus.

Among the rest of these stood Balaam's ass--

A speaking likeness (if you will, a braying)--

And Abraham's sacrifice, and there, alas!

Lot's daughters, too, their drunken sire betraying.

Near by them danced the wanton Salome,

To whom John's head was carried in a charger;

Then followed Satan, writhing horribly,

And Peter with his keys--none e'er seemed larger

Changing once more, the sculptor's cunning skill

Showed lustful Jove misusing his high power,

When as a swan he won fair Leda's will,

And conquered Danaë in a golden shower.

Here was Diana, leading to the chase

Her kilted nymphs, her hounds with eyeballs burning;

And here was Hercules in woman's dress,

His warlike hand the peaceful distaff turning.

Not far from them frowned Sinai, bleak and wild,

Along whose slope lay Israel's nomad nation;

Next, one might see our Savior as a child

Amid the elders holding disputation.

Thus were these opposites absurdly blent--

The Grecian joy of living with the godly

Judean cast of thought!--while round them bent

The ivy's tendrils, intertwining oddly.

But--wonderful to say!--while dreamily

I gazed thereon with glance returning often,

Sudden methought that I myself was he,

The dead man in the splendid marble coffin.

Above the coffin by my head there grew

A flower for a symbol sweet and tragic,

Violet and sulphur-yellow was its hue,

It seemed to throb with love's mysterious magic.

Tradition says, when Christ was crucified

On Calvary, that in that very hour

These petals with the Savior's blood were dyed,

And therefore is it named the passion-flower.

The hue of blood, they say, its blossom wears,

And all the instruments of human malice

Used at the crucifixion still it bears

In miniature within its tiny chalice.

Whatever to the Passion's rite belongs,

Each tool of torture here is represented

The crown of thorns, cup, nails and hammer, thongs,

The cross on which our Master was tormented.

'Twas such a flower at my tomb did stand,

Above my lifeless form in sorrow bending,

And, like a mourning woman, kissed my hand,

My brow and eyes, with silent grief contending.

And then--O witchery of dreams most strange!--

By some occult and sudden transformation

This flower to a woman's shape did change--

'Twas she I loved with soul-deep adoration!

'Twas thou in truth, my dearest, only thou;

I knew thee by thy kisses warm and tender.

No flower-lips thus softly touched my brow,

Such burning tears no flower's cup might render!

Mine eyes were shut, and yet my soul could see

Thy steadfast countenance divinely beaming,

As, calm with rapture, thou didst gaze on me,

Thy features in the spectral moonlight gleaming.

We did not speak, and yet my heart could tell

The hidden thoughts that thrilled within thy bosom.

No chaste reserve in spoken words may dwell--

With silence Love puts forth its purest blossom.

A voiceless dialogue! one scarce might deem,

While mute we thus communed in tender fashion,

How time slipped by like some seraphic dream

Of night, all woven of joy and fear-sweet passion.

Ah, never ask of us what then we said;

Ask what the glow-worm glimmers to the grasses,

Or what the wavelet murmurs in its bed,

Or what the west wind whispers as it passes.

Ask what rich lights from carbuncles outstream,

What perfumed thoughts o'er rose and violet hover--

But never ask what, in the moonlight's beam,

The sacred flower breathed to her dead lover.

I cannot tell how long a time I lay,

Dreaming the ecstasy of joys Elysian,

Within my marble shrine. It fled away--

The rapture of that calm untroubled vision.

Death, with thy grave-deep stillness, thou art best,

Delight's full cup thy hand alone can proffer;

The war of passions, pleasure without rest--

Such boons are all that vulgar life can offer.

Alas! a sudden clamor put to flight

My bliss, and all my comfort rudely banished;

'Twas such a screaming, ramping, raging fight

That mid the uproar straight my flower vanished.

Then on all sides began a savage war

Of argument, with scolding and with jangling.

Some voices surely I had heard before--

Why, 'twas my bas-reliefs had fall'n a-wrangling!

Do old delusions haunt these marbles here,

And urge them on to frantic disputations?

The terror-striking shout of Pan rings clear,

While Moses hurls his stern denunciations.

Alack! the wordy strife will have no end,

Beauty and Truth will ever be at variance,

A schism still the ranks of man will rend

Into two camps, the Hellenes and Barbarians.

Both parties thus reviled and cursed away,

And none who heard could tell the why or whether,

Till Balaam's ass at last began to bray

And soon outbawled both gods and saints together.

With strident-sobbing hee-haw, hee-haw there--

His unremitting discords without number--

That beast so nearly brought me to despair

That I cried out--and wakened from my slumber.

* * * * *

THE JOURNEY TO THE HARZ[49] (1824)

BY HEINRICH HEINE

TRANSLATED BY CHARLES GODFREY LELAND

"Nothing is permanent but change, nothing constant but death. Every

pulsation of the heart inflicts a wound, and life would be an endless

bleeding were it not for Poetry. She secures to us what Nature would

deny--a golden age without rust, a spring which never fades, cloudless

prosperity and eternal youth."--BÖRNE.

Black dress coats and silken stockings,

Snowy ruffles frilled with art,

Gentle speeches and embraces--

Oh, if they but held a heart!

Held a heart within their bosom,

Warmed by love which truly glows;

Ah! I'm wearied with their chanting

Of imagined lovers' woes!

I will climb upon the mountains,

Where the quiet cabin stands,

Where the wind blows freely o'er us,

Where the heart at ease expands.

I will climb upon the mountains,

Where the sombre fir-trees grow;

Brooks are rustling, birds are singing,

And the wild clouds headlong go.

Then farewell, ye polished ladies,

Polished men and polished hall!

I will climb upon the mountains,

Smiling down upon you all.

The town of Göttingen, celebrated for its sausages and its University,

belongs to the King of Hanover, and contains nine hundred and

ninety-nine dwellings, divers churches, a lying-in hospital, an

observatory, a prison for students, a library, and a "Ratskeller," where

the beer is excellent. The stream which flows by the town is called the

Leine, and is used in summer for bathing, its waters being very cold,

and in more than one place it is so broad that Lüder was obliged to take

quite a run ere he could leap across. The town itself is beautiful, and

pleases most when one's back is turned to it. It must be very ancient,

for I well remember that five years ago, when I matriculated there (and

shortly after received notice to quit), it had already the same gray,

prim look, and was fully furnished with catch-polls, beadles,

dissertations, _thés dansants_, washerwomen, compendiums, roasted

pigeons, Guelphic orders, graduation coaches, pipe-heads,

court-councilors, law-councilors, expelling councilors, professors

ordinary and extraordinary. Many even assert that, at the time of the

Great Migrations, every German tribe left behind in the town a loosely

bound copy of itself in the person of one of its members, and that from

these descended all the Vandals, Frisians, Suabians, Teutons, Saxons,

Thuringians,[50] and others, who at the present day still abound in

Göttingen, where, separately distinguished by the color of their caps

and pipe-tassels, they may be seen straying singly or in hordes along

the Weender Street. They still fight their battles on the bloody arena

of the _Rasenmill, Ritschenkrug_, and _Bovden_, still preserve the mode

of life peculiar to their savage ancestors, and still, as at the time of

the migrations, are governed partly by their _Duces_, whom they call

"chief cocks," and partly by their primevally ancient law-book, known as

the _Comment_, which fully deserves a place among the _leges

barbarorum_.

The inhabitants of Göttingen are generally divided into Students,

Professors, Philistines, and Cattle, the points of difference between

these castes being by no means strictly defined. The "Cattle" class is

the most important. I might be accused of prolixity should I here

enumerate the names of all the students and of all the regular and

irregular professors; besides, I do not just at present distinctly

remember the appellations of all the former gentlemen; while among the

professors are many who as yet have no name at all. The number of the

Göttingen "Philistines" must be as numerous as the sands (or, more

correctly speaking, as the mud) of the seashore; indeed, when I beheld

them of a morning, with their dirty faces and clean bills, planted

before the gate of the collegiate court of justice, I wondered greatly

that such an innumerable pack of rascals should ever have been created

by the Almighty.

[Illustration: MARKET PLACE GÖTTINGEN]

* * * * *

It was as yet very early in the morning when I left Göttingen, and the

learned ----, beyond doubt, still lay in bed, dreaming as usual that he

wandered in a fair garden, amid the beds of which grew innumerable white

papers written over with citations. On these the sun shone cheerily, and

he plucked up several here and there and laboriously planted them in new

beds, while the sweetest songs of the nightingales rejoiced his old

heart.

Before the Weender Gate I met two small native schoolboys, one of whom

was saying to the other, "I don't intend to keep company any more with

Theodore; he is a low blackguard, for yesterday he didn't even know the

genitive of _Mensa_." Insignificant as these words may appear, I still

regard them as entitled to be recorded--nay, I would even write them as

town-motto on the gate of Göttingen, for the young birds pipe as the old

ones sing, and the expression accurately indicates the narrow, petty

academic pride so characteristic of the "highly learned" Georgia

Augusta.[51] The fresh morning air blew over the highroad, the birds

sang cheerily, and, little by little, with the breeze and the birds, my

mind also became fresh and cheerful. Such refreshment was sorely needed

by one who had long been confined in the Pandect stable. Roman casuists

had covered my soul with gray cobwebs; my heart was as though jammed

between the iron paragraphs of selfish systems of jurisprudence; there

was an endless ringing in my ears of such sounds as "Tribonian,

Justinian, Hermogenian, and Blockheadian," and a sentimental brace of

lovers seated under a tree appeared to me like an edition of the _Corpus

Juris_ with closed clasps. The road began to take on a more lively

appearance. Milkmaids occasionally passed, as did also donkey-drivers

with their gray pupils. Beyond Weende I met the "Shepherd" and "Doris."

This is not the idyllic pair sung by Gessner, but the duly and

comfortably appointed university beadles, whose duty it is to keep watch

and ward so that no students fight duels in Bovden, and, above all, that

no new ideas (such as are generally obliged to remain in quarantine for

several decades outside of Göttingen) are smuggled in by speculative

private lecturers. Shepherd greeted me as one does a colleague, for he,

too, is an author, who has frequently mentioned my name in his

semi-annual writings. In addition to this, I may mention that when, as

was frequently the case, he came to cite me before the university court

and found me "not at home," he was always kind enough to write the

citation with chalk upon my chamber door. Occasionally a one-horse

vehicle rolled along, well packed with students, who were leaving for

the vacation or forever.

In such a university town there is an endless coming and going. Every

three years beholds a new student-generation, forming an incessant human

tide, where one semester-wave succeeds another, and only the old

professors stand fast in the midst of this perpetual-motion flood,

immovable as the pyramids of Egypt. Only in these university pyramids no

treasures of wisdom are buried.

From out the myrtle bushes, by Rauschenwasser, I saw two hopeful youths

appear ... singing charmingly the Rossinian lay of "Drink beer, pretty,

pretty 'Liza!" These sounds I continued to hear when far in the

distance, and after I had long lost sight of the amiable vocalists, as

their horses, which appeared to be gifted with characters of extreme

German deliberation, were spurred and lashed in a most excruciating

style. In no place is the skinning alive of horses carried to such an

extent as in Göttingen; and often, when I beheld some lame and sweating

hack, which, to earn the scraps of fodder which maintained his wretched

life, was obliged to endure the torment of some roaring blade, or draw a

whole wagon-load of students, I reflected: "Unfortunate beast! Most

certainly thy first ancestors, in some horse-paradise, did eat of

forbidden oats."

* * * * *

Beyond Nörten the sun flashed high in heaven. His intentions toward me

were evidently good, and he warmed my brain until all the unripe

thoughts which it contained came to full growth. The pleasant Sun Tavern

in Nörten is not to be despised, either; I stopped there and found

dinner ready. All the dishes were excellent and suited me far better

than the wearisome, academical courses of saltless, leathery dried fish

and cabbage _réchauffé_, which were served to me in Göttingen. After I

had somewhat appeased my appetite, I remarked in the same room of the

tavern a gentle man and two ladies, who were about to depart. The

cavalier was clad entirely in green; he even had on a pair of green

spectacles which cast a verdigris tinge upon his copper-red nose. The

gentleman's general appearance was like what we may presume King

Nebuchadnezzar's to have been in his later years, when, according to

tradition, he ate nothing but salad, like a beast of the forest. The

Green One requested me to recommend him to a hotel in Göttingen, and I

advised him, when there, to inquire of the first convenient student for

the Hotel de Brübach. One lady was evidently his wife--an altogether

extensively constructed dame, gifted with a rubicund square mile of

countenance, with dimples in her cheeks which looked like spittoons for

cupids. A copious double chin appeared below, like an imperfect

continuation of the face, while her high-piled bosom, which was defended

by stiff points of lace and a many-cornered collar, as if by turrets and

bastions, reminded one of a fortress. Still, it is by no means certain

that this fortress would have resisted an ass laden with gold, any more

than did that of which Philip of Macedon spoke. The other lady, her

sister, seemed her extreme antitype. If the one were descended from

Pharaoh's fat kine, the other was as certainly derived from the lean.

Her face was but a mouth between two ears; her breast was as

inconsolably comfortless and dreary as the Lüneburger heath; while her

absolutely dried-up figure reminded one of a charity table for poor

theological students. Both ladies asked me, in a breath, if respectable

people lodged in the Hotel de Brübach. I assented to this question with

a clear conscience, and as the charming trio drove away I waved my hand

to them many times from the window. The landlord of The Sun laughed,

however, in his sleeve, being probably aware that the Hotel de Brübach

was a name bestowed by the students of Göttingen upon their university

prison.

Beyond Nordheim mountain ridges begin to appear, and the traveler

occasionally meets with a picturesque eminence. The wayfarers whom I

encountered were principally peddlers, traveling to the Brunswick fair,

and among them there was a group of women, every one of whom bore on her

back an incredibly large cage nearly as high as a house, covered over

with white linen. In this cage were every variety of singing birds,

which continually chirped and sung, while their bearers merrily hopped

along and chattered together. It seemed droll thus to behold one bird

carrying others to market.

The night was as dark as pitch when I entered Osterode. I had no

appetite for supper, and at once went to bed. I was as tired as a dog

and slept like a god. In my dreams I returned to Göttingen and found

myself in the library. I stood in a corner of the Hall of Jurisprudence,

turning over old dissertations, lost myself in reading, and, when I

finally looked up, remarked to my astonishment that it was night and

that the hall was illuminated by innumerable over-hanging crystal

chandeliers. The bell of the neighboring church struck twelve, the hall

doors slowly opened, and there entered a superb colossal female form,

reverentially accompanied by the members and hangers-on of the legal

faculty. The giantess, though advanced in years, retained in her

countenance traces of severe beauty, and her every glance indicated the

sublime Titaness, the mighty Themis. The sword and balance were

carelessly grasped in her right hand, while with the left she held a

roll of parchment. Two young _Doctores Juris_ bore the train of her

faded gray robe; by her right side the lean Court Councilor Rusticus,

the Lycurgus of Hanover, fluttered here and there like a zephyr,

declaiming extracts from his last hand-book of law, while on her left

her _cavalier servente_, the privy-councilor of Justice Cujacius,

hobbled gaily and gallantly along, constantly cracking legal jokes,

himself laughing so heartily at his own wit that even the serious

goddess often smiled and bent over him, exclaiming, as she tapped him on

the shoulder with the great parchment roll, "You little scamp, who begin

to trim the trees from the top!" All of the gentlemen who formed her

escort now drew nigh in turn, each having something to remark or jest

over, either a freshly worked-up miniature system, or a miserable little

hypothesis, or some similar abortion of their own insignificant brains.

Through the open door of the hall many strange gentlemen now entered,

who announced themselves as the remaining magnates of the illustrious

Order--mostly angular suspicious-looking fellows, who with extreme

complacency blazed away with their definitions and hair-splittings,

disputing over every scrap of a title to the title of a pandect. And

other forms continually flocked in, the forms of those who were learned

in law in the olden time--men in antiquated costume, with long

councilors' wigs and forgotten faces, who expressed themselves greatly

astonished that they, the widely famed of the previous century, should

not meet with special consideration; and these, after their manner,

joined in the general chattering and screaming, which, like ocean

breakers, became louder and madder around the mighty goddess, until she,

bursting with impatience, suddenly cried, in a tone of the most agonized

Titanic pain, "Silence! Silence! I hear the voice of the beloved

Prometheus. Mocking cunning and brute force are chaining the Innocent

One to the rock of martyrdom, and all your prattling and quarreling will

not allay his wounds or break his fetters!" So cried the goddess, and

rivulets of tears sprang from her eyes; the entire assembly howled as if

in the agonies of death, the ceiling of the hall burst asunder, the

books tumbled madly from their shelves. In vain did Münchhausen step out

of his frame to call them to order; it only crashed and raged all the

more wildly. I sought refuge from this Bedlam broken loose in the Hall

of History, near that gracious spot where the holy images of the Apollo

Belvedere and the Venus de Medici stand near each other, and I knelt at

the feet of the Goddess of Beauty. In her glance I forgot all the wild

excitement from which I had escaped, my eyes drank in with intoxication

the symmetry and immortal loveliness of her infinitely blessed form;

Hellenic calm swept through my soul, while above my head Phoebus Apollo

poured forth, like heavenly blessings, the sweetest tones of his lyre.

Awaking, I continued to hear a pleasant, musical sound. The flocks were

on their way to pasture, and their bells were tinkling. The blessed

golden sunlight shone through the window, illuminating the pictures on

the walls of my room. They were sketches from the War of Independence,

which faithfully portrayed what heroes we all were; further, there were

scenes representing executions on the guillotine, from the time of the

revolution under Louis XIV., and other similar decapitations which no

one could behold without thanking God that he lay quietly in bed

drinking excellent coffee, and with his head comfortably adjusted upon

neck and shoulders.

After I had drunk my coffee, dressed myself, read the inscriptions upon

the window-panes, and settled my bill at the inn, I left Osterode.

This town contains a certain quantity of houses and a given number of

inhabitants, among whom are divers and sundry souls, as may be

ascertained in detail from Gottschalk's "Pocket Guide-Book for Harz

Travelers." Ere I struck into the highway, I ascended the ruins of the

very ancient Osteroder Burg. They consisted merely of the half of a

great, thick-walled tower, which appeared to be fairly honeycombed by

time. The road to Clausthal led me again uphill, and from one of the

first eminences I looked back once more into the dale where Osterode

with its red roofs peeps out from among the green fir-woods, like a

moss-rose from amid its leaves. The sun cast a pleasant, tender light

over the whole scene. From this spot the imposing rear of the remaining

portion of the tower may be seen to advantage.

There are many other ruined castles in this vicinity. That of

Hardenberg, near Nörten, is the most beautiful. Even when one has, as he

should, his heart on the left--that is, the liberal side--he cannot

banish all melancholy feeling on beholding the rocky nests of those

privileged birds of prey, who left to their effete descendants only

their fierce appetites. So it happened to me this morning. My heart

thawed gradually as I departed from Göttingen; I again became romantic,

and as I went on I made up this poem:

Rise again, ye dreams forgotten;

Heart-gate, open to the sun!

Joys of song and tears of sorrow

Sweetly strange from thee shall run.

I will rove the fir-tree forest,

Where the merry fountain springs,

Where the free, proud stags are wandering,

Where the thrush, my darling, sings.

I will climb upon the mountains,

On the steep and rocky height,

Where the gray old castle ruins

Stand in rosy morning light.

I will sit awhile reflecting

On the times long passed away,

Races which of old were famous,

Glories sunk in deep decay.

Grows the grass upon the tilt-yard,

Where the all-victorious knight

Overcame the strongest champions,

Won the guerdon of the fight.

O'er the balcony twines ivy,

Where the fairest gave the prize,

Him who all the rest had vanquished

Overcoming with her eyes.

Both the victors, knight and lady,

Fell long since by Death's cold hand;

So the gray and withered scytheman

Lays the mightiest in the sand.

After proceeding a little distance, I met with a traveling journeyman

who came from Brunswick, and who related to me that it was generally

believed in that city that their young Duke had been taken prisoner by

the Turks during his tour in the Holy Land, and could be ransomed only

by an enormous sum. The extensive travels of the Duke probably

originated this tale. The people at large still preserve that

traditional fable-loving train of ideas which is so pleasantly shown in

their "Duke Ernest." The narrator of this news was a tailor, a neat

little youth, but so thin that the stars might have shone through him as

through Ossian's misty ghosts. Altogether, he was made up of that

eccentric mixture of humor and melancholy peculiar to the German people.

This was especially expressed in the droll and affecting manner in which

he sang that extraordinary popular ballad, "A beetle sat upon the hedge,

_summ, summ!_" There is one fine thing about us Germans--no one is so

crazy but that he may find a crazier comrade who will understand him.

Only a German _can_ appreciate that song, and in the same breath laugh

and cry himself to death over it. On this occasion I also remarked the

depth to which the words of Goethe have penetrated the national life. My

lean comrade trilled occasionally as he went along--"Joyful and

sorrowful, thoughts are free!" Such a corruption of text is usual among

the multitude. He also sang a song in which "Lottie by the grave of

Werther" wept. The tailor ran over with sentimentalism in the words--

"Sadly by the rose-beds now I weep,

Where the late moon found us oft alone!

Moaning where the silver fountains sleep,

Once which whispered joy in every tone."

* * * * *

The hills here became steeper, the fir-woods below were like a green

sea, and white clouds above sailed along over the blue sky. The wildness

of the region was, as it were, tamed by its uniformity and the

simplicity of its elements. Nature, like a true poet, abhors abrupt

transitions. Clouds, however fantastically formed they may at times

appear, still have a white, or at least a subdued hue, harmoniously

corresponding with the blue heaven and the green earth; so that all the

colors of a landscape blend into one another like soft music, and every

glance at such a natural picture tranquilizes and reassures the soul.

The late Hofmann would have painted the clouds spotted and chequered.

And, like a great poet, Nature knows how to produce the greatest

effects with the most limited means. She has, after all, only a sun,

trees, flowers, water, and love to work with. Of course, if the latter

be lacking in the heart of the observer, the whole will, in all

probability, present but a poor appearance; the sun is then only so many

miles in diameter, the trees are good for firewood, the flowers are

classified according to their stamens, and the water is wet.

A little boy who was gathering brushwood in the forest for his sick

uncle pointed out to me the village of Lerrbach, whose little huts with

gray roofs lie scattered along for over a mile through the valley.

"There," said he, "live idiots with goitres, and white negroes." By

white negroes the people mean "albinos." The little fellow lived on

terms of peculiar understanding with the trees, addressing them like old

acquaintances, while they in turn seemed by their waving and rustling to

return his salutations. He chirped like a thistle-finch; many birds

around answered his call, and, ere I was aware, he had disappeared amid

the thickets with his little bare feet and his bundle of brush.

"Children," thought I, "are younger than we; they can remember when they

were once trees or birds, and are consequently still able to understand

them. We of larger growth are, alas, too old for that, and carry about

in our heads too many sorrows and bad verses and too much legal lore."

But the time when it was otherwise recurred vividly to me as I entered

Clausthal. In this pretty little mountain town, which the traveler does

not behold until he stands directly before it, I arrived just as the

clock was striking twelve and the children came tumbling merrily out of

school. The little rogues, nearly all red-cheeked, blue-eyed,

flaxen-haired, sprang and shouted and awoke in me melancholy and

cheerful memories--how I once myself, as a little boy, sat all the

forenoon long in a gloomy Catholic cloister school in Düsseldorf,

without so much as daring to stand up, enduring meanwhile a terrible

amount of Latin, whipping, and geography, and how I too hurrahed and

rejoiced, beyond all measure when the old Franciscan clock at last

struck twelve. The children saw by my knapsack that I was a stranger,

and greeted me in the most hospitable manner. One of the boys told me

that they had just had a lesson in religion, and showed me the Royal

Hanoverian Catechism, from which they were questioned on Christianity.

This little book was very badly printed, so that I greatly feared that

the doctrines of faith made thereby but an unpleasant blotting-paper

sort of impression upon the children's minds. I was also shocked at

observing that the multiplication table--which surely seriously

contradicts the Holy Trinity--was printed on the last page of the

catechism, as it at once occurred to me that by this means the minds of

the children might, even in their earliest years, be led to the most

sinful skepticism. We Prussians are more intelligent, and, in our zeal

for converting those heathen who are familiar with arithmetic, take good

care not to print the multiplication table in the back of the catechism.

I dined at The Crown, at Clausthal. My repast consisted of spring-green

parsley-soup, violet-blue cabbage, a pile of roast veal, which resembled

Chimborazo in miniature, and a sort of smoked herring, called

"Bückings," from the inventor, William Bücking, who died in 1447, and

who, on account of the invention, was so greatly honored by Charles V.

that the great monarch in 1556 made a journey from Middleburg to

Bievlied in Zealand for the express purpose of visiting the grave of the

great man. How exquisitely such dishes taste when we are familiar with

their historical associations!

* * * * *

In the silver refinery, as has so frequently happened in life, I could

get no glimpse of the precious metal. In the mint I succeeded better,

and saw how money was made. Beyond this I have never been able to

advance. On such occasions mine has invariably been the spectator's

part, and I verily believe that, if it should rain dollars from heaven,

the coins would only knock holes in my head, while the children of

Israel would merrily gather up the silver manna. With feelings in which

comic reverence was blended with emotion, I beheld the new-born shining

dollars, took one in my hand as it came fresh from the stamp, and said

to it, "Young Dollar, what a destiny awaits thee! What a cause wilt thou

be of good and of evil! How thou wilt protect vice and patch up virtue!

How thou wilt be beloved and accursed! How thou wilt aid in debauchery,

pandering, lying, and murdering! How thou wilt restlessly roll along

through clean and dirty hands for centuries, until finally, laden with

tresspasses and weary with sin, thou wilt be gathered again unto thine

own, in the bosom of an Abraham, who will melt thee down, purify thee,

and form thee into a new and better being, perhaps an innocent little

tea-spoon, with which my own great-great-grandson will mash his

porridge."

I will narrate in detail my visit to "Dorothea" and "Caroline," the two

principal Clausthaler mines, having found them very interesting.

Half an hour away from the town are situated two large dingy buildings.

Here the traveler is transferred to the care of the miners. These men

wear dark and generally steel-blue colored jackets, of ample girth,

descending to the hips, with pantaloons of a similar hue, a leather

apron tied on behind, and a rimless green felt hat which resembles a

decapitated nine-pin. In such a garb, with the exception of the

"back-leather," the visitor is also clad, and a miner, his "leader,"

after lighting his mine-lamp, conducts him to a gloomy entrance

resembling a chimney-hole, descends as far as the breast, gives him a

few directions relative to grasping the ladder, and requests him to

follow fearlessly. The affair is entirely devoid of danger, though it at

first appears quite otherwise to those unacquainted with the mysteries

of mining. Even the putting on of the dark convict-dress awakens very

peculiar sensations. Then one must clamber down on all fours, the dark

hole is so _very_ dark, and Lord only knows how long the ladder may be!

But we soon remark that this is not the only ladder descending into the

black eternity, for there are many, of from fifteen to twenty rounds

apiece, each standing upon a board capable of supporting a man, and from

which a new hole leads in turn to a new ladder. I first entered the

"Caroline," the dirtiest and most disagreeable Caroline with whom I ever

had the pleasure of becoming acquainted. The rounds of the ladders were

covered with wet mud. And from one ladder we descend to another with the

guide ever in advance, continually assuring us that there was no danger

so long as we held firmly to the rounds and did not look at our feet,

and that we must not for our lives tread on the side plank, where the

buzzing barrel-rope runs, and where two weeks ago a careless man was

knocked down, unfortunately breaking his neck by the fall. Far below is

a confused rustling and humming, and we continually bump against beams

and ropes which are in motion, winding up and raising barrels of broken

ore or of water. Occasionally we pass galleries hewn in the rock, called

"stulms," where the ore may be seen growing, and where some solitary

miner sits the livelong day, wearily hammering pieces from the walls. I

did not descend to those deepest depths where it is reported that the

people on the other side of the world, in America, may be heard crying,

"Hurrah for Lafayette!" Between ourselves, where I did go seemed to me

deep enough in all conscience; there was an endless roaring and

rattling, uncanny sounds of machinery, the rush of subterranean streams,

sickening clouds of ore-dust continually rising, water dripping on all

sides, and the miner's lamp gradually growing dimmer and dimmer. The

effect was really benumbing, I breathed with difficulty, and had trouble

in holding to the slippery rounds. It was not _fright_ which overpowered

me, but, oddly enough, down there in the depths, I remembered that a

year before, about the same time, I had been in a storm on the North

Sea, and I now felt that it would be an agreeable change could I feel

the rocking of the ship, hear the wind with its thunder-trumpet tones,

while amid its lulls sounded the hearty cry of the sailors, and all

above was freshly swept by God's own free air--yes, sir! Panting for

air, I rapidly climbed several dozens of ladders, and my guide led me

through a narrow and very long gallery toward the "Dorothea" mine. Here

it was airier and fresher, and the ladders were cleaner, though at the

same time longer and steeper, than in the "Caroline." I felt revived and

more cheerful, particularly as I again observed traces of human beings.

Far below I saw wandering, wavering lights; miners with their lamps came

upwards one by one with the greeting, "Good luck to you!" and, receiving

the same salutation from us, went onwards and upwards. Something like a

friendly and quiet, yet, at the same time, painful and enigmatical

recollection flitted across my mind as I met the deep glances and

earnest pale faces of these young and old men, mysteriously illuminated

by their lanterns, and thought how they had worked all day in lonely and

secret places in the mines, and how they now longed for the blessed

light of day and for the glances of wives and children.

My guide himself was an absolutely honest, thoroughly loyal German

specimen. With inward joy he pointed out to me the "place" where the

Duke of Cambridge, when he visited the mines, dined with all his train,

and where the long wooden table yet stands; with the accompanying great

chair, made of ore, in which the Duke sat. "This is to remain as an

eternal memorial," said the good miner, and he related with enthusiasm

how many festivities had then taken place, how the entire "stulm" had

been adorned with lamps, flowers, and decorations of leaves; how a miner

boy had played on the cithern and sung; how the dear, delighted, fat

Duke had drained many healths, and what a number of miners (himself

especially) would cheerfully die for the dear, fat Duke, and for the

whole house of Hanover. I am moved to my very heart when I see loyalty

thus manifested in all its natural simplicity. It is such a beautiful

sentiment, and such a purely _German_ sentiment! Other people may be

wittier, more intelligent, and more agreeable, but none is so faithful

as the real German race. Did I not know that fidelity is as old as the

world, I would believe that a German heart had invented it. German

fidelity is no modern "Yours very truly," or "I remain your humble

servant." In your courts, ye German princes, ye should cause to be sung,

and sung again, the old ballad of _The Trusty Eckhart and the Base

Burgund_ who slew Eckhart's seven children, and still found him

faithful. Ye have the truest people in the world, and ye err when ye

deem that the old, intelligent, trusty hound has suddenly gone mad, and

snaps at your sacred calves!

And, like German fidelity, the little mine-lamp has guided us

quietly and securely, without much flickering or flaring, through

the labyrinth of shafts and stulms. We ascend out of the gloomy

mountain-night--sunlight flashes around--"Good luck to you!"

Most of the miners dwell in Clausthal, and in the adjoining small town

of Zellerfeld. I visited several of these brave fellows, observed their

little households, heard many of their songs, which they skilfully

accompany with their favorite instrument, the cithern, and listened to

old mining legends, and to their prayers which they are accustomed to

offer daily in company ere they descend the gloomy shaft; and many a

good prayer did I offer up with them! One old climber even thought that

I ought to remain among them, and become a man of the mines; but as I

took my leave notwithstanding, he gave me a message to his brother, who

dwelt near Goslar, and many kisses for his darling niece.

Tranquil even to stagnation as the life of these people may appear, it

is, nevertheless, a real and vivid life. That ancient trembling crone

who sits behind the stove opposite the great clothes-press may have been

there for a quarter of a century, and all her thinking and feeling is,

beyond a doubt, intimately blended with every corner of the stove and

the carvings of the press. And clothes-press and stove _live_--for a

human being hath breathed into them a portion of her soul.

It was only in such deeply contemplative life as this, in such "direct

relationship" between man and the things of the outer world, that the

German fairy tale could originate, the peculiarity of which consists in

the fact that in it not only animals and plants, but also objects

apparently inanimate, speak and act. To thoughtful harmless people in

the quiet homeliness of their lowly mountain cabins or forest huts, the

inner life of these objects was gradually revealed; they acquired a

necessary and consistent character, a sweet blending of fantastic humor

and purely human sentiment, and thus we find in the fairy tale--as

something marvelous and yet at the same time quite natural--the pin and

the needle wandering forth from the tailor's home and losing their way

in the dark; the straw and the coal seeking to cross the brook and

coming to grief; the dust-pan and broom quarreling and fighting on the

stairs. Thus the mirror, when interrogated, shows the image of the

fairest lady, and even drops of blood begin to utter obscure and fearful

words of the deepest compassion. And this is the reason why our life in

childhood is so infinitely significant, for then all things are of the

same importance, nothing escapes our attention, there is equality in

every impression; while, when more advanced in years, we must act with

design, busy ourselves more exclusively with particulars, carefully

exchange the pure gold of observation for the paper currency of book

definitions, and win in _breadth_ of life what we lost in depth.

_Now,_ we are grown-up, respectable people, we often inhabit new

dwellings; the housemaid daily cleans them and changes at her will the

position of the furniture, which interests us but little, as it is

either new or may belong today to Jack, tomorrow to Isaac. Even our very

clothes are strange to us; we hardly know how many buttons there are on

the coat we wear--for we change our garments as often as possible, and

none of them remains deeply identified with our external or inner

history. We can hardly remember how that brown vest once looked, which

attracted so much laughter, and yet on the broad stripes of which the

dear hand of the loved one so gently rested!

The old dame who sat behind the stove opposite the clothes-press wore a

flowered dress of some old-fashioned material, which had been the bridal

robe of her departed mother. Her great-grandson, a fair-haired boy, with

flashing eyes, clad in a miner's dress, sat at her feet and counted the

flowers on her dress. It may be that she has narrated to him many a

story connected with that dress--many serious and pretty stories, which

the boy will not readily forget, which will often recur to him when he,

a grown-up man, works alone in the midnight galleries of the "Caroline,"

and which he in turn will narrate when the dear grandmother has long

been dead, and he himself, a silver-haired, tranquil old man, sits amid

the circle of _his_ grand-children behind the stove, opposite the great

clothes-press.

I lodged that night too in The Crown, where the Court Councilor B----,

of Göttingen, had arrived meanwhile, and I had the pleasure of paying my

respects to the old gentleman. After writing my name in the book of

arrivals, I turned over the leaves of the month of July and found

therein, among others, the much loved name of Adalbert von Chamisso, the

biographer of the immortal _Schlemihl_. The landlord remarked of

Chamisso that the gentleman had arrived during one terrible storm and

departed in another.

The next morning I had again to lighten my knapsack, and threw overboard

an extra pair of boots; then I arose and went on to Goslar, where I

arrived without knowing how. This much alone do I remember, that I

sauntered up hill and down dale, gazing upon many a lovely meadow vale;

silver waters rippled and murmured, sweet woodbirds sang, the bells of

the flocks tinkled, the many shaded green trees were gilded by the sun,

and, over all, the blue silk canopy of heaven was so transparent that

one could look through the depths even to the Holy of Holies, where

angels sit at the feet of God, studying thorough-bass in the features of

the eternal countenance. But I was all the time lost in a dream of the

previous night, which I could not banish from my thoughts. It was an

echo of the old legend--how a knight descended into a deep fountain

beneath which the fairest princess of the world lay buried in a

deathlike magic slumber. I myself was the knight, and the dark mine of

Clausthal was the fountain. Suddenly innumerable lights gleamed around

me, watchful dwarfs leapt from every cranny in the rocks, grimacing

angrily, cutting at me with their short swords, blowing shrilly on

horns, which summoned more and ever more of their comrades, and

frantically nodding their great heads. But as I hewed them down with my

sword the blood flowed, and I for the first time remarked that they were

not really dwarfs, but the red-blooming, long-bearded thistle-tops,

which I had the day before hewed down on the highway with my stick. At

last they all vanished, and I came to a splendid lighted hall, in the

midst of which stood my heart's loved one, veiled in white, and

immovable as a statue. I kissed her mouth, and then--O Heavens!--I felt

the blessed breath of her soul and the sweet tremor of her lovely lips.

It seemed that I heard the divine command, "Let there be light!" and a

dazzling flash of eternal light shot down, but at the same instant it

was again night, and all ran chaotically together into a wild turbulent

sea! A wild turbulent sea, indeed, over whose foaming waves the ghosts

of the departed madly chased one another, their white shrouds floating

in the wind, while behind all, goading them on with cracking whip, ran a

many-colored harlequin--and I was the harlequin! Suddenly from the black

waves the sea monsters raised their misshapen heads, snatched at me with

extended claws, and I awoke in terror.

Alas, how the finest fairy tales may be spoiled! The knight, in fact,

when he has found the sleeping princess, ought to cut a piece from her

priceless veil, and when, by his bravery, she has been awakened from her

magic sleep and is again seated on her golden throne in her palace, the

knight should approach her and say, "My fairest princess, dost thou not

know me?" Then she will answer, "My bravest knight, I know thee not!"

And then he shows her the piece cut from her veil, exactly fitting the

deficiency, and she knows that he is her deliverer, and both tenderly

embrace, and the trumpets sound, and the marriage is celebrated. It is

really a very peculiar misfortune that _my_ love-dreams so seldom have

so fine a conclusion.

[Illustration: OLD IMPERIAL PALACE, GOSLAR]

The name of Goslar rings so pleasantly, and there are so many very

ancient and imperial associations connected therewith, that I had hoped

to find an imposing and stately town. But it is always the same old

story when we examine celebrities too closely. I found a nest of houses,

drilled in every direction with narrow streets of labyrinthine

crookedness, and amid which a miserable stream, probably the Gose, winds

its sad and muddy way. The pavement of the town is as ragged as Berlin

hexameters. Only the antiquities which are imbedded in the frame or

mounting of the city--that is to say, its remnants of walls, towers, and

battlements--give the place a piquant look. One of these towers, known as

the "Zwinger," or donjonkeep, has walls of such extraordinary thickness

that entire rooms are excavated therein. The open place before the town,

where the world-renowned shooting matches are held, is a beautiful large

plain surrounded by high mountains. The market is small, and in its

midst is a spring fountain, the waters from which pours into a great

metallic basin. When an alarm of fire is raised, they strike several

times on this cup-formed basin, which gives out a very loud vibration.

Nothing is known of the origin of this work. Some say that the devil

placed it once during the night on the spot where it stands. In those

days people were as yet fools, nor was the devil any wiser, and they

mutually exchanged gifts.

The town hall of Goslar is a whitewashed guard-room. The Guildhall, hard

by, has a somewhat better appearance. In this building, equidistant from

roof and ceiling, stands the statues of German emperors. Blackened with

smoke and partly gilded, in one hand the sceptre, and in the other the

globe, they look like roasted college beadles. One of the emperors holds

a sword instead of a sceptre. I cannot imagine the reason of this

variation from the established order, though it has doubtless some

occult signification, as Germans have the remarkable peculiarity of

meaning something in whatever they do.

In Gottschalk's _Handbook_ I had read much of the very ancient

cathedral, and of the far-famed imperial throne at Goslar. But when I

wished to see these curiosities, I was informed that the church had been

torn down, and that the throne had been carried to Berlin. We live in

deeply significant times, when millennial churches are destroyed and

imperial thrones are tumbled into the lumber-room.

A few memorials of the late cathedral of happy memory are still

preserved in the church of St. Stephen. These consist of stained glass

pictures of great beauty, a few indifferent paintings, including a Lucas

Cranach, a wooden Christ crucified, and a heathen altar of some unknown

metal. The latter resembles a long square coffer, and is upheld by

caryatides, which in a bowed position hold their hands above their heads

in support, and are making the most hideous grimaces. But far more

hideous is the adjacent large wooden crucifix of which I have just

spoken. This head of Christ, with its real hair and thorns and

blood-stained countenance, represents, in the most masterly manner, the

death of a _man_--but not of a divinely-born Savior. Nothing but physical

suffering is portrayed in this image--not the sublime poetry of pain.

Such a work would be more appropriately placed in a hall of anatomy than

in a house of the Lord.

The sacristan's wife--an artistic expert--who led me about, showed me a

special rarity. This was a many-cornered, well-planed blackboard covered

with white numerals, which hung like a lamp in the middle of the

building. Oh, how brilliantly does the spirit of invention manifest

itself in the Protestant Church! For who would think it! The numbers on

this board are those of the Psalms for the day, which are generally

chalked on a common black tablet, and have a very sobering effect on an

esthetic mind, but which, in the form above described, even ornament the

church and fully make up for the want of pictures by Raphael. Such

progress delights me infinitely, since I, as a Protestant and a

Lutheran, am ever deeply chagrined when Catholic opponents ridicule the

empty, God-forsaken appearance of Protestant churches.

* * * * *

The churchyard at Goslar did not appeal to me very strongly, but a

certain very pretty blonde-ringleted head which peeped smilingly from a

parterre window _did_. After dinner I again sought out this fascinating

window, but, instead of a maiden, I beheld a glass containing white

bellflowers. I clambered up, stole the flowers, put them quietly in my

cap, and descended, unheeding the gaping mouths, petrified noses, and

goggle eyes, with which the people in the street, and especially the old

women, regarded this qualified theft. As I, an hour later, passed by the

same house, the beauty stood by the window, and, as she saw the flowers

in my cap, she blushed like a ruby and started back. This time I had

seen the beautiful face to better advantage; it was a sweet, transparent

incarnation of summer-evening breeze, moonshine, nightingale notes, and

rose perfume. Later, in the twilight hour, she was standing at the door.

I came--I drew near--she slowly retreated into the dark entry. I

followed, and, seizing her hand, said, "I am a lover of beautiful

flowers and of kisses, and when they are not given to me I steal them."

Here I quickly snatched a kiss, and, as she was about to flee, whispered

soothingly, "Tomorrow I leave this town, probably never to return." Then

I perceived a faint pressure of the lovely lips and of the little hand

and I--hurried smilingly away. Yes, I must smile when I reflect that

unconsciously I uttered the magic formula by which our red-and

blue-coated cavaliers more frequently win female hearts than by their

mustachioed attractiveness--"Tomorrow I leave, probably never to

return."

* * * * *

During the night which I passed at Goslar, a remarkably curious

occurrence befell me. Even now I cannot think of it without terror. I am

not cowardly by nature and Heaven knows that I have never experienced

any special anguish when, for example, a naked blade has sought to make

acquaintance with my nose or when I have lost my way at night in a wood

of ill repute, or when, at a concert, a yawning lieutenant has

threatened to swallow me--but _ghosts_ I fear almost as much as the

_Austrian Observer_[52]. What is fear? Does it originate in the brain or

in the emotions? This was a point which I frequently disputed with Dr.

Saul Ascher, when we accidentally met in the Café Royal in Berlin, where

for a long time I used to take dinner. The Doctor invariably maintained

that we feared anything, because we recognized it as fearful, by a

certain process of reasoning, for reason alone is an active power--the

emotions are not. While I ate and drank my fill, the Doctor continued to

demonstrate to me the advantages of reason. Toward the end of his

demonstration, he was accustomed to look at his watch and remark

conclusively, "Reason is the highest principle!" Reason! Never do I hear

this word without recalling Dr. Saul Ascher, with his abstract legs, his

tight-fitting transcendental-grey long coat, his forbidding icy face,

which could have served as frontispiece for a textbook of geometry. This

man, deep in the fifties, was a personified straight line. In his

striving for the positive, the poor man had, by dint of philosophizing,

eliminated all the splendid things from life, such as sunshine,

religion, and flowers, so that there remained nothing for him but the

cold positive grave. The Apollo Belvedere and Christianity were the two

special objects of his malice, and he had even published a pamphlet

against the latter, in which he had demonstrated its unreasonableness

and untenableness. In addition to this, he has written a great number of

books, in all of which _Reason_ shines forth in all its peculiar

excellence, and as the poor Doctor meant what he said in all

seriousness, he was, so far, deserving of respect. But the great joke

consisted precisely in this, that the Doctor invariably cut such a

seriously absurd figure when he could not comprehend what every child

comprehends, simply because it is a child. I visited the Doctor of

Reason several times in his own house, where I found him in company with

very pretty girls; for Reason, it seems, does not prohibit the enjoyment

of the things of this world. Once, however, when I called, his servant

told me the "Herr Doctor" had just died. I experienced as much emotion

on this occasion as if I had been told that the "Herr Doctor" had just

moved.

To return to Goslar. "The highest principle is Reason," said I

soothingly to myself, as I slid into bed. But it availed me nothing. I

had just been reading in Varnhagen von Ense's _German Tales,_ which I

had brought with me from Clausthal, that terrible story of the son who

went about to murder his father and was warned in the night by the ghost

of his mother. The wonderful truthfulness with which this story is

depicted, caused, while reading it, a shudder of horror in all my veins.

Ghost-stories invariably thrill us with additional horror when read

during a journey, and by night in a town, in a house, and in a room

where we have never been before. We involuntarily reflect, "How many

horrors may have been perpetrated on this very spot where I now lie!"

Meanwhile, the moon shone into my room in a doubtful, suspicious manner;

all kinds of uncalled-for shapes quivered on the walls, and as I raised

myself in bed and glanced fearfully toward them, I beheld--

There is nothing so uncanny as when a man accidentally sees his own face

by moonlight in a mirror. At the same instant there struck a

deep-booming, yawning bell, and that so slowly and wearily that after

the twelfth stroke I firmly believed that twelve full hours must have

passed and that it would begin to strike twelve all over again. Between

the last and next to the last tones, there struck in very abruptly, as

if irritated and scolding, another bell, which was apparently out of

patience with the slowness of its colleague. As the two iron tongues

were silenced, and the stillness of death sank over the whole house, I

suddenly seemed to hear, in the corridor before my chamber, something

halting and shuffling along, like the unsteady steps of an old man. At

last my door opened, and there entered slowly the late departed Dr. Saul

Ascher. A cold fever ran through me. I trembled like an ivy leaf and

scarcely dared to gaze upon the ghost. He appeared as usual, with the

same transcendental-grey long coat, the same abstract legs, and the same

mathematical face; only this latter was a little yellower than usual,

the mouth, which formerly described two angles of 22-1/2 degrees, was

pinched together, and the circles around the eyes had a somewhat greater

radius. Tottering, and supporting himself as usual upon his Malacca

cane, he approached me, and said in his usual drawling accent but in a

friendly manner, "Do not be afraid, nor believe that I am a ghost. It is

a deception of your imagination, if you believe that you see me as a

ghost. What is a ghost? Define one. Deduce for me the conditions of the

possibility of a ghost. What reasonable connection is there between such

an apparition and reason? Reason, I say, _Reason!"_ Here the ghost

proceeded to analyze reason, cited from Kant's _Critique of Pure

Reason_, part II, section I, book 2, chap. 3, the distinction between

phenomena and noumena, then went on to construct a hypothetical system

of ghosts, piled one syllogism on another, and concluded with the

logical proof that there are absolutely no ghosts. Meanwhile the cold

sweat ran down my back, my teeth clattered like castanets, and from very

agony of soul I nodded an unconditional assent to every assertion which

the phantom doctor alleged against the absurdity of being afraid of

ghosts, and which he demonstrated with such zeal that once, in a moment

of distraction, instead of his gold watch he drew a handful of

grave-worms from his vest-pocket, and remarking his error, replaced them

with a ridiculous but terrified haste. "Reason is the highest--!" Here

the clock struck _one_, but the ghost vanished.

The next morning I left Goslar and wandered along, partly at random, and

partly with the intention of visiting the brother of the Clausthal

miner. Again we had beautiful Sunday weather. I climbed hill and

mountain, saw how the sun strove to drive away the mists, and wandered

merrily through the quivering woods, while around my dreaming head rang

the bell-flowers of Goslar. The mountains stood in their white

night-robes, the fir-trees were shaking sleep out of their branching

limbs, the fresh morning wind curled their drooping green locks, the

birds were at morning prayers, the meadow-vale flashed like a golden

surface sprinkled with diamonds, and the shepherd passed over it with

his bleating flock.

* * * * *

After much circuitous wandering I came to the dwelling of the brother of

my Clausthal friend. Here I stayed all night and experienced the

following beautiful poem--

Stands the but upon the mountain

Where the ancient woodman dwells

There the dark-green fir-trees rustle,

Casts the moon its golden spells.

In the but there stands an arm-chair,

Richly carved and cleverly;

He who sits therein is happy,

And that happy man am I.

On the footstool sits a maiden,

On my lap her arms repose,

With her eyes like blue stars beaming,

And her mouth a new-born rose.

And the dear blue stars shine on me,

Wide like heaven's great arch their gaze;

And her little lily finger

Archly on the rose she lays.

Nay, the mother cannot see us,

For she spins the whole day long;

And the father plays the cithern

As he sings a good old song.

And the maiden softly whispers,

Softly, that none may hear;

Many a solemn little secret

Hath she murmured in my ear.

"Since I lost my aunt who loved me,

Now we never more repair

To the shooting-lodge at Goslar,

And it is so pleasant there!

"Here above it is so lonely,

On the rocks where cold winds blow;

And in winter we are always

Deeply buried in the snow.

"And I'm such a timid creature,

And I'm frightened like a child

At the evil mountain spirits,

Who by night are raging wild"

Silent falls the winsome maiden,

Frightened by her own surmise,

Little hands, so white and dimpled,

Pressing on her sweet blue eyes.

Louder now the fir-trees rustle,

Spinning-wheel more harshly drones;

In their pauses sounds the cithern,

And the old song's simple tones:

"Do not fear, my tender nursling,

Aught of evil spirits' might;

For good angels still are watching

Round thy pathway day and night."

Now the fir-tree's dark-green fingers

Tap upon the window low,

And the moon, a yellow listener,

Casts within her sweetest glow.

Father, mother, both are sleeping,

Near at hand their rest they take;

But we two, in pleasant gossip,

Keep each other long awake.

"That thou prayest much too often,

Seems unlikely, I declare;

On thy lips there is a quiver

Which was never born of prayer.

"Ah! that heartless, cold expression

All my being terrifies--

Though my darkling fear is lessened

By thy frank and honest eyes.

"Yet I doubt if thou believest

What is held for truth by most;

Hast thou faith in God the Father,

In the Son and Holy Ghost?"

"Ah, my darling! when an infant

By my mother's knee I stood,

I believed in God the Father,

In the Ruler great and good.

"He who made the world so lovely,

Gave man beauty, gave him force,

And to sun and moon and planets

Pre-appointed each its course.

"As I older grew, my darling,

And my way in wisdom won,

I in reason comprehended,

And believe now in the Son--

"In the well-loved Son, who, loving,

Oped the gates of Love so wide;

And for thanks--as is the custom--

By the world was crucified.

"Now, that I in full-grown manhood

Reading, travel, wisdom boast;

Still my heart expands, and, truly

I believe the Holy Ghost,

"Who bath worked the greatest wonders--

Greater still he'll work again;

He bath broken tyrants' strongholds,

Broken every vassal's chain.

"Ancient deadly wounds he healeth,

He renews man's ancient right;

All to him, born free and equal,

Are as nobles in his sight.

"Clouds of evil flee before him,

And those cobwebs of the brain

Which forbade us love and pleasure,

Scowling grimly on our pain.

"And a thousand knights in armor

Hath he chosen and required

To fulfil his holy bidding--

All with noblest zeal inspired.

"Lo! I their precious swords are gleaming,

And their banners wave in fight!

What! Thou fain would'st see, my darling,

Such a proud and noble knight?

"Well, then, gaze on me, my dearest;

I am of that lordly host,

Kiss me! and you kiss a chosen

Champion of the Holy Ghost!"

Silently the moon conceals her

Down behind the sombre trees,

And the lamp which lights our chamber

Flickers in the evening breeze.

But the starry eyes are beaming

Softly o'er the dimpled cheeks,

And the purple rose is glowing,

While the gentle maiden speaks.

"Little people--fairy goblins--

Steal away our meat and bread;

In the chest it lies at evening,

In the morning it has fled.

"From our milk the little people

Steal the cream and all the best;

Then they leave the dish uncovered,

And our cat drinks up the rest.

"And the cat's a witch, I'm certain,

For by night, when storms arise,

Oft she seeks the haunted hill-top

Where the fallen tower lies.

"There was once a splendid castle.

Home of joy and weapons bright,

Where there swept in stately pageant

Lady, page, and armèd knight.

"But a sorceress charmed the castle,

With its lords and ladies fair;

Now it is a lonely ruin,

And the owls are nesting there.

"But my aunt hath often told me,

Could I speak the proper word,

In the proper place up yonder,

When the proper hour occurred,

"I should see the ruins changing

Swiftly to a castle bright,

And again in stately dances

Dame and page and gallant knight.

"He who speaks the word of power

Wins the castle for his own,

And the knight with drum and trumpet

Loud will hail him lord alone."

So the simple fairy pictures

From the little rose-mouth bloom,

And the gentle eyes are shedding

Star-blue lustre through the gloom.

Round my hand the little maiden

Winds her gold locks as she will,

Gives a name to every finger,

Kisses, smiles, and then is still.

All things in the silent chamber,

Seem at once familiar grown,

As if e'en the chairs and clothes-press,

Well of old to me were known.

Now the clock talks kindly, gravely,

And the cithern, as 'twould seem,

Of itself is faintly chiming,

And I sit as in a dream.

Now the proper hour is striking,

Here the charm should now be heard;

Child, how would'st thou be astonished,

Should I speak the magic word!

If I spoke that word, then fading

Night would thrill in fearful strife;

Trees and streams would roar together

As the mountains woke to life.

Ringing lutes and goblin ditties

From the clefted rock would sound,

Like a mad and merry spring-tide

Flowers grow forest-high around.

Thousand startling, wondrous flowers,

Leaves of vast and fabled form,

Strangely perfumed, wildly quivering,

As if thrilled with passion's storm.

In a crimson conflagration

Roses o'er the tumult rise;

Giant lilies, white as crystal,

Shoot like columns to the skies.

Great as suns, the stars above us

Gaze adown with burning glow;

Fill the lilies' cups gigantic

With their lights' abundant flow.

We ourselves, my little maiden,

Would be changed more than all;

Torchlight gleams o'er gold and satin

Round us merrily would fall.

Thou thyself would'st be the princess,

And this hut thy castle high;

Ladies, lords, and graceful pages

Would be dancing, singing by.

I, however, I have conquered

Thee, and all things, with the word!

Serfs and castle--lo! with trumpet

Loud they hail me as their Lord!

The sun rose. The mists flitted away like phantoms at the third crow of

the cock. Again I wandered up hill and down dale, while above me soared

the fair sun, ever lighting up new scenes of beauty. The Spirit of the

Mountain evidently favored me, well knowing that a "poetical character"

has it in his power to say many a fine thing of him, and on this morning

he let me see his Harz as it is not, most assuredly, seen by every one.

But the Harz also saw me as I am seen by few, and there were as costly

pearls on my eyelashes as on the grass of the valley. The morning dew of

love wet my cheeks; the rustling pines understood me; their twigs parted

and waved up and down, as if, like mute mortals, they would express

their joy with gestures of their hands, and from afar I heard beautiful

and mysterious chimes, like the sound of bells belonging to some hidden

forest church. People say that these sounds are caused by the

cattle-bells, which, in the Harz ring with remarkable clearness and

purity.

It was noon, according to the position of the sun, as I chanced upon

such a flock, and its shepherd, a friendly, light-haired young fellow,

told me that the great hill at whose base I stood was the old,

world-renowned Brocken. For many leagues around there is no house, and I

was glad enough when the young man invited me to share his meal. We sat

down to a _déjeûner dînatoire_, consisting of bread and cheese. The

sheep snatched up our crumbs, while pretty glossy heifers jumped around,

ringing their bells roguishly, and laughing at us with great merry eyes.

We made a royal meal, my host appearing to me every inch a king; and as

he is the only monarch who has ever given me bread, I will sing his

praises right royally:

Kingly is the herd-boy's calling,

On the knoll his throne is set,

O'er his hair the sunlight falling

Gilds a living coronet.

Red-marked sheep that bleat so loudly

Are his courtiers cross-bedight,

Calves that strut before him proudly

Seem each one a stalwart knight.

Goats are actors nimbly springing,

And the cows and warblers gay

With their bell and flute-notes ringing

Form the royal orchestra.

And whene'er the music hushes,

Soft the pine-tree murmurs creep;

Far away a cataract rushes--

Look, our noble king's asleep!

Meanwhile through the kingdom bounding

Rules the dog as minister,

Till his bark from cliffs rebounding

Echoes to the sleeper's ear.

Yawning syllables he utters--

"Ruling is too hard a task.

Were I but at home," he mutters,

"With my queen 'tis all I'd ask.

"On her arm my head reposes

Free from care, how happily!

And her loving glance discloses

Kingdom wide enough for me."[53]

We took leave of each other in a friendly manner, and with a light heart

I began to ascend the mountain. I was soon welcomed by a grove of

stately firs, for which I entertain great respect in every regard, for

these trees have not found growing to be such an easy business, and

during the days of their youth it fared hard with them. The mountain is

here sprinkled with a great number of blocks of granite, and most of the

trees were obliged either to twine their roots over the stones, or to

split them in two, and thus laboriously to search for the soil from

which to draw their nourishment. Here and there stones lie on top of one

another, forming, as it were, a gate, and over all rise the trees,

twining their naked roots down over the stone portals, and only laying

hold of the soil when they reach its base, so that they appear to be

growing in the air; and yet, as they have forced their way up to that

startling height and grown into one with the rocks, they stand more

securely than their comfortable comrades, who are rooted in the tame

forest soil of the level country. So it is in life with those great men

who have strengthened and established themselves by resolutely

overcoming the obstacles and hindrances of their early years. Squirrels

climbed amid the fir-twigs, while, beneath, yellow deer were quietly

grazing. I cannot comprehend, when I see such a noble, lovable animal,

how educated and refined people can take pleasure in hunting and killing

it. Such a creature was once more merciful than man, and suckled the

pining Schmerzenreich of the holy Genofeva. Most beautiful were the

golden sun-rays shooting through the dark-green of the firs. The roots

of the trees formed a natural stairway, and everywhere my feet

encountered swelling beds of moss, for the stones are here covered

foot-deep, as if with light-green velvet cushions. Everywhere a pleasant

freshness and the dreamy murmur of streams. Here and there we see water

rippling silver-clear amid the rocks, washing the bare roots and fibres

of trees. Bend down toward all this ceaseless activity and listen, and

you will hear, as it were, the mysterious history of the growth of the

plants, and the quiet pulsations of the heart of the mountain. In many

places the water jets strongly up amid rocks and roots, forming little

cascades. It is pleasant to sit in such places. There is such a

wonderful murmuring and rustling, the birds pour forth broken lovesick

strains, the trees whisper as if with a thousand maidens' tongues, the

odd mountain flowers peep up at us as if with a thousand maidens' eyes,

stretching out to us their curious, broad, drolly-scalloped leaves; the

sun-rays flash here and there in sport; the herbs, as though endowed

with reason, are telling one another their green legends; all seems

enchanted and it becomes more and more mysterious; an old, old dream is

realized--the loved one appears! Alas, that she so quickly vanishes!

The higher we ascend, so much the shorter and more dwarflike do the

fir-trees become, shrinking up, as it were, within themselves, until

finally only whortleberries, bilberries, and mountain herbs remain. It

is also sensibly colder. Here, for the first time, the granite boulders,

which are frequently of enormous size, become fully visible. These may

well have been the balls which evil spirits cast at one another on the

Walpurgis night, when the witches come riding hither on brooms and

pitchforks, when the mad, unhallowed revelry begins, as our credulous

nurses have told us, and as we may see it represented in the beautiful

Faust pictures of Master Retsch. Yes, a young poet, who, while

journeying from Berlin to Gottingen passed the Brocken on the first

evening in May, even noticed how certain ladies who cultivated

_belles-lettres_, were holding their esthetic tea-circle in a rocky

corner, how they comfortably read aloud the _Evening Journal_, how they

praised as universal geniuses their poetic billy-goats which hopped

bleating around their table, and how they passed a final judgment on all

the productions of German literature. But when they at last fell upon

_Ratcliff_ and _Almansor_, utterly denying to the author aught like

piety or Christianity, the hair of the youth rose on end, terror seized

him--I spurred my steed and rode onwards!

In fact, when we ascend the upper half of the Brocken, no one can well

help thinking of the amusing legends of the Blocksberg, and especially

of the great mystical German national tragedy of Doctor Faust. It ever

seemed to me that I could hear the cloven foot scrambling along behind,

and some one breathing humorously. And I verily believe that "Mephisto"

himself must breathe with difficulty when he climbs his favorite

mountain, for it is a road which is to the last degree exhausting, and I

was glad enough when I at last beheld the long-desired Brocken house.

[Illustration: "THE WITCHES DANCING GROUND"]

This house, as every one knows from numerous pictures, is situated on

the summit of the mountain, consists of a single story, and was erected

in the year 1800 by Count Stolberg-Wernigerode, in behalf of whom it is

managed as a tavern. On account of the wind and cold in winter its walls

are incredibly thick. The roof is low. From its midst rises a towerlike

observatory, and near the house lie two little out-buildings, one of

which in earlier times served as shelter to the Brocken visitors.

On entering the Brocken house, I experienced a somewhat unusual and

unreal sensation. After a long solitary journey amid rocks and pines,

the traveler suddenly finds himself in a house amid the clouds. Far

below lie cities, hills, and forests, while above he encounters a

curiously blended circle of strangers, by whom he is received, as is

usual in such assemblies, almost like an expected companion--half

inquisitively and half indifferently. I found the house full of guests,

and, as becomes a wise man, I first thought of the night, and of the

discomfort of sleeping on straw. With the voice of one dying I called

for tea, and the Brocken landlord was reasonable enough to perceive that

the sick gentleman must be provided with a decent bed. This he gave me

in a narrow room, where a young merchant--a long emetic in a brown

overcoat--had already established himself.

In the public room I found a full tide of bustle and animation. There

were students from different universities. Some of the newly arrived

were taking refreshments. Others, preparing for departure, buckled on

their knapsacks, wrote their names in the album, and received Brocken

bouquets from the housemaids. There was pinching of cheeks, singing,

springing, trilling; questions asked, answers given, fragments of

conversation such as--fine weather--footpath--_prosit_--luck be with

you!--Adieu! Some of those leaving were also partly drunk, and these

derived a twofold pleasure from the beautiful scenery, for a tipsy man

sees double.

After recruiting my strength I ascended the observatory, and there found

a little gentleman with two ladies, one of whom was young and the other

elderly. The young lady was very beautiful--a superb figure, flowing

locks, surmounted by a helm-like black satin _chapeau_, amid whose white

plumes the wind played; fine limbs, so closely enwrapped by a black silk

mantle that their exquisite form was made manifest, and great free eyes,

calmly looking down into the great free world.

When a boy I thought of naught save tales of magic and wonder, and every

fair lady who had ostrich feathers on her head I regarded as an elfin

queen. If I observed that the train of her dress was wet I believed at

once that she must be a water-fairy. Now I know better, having learned

from natural history that those symbolical feathers are found on the

most stupid of birds, and that the train of a lady's dress may become

wet in a very natural way. But if I had, with those boyish eyes, seen

the aforesaid young lady in the aforesaid position on the Brocken, I

would most assuredly have thought--"that is the fairy of the mountain,

and she has just uttered the charm which has caused every thing down

there to appear so wonderful." Yes, at the first glance from the Brocken

everything appears in a high degree marvelous. New impressions throng in

on every side, and these, varied and often contradictory, unite in our

soul in an as yet undefined uncomprehended sensation. If we succeed in

grasping the sensation in its conception we shall comprehend the

character of the mountain. This character is entirely German as regards

not only its advantages but also its defects. The Brocken is a German.

With German thoroughness he points out to us--sharply and accurately

defined as in a panorama--the hundreds of cities, towns, and villages

which are principally situated to the north, and all the mountains,

forests, rivers, and plains which extend endlessly in all directions.

But for this very reason everything appears like a sharply designed and

perfectly colored map, and nowhere is the eye gratified by really

beautiful landscapes--just as we German compilers, owing to the

honorable exactness with which we attempt to give all and everything,

never appear to think of giving the details in a beautiful manner.

[Illustration: THE BROCKEN INN ABOUT 1830]

The mountain, in consequence, has a certain calm, German, intelligent,

tolerant character, simply because he can see things so distant yet so

distinctly. And when such a mountain opens his giant eyes, it may be

that he sees somewhat more than we dwarfs, who with our weak eyes climb

over him. Many indeed assert that the Blocksberg is very Philistian, and

Claudius once sang "The Blocksberg is the lengthy Sir Philistine;" but

that was an error. On account of his bald head, which he occasionally

covers with a cloud-cap, the Blocksberg has indeed a somewhat Philistian

aspect, but this with him, as with many other great Germans, is the

result of pure irony; for it is notorious that he has his wild student

and fantastic periods, as, for instance, on the first night of May. Then

he casts his cloud-cap uproariously and merrily into the air, and

becomes, like the rest of us, romantic mad, in real German fashion.

I soon sought to entrap the beauty into a conversation, for we begin to

fully enjoy the beauties of nature only when we talk about them on the

spot.

* * * * *

While we conversed twilight stole, the air grew colder, the sun sank

lower and lower, and the tower platform was filled with students,

traveling mechanics, and a few honest citizens with their spouses and

daughters, all of whom were desirous of witnessing the sunset. It is

truly a sublime spectacle, which tunes the soul to prayer. For a full

quarter of an hour all stood in solemn silence, gazing on the beautiful

fire-ball as it gradually sank in the west; our faces were bathed in the

rosy light; our hands were involuntarily folded; it seemed as if we, a

silent congregation, stood in the nave of a giant cathedral, that the

priest raised the body of the Lord, and the Palestrina's immortal hymns

poured forth from the organ.

As I stood thus, lost in devotion, I heard some one near me exclaim,

"Ah, how beautiful Nature is, as a general thing!" These words came from

the sentimental heart of my room-mate, the young merchant. They brought

me back to my week-day frame of mind, and I was now able to say a few

neat things to the ladies about the sunset and to accompany them, as

calmly as if nothing had happened, to their room. They permitted me to

talk an hour longer with them. Our conversation, like the earth's

course, was about the sun. The mother declared that the sun, as it sank

in the snowy clouds, seemed like a red glowing rose, which the gallant

heaven had thrown upon the white outspreading bridal-veil of his loved

earth. The daughter smiled, and thought that a frequent observation of

such phenomena weakened their impression. The mother corrected this

error by a quotation from Goethe's _Letters of Travel_, and asked me if

I had read _Werther_. I believe that we also spoke of Angora cats,

Etruscan vases, Turkish shawls, maccaroni, and Lord Byron, from whose

poems the elder lady, daintly lisping and sighing, recited several

passages about the sunset. To the younger lady, who did not understand

English, and who wished to become familiar with those poems, I

recommended the translation of my fair and gifted countrywoman, the

Baroness Elise von Hohenhausen. On this occasion, as is my custom when

talking with young ladies, I did not fail to declaim against Byron's

godlessness, heartlessness, cheerlessness, and heaven knows what

besides.

After this business I took a walk on the Brocken, for there it is never

quite dark. The mist was not heavy, and I could see the outlines of the

two hills known as the Witch's Altar and the Devil's Pulpit. I fired my

pistol, but there was no echo. Suddenly, however, I heard familiar

voices and found myself embraced and kissed. The newcomers were

fellow-students from my own part of Germany, and had left Göttingen four

days later than I. Great was their astonishment at finding me again,

alone on the Blocksberg. Then came a flood tide of narrative, of

astonishment, and of appointment-making, of laughing, and of

recollecting, and in the spirit we found ourselves again in our learned

Siberia, where refinement is carried to such an extent that the bears

are tied up in the taverns, and the sables wish the hunter good

evening.[54]

In the great room we had supper. There was a long table, with two rows

of hungry students. At first we indulged in the usual topic of

university conversation--duels, duels, and once again duels. The company

consisted principally of Halle students, and Halle formed, in

consequence, the nucleus of their discourse. The window-panes of

Court-Councilor Schütz were exegetically illuminated. Then it was

mentioned that the King of Cyprus' last levee had been very brilliant;

that the monarch had chosen a natural son; that he had married with the

left hand a princess of the house of Lichtenstein; that the

State-mistress had been forced to resign, and that the entire ministry,

greatly moved, had wept according to rule. I need hardly explain that

this all referred to certain beer dignitaries in Halle. Then the two

Chinese, who two years before had been exhibited in Berlin, and who were

now appointed lecturers on Chinese esthetics in Halle, were discussed.

Then jokes were made. Some one supposed a case in which a live German

might be exhibited for money in China, and to this end a placard was

fabricated, in which the mandarins Tsching-Tschang-Tschung and Hi-Ha-Ho

certified that the man was a genuine Teuton, including a list of his

accomplishments, which consisted principally of philosophizing, smoking,

and endless patience. It concluded with the notice that visitors were

prohibited from bringing any dogs with them at twelve o'clock (the hour

for feeding the captive), as these animals would be sure to snap from

the poor German all his titbits.

A young _Burschenschafter_, who had recently passed his period of

purification in Berlin, spoke much, but very partially, of this city. He

had frequented both Wisotzki and the theatre, but judged falsely of

both. "For youth is ever ready with a word," etc. He spoke of the

sumptuousness of the costumes, of scandals among actors and actresses,

and similar matters. The youth knew not that in Berlin, where outside

show exerts the greatest influence (as is abundantly evidenced by the

commonness of the phrase "so people do"), this ostentation must flourish

on the stage preëminently, and consequently that the special care of the

management must be for "the color of the beard with which a part is

played" and for the truthfulness of the costumes which are designed by

sworn historians and sewed by scientifically instructed tailors. And

this is indispensable. For if Maria Stuart wore an apron belonging to

the time of Queen Anne, the banker, Christian Gumpel, would with justice

complain that thereby all illusion was destroyed; and if Lord Burleigh

in a moment of forgetfulness should don the hose of Henry the Fourth,

then the War-Councilor Von Steinzopf's wife, _née_ Lilienthau, would not

get the anachronism out of her head for the whole evening.... But little

as this young man had comprehended the conditions of the Berlin drama,

still less was he aware that the Spontini Janissary opera, with its

kettledrums, elephants, trumpets, and gongs, is a heroic means of

inspiring our enervated people with warlike enthusiasm--a means once

shrewdly recommended by Plato and Cicero. Least of all did the youth

comprehend the diplomatic significance of the ballet. It was with great

trouble that I finally made him understand that there was really more

political science in Hoguet's feet than in Buchholz's head, that all his

_tours de danse_ signified diplomatic negotiations, and that his every

movement hinted at state matters; as, for instance, when he bent forward

anxiously, stretching his hands out wide and grasping at the air, he

meant our Cabinet; that a hundred pirouettes on one toe without quitting

the spot alluded to the German Diet; that he was thinking of the lesser

princes when he tripped around with his legs tied; that he described the

European balance of power when he tottered hither and thither like a

drunken man; that he hinted at a Congress when he twisted his bended

arms together like a skein; and finally, that he sets forth our

altogether too great friend in the East, when, very gradually unfolding

himself, he rises on high, stands for a long time in this elevated

position, and then all at once breaks out into the most terrifying

leaps. The scales fell from the eyes of the young man, and he now saw

how it was that dancers are better paid than great poets, and why the

ballet forms in diplomatic circles an inexhaustible subject of

conversation. By Apis! how great is the number of the esoteric, and how

small the array of the esoteric frequenters of the theatre! There sit

the stupid audience, gaping and admiring leaps and attitudes, studying

anatomy in the positions of Lemière, and applauding the _entrechats_ of

Röhnisch, prattling of "grace," "harmony," and "limbs"--no one remarking

meanwhile that he has before him in chronological ciphers the destiny of

the German Fatherland.

* * * * *

The company around the table gradually became better acquainted and much

noisier. Wine banished beer, punch-bowls steamed, songs were sung, and

brotherhood was drunk in true student fashion. The old "Landsfather

toast" and the beautiful songs of W. Müller, Rückert, Uhland, and others

rang out with the exquisite airs of Methfessel. Best of all sounded our

own Arndt's German words, "The Lord, who bade iron grow, wished for no

slaves." And out of doors it roared as if the old mountain sang with us,

and a few reeling friends even asserted that he merrily shook his bald

head, which caused the great unsteadiness of the floor of our room.

* * * * *

During this crazy scene, in which plates learned to dance and glasses to

fly, there sat opposite me two youths, beautiful and pale as statues,

one resembling Adonis, the other Apollo. The faint rosy hue which the

wine spread over their cheeks was scarcely noticeable. They gazed on

each other with infinite affection, as if the one could read in the eyes

of the other, and in those eyes there was a light as though drops of

light had fallen therein from the cup of burning love, which an angel on

high bears from one star to the other. They conversed softly with

earnest trembling voices, and narrated sad stories, through all of which

ran a tone of strange sorrow. "Lora is dead now too!" said one, and,

sighing, proceeded to tell of a maiden of Halle who had loved a student,

and who, when the latter left Halle, spoke no more to any one, ate but

little, wept day and night, gazing over on the canary-bird which her

lover had given her. "The bird died, and Lora did not long survive it,"

was the conclusion, and both the youths sighed as though their hearts

would break. Finally the other said, "My soul is sorrowful; come forth

with me into the dark night! Let me inhale the breath of the clouds and

the moon-rays. Companion of my sorrow! I love thee; thy words are

musical, like the rustling of reeds and the flow of rivulets; they

reëcho in my breast, but my soul is sad!"

Both of the young men arose. One threw his arm around the neck of the

other, and thus they left the noisy room. I followed, and saw them enter

a dark chamber, where the one by mistake, instead of the window, threw

open the door of a large wardrobe, and both, standing before it with

outstretched arms, expressing poetic rapture, spoke alternately. "Ye

breezes of darkening night," cried the first, "how ye cool and revive my

cheeks! How sweetly ye play amid my fluttering locks! I stand on the

cloudy peak of the mountain; far below me lie the sleeping cities of

men, and blue waters gleam. List! far below in the valley rustle the

fir-trees! Far above yonder hills sweep in misty forms the spirits of

our fathers. Oh, that I could hunt with ye on your cloud-steeds through

the stormy night, over the rolling sea, upwards to the stars! Alas! I am

laden with grief, and my soul is sad!" Meanwhile, the other had also

stretched out _his_ arms toward the wardrobe, while tears fell from his

eyes as he cried to a pair of yellow leather pantaloons which he mistook

for the moon, "Fair art thou, daughter of heaven! Lovely and blessed is

the calm of thy countenance. Thou walkest in loveliness! The stars

follow thy blue path in the east! At thy glance the clouds rejoice, and

their dark forms gleam with light. Who is like unto thee in heaven, thou

the night-born? The stars are ashamed before thee, and turn away their

sparkling eyes. Whither, ah, whither, when morning pales thy face, dost

thou flee from thy path? Hast thou, like me, thy Halle? Dwellest thou

amid shadows of sorrow? Have thy sisters fallen from heaven? Are they

who joyfully rolled with thee through the night now no more? Yea, they

have fallen down, oh! lovely light, and thou hidest thyself often to

bewail them! Yet the night must come at last when thou too will have

passed away, and left thy blue path above in heaven. Then the stars,

that were once ashamed in thy presence, will raise their green heads and

rejoice. But now art clothed in thy beaming splendor and gazest down

from the gate of heaven. Tear aside the clouds, oh! ye winds, that the

night-born may shine forth and the bushy hills gleam, and that the

foaming waves of the sea may roll in light!"

* * * * *

I can bear a tolerable quantity--modesty forbids me to say how many

bottles--and I consequently retired to my chamber in tolerably good

condition. The young merchant already lay in bed, enveloped in his

chalk-white night-cap and saffron yellow night-shirt of sanitary

flannel. He was not asleep, and sought to enter into conversation with

me. He was from Frankfurt-on-the-Main, and consequently spoke at once of

the Jews, declared that they had lost all feeling for the beautiful and

noble, and that they sold English goods twenty-five per cent. under

manufacturers' prices. A fancy to humbug him came over me, and I told

him that I was a somnambulist, and must beforehand beg his pardon should

I unwittingly disturb his slumbers. This intelligence, as he confessed

the following day, prevented him from sleeping a wink through the whole

night, especially since the idea had entered his head that I, while in a

somnambulistic state, might shoot him with the pistol which lay near my

bed. But in truth I fared no better myself, for I slept very little.

Dreary and terrifying fancies swept through my brain....

From this confusion I was rescued by the landlord of the Brocken, when

he awoke me to see the sun rise. On the tower I found several people

already waiting, and rubbing their freezing hands; others, with sleep

still in their eyes, stumbled up to us, until finally the whole silent

congregation of the previous evening was reassembled, and we saw how,

above the horizon, there rose a little carmine-red ball, spreading a

dim, wintry light. Far around, amid the mists, rose the mountains, as if

swimming in a white rolling sea, only their summits being visible, so

that we could imagine ourselves standing on a little hill in the midst

of an inundated plain, in which here and there rose dry clods of earth.

To retain what I saw and felt, I sketched the following poem:

In the east 'tis ever brighter,

Though the sun gleams fitfully;

Far and wide the mountain summits

Swim above the misty sea.

Had I seven-league boots for travel,

Like the fleeting winds I'd rove

Over valley, rock, and river,

To the home of her I love.

From the bed where now she's sleeping

Soft the curtain I would slip;

Softly kiss her childlike forehead,

Kiss the ruby of her lip.

Yet more softly would I whisper

In the little lily ear,

"Think in dreams we still are loving,

Think I never lost thee, dear."

Meanwhile my longing for breakfast was also great, and, after paying a

few compliments to my ladies, I hastened down to drink coffee in the

warm public room. It was full time, for all within me was as sober and

as sombre as in the St. Stephen's Church at Goslar. But with the Arabian

beverage, the warm Orient thrilled through my limbs, Eastern roses

breathed forth their perfumes, sweet bulbul songs resounded, the

students were changed to camels, the Brocken housemaids, with their

Congreverocket-glances, became _houris_, the Philistine noses, minarets,

etc.

But the book which lay near me, though full of nonsense, was not the

Koran. It was the so-called "Brocken-book," in which all travelers who

ascend the mountain write their names--most inscribing their thoughts,

or, in default thereof, their "feelings." Many even express themselves

in verse. In this book one may observe the horrors which result when the

great Philistine host on opportune occasions, such as this on the

Brocken, becomes poetic. The palace of the Prince of Pallagonia never

contained such absurdities as are to be found in this book. Those who

shine in it with especial splendor are Messrs. the excise collectors,

with their moldy "high inspirations;" counter-jumpers, with their

pathetic outgushings of the soul; old German revolution dilettanti with

their Turner-Union phrases, and Berlin school-masters with their

unsuccessful efforts at enthusiasm. Mr. Snobbs will also for once show

himself as author. In one page the majestic splendor of the sunrise is

described, in another complaints occur of bad weather, of disappointed

hopes, and of the mists which obstruct the view. A "Caroline" writes

that in climbing the mountain her feet got wet, to which a naïve

"Nanny," who was impressed by this, adds, "I too, got wet while doing

this thing." "Went up wet without and came down wet within," is a

standing joke, repeated in the book hundreds of times. The whole volume

smells of beer, tobacco and cheese; we might fancy it one of Clauren's

novels.

* * * * *

And now the students prepared to depart. Knapsacks were buckled, the

bills, which were moderate beyond all expectation, were settled, the

susceptible housemaids, upon whose countenances the traces of successful

amours were plainly visible, brought, as is their custom, their

Brocken-bouquets, and helped some to adjust their caps; for all of which

they were duly rewarded with either kisses or coppers. Thus we all went

down the mountain, albeit one party, among whom were the Swiss and

Greifswalder, took the road toward Schierke, and the others, about

twenty men, among whom were my fellow "countrymen" and myself, led by a

guide, went through the so-called "Snow Holes" down to Ilsenburg.

Such a head-over-heels, break-neck piece of business! Halle students

travel quicker than the Austrian militia. Ere I knew where I was, the

bald summit of the mountain, with groups of stones strewed over it, was

behind us, and we went through the fir-wood which I had seen the day

before. The sun poured down a cheerful light on the merry Burschen, in

gaily colored garb, as they merrily pressed onward through the wood,

disappearing here, coming to light again there, running across marshy

places on trunks of trees, climbing over shelving steeps by grasping the

projecting tree-roots; while they thrilled all the time in the merriest

manner and received as joyous an answer from the twittering wood-birds,

the invisibly plashing rivulets, and the resounding echo. When cheerful

youth and beautiful nature meet, they mutually rejoice.

[Illustration: THE FALLS OF THE ILSE]

The lower we descend the more delightfully did subterranean waters

ripple around us; only here and there they peeped out amid rocks and

bushes, appearing to be reconnoitring if they might yet come to light,

until at last one little spring jumped forth boldly. Then followed the

usual show--the bravest one makes a beginning, and then to their own

astonishment the great multitude of hesitators, suddenly inspired with

courage, rush forth to join the first. Myriads of springs now leaped in

haste from their ambush, united with the leader, and finally formed

quite an important brook, which, with its innumerable waterfalls and

beautiful windings, ripples down the valley. This is now the Ilse--the

sweet, pleasant Ilse. She flows through the blest Ilse vale, on whose

sides the mountains gradually rise higher and higher, being clad even to

their base with beech-trees, oaks, and the usual shrubs, the firs and

other needle-covered evergreens having disappeared; for that variety of

trees grows preferably upon the "Lower Harz," as the east side of the

Brocken is called in contradistinction to the west side or Upper Harz.

Being in reality much higher, it is therefore better adapted to the

growth of evergreens.

It is impossible to describe the merriment, simplicity, and charm with

which the Ilse leaps down over the fantastically shaped rocks which rise

in her path, so that the water strangely whizzes or foams in one place.

amid rifted rocks, and in another pours forth in perfect arches through

a thousand crannies, as if from a giant watering-pot, and then, lower

down, trips away again over the pebbles like a merry maiden. Yes, the

old legend is true; the Ilse is a princess, who, in the full bloom of

youth, runs laughing down the mountain side. How her white foam garment

gleams in the sunshine! How her silvered scarf flutters in the breeze!

How her diamonds flash! The high beech-trees gaze down on her like grave

fathers secretly smiling at the capricious self-will of a darling child;

the white birch-trees nod their heads like delighted aunts, who are,

however, anxious at such bold leaps; the proud oak looks on like a not

over-pleased uncle, who must pay for all the fine weather; the birds

joyfully sing their applause; the flowers on the bank whisper, "Oh, take

us with thee, take us with thee, dear sister!" But the merry maiden may

not be withheld, and she leaps onward and suddenly seizes the dreaming

poet, and there streams over me a flower-rain of ringing gleams and

flashing tones, and my senses are lost in all the beauty and splendor,

and I hear only the voice, sweet pealing as a flute--

I am the Princess Ilse,

And dwell in Ilsenstein;

Come with me to my castle,

Thou shalt be blest--and mine!

With ever-flowing fountains

I'll cool thy weary brow;

Thou'lt lose amid their rippling

The cares which grieve thee now.

In my white arms reposing,

And on my snow-white breast,

Thou'lt dream of old, old legends,

And sing in joy to rest.

I'll kiss thee and caress thee,

As in the ancient day

I kissed the Emperor Henry,

Who long has passed away.

The dead are dead and silent,

Only the living love;

And I am fair and blooming--

Dost feel my wild heart move!

And as my heart is beating,

My crystal castle rings,

Where many a knight and lady

In merry measure springs.

Silk trains are softly rustling,

Spurs ring from night to morn,

And dwarfs are gaily drumming,

And blow the golden horn.

As round the Emperor Henry,

My arms round thee shall fall;

I held his ears--he heard not

The trumpet's warning call.

We feel infinite happiness when the outer world blends with the world of

our own soul, and green trees, thoughts, the songs of birds, gentle

melancholy, the blue of heaven, memory, and the perfume of herbs, run

together in sweet arabesques. Women best understand this feeling, and

this may be the cause that such a sweet incredulous smile plays around

their lips when we, with scholastic pride, boast of our logical

deeds--how we have classified everything so nicely into subjective and

objective; how our heads are provided, apothecary-like, with a thousand

drawers, one of which contains reason, another understanding, the third

wit, the fourth bad wit, and the fifth nothing at all--that is to say,

the _Idea_.

As if wandering in dreams, I scarcely observed that we had left the

depths of the Ilsethal and were now again climbing uphill. This was

steep and difficult work, and many of us lost our breath; but, like our

late lamented cousin, who now lies buried at Moelln, we thought in

advance of the descent, and were all the merrier in consequence. Finally

we reached the Ilsenstein.

This is an enormous granite rock, which rises boldly on high from out a

glen. On three sides it is surrounded by high woody hills, but on the

fourth, the north side, there is an open view, and we gazed past the

Ilsenburg and the Ilse lying below us, far away into the low lands. On

the towerlike summit of the rock stands a great iron cross, and in case

of need there is also room here for four human feet. And as Nature,

through picturesque position and form, has adorned the Ilsenstein with

fantastic charms, so legend likewise has shed upon it a rosy shimmer.

According to Gottschalk, "People say that there once stood here an

enchanted castle, in which dwelt the rich and fair Princess Ilse, who

still bathes every morning in the Ilse. He who is fortunate enough to

hit upon the exact time and place will be led by her into the rock where

her castle lies and receive a royal reward." Others narrate a pleasant

legend of the lovers of the Lady Ilse and of the Knight of Westenberg,

which has been romantically sung by one of our most noted poets in the

_Evening Journal_. Others again say that it was the Old Saxon Emperor

Henry who had a royal good time with the water-nymph Ilse in her

enchanted castle.

A later author, one Niemann, Esq., who has written a _Guide to the Harz_

in which the height of the hills, variations of the compass, town

finances, and similar matters are described with praiseworthy accuracy,

asserts, however, that "what is narrated of the Princess Ilse belongs

entirely to the realm of fable." Thus do all men speak to whom a

beautiful princess has never appeared; but we who have been especially

favored by fair ladies know better. And the Emperor Henry knew it too!

It was not without cause that the Old Saxon emperors were so attached to

their native Harz. Let any one only turn over the leaves of the fair

_Lüneburg Chronicle,_ where the good old gentlemen are represented in

wondrously true-hearted woodcuts sitting in full armor on their mailed

war-steeds, the holy imperial crown on their beloved heads, sceptre and

sword in firm hands; and then in their dear mustachiod faces he can

plainly read how they often longed for the sweet hearts of their Harz

princesses, and for the familiar rustling of the Harz forests, when they

sojourned in distant lands--yes, even when in Italy, so rich in oranges

and poisons, whither they, with their followers, were often enticed by

the desire of being called Roman emperors, a genuine German lust for

title, which finally destroyed emperor and empire.

I, however, advise every one who may hereafter stand on the summit of

the Ilsenstein to think neither of emperor nor empire nor of the fair

Ilse, but simply of his own feet. For as I stood there, lost in thought,

I suddenly heard the subterranean music of the enchanted castle, and saw

the mountains around begin to stand on their heads, while the red-tiled

roofs of Ilsenburg were dancing, and green trees flew through the air,

until all was green and blue before my eyes, and I, overcome by

giddiness, would assuredly have fallen into the abyss, had I not, in the

dire need of my soul, clung fast to the iron cross. No one who reflects

on the critically ticklish situation in which I was then placed can

possibly find fault with me for having done this.

[Illustration: VIEW FROM ST. ANDREASBERG]

* * * * *

BOYHOOD DAYS[55]

By Heinrich Heine

Translated by Charles Godfrey Leland

The town of Düsseldorf is very beautiful, and if you think of it when

far away, and happen at the same time to have been born there, strange

feelings come over your soul. I was born there, and feel as if I must go

straight home. And when I say _home_ I mean the _Bolkerstrasse_ and the

house in which I was born. This house will some day be a great

curiosity, and I have sent word to the old lady who owns it that she

must not for her life sell it. For the whole house she would now hardly

get as much as the tips which the distinguished green-veiled English

ladies will one day give the servant girl when she shows them the room

where I was born, and the hen-house wherein my father generally

imprisoned me for stealing grapes, and also the brown door on which my

mother taught me to write with chalk--O Lord! Madame, should I ever

become a famous author, it has cost my poor mother trouble enough.

(1823-1826)

But my fame as yet slumbers in the marble quarries of Carrara; the

waste-paper laurel with which they have bedecked my brow has not yet

spread its perfume through the wide world, and the green-veiled English

ladies, when they come to Düsseldorf as yet leave the celebrated house

unvisited, and go directly to the market-place and there gaze on the

colossal black equestrian statue which stands in its midst. This is

supposed to represent the Prince Elector, Jan Wilhelm. He wears black

armor and a long wig hanging down his back. When a boy, I heard the

legend that the artist who made this statue became aware, to his

horror, while it was being cast, that he had not metal enough to fill

the mold, and then all the citizens of the town came running with all

their silver spoons, and threw them in to make up the deficiency; and I

often stood for hours before the statue wondering how many spoons were

concealed in it, and how many apple-tarts the silver would buy.

Apple-tarts were then my passion--now it is love, truth, liberty, and

crab-soup--and not far from the statue of the Prince Elector, at the

theatre corner, generally stood a curiously constructed bow-legged

fellow with a white apron, and a basket girt around him full of

delightfully steaming apple-tarts, whose praises he well knew how to

call out in an irresistible high treble voice, "Here you are! hot

apple-tarts! just from the oven--smelling deliciously!" Truly, whenever

in my later years the Evil One sought to get the better of me, he always

spoke in just such an enticing high treble voice, and I should certainly

have never remained twelve full hours with the Signora Giulietta, if she

had not thrilled me with her sweet perfumed apple-tart tones. And, in

fact, the apple-tarts would never have so sorely tempted me if the

crooked Hermann had not covered them up so mysteriously with his white

apron; and it is aprons, you know, which--but I wander from the subject.

I was speaking of the equestrian statue which has so many silver spoons

in it, and no soup, and which represents the Prince Elector, Jan

Wilhelm.

He was a brave gentleman, 'tis reported, a lover of art and handy

therein himself. He founded the picture-gallery in Düsseldorf; and in

the observatory there, they still show us an extremely artistic piece of

work, consisting of one wooden cup within another which he himself had

carved in his leisure hours, of which latter he had every day

four-and-twenty.

[Illustration: JOHANN WILHELM MONUMENT, DÜSSELDORF]

In those days princes were not the harassed creatures they now are.

Their crowns grew firmly on their heads, and at night they drew

nightcaps over them besides and slept in peace, and their people

slumbered calmly at their feet; and when they awoke in the morning they

said, "Good morning, father!" and the princes replied, "Good morning,

dear children!"

But there came a sudden change over all this, for one morning when we

awoke in Düsseldorf and wanted to say, "Good morning, father!" the

father had traveled away, and in the whole town there was nothing but

dumb sorrow. Everywhere there was a sort of funereal atmosphere, and

people crept silently through the market and read the long placard

placed on the door of the City Hall. The weather was dark and lowering,

yet the lean tailor Kilian stood in the nankeen jacket, which he

generally wore only at home, and in his blue woolen stockings, so that

his little bare legs peeped out dismally, and his thin lips quivered as

he murmured the words of the placard to himself. An old invalid soldier

from the Palatine read it in a somewhat louder tone, and at certain

phrases a transparent tear ran down his white, honorable old mustache. I

stood near him, and wept with him, and then asked why we wept; and he

replied, "The Prince Elector has abdicated." Then he read further, and

at the words "for the long-manifested fidelity of my subjects," "and

hereby release you from your allegiance," he wept still more. It is a

strange sight to see, when so old a man, in faded uniform, with a

scarred veteran's face, suddenly bursts into tears. While we read, the

Princely Electoral coat-of-arms was being taken down from the City Hall,

and everything began to appear as oppressively desolate as though we

were waiting for an eclipse of the sun. The city councilors went about

at an abdicating, slow gait; even the omnipotent beadle looked as though

he had had no more commands to give, and stood calmly indifferent,

although the crazy Aloysius again stood upon one leg and chattered the

names of French generals, with foolish grimaces, while the tipsy,

crooked Gumpertz rolled around the gutter, singing, "Ça ira! Ça ira!"

But I went home, weeping and lamenting because "the Prince Elector had

abdicated!" My mother tried hard to comfort me, but I would hear

nothing. I knew what I knew, and went weeping to bed, and in the night

dreamed that the world had come to an end--that all the fair flower

gardens and green meadows were taken up from the ground and rolled away,

like carpets; that a beadle climbed up on a high ladder and took down

the sun, and that the tailor Kilian stood by and said to himself, "I

must go home and dress myself neatly, for I am dead and am to be buried

this afternoon." And it grew darker and darker--a few stars glimmered

meagrely on high, and these too, at length, fell down like yellow leaves

in autumn; one by one all men vanished, and I, poor child, wandered

around in anguish, and finally found myself before the willow fence of a

deserted farmhouse, where I saw a man digging up the earth with a spade,

and near him an ugly, spiteful-looking woman, who held something in her

apron like a human head--but it was the moon, and she laid it carefully

in the open grave--and behind me stood the Palatine invalid, sighing,

and spelling out "The Prince Elector has abdicated."

When I awoke the sun shone as usual through the window, there was a

sound of drums in the street, and as I entered the sitting-room and said

"good morning" to my father, who was sitting in his white dressing-gown,

I heard the little light-footed barber, as he dressed his hair, narrate

very minutely that allegiance would be sworn to the Grande Duke Joachim

that morning at the City Hall. I heard, too, that the new ruler was of

excellent family, that he had married the sister of the Emperor

Napoleon, and was really a very respectable man; that he wore his

beautiful black hair in flowing locks, that he would shortly make his

entrance into the town, and, in fine, that he was sure to please all the

ladies. Meanwhile the drumming in the streets continued, and I went out

before the house-door and looked at the French troops marching in that

joyous people of glory, who, singing and playing, swept over the world,

the serious and yet merry-faced grenadiers, the bear-skin shakoes, the

tri-colored cockades, the glittering bayonets, the _voltigeurs_, full of

vivacity and _point d'honneur_, and the omnipotent giant-like

silver-laced tambour major, who could cast his _baton_ with a gilded

head as high as the first story, and his eyes even to the second, where

also there were pretty girls sitting at the windows. I was so glad that

soldiers were to be quartered in our house--in which my mother differed

from me--and I hastened to the market-place. There everything looked

changed, somewhat as though the world had been newly whitewashed. A new

coat-of-arms was placed on the City Hall, its iron balconies were hung

with embroidered velvet drapery. French grenadiers stood as sentinels;

the old city councilors had put on new faces, and donned their Sunday

coats, and looked at each other Frenchily, and said, "_Bonjour!_" Ladies

gazed from every window, curious citizens and glittering soldiers filled

the square, and I, with other boys, climbed on the great bronze horse of

the Prince Elector, and thence stared down on the motley crowd.

Our neighbors, Pitter and the tall Kunz, nearly broke their necks in

accomplishing this feat, and it would have been better if they had been

killed outright, for the one afterwards ran away from his parents,

enlisted as a soldier, deserted, and was finally shot at Mayence; while

the other, having made geographical researches in strange pockets, was

on this account elected active member of a public treadmill institute.

But having broken the iron bands which bound him to the latter and to

his fatherland, he safely crossed the channel, and eventually died in

London through wearing an all too tight neck-tie which automatically

drew together, when a royal official removed a plank from beneath his

feet.

Tall Kunz told us that there was no school today on account of the

ceremonies connected with taking the oath of allegiance. We had to wait

a long time ere these commenced. Finally, the balcony of the City Hall

was filled with gaily dressed gentlemen, with flags and trumpets, and

our burgomaster, in his celebrated red coat, delivered an oration, which

stretched out like Indian rubber, or like a knitted nightcap into which

one has thrown a stone--only that it was not the philosopher's

stone--and I could distinctly understand many of his phrases--for

instance, that "we are now to be made happy;" and at the last words the

trumpets sounded out, the flags were waved, the drums were beaten, the

people cried, Hurrah! and while I myself cried hurrah, I held fast to

the old Prince Elector. And it was really necessary that I should, for I

began to grow giddy. It seemed to me as if the people were standing on

their heads, because the world whizzed around, while the old Prince

Elector, with his long wig, nodded and whispered, "Hold fast to me!" and

not till the cannon reechoed along the wall did I become sobered, and

climbed slowly down from the great bronze horse.

As I went home, I saw the crazy Aloysius again dancing on one leg, while

he chattered the names of French generals, and I also beheld crooked

Gumpertz rolling in the gutter and growling, "Ça ira, ça ira," and I

said to my mother, "We are all to be made happy; on that account there

is no school today."

The next day the world was again all in order, and we had school as

before, and things were learned by heart as before--the Roman kings,

dates, the _nomina_ in _im_, the _verba irregularia_, Greek, Hebrew,

geography, German, mental arithmetic--Lord! my head is still giddy with

it!--all had to be learned by heart. And much of it was eventually to my

advantage; for had I not learned the Roman kings by heart, it would

subsequently have been a matter of perfect indifference to me whether

Niebuhr had or had not proved that they never really existed. And had I

not learned those dates, how could I ever, in later years, have found

out any one in big Berlin, where one house is as like another as drops

of water or as grenadiers, and where it is impossible to find a friend

unless you have the number of his house in your head! At that time I

associated with every acquaintance some historical event, which had

happened in a year corresponding to the number of his house, so that the

one recalled the other, and some curious point in history always

occurred to me whenever I met any one whom I visited. For instance, when

I met my tailor, I at once thought of the battle of Marathon; when I saw

the well-groomed banker, Christian Gumpel, I immediately remembered the

destruction of Jerusalem; when I caught sight of a Portuguese friend,

deeply in debt, I thought at once of the flight of Mahomet; when I met

the university judge, a man whose probity is well known, I thought of

the death of Haman; and as soon as I laid eyes on Wadzeck, I was at once

reminded of Cleopatra. Ah, heaven! the poor creature is dead now; our

tears are dry, and we may say of her with Hamlet, "Taken all in all, she

was an old woman; we oft shall look upon her like again!" But, as I

said, dates are necessary. I know men who had nothing in their heads but

a few dates, and with their aid knew where to find the right houses in

Berlin, and are now already regular professors. But oh, the trouble I

had at school with the multitude of numbers; and as to actual

arithmetic, that was even worse! I understood best of all subtraction,

and for this there is a very practical rule: "Four can't be taken from

three, therefore I must borrow one"; but I advise all in such a case to

borrow a few extra groschen, for no one can tell what may happen.

But oh, the Latin! Madame, you can really have no idea of how

complicated it is. The Romans would never have found time to conquer the

world if they had been obliged first to learn Latin. Lucky dogs! they

already knew in their cradles which nouns have their accusative in _im_.

I, on the contrary, had to learn them by heart, in the sweat of my brow,

but still it is well that I know them. For if I, for example, when I

publicly disputed in Latin in the College Hall of Göttingen, on the 20th

of July, 1825--Madame, it was well worth while to hear it--if I on that

occasion had said _sinapem_ instead of _sinapim_, the blunder would have

been evident to the Freshmen, and an endless shame for me. _Vis, buris,

sitis, tussis, cucumis, amussis, cannabis, sinapis_--these words, which

have attracted so much attention in the world, effected this, inasmuch

as they belonged to a distinct class, and yet withal remained an

exception; therefore I highly respect them, and the fact that I have

them ready at my fingers' ends when I perhaps need them in a hurry,

often affords me in life's darkened hours much internal tranquillity and

consolation. But, Madame, the _verba irregularia_--they are

distinguished from the _verbis regularibus_ by the fact that the boys in

learning them got more whippings--are terribly difficult. In the musty

archways of the Franciscan cloister near our schoolroom there hung a

large Christ--crucified of grey wood, a dismal image, that even yet at

times rises in my dreams and gazes sorrowfully on me with fixed bleeding

eyes. Before this image I often stood and prayed, "Oh, Thou poor and

also tormented God, I pray Thee, if it be possible, that I may get by

heart the irregular verbs!"

I will say nothing of Greek, otherwise I should vex myself too much. The

monks of the Middle Ages were not so very much in the wrong when they

asserted that Greek was an invention of the devil. Lord knows what I

suffered through it! It went better with Hebrew, for I always had a

great predilection for the Jews, although they crucify my good name up

to the present hour, and yet I never could get as far in Hebrew as my

watch did, which had much intimate intercourse with pawnbrokers and in

consequence acquired many Jewish habits--for instance, it would not go

on Saturday, and it also learned the sacred language, subsequently even

studying it grammatically; for often when sleepless in the night I have,

to my amazement, heard it industriously ticking away to itself: _katal,

katalta, katalti, kittel, kittalta, katalti-pokat, pokadeti-pikat, pik,

pik_.

Meanwhile I learned more of German than of any other tongue, though

German itself is not such child's play, after all. For we poor Germans,

who have already been sufficiently vexed with having soldiers quartered

on us, military duties, poll-taxes, and a thousand other exactions, must

needs, over and above all this, bag Mr. Adelung and torment one another

with accusatives and datives. I learned much German from the old Rector

Schallmeyer, a brave, clerical gentleman, whose protégé I was from

childhood. But I also learned something of the kind from Professor

Schramm, a man who had written a book on eternal peace, and in whose

class my school-fellows quarreled and fought more than in any other.

And while I have thus been writing away without a pause and thinking

about all sorts of things, I have unexpectedly chattered myself back

among old school stories, and I avail myself of this opportunity to

mention, Madame, that it was not my fault if I learned so little of

geography that later in life I could not make my way in the world. For

in those days the French displaced all boundaries; every day the

countries were recolored on the world's map; those which were once blue

suddenly became green, many indeed were even dyed blood-red; the old

stereotyped souls of the school-books became so confused and confounded

that the devil himself would never have recognized them. The products of

the country were also changed; chickory and beets now grew where only

hares and country gentlemen pursuing them were once to be seen; even the

character of the nations changed; the Germans became pliant, the French

paid compliments no longer; the English ceased making ducks and drakes

of their money, and the Venetians were not subtle enough; there was

promotion among princes, old kings received new uniforms, new kingdoms

were cooked up and sold like hot cakes; many potentates were chased, on

the other hand, from house and home, and had to find some new way of

earning their bread, and some therefore went at once into trade, and

manufactured, for instance, sealing wax, or--Madame, this paragraph

must be brought to an end, or I shall be out of breath--in fine, in such

times it is impossible to advance far in geography.

I succeeded better in natural history, for there we find fewer changes,

and we always have standard engravings of apes, kangaroos, zebras,

rhinoceroses, etc., etc. And having many such pictures in my memory, it

often happens that at first sight many mortals appeared to me like old

acquaintances.

I also did well in mythology, and took a real delight in the mob of gods

and goddesses who, so jolly and naked, governed the world. I do not

believe that there was a schoolboy in ancient Rome who knew the

principal points of his catechism--that is, the loves of Venus--better

than I. To tell the plain truth, it seems to me that if we must learn

all the heathen gods by heart, we might as well have kept them from the

first; and we have not, perhaps, gained so much with our New-Roman

Trinity or still less with our Jewish unity. Perhaps the old mythology

was not in reality so immoral as we imagine, and it was, for example, a

very decent idea of Homer to give to much-loved Venus a husband.

But I succeeded best in the French class of the Abbé d'Aulnoi, a French

_émigré_, who had written a number of grammars, and wore a red wig, and

jumped about very nervously when he lectured on his _Art poétique_ and

his _Histoire Allemande_. He was the only one in the whole gymnasium who

taught German history. Still, French has its difficulties, and to learn

it there must be much quartering of troops, much drumming, much

_apprendre par coeur_, and, above all, no one must be a _bête

allemande_. There was here, too, many a hard nut to crack; and I can

remember as plainly as though it happened but yesterday that I once got

into a bad scrape through _la religion_. I was asked at least six times

in succession, "Henry, what is French for 'the faith?'" And six times,

with an ever increasing inclination to weep, I replied, "It is called

_le crédit_." And after the seventh question the furious examinator,

purple in the face, cried, "It is called _la religion_"--and there was a

rain of blows and a thunder of laughter from all my schoolmates. Madame,

since that day I never hear the word _religion_ without having my back

turn pale with terror, and my cheeks turn red with shame. And to tell

the honest truth, _le crédit_ has during my life stood me in the better

stead than _la religion_. It occurs to me just at this instant that I

still owe the landlord of The Lion in Bologna five dollars. And I pledge

you my sacred word of honor that I would willingly owe him five dollars

more if I could only be certain that I should never again hear that

unlucky word, _la religion_, as long as I live.

_Parbleu_, Madame! I have succeeded tolerably well in French; for I

understand not only _patois_, but even patrician, governess French. Not

long ago, when in an aristocratic circle, I understood nearly one-half

of the conversation of two German countesses, each of whom could count

at least sixty-four years, and as many ancestors. Yes, in the _Café

Royal_ in Berlin, I once heard Monsieur Hans Michel Martens talking

French, and could understand every word he spoke, though there was no

understanding in anything he said. We must know the _spirit_ of a

language, and this is best learned by drumming. _Parbleu_! how much do I

not owe to the French drummer who was so long quartered in our house,

who looked like a devil, and yet had the good heart of an angel, and

withal drummed so divinely!

He was a little, nervous figure, with a terrible black mustache, beneath

which red lips sprang forth defiantly, while his wild eyes shot fiery

glances all round.

I, a young shaver, stuck to him like a burr, and helped him to clean his

military buttons till they shone like mirrors, and to pipe-clay his

vest--for Monsieur Le Grand liked to look well--and I followed him to

the guard house, to the roll-call, to the parade-ground--in those times

there was nothing but the gleam of weapons and merriment--_les jours de

fête sont passés_! Monsieur Le Grand knew but a little broken German,

only the three principal words, "Bread," "Kiss," "Honor"--but he could

make himself very intelligible with his drum. For instance, if I knew

not what the word _liberté_ meant, he drummed the _Marseillaise_--and I

understood him. If I did not understand the word _égalité_, he drummed

the march--

"Ça ira, ça ira, ça ira,

Les aristocrats à la lanterne!"

and I understood him. If I did not know what Bêtise meant, he drummed

the Dessauer March, which we Germans, as Goethe also declares, drummed

in Champagne--and I understood him. He once wanted to explain to me the

word _l'Allemagne_ (or Germany), and he drummed the all too _simple_

melody which on market-days is played to dancing-dogs, namely,

_dum-dum-dum_! I was vexed, but I understood him for all that!

In like manner he taught me modern history. I did not understand, it is

true, the words which he spoke, but as he constantly drummed while

speaking, I knew what he meant. This is, fundamentally, the best method.

The history of the storming of the Bastile, of the Tuileries, and the

like, cannot be correctly understood until we know how _the drumming_

was done on such occasions. In our school compendiums of history we

merely read: "Their Excellencies the Barons and Counts and their noble

spouses, their Highnesses the Dukes and Princes and their most noble

spouses were beheaded. His Majesty the King, and his most illustrious

spouse, the Queen, were beheaded."--But when you hear the red march of

the guillotine drummed, you understand it correctly for the first time,

and with it the how and the why. Madame, that is really a wonderful

march! It thrilled through marrow and bone when I first heard it, and I

was glad that I forgot it. People are apt to forget things of this kind

as they grow older, and a young man has nowadays so much and such a

variety of knowledge to keep in his head--whist, Boston, genealogical

registers, decrees of the Federal Council, dramaturgy, the liturgy,

carving--and yet, I assure you that really, despite all the jogging up

of my brain, I could not for a long time recall that tremendous time!

And only to think, Madame! Not long ago I sat one day at table with a

whole menagerie of counts, princes, princesses, chamberlains,

court-marshalesses, seneschals, upper court mistresses, court keepers of

the royal plate, court hunters' wives, and whatever else these

aristocratic domestics are termed, and _their_ under-domestics ran about

behind their chairs and shoved full plates before their mouths; but I,

who was passed by and neglected, sat idle without the least occupation

for my jaws, and kneaded little bread-balls, and drummed with my

fingers, from boredom, and, to my astonishment, I found myself suddenly

drumming the red, long-forgotten guillotine march.

"And what happened?" Madame, the good people were not in the least

disturbed, nor did they know that _other_ people, when they can get

nothing to eat, suddenly begin to drum, and that, too, very queer

marches, which people have long forgotten.

Is drumming now an inborn talent, or was it early developed in me?

Enough, it lies in my limbs, in my hands, in my feet, and often

involuntarily manifests itself. At Berlin, I once sat in the

lecture-room of the Privy Councilor Schmaltz, a man who had saved the

state by his book on the _Red and Black Coat Danger_. You remember,

perhaps, Madame, that in Pausanias we are told that by the braying of an

ass an equally dangerous plot was once discovered, and you also know

from Livy, or from Becker's _History of the World_, that geese once

saved the Capitol, and you must certainly know from Sallust that by the

chattering of a loquacious _putaine_, the Lady Fulvia, the terrible

conspiracy of Catiline came to light. But to return to the mutton

aforesaid. I was listening to the law and rights of nations, in the

lecture-room of the Herr Privy Councilor Schmaltz, and it was a lazy

sleepy summer afternoon, and I sat on the bench, and little by little I

listened less and less--my head had gone to sleep--when all at once I

was awakened by the noise of my own feet, which had _not_ gone to sleep

and had probably heard that just the contrary of the law and rights of

nations was being taught and constitutional principles were being

reviled, and which with the little eyes of their corns had seen better

how things go in the world than the Privy Councilor with his great Juno

eyes--these poor dumb feet, incapable of expressing their immeasurable

meaning by words, strove to make themselves intelligible by drumming,

and they drummed so loudly that I thereby came near getting into a

terrible scrape.

Cursèd, unreflecting feet! They once played me a little trick, when I,

on a time in Göttingen, was temporarily attending the lectures of

Professor Saalfeld, and as this learned gentleman, with his angular

agility, jumped about here and there in his desk, and wound himself up

to curse the Emperor Napoleon in regular set style--no, my poor feet, I

cannot blame you for drumming _then_--indeed, I would not have blamed

you if in your dumb _naïveté_ you had expressed yourselves by still more

energetic movements. How dare I, the scholar of Le Grand, hear the

Emperor cursed? The Emperor! the Emperor! the great Emperor!

When I think of the great Emperor, all in my memory again becomes

summer-green and golden. A long avenue of lindens in bloom arises before

me, and on the leafy twigs sit nightingales, singing; the waterfall

murmurs, in full round beds flowers are growing, and dreamily nodding

their fair heads. I was on a footing of wondrous intimacy with them; the

rouged tulips, proud as beggars, condescendingly greeted me; the nervous

sick lilies nodded to me with tender melancholy, the wine-red roses

laughed at me from afar; the night-violets sighed; with the myrtle and

laurel I was not then acquainted, for they did not entice with a shining

bloom, but the mignonette, with whom I am now on such bad terms, was my

very particular friend.--I am speaking of the Court garden of

Düsseldorf, where I often lay upon the grass and piously listened there

when Monsieur Le Grand told of the martial feats of the great Emperor,

beating meanwhile the marches which were drummed while the deeds were

performed, so that I saw and heard it all vividly. I saw the passage

over the Simplon--the Emperor in advance and his brave grenadiers

climbing on behind him, while the scream of frightened birds of prey

sounded around, and the glaciers thundered in the distance; I saw the

Emperor with glove in hand on the bridge of Lodi; I saw the Emperor in

his grey cloak at Marengo; I saw the Emperor on horseback in the battle

of the Pyramids, naught around save powder, smoke, and Mamelukes; I saw

the Emperor in the battle of Austerlitz--ha! how the bullets whistled

over the smooth, icy road! I saw, I heard the battle of Jena-dum, dum,

dune; I saw, I heard the battle of Eylau, of Wagram--no, I could hardly

stand it! Monsieur Le Grand drummed so that my own eardrum nearly burst.

III

But what were my feelings when my very own eyes were first blessed with

the sight of him, _him_--Hosannah! the Emperor.

It was precisely in the avenue of the Court garden at Düsseldorf. As I

pressed through the gaping crowd, thinking of the doughty deeds and

battles which Monsieur Le Grand had drummed to me, my heart beat the

"general march"--yet at the same time I thought of the police regulation

that no one should dare ride through the middle of the avenue under

penalty of five dollars fine. And the Emperor with his _cortège_ rode

directly through the middle of the avenue. The trembling trees bowed

toward him as he advanced, the sun-rays quivered, frightened, yet

curious, through the green leaves, and in the blue heaven above there

swam visibly a golden star. The Emperor wore his unpretentious-green

uniform and the little world-renowned hat. He rode a white palfrey,

which stepped with such calm pride, so confidently, so nobly--had I then

been Crown Prince of Prussia I would have envied that horse. The

Emperor sat carelessly, almost laxly, holding his rein with one hand,

and with the other good-naturedly patting the neck of the horse. It was

a sunny marble hand, a mighty hand--one of the pair which subdued the

many headed monster of anarchy, and regulated the conflict of

nations--and it good-naturedly patted the neck of the horse. Even the

face had that hue which we find in the marble Greek and Roman busts, the

traits were as nobly proportioned as those of the ancients, and on that

countenance was plainly written "Thou shalt have no gods before me!" A

smile, which warmed and tranquilized every heart, flitted over the

lips--and yet all knew that those lips needed but to whistle _et la

Prusse n'existait plus_--those lips needed but to whistle and the entire

clergy would have stopped their ringing and singing--those lips needed

but to whistle, and the entire Holy Roman Empire would have danced. And

these lips smiled, and the eye too smiled. It was an eye clear as

heaven; it could read the hearts of men; it saw at a glance all things

in the world at once, while we ordinary mortals see them only one by

one, and then only their colored shadows. The brow was not so clear, the

phantoms of future battles were nestling there, and from time to time

there was a quiver which swept over this brow, and those were the

creative thoughts, the great seven-league-boots thoughts, wherewith the

spirit of the Emperor strode invisibly over the world; and I believe

that every one of those thoughts would have furnished a German author

plentiful material to write about all the days of his life.

The Emperor rode calmly, straight through the middle of the avenue; no

policeman stopped him; behind him proudly rode his cortège on snorting

steeds and loaded with gold and ornaments. The drums rolled, the

trumpets pealed; near me crazy Aloysius spun round, and snarled the

names of his generals; not far off bellowed the tipsy Gumpert, and the

multitude cried with a thousand voices, "Es lebe der Kaiser!"--Long live

the Emperor!

The Emperor is dead. On a waste island in the Indian Sea lies his

lonely grave, and he for whom the world was too narrow lies silently

under a little hillock, where five weeping willows shake out their green

hair, and a gentle little brook, murmuring sorrowfully, ripples by.

There is no inscription on his tomb; but Clio, with unerring style, has

written thereon invisible words, which will resound, like ghostly tones,

through the centuries.

Britannia, the sea is thine! But the sea hath not water enough to wash

away the shame which that mighty one hath bequeathed to thee in dying.

Not thy wind bag, Sir Hudson--no; thou thyself wert the Sicilian bravo

whom perjured kings lured that they might secretly revenge on the man of

the people that which the people had once openly inflicted on one of

themselves. And he was thy guest, and had seated himself by thy hearth.

Until the latest times the boys of France will sing and tell of the

terrible hospitality of the _Bellerophon_, and when those songs of

mockery and tears resound across the strait, there will be a blush on

the cheek of every honorable Briton. But a day will come when this song

will ring thither, and there will be no Britannia in existence--when the

people of pride will be humbled to the earth, when Westminster's

monuments will be broken, and when the royal dust which they inclosed

will be forgotten. And St. Helena is the holy grave whither the races of

the east and of the west will make their pilgrimage in ships, with

pennons of many a hue, and their hearts will grow strong with great

memories of the deeds of the worldly savior, who suffered and died under

Sir Hudson Lowe, as it is written in the evangelists, Las Cases,

O'Meara, and Autommarchi.

Strange! A terrible destiny has already overtaken the three greatest

enemies of the Emperor: Londonderry has cut his throat, Louis XVIII has

rotted away on his throne, and Professor Saalfeld is still, as before,

professor in Göttingen.

* * * * *

ENGLISH FRAGMENTS[56]

BY HEINRICH HEINE

TRANSLATED BY CHARLES GODFREY LELAND

DIALOGUE ON THE THAMES

The sallow man stood near me on the deck, as I gazed on the green shores

of the Thames, while in every corner of my soul the nightingales awoke

to life. "Land of Freedom!" I cried, "I greet thee! Hail to thee,

Freedom, young sun of the renewed world! Those older suns, Love and

Faith, are withered and cold, and can no longer light or warm us. The

ancient myrtle woods, which were once all too full, are now deserted,

and only timid turtle-doves nestle amid the soft thickets. The old

cathedrals, once piled in towering height by an arrogantly pious race,

which fain would force its faith into heaven, are crumbling, and their

gods have ceased to believe in themselves. Those divinities are worn

out, and our age lacks the imagination to shape others. Every power of

the human breast now tends to a love of Liberty, and Liberty is,

perhaps, the religion of the modern age. It is a religion not preached

to the rich, but to the poor, and has in like manner its evangelists,

its martyrs, and its Iscariots!"

"Young enthusiast," said the sallow man, "you will not find what you

seek. You may be in the right in believing that Liberty is a new

religion which will spread over all the world. But as every race of old,

when it received Christianity, did so according to its requirements and

its peculiar character, so, at present, every country adopts from the

new religion of liberty only that which is in accordance with its local

needs and national character.

The English are a domestic race, living a sequestered, peaceable, family

life, and the Englishman seeks in the circle of those connected with and

pertaining to him that easy state of mind which is denied to him through

his innate social incapacity. The Englishman is, therefore, contented

with that liberty which secures his most personal rights and guards his

body, his property, and his conjugal relations, his religion, and even

his whims, in the most unconditional manner. No one is freer in his home

than an Englishman, and, to use a celebrated expression, he is king and

bishop between his four walls; and there is much truth in the common

saying, 'My house is my castle.'

"If the Englishman has the greatest need of personal freedom, the

Frenchman, in case of necessity, can dispense with it, if we only grant

him that portion of universal liberty known as equality. The French are

not a domestic, but a social, race; they are no friends to a silent

_tête-à-tête_, which they call _une conversation anglaise;_ they run

gossiping about from the _café_ to the casino, and from the casino to

the _salons_; their light champagne-blood and inborn talent for company

drive them to social life, whose first and last principle, yes, whose

very soul, is equality. The development of the social principle in

France necessarily involved that of equality, and if the ground of the

Revolution should be sought in the Budget, it is none the less true that

its language and tone were drawn from those wits of low degree who lived

in the _salons_ of Paris, apparently on a footing of equality with the

high _noblesse_, and who were now and then reminded, it may have been by

a hardly perceptible, yet not on that account less exasperating, feudal

smile, of the great and ignominious inequality which lay between them.

And when the _canaille roturière_ took the liberty of beheading that

high _noblesse_, it was done less to inherit their property than their

ancestry, and to introduce a noble equality in place of a vulgar

inequality. And we are the better authorized to believe that this

striving for equality was the main principle of the Revolution, since

the French speedily found themselves so happy and contented under the

dominion of their great Emperor, who, fully appreciating that they were

not yet of age, kept all their _freedom_ within the limits of his

powerful guardianship, permitting them only the pleasure of a perfect

and admirable equality.

"Far more patient than the Frenchman, the Englishman easily bears the

glances of a privileged aristocracy, consoling himself with the

reflection that he has a right which renders it impossible for others to

disturb his personal comfort or his daily requirements. Nor does the

aristocracy here make a show of its privileges, as on the Continent. In

the streets and in places of public resort in London, colored ribbons

are seen only on women's bonnets, and gold and silver signs of

distinction on the dresses of lackeys. Even that beautiful, colored

livery which indicates with us military rank is, in England, anything

but a sign of honor, and, as an actor after a play hastens to wash off

the rouge, so an English officer hastens, when the hours of active duty

are over, to strip off his red coat and again appear like a gentleman,

in the plain garb of a gentleman. Only at the theatre of St. James are

those decorations and costumes, which were raked from the off-scourings

of the Middle Ages, of any avail. There we may see the ribbons of orders

of nobility; there the stars glitter, silk knee-breeches and satin

trains rustle, golden spurs and old-fashioned French styles of

expression clatter; there the knight struts and the lady spreads

herself. But what does a free Englishman care for the Court comedy of

St. James, so long as it does not trouble him, and so long as no one

interferes when he plays comedy in like manner in his own house, making

his lackeys kneel before him, or plays with the garter of a pretty

cook-maid? _'Honi soit qui mal y pense!'_

"As for the Germans, they need neither freedom nor equality. They are a

speculative race, ideologists, prophets, and sages, dreamers who live

only in the past and in the future, and who have no present. Englishmen

and Frenchmen have a _present_; with them every day has its field of

action, its struggle against enemies, its history. The German has

nothing for which to battle, and when he began to realize that there

might be things worth striving for, his philosophizing wiseacres taught

him to doubt the existence of such things. It cannot be denied that the

Germans love liberty, but it is in a different manner from other people.

The Englishman loves liberty as his lawful wife, and, even if he does

not treat her with remarkable tenderness, he is still ready in case of

need to defend her like a man, and woe to the red-coated rascal who

forces his way to her bedroom--let him do so as a gallant or as a

catchpoll. The Frenchman loves liberty as his bride. He burns for her;

he is a flame; he casts himself at her feet with the most extravagant

protestations; he will fight for her to the death; he commits for her

sake a thousand follies. The German loves liberty as though she were his

old grandmother."

Men are strange beings! We grumble in our Fatherland; every stupid

thing, every contrary trifle, vexes us there; like boys, we are always

longing to rush forth into the wide world, and, when we finally find

ourselves there, we find it too wide, and often yearn in secret for the

narrow stupidities and contrarieties of home. Yes, we would fain be

again in the old chamber, sitting behind the familiar stove, making for

ourselves, as it were, a "cubby-house" near it, and, nestling there,

read the _German General Advertiser_. So it was with me in my journey to

England. Scarcely had I lost sight of the German shore ere there awoke

in me a curious after-love for the German nightcaps and forest-like wigs

which I had just left in discontent; and when the Fatherland faded from

my eyes I found it again in my heart. And, therefore, it may be that

my voice quivered in a somewhat lower key as I replied to the sallow

man--"Dear sir, do not scold the Germans! If they are dreamers, still

many of them have conceived such beautiful dreams that I would hardly

incline to change them for the waking realities of our neighbors. Since

we all sleep and dream, we can perhaps dispense with freedom; for our

tyrants also sleep, and only dream their tyranny. We awoke only

once--when the Catholic Romans robbed us of our dream-freedom; then we

acted and conquered, and laid us down again and dreamed. O sir! do not

mock our dreamers, for now and then they speak, like somnambulists,

wondrous things in sleep, and their words become the seeds of freedom.

No one can foresee the turn which things may take. The splenetic Briton,

weary of his wife, may put a halter round her neck and sell her in

Smithfield. The flattering Frenchman may perhaps be untrue to his

beloved bride and abandon her, and, singing, dance after the Court dames

(_courtisanes_) of his royal palace (_palais royal_). But the German

will never turn his old grandmother quite out of doors; he will always

find a place for her by his fireside, where she can tell his listening

children her legends. Should Freedom ever vanish from the entire

world--which God forbid!--a German dreamer would discover her again in

his dreams."

While the steamboat, and with it our conversation, swam thus along the

stream, the sun had set, and his last rays lit up the hospital at

Greenwich, an imposing palace-like building which in reality consists of

two wings, the space between which is empty, and a green hill crowned

with a pretty little tower from which one can behold the passers-by. On

the water the throng of vessels became denser and denser, and I wondered

at the adroitness with which they avoided collision. While passing, many

a sober and friendly face nodded greetings--faces whom we had never seen

before, and were never to see again. We sometimes came so near that it

was possible to shake hands in joint welcome and adieu. One's heart

swells at the sight of so many bellying sails, and we feel strangely

moved when the confused hum and far-off dance-music, and the deep voices

of sailors, resound from the shore. But the outlines of all things

vanished little by little behind the white veil of the evening mist, and

there remained visible only a forest of masts, rising long and bare

above it.

The sallow man still stood near me and gazed reflectively on high, as

though he sought for the pale stars in the cloudy heaven. And, still

gazing aloft, he laid his hand on my shoulder, and said in a tone as

though secret thoughts involuntarily became words--"Freedom and

equality! they are not to be found on earth below nor in heaven above.

The stars on high are not alike, for one is greater and brighter than

another; none of them wanders free, all obey a prescribed and iron-like

law--there is slavery in heaven as on earth!"

"There is the Tower!" suddenly cried one of our traveling companions, as

he pointed to a high building which rose like a spectral, gloomy dream

above the cloud-covered London.

* * * * *

LONDON

I have seen the greatest wonder which the world can show to the

astonished spirit; I have seen it, and am still astonished; and still

there remains fixed in my memory the stone forest of houses, and amid

them the rushing stream of faces of living men with all their motley

passions, all their terrible impulses of love, of hunger, and of

hatred--I mean London.

Send a _philosopher_ to London, but, for your life, no poet! Send a

philosopher there, and station him at a corner of Cheapside, where he

will learn more than from all the books of the last Leipzig fair; and as

the billows of human life roar around him, so will a sea of new thoughts

rise before him, and the Eternal Spirit which moves upon the face of the

waters will breathe upon him; the most hidden secrets of social harmony

will be suddenly revealed to him; he will hear the pulse of the world

beat audibly, and see it visibly; for if London is the right hand of the

world--its active, mighty right hand--then we may regard that route

which leads from the Exchange to Downing Street as the world's pyloric

artery.

But never send a poet to London! This downright earnestness of all

things, this colossal uniformity, this machine-like movement, this

troubled spirit in pleasure itself, this exaggerated London, smothers

the imagination and rends the heart. And should you ever send a German

poet thither--a dreamer, who stares at everything, even a ragged

beggar-woman, or the shining wares of a goldsmith's shop--why, then, at

least he will find things going right badly with him, and he will be

hustled about on every side, or perhaps be knocked over with a mild "God

damn!" _God damn!_--damn the knocking about and pushing! I see at a

glance that these people have enough to do. They live on a grand scale,

and though food and clothes are dearer with them than with us, they must

still be better fed and clothed than we are--as gentility requires.

Moreover, they have enormous debts, yet occasionally, in a vainglorious

mood, they make ducks and drakes of their guineas, pay other nations to

box about for their pleasure, give their kings a handsome _douceur_ into

the bargain; and, therefore, John Bull must work to get the money for

such expenditure. By day and by night he must tax his brain to discover

new machines, and he sits and reckons in the sweat of his brow, and runs

and rushes, without much looking around, from the Docks to the Exchange,

and from the Exchange to the Strand; and therefore it is quite

pardonable if he, when a poor German poet, gazing into a print-shop

window, stands bolt in his way on the corner of Cheapside, should knock

the latter sideways with a rather rough "God damn!"

But the picture at which I was gazing as I stood at Cheapside corner was

that of the French crossing the Beresina.

And when I, jolted out of my gazing, looked again on the raging street,

where a parti-colored coil of men, women, and children, horses,

stagecoaches, and with them a funeral, whirled groaning and creaking

along, it seemed to me as though all London were such a Beresina Bridge,

where every one presses on in mad haste to save his scrap of life; where

the daring rider stamps down the poor pedestrian; where every one who

falls is lost forever; where the best friends rush, without feeling,

over one another's corpses; and where thousands in the weakness of

death, and bleeding, grasp in vain at the planks of the bridge, and are

shot down into the icy grave of death.

How much more pleasant and homelike it is in our dear Germany! With what

dreaming comfort, in what Sabbath-like repose, all glides along here!

Calmly the sentinels are changed, uniforms and houses shine in the quiet

sunshine, swallows flit over the flagstones, fat Court-counciloresses

smile from the windows; while along the echoing streets there is room

enough for the dogs to sniff at each other, and for men to stand at ease

and chat about the theatre, and bow deeply--oh, how deeply!--when some

small aristocratic scamp or vice-scamp, with colored ribbons on his

shabby coat, or some Court-marshal-low-brow struts along as if in

judgment, graciously returning salutations.

I had made up my mind in advance not to be astonished at that immensity

of London of which I had heard so much. But I had as little success as

the poor schoolboy who determined beforehand not to feel the whipping

which he was to receive. The facts of the case were that he expected to

get the usual blows with the usual stick in the usual way on the back,

whereas he received a most unusually severe licking on an unusual place

with a cutting switch. I anticipated great palaces, and saw nothing but

mere small houses. But their very uniformity and their limitless extent

impress the soul wonderfully.

These houses of brick, owing to the damp atmosphere and coal smoke, are

all of an uniform color, that is to say, of a brown olive-green, and are

all of the same style of building, generally two or three windows wide,

three stories high, and finished above with small red tiles, which

remind one of newly extracted bleeding teeth; while the broad and

accurately squared streets which these houses form seem to be bordered

by endlessly long barracks. This has its reason in the fact that every

English family, though it consist of only two persons, must still have a

house to itself for its own castle, and rich speculators, to meet the

demand, build, wholesale, entire streets of these dwellings, which they

retail singly. In the principal streets of the city, where the business

of London is most at home, where old-fashioned buildings are mingled

with the new, and where the fronts of the houses are covered with signs,

yards in length, generally gilt, and in relief, this characteristic

uniformity is less striking--the less so, indeed, because the eye of the

stranger is incessantly caught by the new and brilliant wares exposed

for sale in the windows. And these articles do not merely produce an

effect, because the Englishman completes so perfectly everything which

he manufactures, and because every article of luxury, every astral lamp

and every boot, every teakettle and every woman's dress, shines out so

invitingly and so _finished_. There is also a peculiar charm in the art

of arrangement, in the contrast of colors, and in the variety of the

English shops; even the most commonplace necessities of life appear in a

startling magic light through this artistic power of setting forth

everything to advantage. Ordinary articles of food attract us by the new

light in which they are placed; even uncooked fish lie so delightfully

dressed that the rainbow gleam of their scales attracts us; raw meat

lies, as if painted, on neat and many-colored porcelain plates,

garlanded about with parsley--yes, everything seems painted, reminding

us of the highly polished yet modest pictures of Franz Mieris. But the

human beings whom we see are not so cheerful as in the Dutch paintings,

for they sell the jolliest wares with the most serious faces, and the

cut and color of their clothes is as uniform as that of their houses.

On the opposite side of the town, which they call the West End--"_the

west end of the town_"--and where the more aristocratic and less

occupied world lives, the uniformity spoken of is still more dominant;

yet here there are very long and very broad streets, where all the

houses are large as palaces, though anything but remarkable as regards

their exterior, unless we except the fact that in these, as in all the

better class of houses in London, the windows of the first _étage_ (or

second story) are adorned with iron-barred balconies, and also on the

_rez de chaussée_ there is a black railing protecting the entrance to

certain subterranean apartments. In this part of the city there are also

great "squares," where rows of houses like those already described form

a quadrangle, in whose centre there is a garden, inclosed by an iron

railing and containing some statue or other. In all of these places and

streets the eye is never shocked by the dilapidated huts of misery.

Everywhere we are stared down on by wealth and respectability, while,

crammed away in retired lanes and dark, damp alleys, Poverty dwells with

her rags and her tears.

The stranger who wanders through the great streets of London, and does

not chance right into the regular quarters of the multitude, sees little

or nothing of the fearful misery existing there. Only here and there at

the mouth of some dark alley stands a ragged woman with a suckling babe

at her weak breast, and begs with her eyes. Perhaps, if those eyes are

still beautiful, we glance into them, and are shocked at the world of

wretchedness visible within. The common beggars are old people,

generally blacks, who stand at the corners of the streets cleaning

pathways--a very necessary thing in muddy London--and ask for "coppers"

in reward. It is in the dusky twilight that Poverty and her mates, Vice

and Crime, glide forth from their lairs. They shun daylight the more

anxiously since their wretchedness there contrasts more cruelly with the

pride of wealth which glitters everywhere; only Hunger sometimes drives

them at noonday from their dens, and then they stand with silent,

speaking eyes, staring beseechingly at the rich merchant who hurries

along, busy, and jingling gold, or at the lazy lord who, like a

surfeited god, rides by on his high horse, casting now and then an

aristocratically indifferent glance at the mob below, as though they

were swarming ants, or rather a mass of baser beings, whose joys and

sorrows have nothing in common with his feelings. Yes--for over the

vulgar multitude which sticks fast to the soil there soars, like beings

of a higher nature, England's nobility, to whom their little island is

only a temporary resting-place, Italy their summer garden, Paris their

social salon, and the whole world their inheritance. They sweep along,

knowing nothing of sorrow or suffering, and their gold is a talisman

which conjures into fulfilment their wildest wish.

Poor Poverty! how agonizing must thy hunger be, where others swell in

scornful superfluity! And when some one casts with indifferent hand a

crust into thy lap, how bitter must the tears be wherewith thou

moistenest it! Thou poisonest thyself with thine own tears. Well art

thou in the right when thou alliest thyself to Vice and Crime! Outlawed

criminals often bear more humanity in their hearts than those cool,

reproachless town burghers of virtue, in whose white hearts the power of

evil, it is true, is quenched--but with it, too, the power of good. And

even vice is not always vice. I have seen women on whose cheeks red vice

was painted, and in whose hearts dwelt heavenly purity. I have seen

women--I would that I saw them again!--

WELLINGTON

The man has the bad fortune to meet with good fortune everywhere, and

wherever the greatest men in the world were unfortunate; and that

excites us, and makes him hateful. We see in him only the victory of

stupidity over genius--Arthur Wellington triumphant where Napoleon

Bonaparte is overwhelmed! Never was a man more ironically gifted by

Fortune, and it seems as though she would exhibit his empty littleness

by raising him high on the shield of victory. Fortune is a woman, and

perhaps in womanly wise she cherishes a secret grudge against the man

who overthrew her former darling, though the very overthrow came from

her own will. Now she lets him conquer again on the Catholic

Emancipation question--yes, in the very fight in which George Canning

was destroyed. It is possible that he might have been loved had the

wretched Londonderry been his predecessor in the Ministry; but it

happens that he is the successor of the noble Canning--of the much-wept,

adored, great Canning--and he conquers where Canning was overwhelmed.

Without such an adversity of prosperity, Wellington would perhaps pass

for a great man; people would not hate him, would not measure him too

accurately, at least not with the heroic measure with which a Napoleon

and a Canning are measured, and consequently it would never have been

discovered how small he is as man.

He is a small man, and smaller than small at that. The French could say

nothing more sarcastic of Polignac than that he was a Wellington without

celebrity. In fact, what remains when we strip from a Wellington the

field-marshal's uniform of celebrity?

I have here given the best apology for Lord Wellington--in the English

sense of the word. My readers will be astonished when I honorably

confess that I once praised this hero--and clapped on all sail in so

doing. It is a good story, and I will tell it here:

My barber in London was a Radical, named Mr. White--poor little man in

a shabby black dress, worn until it almost shone white again; he was

so lean that even his full face looked like a profile, and the sighs in

his bosom were visible ere they rose. These sighs were caused by the

misfortunes of Old England--by the impossibility of paying the National

Debt.

"Ah!" I generally heard him sigh, "why need the English people trouble

themselves as to who reigns in France, and what the French are a-doing

at home? But the high nobility, sir, and the High Church were afraid of

the principles of liberty of the French Revolution; and to keep down

these principles John Bull must give his gold and his blood, and make

debts into the bargain. We've got all we wanted out of the war--the

Revolution has been put down, the French eagles of liberty have had

their wings cut, and the High Church may be cock-sure that none of these

eagles will come a-flying over the Channel; and now the high nobility

and the High Church between 'em ought to pay, anyway, for the debts

which were made for their own good, and not for any good of the poor

people. Ah! the poor people!"

Whenever Mr. White came to the "poor people" he always sighed more

deeply than ever, and the refrain then was that bread and porter were so

dear that the poor people must starve to feed fat lords, stag-hounds,

and priests, and that there was only one remedy. At these words he was

wont to whet his razor, and as he drew it murderously up and down the

strop, he murmured grimly to himself, "Lords, priests, hounds!"

[Illustration: THE DUKE OF WELLINGTON]

But his Radical rage boiled most fiercely against the Duke of

Wellington; he spat gall and poison whenever he alluded to him, and as

he lathered me he himself foamed with rage. Once I was fairly frightened

when he, while barbering away at my neck, burst out in wonted wise

against Wellington, murmuring all the while, "If I only had him _this_

way under my razor, _I'd_ save him the trouble of cutting his own

throat, as his brother in office and fellow-countryman, Londonderry,

did, who killed himself that-a-way at North Cray in Kent--God damn

him!"

I felt that the man's hand trembled and, fearing lest he might imagine,

in his excitement, that I really was the Duke of Wellington, I

endeavored to allay his violence, and, in an underhand manner to soothe

him, I called up his national pride; I represented to him that the Duke

of Wellington had advanced the glory of the English, that he had always

been an innocent tool in the hands of others, that he was fond of

beefsteak, and that he finally--but the Lord only knows what fine things

I said of Wellington as I felt that razor tickling around my throat!

What vexes me most is the reflection that Wellington will be as immortal

as Napoleon Bonaparte. It is true that, in like manner, the name of

Pontius Pilate will be as little likely to be forgotten as that of

Christ. Wellington and Napoleon! It is a wonderful phenomenon that the

human mind can at the same time think of both these names. There can be

no greater contrast than the two, even in their external appearance.

Wellington, the dumb ghost, with an ashy-gray soul in a buckram body, a

wooden smile on his freezing face--and, by the side of _that_, think of

the figure of Napoleon, every inch a god!

That figure never disappears from my memory. I still see him, high on

his steed, with eternal eyes in his marble-like, imperial face, glancing

calm as destiny on the Guards defiling past--he was then sending them to

Russia, and the old Grenadiers glanced up at him so terribly devoted, so

all-consciously serious, so proud in death--

"Te, Cæsar, morituri, salutant."

There often steals over me a secret doubt whether I ever really saw him,

if we were ever contemporaries, and then it seems to me as if his

portrait, torn from the little frame of the present, vanished away more

proudly and imperiously in the twilight of the past. His name even now

sounds to us like a word of the early world, and as antique and as

heroic as those of Alexander and Cæsar. It has already become a

rallying word among races, and when the East and the West meet they

fraternize on that single name.

I once felt, in the deepest manner, how significantly and magically that

name can sound. It was in the harbor of London, at the India Docks, and

on board an East India-man just arrived from Bengal. It was a giant-like

ship, fully manned with Hindoos. The grotesque forms and groups, the

singularly variegated dresses, the enigmatical expressions of

countenance, the strange gestures, the wild and foreign ring of their

language, their shouts of joy and their laughter, with the seriousness

ever rising and falling on certain soft yellow faces, their eyes like

black flowers which looked at me as with wondrous woe--all of this awoke

in me a feeling like that of enchantment; I was suddenly as if

transported into Scherezade's story, and I thought that broad-leaved

palms, and long-necked camels, and gold-covered elephants, and other

fabulous trees and animals must forthwith appear. The supercargo who was

on the vessel, and who understood as little of the language as I myself,

could not, in his truly English narrow-mindedness, narrate to me enough

of what a ridiculous race they were, nearly all pure Mohammedans

collected from every land of Asia, from the limits of China to the

Arabian Sea, there being even some jet-black, woolly-haired Africans

among them.

To one whose whole soul was weary of the spiritless West, and who was as

sick of Europe as I then was, this fragment of the East which moved

cheerfully and changingly before my eyes was a refreshing solace; my

heart enjoyed at least a few drops of that draught which I had so often

tasted in gloomy Hanoverian or Royal Prussian winter nights, and it is

very possible that the foreigners saw in me how agreeable the sight of

them was to me, and how gladly I would have spoken a kind word to them.

It was also plain from the very depths of their eyes how much I pleased

them, and they would also have willingly said something pleasant to me,

and it was a vexation that neither understood the other's language. At

length a means occurred to me of expressing to them with a single word

my friendly feelings, and, stretching forth my hands reverentially as if

in loving greeting, I cried the name, "Mohammed!"

Joy suddenly flashed over the dark faces of the foreigners, and, folding

their arms as reverentially in turn, as a cheerful greeting they

exclaimed, "Bonaparte!"

* * * * *

LAFAYETTE[57] (1833)

By HEINRICH HEINE

TRANSLATED BY CHARLES GODFREY LELAND

PARIS, January 19, 1832.

The _Temps_ remarks today that the _Allgemeine Zeitung_ now publishes

articles which are hostile to the royal family, and that the German

censorship, which does not permit the least remark to be leveled at

absolute kings, does not show the least mercy toward a citizen-king. The

_Temps_ is really the shrewdest and cleverest journal in the world! It

attains its object with a few mild words much more readily than others

with the most blustering polemics. Its crafty hint is well understood,

and I know of at least one liberal writer who no longer considers it

honorable to use, under the permission of the censorship, such inimical

language of a citizen-king as would not be allowed when applied to an

absolute monarch. But in return for that, let Louis Philippe do us one

single favor--which is to remain a citizen-king; for it is because he is

becoming every day more and more like an absolute king that we must

complain of him. He is certainly perfectly honorable as a man, an

estimable father of a family, a tender spouse and a good economist, but

it is vexatious to see how he allows all the trees of liberty to be

felled and stripped of their beautiful foliage that they may be sawed

into beams to support the tottering house of Orleans. For that, and that

only, the Liberal press blames him, and the spirits of truth, in order

to make war on him, even condescend to lie. It is melancholy and

lamentable that through such tactics even the family of the King must

suffer, although its members are as innocent as they are amiable. As

regards this, the German Liberal press, less witty but much kinder than

its French elder sister, is guilty of no cruelties. "You should at least

have pity on the King," lately cried the good-tempered _Journal des

Débats_. "Pity on Louis Philippe!" replied the _Tribune_. "This man asks

for fifteen millions and our pity! Did he have pity on Italy, on

Poland?"--_et cetera_.

I saw a few days ago the young orphan of Menotti, who was hanged in

Modena. Nor is it long since I saw Señora Luisa de Torrijos, a poor

deathly-pale lady, who quickly returned to Paris when she learned on the

Spanish frontier the news of the execution of her husband and of his

fifty-two companions in misfortune. Ah! I really pity Louis Philippe.

_La Tribune_, the organ of the openly declared Republican party, is

pitiless as regards its royal enemy, and every day preaches the

Republic. The _National_, the most reckless and independent journal in

France, has recently chimed in to the same air in a most surprising

manner. And terrible as an echo from the bloodiest days of the

Convention sounded the speeches of those chiefs of the _Société des Amis

du Peuple_ who were placed last week before the court of assizes,

"accused of having conspired against the existing Government in order to

overthrow it and establish a republic." They were acquitted by the jury,

because they proved that they had in no way conspired, but had simply

uttered their convictions publicly. "Yes, we desire the overthrow of

this feeble Government, we wish for a republic." Such was the refrain of

all their speeches before the tribunal.

While on one side the serious Republicans draw the sword and growl with

words of thunder, the _Figaro_ flashes lightning, and laughs and swings

its light lash most effectually. It is inexhaustible in clever sayings

as to "the best republic," a phrase with which poor Lafayette is mocked,

because he, as is well known, once embraced Louis Philippe before the

Hôtel de Ville and cried, "Vous êtes la meilleure république!" The _Figaro_

recently remarked that we of course now require no republic, since we

have seen the best. And it also said as cruelly, in reference to the

debates on the civil list, that "_la meilleure république coute quinze

millions_." The Republican party will never forgive Lafayette his blunder

in advocating a king. They reproach him with this, that he had known

Louis Philippe long enough to be aware beforehand what was to be expected

of him. Lafayette is now ill--_malade de chagrin_--heart-sick. All! the

greatest heart of two worlds must feel bitterly the royal deception. It

was all in vain that he in the very beginning continually insisted on the

_Programme de l'Hôtel de Ville_, on the republican institutions with

which the monarchy should be surrounded, and on similar promises. But he

was out-cried by the _doctrinaire_ gossips and chatterers, who proved

from the English history of 1688 that people in Paris in July, 1830, had

fought simply to maintain the Charter, and that all their sacrifices and

struggles had no other object than to replace the elder line of the

Bourbons by the younger, just as all was finished in England by putting

the House of Orange in place of the Stuarts. Thiers, who does not think

with this party, though he now acts as their spokesman, has of late

given them a good push forward. This indifferentist of the deepest dye,

who knows so admirably how to preserve moderation in the clearness,

intelligence, and illustration of his style, this Goethe of politics, is

certainly at present the most powerful defender of the system of Périer,

and, in fact, with his pamphlet against Chateaubriand he well-nigh

annihilated that Don Quixote of Legitimacy, who sat so pathetically on

his winged Rosinante, whose sword was more shining than sharp, and who

shot only with costly pearls instead of good, piercing, leaden bullets.

In their irritation at the lamentable turn which events have taken, many

of the enthusiasts for freedom go so far as to slander Lafayette. How

far a man can go astray in this direction is shown by the book of

Belmontet, which is also an attack on the well-known pamphlet by

Chateaubriand, and in which the Republic is advocated with commendable

freedom. I would here cite the bitter passages against Lafayette

contained in this work, were they not on one side too spiteful, and on

the other connected with a defense of the Republic which is not suitable

to this journal. I therefore refer the reader to the work itself, and

especially to a chapter in it entitled "The Republic." One may there see

how evil fortune may make even the noblest men unjust.

I will not here find fault with the brilliant delusion of the

possibility of a republic in France. A royalist by inborn inclination, I

have now, in France, become one from conviction. For I am convinced that

the French could never tolerate any republic, neither according to the

constitution of Athens or of Sparta, nor, least of all, to that of the

United States. The Athenians were the student-youths of mankind; their

constitution was a species of academic freedom, and it would be mere

folly to seek to introduce it in this our matured age, to revive it in

our senile Europe. And how could we put up with that of Sparta, that

great and tiresome manufactory of patriotism, that soldiers' barrack of

republican virtue, that sublimely bad kitchen of equality, in which

black broth was so vilely cooked that Attic wits declared it made men

despise life and defy death in battle? How could such a constitution

flourish in the very _foyer_ of gourmands, in the fatherland of Véry, of

Véfour, and of Carême? This latter would certainly have thrown himself,

like Vatel, on his sword, as a Brutus of cookery and as the last

gastronome. Indeed, had Robespierre only introduced Spartan cookery, the

guillotine would have been quite superfluous, for then the last

aristocrats would have died of terror, or emigrated as soon as possible.

Poor Robespierre! you would introduce stern republicanism to Paris--to a

city in which one hundred and fifty thousand milliners and dressmakers,

and as many barbers and perfumers, exercise their smiling, curling, and

sweet-smelling industries!

The monotony, the want of color, and the petty domestic citizens' life

of America would be even more intolerable in the home of the "love of

the spectacular," of vanity, fashion, and novelties. Indeed, the passion

for decorations flourishes nowhere so much as in France. Perhaps, with

the exception of August Wilhelm Schlegel, there is not a woman in

Germany so fond of gay ribbons as the French; even the heroes of July,

who fought for freedom and equality, afterward wore blue ribbons to

distinguish themselves from the rest of the people. Yet, if I on this

account doubt the success of a republic in Europe, it still cannot be

denied that everything is leading to one; that the republican respect

for law in place of veneration of royal personages is showing itself

among the better classes, and that the Opposition, just as it played at

comedy for fifteen years with a king, is now continuing the same game

with royalty itself, and that consequently a republic may be for a short

time, at least, the end of the song. The Carlists are aiding this

movement, since they regard it as a necessary phase which will enable

them to reëstablish the absolute monarchy of the elder branch; therefore

they now bear themselves like the most zealous republicans. Even

Chateaubriand praises the Republic, calls himself a Republican from

inclination, fraternizes with Marrast, and receives the accolade from

Béranger. The _Gazette_--the hypocritical _Gazette de France_--now

yearns for republican state forms, universal franchise, primary

meetings, _et cetera_. It is amusing to see how these disguised

priestlings now play the bully-braggart in the language of

Sans-culottism, how fiercely they coquet with the red Jacobin cap, yet

are ever and anon afflicted with the thought that they might forgetfully

have put on in its place the red cap of a prelate; they take for an

instant from their heads their borrowed covering and show the tonsure

unto all the world. Such men as these now believe that they may insult

Lafayette, and it serves as an agreeable relaxation from the sour

republicanism, the compulsory liberty, which they must assume.

But let deluded friends and hypocritical enemies say what they will,

Lafayette is, after Robespierre, the purest character of the French

Revolution, and, next to Napoleon, its most popular hero. Napoleon and

Lafayette are the two names which now bloom most beautifully in France.

Truly their fame is each of a different kind. The latter fought for

peace, not victory; the former rather for the laurel wreath than for

that of oak leaves. It would indeed be ridiculous to measure the

greatness of the two heroes with the same metre, and put one on the

pedestal of the other, even as it would be absurd to set the statue of

Lafayette on the Vendôme column--that monument made of the cannon

conquered on so many fields of battle, the sight of which, as Barbier

sings, no French mother can endure. On this bronze column place

Napoleon, the man of iron, here, as in life, standing on his fame,

earned by cannon, rising in terrible isolation to the clouds, so that

every ambitious soldier, when he beholds him, the unattainable one,

there on high, may have his heart humbled and healed of the vain love of

celebrity, and thus this colossal column of metal, as a lightning

conductor of conquering heroism, will do much for the cause of peace in

Europe.

Lafayette has raised for himself a better column than that of the Place

Vendôme, and a better monumental image than one of metal or marble.

Where is there marble as pure as the heart of old Lafayette, or metal as

firm as his fidelity? It is true that he was always one-sided, but

one-sided like the magnetic needle, which always points to the north,

and never once veers to south or west. So he has for forty years said

the same thing, and pointed constantly to North America. He is the one

who opened the Revolution with the declaration of the rights of man; to

this hour he perseveres in this belief, without which there is no

salvation and no health to be hoped for--the one-sided man with his

one-sided heavenly region of freedom. He is indeed no genius, as was

Napoleon, in whose head the eagles of inspiration built their nests,

while the serpents of calculation entwined in his heart; but then he was

never intimidated by eagles nor seduced by serpents. As a young man he

was wise as a graybeard, as a graybeard fiery as a youth, a protector of

the people against the wiles of the great, a protector of the great

against the rage of the people, compassionating yet combating, never

arrogant and never discouraged, equally firm and mild--the unchangeable

Lafayette! and so, in his one-sidedness and equanimity, he has remained

on the same spot from the days of Marie Antoinette to the present hour.

And, as a trusty Eckart of liberty, he still stands leaning on his sword

before the entrance to the Tuileries, warning the world against that

seductive Venusberg, whose magic tones sing so enticingly, and from

whose sweet snares the poor wretches who are once entangled in them can

never escape.

It is certainly true that the dead Napoleon is more beloved by the

French than is the living Lafayette. This is perhaps because he is dead,

which is to me the most delightful thing connected with him; for, were

he alive, I should be obliged to fight against him. The world outside of

France has no idea of the boundless devotion of the French people to

Napoleon. Therefore the discontented, when they determine on a decided

and daring course, will begin by proclaiming the young Napoleon, in

order to secure the sympathy of the masses. Napoleon is, for the French,

a magic word which electrifies and benumbs them. There sleep a thousand

cannon in this name, even as in the column of the Place Vendôme, and the

Tuileries will tremble should these cannon once awake. As the Jews never

idly uttered the name of their God, so Napoleon is here very seldom

called by his, and people speak of him as _l'homme_, "the man." But his

picture is seen everywhere, in engravings and plaster casts, in metal

and wood. On all boulevards and carrefours are orators who praise and

popular minstrels who sing him--the Man--and his deeds. Yesterday

evening, while returning home, I came into a dark and lonely lane, in

which there stood a child some three years old, who, by a candle stuck

into the earth, lisped a song praising the Emperor. As I threw him a sou

on the handkerchief spread out, something slid up to me, begging for

another. It was an old soldier, who could also sing a song of the glory

of the great Emperor, for this glory had cost him both legs. The poor

man did not beg in the name of God, but implored with most believing

fervor, "_Au nom de Napoléon, donnez-moi un sou._" So this name is the

best word to conjure with among the people. Napoleon is its god, its

cult, its religion, and this religion will, by and by, become tiresome,

like every other.

Lafayette, on the contrary, is venerated more as a man or as a guardian

angel. He, too, lives in picture and in song, but less heroically;

and--honorably confessed!--it had a comic effect on me when, last year,

on the 28th July, I heard in the song of _La Parisienne_ the words--

"Lafayette aux cheveux blancs,"

while I saw him in person standing near me in his brown wig. It was the

Place de la Bastille; the man was in his right place, but still I needs

must laugh to myself. It may be that such a comic combination brings him

humanly somewhat nearer to our hearts. His good-nature, his _bonhomie_,

acts even on children, and they perhaps understand his greatness better

than do the grown people. And here I will tell a little story about a

beggar which will show the characteristic contrast between the glory of

Lafayette and that of Napoleon. I was lately standing at a street corner

before the Pantheon, and as usual lost in thought in contemplating that

beautiful building, when a little Auvergnat came begging for a sou, and

I gave him half-a-franc to be rid of him. But he approached me all the

more familiarly with the words, "_Est-ce que vous connaissez le général

Lafayette?_" and as I assented to this strange question, the proudest

satisfaction appeared on the naïve and dirty face of the pretty boy, and

with serio-comic expression he said, _"Il est de mon pays,"_ for he

naturally believed that any man who was generous enough to give him ten

sous must be, of course, an admirer of Lafayette, and judged me worthy

that he should present himself as a compatriot of that great man. The

country folk also have for Lafayette the most affectionate respect, and

all the more because he chiefly busies himself with agriculture. From

this, result the freshness and simplicity which might be lost in

constant city life. In this he is like one of those great Republicans of

earlier days who planted their own cabbages, but who in time of need

hastened from the plough to the battle or the tribune, and after combat

and victory returned to their rural work. On the estate where Lafayette

passes the pleasant portion of the year, he is generally surrounded by

aspiring young men and pretty girls. There hospitality, be it of heart

or of table, rules supreme; there are much laughing and dancing; there

is the court of the sovereign people; there any one may be presented who

is the son of his own works and has never made mésalliance with

falsehood--and Lafayette is the master of ceremonies. The name of this

country place is Lagrange, and it is very charming when the hero of two

worlds relates to the young people his adventures; then he appears like

an epos surrounded by the garlands of an idyll.

But it is in the real middle-class more than any other, that is, among

tradespeople and small shop-keepers, that there is the most veneration

for Lafayette. They simply worship him. Lafayette, the establisher of

order, is their idol. They adore him as a kind of Providence on

horseback, an armed tutelary patron of public peace and security, as a

genius of freedom, who also takes care in the battle for freedom that

nothing is stolen and that everybody keeps his little property. The

great army of public order, as Casimir Périer called the National Guard,

the well-fed heroes in great bearskin caps into which small shopmen's

heads are stuck, are drunk with delight when they speak of Lafayette,

their old general, their Napoleon of peace. Truly he is the Napoleon of

the small citizen, of those brave folks who always pay their

bills--those uncle tailors and cousin glove-makers who are indeed too

busy by day to think of Lafayette, but who praise him afterward in the

evening with double enthusiasm, so that one may say that it is about

eleven o'clock at night, when the shops are shut, that his fame is in

full bloom.

I have just before used the expression "master of ceremonies." I now

recall that Wolfgang Menzel has in his witty trifling called Lafayette a

master of ceremonies of Liberty. This was when the former spoke in the

_Literaturblatt_ of the triumphal march of Lafayette across the United

States, and of the deputations, addresses, and solemn discourses which

attended such occasions. Other much less witty folk wrongly imagine that

Lafayette is only an old man who is kept for show or used as a machine.

But they need hear him speak only once in public to learn that he is not

a mere flag which is followed or sworn by, but that he is in person the

_gonfalonière_ in whose hands is the good banner, the oriflamme of the

nations. Lafayette is perhaps the most prominent and influential speaker

in the Chamber of Deputies. When he speaks, he always hits the nail, and

his nailed-up enemies, on the head.

When it is needed, when one of the great questions of humanity is

discussed, then Lafayette ever rises, eager for strife as a youth. Only

the body is weak and tottering, broken by age and the battles of his

time, like a hacked and dented old iron armor, and it is touching when

he totters under it to the tribune and has reached his old post, to see

how he draws a deep breath and smiles. This smile, his delivery, and the

whole being of the man while speaking on the tribune, are indescribable.

There is in it all so much that is winsome and yet so much delicate

irony, that one is enchained as by a marvelous curiosity, a sweet,

strange enigma. We know not if these are the refined manners of a French

marquis or the straightforward simplicity of an American citizen. All

that is best in the _ancien régime_, the chivalresque courtesy and tact,

are here wondrously fused with what is best in the modern _bourgeoisie_,

love of equality, simplicity, and honesty. Nothing is more interesting

than when mention is made, in the Chamber, of the first days of the

Revolution, and some one in _doctrinaire_ fashion tears some historical

fact from its true connection and turns it to his own account in speech.

Then Lafayette destroys with a few words the erroneous deduction by

illustrating or correcting the true sense of such an event by citing the

circumstances relating to it. Even Thiers must in such a case strike

sail, and the great historiographer of the Revolution bows before the

outburst of its great and living monument, General Lafayette.

There sits in the Chamber, just before the tribune a very old man, with

long silvery hair falling over his black clothing. His body is girted

with a very broad tricolored scarf; he is the old messenger who has

always filled that office in the Chamber since the beginning of the

Revolution, and who in this post has witnessed the momentous events of

the world's history from the days of the first National Assembly till

the _juste milieu_. I am told that he often speaks of Robespierre, whom

he calls _le bon Monsieur Robespierre_. During the Restoration the old

man suffered from colic, but since he has wound the tricolored scarf

round his waist he finds himself well again. His only trouble now, in

the dull and lazy times of the _juste milieu_, is drowsiness. I once

even saw him fall asleep while Mauguin was speaking. Indeed, the man

has, doubtless, in his time heard better than Mauguin, who is, however,

one of the best orators of the Opposition, though he is not found to be

very startling or effective by one _qui a beaucoup connu ce bon Monsieur

de Robespierre_. But when Lafayette speaks, then the old messenger

awakes from his twilight drowsiness, he seems to be aroused like an old

war-horse of hussars when he hears the sound of a trumpet--there rise

within him sweet memories of youth, and he nods delightedly with his

silver-white head.

* * * * *

THE ROMANTIC SCHOOL[58] (1833-35)

BY HEINRICH HEINE

TRANSLATED BY CHARLES GODFREY LELAND

But what was the Romantic School in Germany? It was nothing else but the

reawakening of the poetry of the Middle Ages, as it had shown itself in

its songs, images, and architecture, in art and in life. But this poetry

had risen from Christianity; it was a passion-flower which had sprung

from the blood of Christ. I do not know whether the melancholy

passion-flower of Germany is known by that name in France, or whether

popular legend attributes to it the same mystical origin. It is a

strange, unpleasantly colored blossom, in whose calyx we see set forth

the implements which were used in the crucifixion of Christ, such as the

hammer, pincers, and nails--a flower which is not so much ugly as

ghostly, and even whose sight awakens in our soul a shuddering pleasure,

like the convulsively agreeable sensations which come from pain itself.

From this view the flower was indeed the fittest symbol for Christianity

itself, whose most thrilling chain was the luxury of pain.

Though in France only Roman Catholicism is understood by the word

Christianity, I must specially preface that I speak only of the latter.

I speak of that religion in whose first dogmas there is a damnation of

all flesh, and which not only allows to the spirit power over the flesh,

but will also kill this to glorify the spirit. I speak of that religion

by whose unnatural requisitions sin and hypocrisy really came into the

world, in that by the condemnation of the flesh the most innocent

sensuous pleasures became sins, and because the impossibility of a man's

becoming altogether spiritual naturally created hypocrisy. I speak of

that religion which, by teaching the doctrine of the casting away of all

earthly goods and of cultivating a dog-like, abject humility and angelic

patience, became the most approved support of despotism. Men have found

out the real life and meaning (_Wesen_) of this religion, and do not

now content themselves with promises of supping in Paradise; they know

that matter has also its merits, and is not all the devil's, and they

now defend the delights of this world, this beautiful garden of God, our

inalienable inheritance. And therefore, because we have grasped so

entirely all the consequences of that absolute spiritualism, we may

believe that the Christian Catholic view of the world has reached its

end. Every age is a sphinx, which casts itself into the abyss when man

has guessed its riddle.

Yet we do in no wise deny the good results which this Christian Catholic

view of the world established in Europe. It was necessary as a wholesome

reaction against the cruelly colossal materialism which had developed

itself in the Roman realm and threatened to destroy all spiritual human

power. As the lascivious memoirs of the last century form the _pièces

justificatives_ of the French Revolution, as the terrorism of a _comité

du salut public_ seems to be necessary physic when we read the

confessions of the aristocratic world of France, so we recognize the

wholesomeness of ascetic spiritualism when we read Petronius or

Apuleius, which are to be regarded as the _piecès justificatives_ of

Christianity. The flesh had become so arrogant in this Roman world that

it required Christian discipline to chasten it. After the banquet of a

Trimalchion, such a hunger-cure as Christianity was a necessity.

Or was it that as lascivious old men seek by being whipped to excite new

power of enjoyment, so old Rome endured monkish chastisement to find

more exquisite delight in torture and voluptuous rapture in pain? Evil

excess of stimulant! it took from the body of the state of Rome its last

strength. It was not by division into two realms that Rome perished. On

the Bosphorus, as by the Tiber, Rome was devoured by the same Jewish

spiritualism, and here, as there, Roman history was that of a long dying

agony which lasted for centuries. Did murdered Judea, in leaving to

Rome its spiritualism, wish to revenge itself on the victorious foe, as

did the dying centaur who craftily left to the son of Hercules the

deadly garment steeped in his own blood? Truly Rome, the Hercules among

races, was so thoroughly devoured by Jewish poison that helm and harness

fell from its withered limbs, and its imperial war-voice died away into

the wailing cadences of monkish prayer and the soft trilling of

castrated boys.

But what weakens old age strengthens youth. That spiritualism had a

healthy action on the too sound and strong races of the North; the too

full-blooded barbarous bodies were spiritualized by Christianity, and

European civilization began. The Catholic Church has in this respect the

strongest claims on our regard and admiration, for it succeeded by

subduing with its great genial institutions the bestiality of Northern

barbarians and by mastering brutal matter.

The Art-work of the Middle Ages manifests this mastery of mere material

by mind, and it is very often its only mission. The epic poems of this

period may be easily classed according to the degree of this subjection

or influence. There can be no discussion here of lyrical and dramatic

poems, for the latter did not exist, and the former are as like in every

age as are the songs of nightingales in spring.

Although the epic poetry of the Middle Ages was divided into sacred and

profane, both were altogether Christian according to their kind; for if

sacred poesy sang of the Jewish race and its history, the only race

which was regarded as holy, or of the heroes and legends of the Old and

New Testaments, and, in brief, the Church--still all the life of the

time was reflected in profane poetry with its Christian views and

action. The flower of the religious poetic art in the German Middle Ages

is perhaps _Barlaam and Josaphat_, in which the doctrine of abnegation,

of abstinence, and the denial and contempt of all worldly glory, is set

forth most consistently. Next to this I would class the _The Eulogium of

St. Hanno (Lobgesang auf den heiligen Anno)_ as the best of the

religious kind; but this is of a far more secular character, differing

from the first as the portrait of a Byzantine saint differs from an old

German one. As in those Byzantine pictures, so we see in _Barlaam and

Josaphat_ the utmost simplicity; there is no perspective side-work, and

the long, lean, statue-like forms and the idealistic serious faces come

out strongly drawn, as if from a mellow gold ground. On the other hand,

in the song of praise of St. Hanno, the side-work or accessories are

almost the subject, and, notwithstanding the grandeur of the plan, the

details are treated in the minutest manner, so that we know not whether

to admire in it the conception of a giant or the patience of a dwarf.

But the evangel-poem of Ottfried, which is generally praised as the

masterpiece of sacred poetry, is far less admirable than the two which I

have mentioned.

In profane poetry we find, as I have already signified, first the cycle

of sagas of the _Nibelungen_ and the _Heldenbuch_, or _Book of Heroes_.

In them prevails all the pre-Christian manner of thought and of feeling;

in them rude strength has not as yet been softened by chivalry. There

the stern Kempe-warriors of the North stand like stone images, and the

gentle gleam and the more refined breath of Christianity have not as yet

penetrated their iron armor. But little by little a light dawns in the

old Teutonic forest; the ancient idolatrous oak-trees are felled, and we

see a brighter field of battle where Christ wars with the heathen. This

appears in the saga-cycle of Charlemagne, in which what we really see is

the Crusades reflecting themselves with their religious influences. And

now from the spiritualizing power of Christianity, chivalry, the most

characteristic feature of the Middle Ages, unfolds itself, and is at

last sublimed into a spiritual knighthood. This secular knighthood

appears most attractively glorified in the sagacycle of King Arthur, in

which the sweetest gallantry, the most refined courtesy, and the most

adventurous passion for combat prevail. Among the charmingly eccentric

arabesques and fantastic flower-pictures of this poem we are greeted by

the admirable Iwain, the all-surpassing Lancelot du Lac, and the bold,

gallant, and true, but somewhat tiresome, Wigalois. Nearly allied and

interwoven with this cyclus of sagas is that of the Holy Grail, in which

the spiritual knighthood is glorified; and in this epoch we meet three

of the grandest poems of the Middle Ages, the _Titurel_, the _Parsifal_,

and the _Lohengrin_. Here indeed we find ourselves face to face with

Romantic Poetry. We look deeply into her great sorrowing eyes; she

twines around us, unsuspectingly, her fine scholastic nets, and draws us

down into the bewildering, deluding depths of medieval mysticism.

At last, however, we come to poems of that age which are not

unconditionally devoted to Christian spiritualism; nay, it is often

indirectly reflected on, where the poet disentangles himself from the

bonds of abstract Christian virtues and plunges delighted into the world

of pleasure and of glorified sensuousness; and it is not the worst poet,

by any means, who has left us the principal work thus inspired. This is

_Tristan and Isolde_; and I must declare that Gottfried von Strassburg,

the composer of this most beautiful poem of the Middle Ages, is perhaps

also its greatest poet, towering far above all the splendor of Wolfram

von Eschenbach, whom we so admire in _Parsifal_ and the fragments of

_Titurel_. We are at last permitted to praise Gottfried unconditionally,

though in his own time his book was certainly regarded as godless, and

similar works, among them the _Lancelot_, were considered as dangerous.

And some very serious results did indeed ensue. The fair Francesca da

Polenta and her handsome friend had to pay dearly for the pleasure of

reading on a summer day in such a book; but the trouble came not from

the reading, but from their suddenly ceasing to read.

There is in all these poems of the Middle Ages a marked character which

distinguishes them from those of Greece and Rome. We characterize this

difference by calling the first Romantic and the other Classic. Yet

these appellations are only uncertain rubrics, and have led hitherto to

the most discouraging, wearisome entanglements, which become worse since

we give to antique poetry the designation of "Plastic," instead of

"Classic." From this arose much misunderstanding; for, justly, all poets

should work their material plastically, be it Christian or heathen; they

should set it forth in clear outlines; in short, plastic form should be

the main desideratum in modern Romantic art, quite as much as in the

ancient. And are not the figures in the _Divina Commedia_ of Dante or in

the pictures of Raphael as plastic as those in Virgil? The difference

lies in this, that the plastic forms in ancient art are absolutely

identical with the subject or the idea which the artist would set forth,

as, for example, that the wanderings of Ulysses mean nothing else than

the journeyings of a man named Odysseus, who was son of Laërtes and

husband of Penelope; and further, that the Bacchus which we see in the

Louvre is nothing else than the graceful, winsome son of Semele, with

audacious melancholy in his eyes and sacred voluptuousness on his soft

and arching lips. It is quite otherwise in Romantic art, in which the

wild wanderings of a knight have ever an esoteric meaning, symbolizing

perhaps the erring course of life. The dragon whom he overcomes is sin;

the almond which from afar casts comforting perfume to the traveler is

the Trinity, God the Father, God the Son, and God the Holy Ghost, which

are three in one, as shell, fibre, and kernel make one nut. When Homer

describes the armor of a hero, it is a good piece of work, worth such

and such a number of oxen; but when a monk of the Middle Ages describes

in his poems the garments of the Mother of God, one may be sure that by

this garb he means as many virtues, and a peculiar significance lies

hidden under this holy covering of the immaculate virginity of Maria,

who, as her son is the almond-kernel, is naturally sung as the

almond-flower. That is the character of the medieval poetry which we

call Romantic.

Classic art had only to represent the finite or determined, and its

forms could be one and the same with the idea of the artist. Romantic

art had to set forth, or rather signify, the infinite and purely

spiritual, and it took refuge in a system of traditional, or rather of

parabolistic symbols, as Christ himself had sought to render clear his

spiritualistic ideas by all kinds of beautiful parables. Hence the

mystical, problematic, marvelous, and transcendental in the artwork of

the Middle Ages, in which fantasy makes her most desperate efforts to

depict the purely spiritual by means of sensible images, and invents

colossal follies, piling Pelion on Ossa and _Parsifal_ on _Titurel_ to

attain to heaven.

Among other races where poetry attempted to display the infinite, and

where monstrous fancies appeared, as, for instance, among the

Scandinavians and Indians, we find poems which, being romantic, are

given that classification.

We cannot say much as to the music of the Middle Ages, for original

documents, which might have served for our guidance, are wanting. It was

not till late in the sixteenth century that the masterpieces of Catholic

church music, which cannot be too highly praised, appeared. These

express in the most exquisite manner pure Christian spirituality. The

recitative arts, which are spiritual from their very nature, could

indeed flourish fairly in Christianity, yet it was less favorable to

those of design, for as these had to represent the victory of mind over

matter, and yet must use matter as the means wherewith to work, they had

to solve a problem against Nature. Hence we find in sculpture and

painting those revolting subjects--martyrdoms, crucifixions, dying

saints, and the flesh crushed in every form. Such themes were martyrdom

for sculpture; and when I contemplate those distorted images in which

Christian asceticism and renunciation of the senses are expressed by

distorted, pious heads, long thin arms, starveling legs, and awkwardly

fitting garments, I feel an indescribable compassion for the artists of

that time. The painters were indeed more favored, for the material for

their work, because of its susceptivity to varied play of color, did not

antagonize spirituality so obstinately as the material of the sculptors,

and yet they were obliged to load the sighing canvas with the most

repulsive forms of suffering. In truth, when we regard many galleries

which contain nothing but scenes of bloodshed, scourging, and beheading,

one might suppose that the old masters had painted for the collection of

an executioner.

But human genius can transform and glorify even the unnatural; many

painters solved this problem of making what was revolting beautiful and

elevating--the Italians, especially, succeeding in paying tribute to

beauty at the expense of spirituality, and in rising to that ideality

which attained perfection in so many pictures of the Madonna. As regards

this subject the Catholic clergy always made some concession to the

physical. This image of immaculate beauty which is glorified by maternal

love and suffering had the privilege of being made famous by poets and

painters, and adorned with all charms of the sense, for it was a magnet

which could attract the multitude to the lap of Christianity. Madonna

Maria was the beautiful _dame du comptoir_ of the Catholic Church, who,

with her beautiful eyes, attracted and held fast its customers,

especially the barbarians of the North.

Architecture had in the Middle Ages the same character as the other

arts, as indeed all the manifestations of life then harmonized so

marvelously with one another. The tendency to parable shows itself here,

as in poetry. When we now enter a Gothic cathedral, we hardly suspect

the esoteric sense of its stone symbolism; only a general impression

pierces our soul; we realize an elevation of feeling and mortification

of the flesh. The interior is a hollow cross, and we wander among the

instruments of martyrdom itself; the variegated windows cast on us red

and green light, like blood and corruption; funeral songs wail about

us; under our feet are mortuary tablets and decay; and the soul soars

with the colossal columns to a giddy height, tearing itself with pain

from the body, which falls like a weary, worn-out garment to the ground.

But when we behold the exteriors of these Gothic cathedrals, these

enormous buildings which are wrought so aërially, so finely, delicately,

transparently, cut as it were into such open work that one might take

them for Brabant lace in marble, then we feel truly the power of that

age which could so master stone itself that it seems spectrally

transfused with spiritual life, and thus even the hardest material

declares Christian spirituality.

But arts are only the mirror of life, and, as Catholicism died away, so

its sounds grew fainter and its lights dimmer in art. During the

Reformation Catholic song gradually disappeared in Europe, and in its

place we see the long-slumbering poetry of Greece re-awakening to life.

But it was only an artificial spring, a work of the gardener, not of the

sun, and the trees and flowers were in close pots, and a glass canopy

protected them from cold and northern winds.

In the world's history no event is the direct result of another; all

events rather exert a mutual influence. It was by no means due only to

the Greek scholars who emigrated to Europe after the fall of Byzantium

that a love for Grecian culture and the desire to imitate it became so

general among us; a similar Protestantism prevailed then in art as well

as in life. Leo X., that splendid Medici, was as zealous a Protestant as

Luther, and as there was a Latin prose protest in Wittenberg, so they

protested poetically in Rome in stone, color, and _ottaverime_. And do

not the mighty marble images of Michelangelo, the laughing nymphs of

Giulio Romano, and the joyous intoxication of life in the verses of

Ludovico Ariosto form a protesting opposition to the old, gloomy,

worn-out Catholicism? The painters of Italy waged a polemic against

priestdom which was perhaps more effective than that of the Saxon

theologian. The blooming rosy flesh in the pictures of Titian is all

Protestantism. The limbs of his Venus are more thorough _theses_ than

those which the German monk pasted on the church door of Wittenberg.

Then it was that men felt as if suddenly freed from the force and

pressure of a thousand years; the artists, most of all, again breathed

freely as the nightmare of Christianity seemed to spin whirling from

their breasts, and they threw themselves with enthusiasm into the sea of

Greek joyousness from whose foam rose to them goddesses of beauty.

Painters once more limned the ambrosial joys of Olympus; sculptors

carved, with the joy of yore, old heroes from the marble; poets again

sang the house of Atreus and Laius; and so the age of new classic poetry

began.

As modern life was most perfectly developed in France under Louis XIV.,

so the new classic poetry received there its most finished perfection,

and, in a measure, an independent originality. Through the political

influence of that great king this poetry spread over Europe; in Italy,

its home, it assumed a French color, and thence the heroes of French

tragedy went with the Anjous to Spain; it passed with Henrietta Maria to

England, and we Germans, as a matter of course, built our clumsy temples

to the powdered Olympus of Versailles. The most famous high-priest of

this religion was Gottsched, that wonderful long wig whom our dear

Goethe has so admirably described in his memoirs.

Lessing was the literary Arminius who delivered our theatre from this

foreign rule. He showed us the nothingness, the laughableness, the flat

and faded folly of those imitations of the French theatre, which were in

turn imitated from the Greek. But he became the founder of modern German

literature, not only by his criticism, but by his own works of art. This

man pursued with enthusiasm and sincerity art, theology, antiquity, and

archæology, the art of poetry, history--all with the same zeal and to

the same purpose. There lives and breathes in all his works the same

great social idea, the same progressive humanity, the same religion of

reason, whose John he was, and whose Messiah we await. This religion he

always preached, but, alas! too often alone and in the desert. And there

was one art only of which he knew nothing--that of changing stones into

bread, for he consumed the greatest part of his life in poverty and

under hard pressure--a curse which clings to nearly all great German

geniuses, and will last, it may be, till ended by political freedom.

Lessing was more inspired by political feelings than men supposed, a

peculiarity which we do not find among his contemporaries, and we can

now see for the first time what he meant in sketching the duo-despotism

in _Emilia Galotti_. He was regarded then as a champion of freedom of

thought and against clerical intolerance; for his theological writings

were better understood. The fragments _On the Education of the Human

Race_, which Eugène Rodrigue has translated into French, may give an

idea of the vast comprehensiveness of Lessing's mind. The two critical

works which exercised the most influence on art are his _Hamburg

Dramatic Art (Hamburgische Dramaturgie)_, and his _Laokoon, or the

Limits of Painting and Poetry_. His most remarkable theatrical pieces

are _Emilia Galotti, Minna von Barnhelm,_ and _Nathan the Wise_.

Gotthold Ephraim Lessing was born at Camenz in Lausitz, January 22,

1729, and died in Brunswick, February 15, 1781. He was a thorough-going

man who, when he destroyed something old in a battle, at the same time

always created something new and better. "He was," says a German author,

"like those pious Jews, who, during the second building of the Temple,

were often troubled by attacks of the enemy, and so fought with one hand

while with the other they worked at the house of God." This is not the

place where I can say more of Lessing, but I cannot refrain from

remarking that he is, of all who are recorded in the whole history of

literature, the writer whom I love best.

I will here mention another author who worked in the same spirit, with

the same object, as Lessing, and who may be regarded as his successor.

It is true that his eulogy is here also out of place, since he occupies

an altogether peculiar position in literature, and a unique relation to

his time and to his contemporaries. It is Johann Gottfried Herder, born

in 1744 at Mohrungen, in East Prussia, and who died at Weimar in the

year 1803.

Literary history is the great "Morgue" where every one seeks his dead,

those whom he loves or to whom he is related. When I see there, among so

many dead who were of little interest, a Lessing or a Herder, with their

noble, manly countenances, my heart throbs; I cannot pass them by

without hastily kissing their dead lips.

Yet if Lessing did so much to destroy the habit of imitating French

second-hand Greekdom, he still, by calling attention to the true works

of art of Greek antiquity, gave an impulse to a new kind of ridiculous

imitations. By his battling with religious superstition he advanced the

sober search for clearer views which spread widely in Berlin, which had

in the late blessed Nicolai its chief organ, and in the General German

Library its arsenal. The most deplorable mediocrity began to show itself

more repulsively than ever, and flatness and insipidity blew themselves

up like the frog in the fable.

It is a great mistake to suppose that Goethe, who had already come

before the world, was at once universally recognized as a writer of

commanding genius. His _Götz von Berlichingen_ and his _Werther_ were

received with a degree of enthusiasm, to be sure; but so, too, were the

works of common bunglers, and Goethe had but a small niche in the temple

of literature. As I have said, _Götz_ and _Werther_ had a spirited

reception, but more on account of the subject-matter than their artistic

merits, which very few appreciated in these masterworks. _Götz_ was a

dramatized romance of chivalry, and such writings were then the rage. In

_Werther_ the world saw the reproduction of a true story, that of young

Jerusalem, who shot himself dead for love, and thereby, in those

dead-calm days, made a great noise. People read with tears his touching

letters; some shrewdly observed that the manner in which Werther had

been banished from aristocratic society had increased his weariness of

life. The discussion of suicide caused the book to be still more

discussed; it occurred to several fools on this occasion to make away

with themselves, and the book, owing to its subject, went off like a

shot. The novels of August Lafontaine were just as much read, and, as

this author wrote incessantly, he was more famous than Wolfgang von

Goethe. Wieland was the great poet then, with whom perhaps might be

classed the ode-maker, Rambler of Berlin. Wieland was honored

idolatrously, far more at that time than Goethe. Iffland ruled the

theatre with his dreary _bourgeois_ dramas, and Kotzebue with his flat

and frivolously witty jests.

It was in opposition to this literature that there sprang up in Germany,

at the end of the last century, a school which we call the Romantic, and

of which August Wilhelm and Friedrich Schlegel have presented themselves

as managing agents. Jena, where these and many other souls in like

accord found themselves "off and on," was the centre from which the new

esthetic doctrine spread. I say doctrine, for this school began with

judgments of the art-works of the past and recipes for art-works of the

future, and in both directions the Schlegel school rendered great

service to esthetic criticism. By judging of such works of art as

already existed, either their faults and failures were indicated, or

their merits and beauties brought to light. In controversy and in

indicating artistic shortcomings, the Schlegels were entirely imitators

of old Lessing; they obtained possession of his great battle-blade, but

the arm of August William Schlegel was too tenderly weak and the eyes of

his brother Friedrich too mystically clouded for the former to strike so

strongly and the latter so keenly and accurately as Lessing. True, in

descriptive criticism, where the beauties of a work of art are to be set

forth--where it came to a delicate detection of its characteristics

and bringing them home to our intelligence--then, compared to the

Schlegels, old Lessing was nowhere. But what shall I say as to their

recipes for preparing works of art? There we find in the Schlegels a

weakness which we think may also be detected in Lessing; for the latter

is as weak in affirming as he is strong in denying. He rarely succeeds

in laying down a fundamental principle, still more seldom a correct one.

He wants the firm basis of a philosophy or of a philosophical system.

And this is still more sadly the case with the brothers Schlegel.

Much is fabled as to the influence of Fichtean Idealism and Schelling's

Philosophy of Nature on the Romantic school, which is even declared to

have sprung from it. But I see here, at the most, only the influence of

certain fragments of thoughts from Fichte and Schelling, and not at all

that of a philosophy. This may be explained on the simple ground that

Fichte's philosophy had lost its hold, and Fichte himself had made it

lose its interest by a mingling of tenets and ideas from Schelling; and

because, on the other hand, Schelling had never set forth a philosophy,

but only a vague philosophizing, an unsteady, vacillating improvisation

of poetical philosophemes. It may be that it was from the Fichtean

Idealism--that deeply ironical system, where the I is opposed to the

not--I and annihilates it--that the Romantic school took the doctrine of

irony which the late Solger especially developed, and which the

Schlegels at first regarded as the soul of art, but which they

subsequently found to be fruitless and exchanged for the more positive

axioms of the Theory of Identity of Schelling. Schelling, who then

taught in Jena, had indeed a great personal influence on the Romantic

school; he is, what is not generally known in France, also a bit of a

poet; and it is said that he was in doubt whether he should not deliver

all his philosophical doctrines in a poetic or even metrical form. This

doubt characterizes the man.

THE RABBI OF BACHARACH[59] (1840)

With kindly greeting, the Legend of the Rabbi of Bacharach is dedicated

to his friend HENRY LAUBE by the AUTHOR

A FRAGMENT

TRANSLATED BY CHARLES GODFREY LELAND

TRANSLATION REVISED BY PAUL BERNARD THOMAS

CHAPTER I

On the Lower Rhine, where its banks begin to lose their smiling aspect,

where the hills and cliffs with their romantic ruined castles rise more

defiantly, and a wilder, sterner majesty prevails, there lies, like a

strange and fearful tale of olden times, the gloomy and ancient town of

Bacharach. But these walls, with their toothless battlements and blind

turrets, in whose nooks and niches the winds whistle and the sparrows

build their nests, were not always so decayed and fallen, and in these

poverty-stricken, repulsive muddy lanes which one sees through the

ruined gate, there did not always reign that dreary silence which only

now and then is broken by the crying of children, the scolding of women,

and the lowing of cows. These walls were once proud and strong, and

these lanes were alive with fresh, free life, power and pomp, joy and

sorrow, much love and much hate. For Bacharach once belonged to those

municipalities which were founded by the Romans during their rule on the

Rhine; and its inhabitants, though the times which came after were very

stormy, and though they had to submit first to the Hohenstaufen, and

then to the Wittelsbach authority, managed, following the example of the

other cities on the Rhine, to maintain a tolerably free commonwealth.

This consisted of an alliance of separate social elements, in which the

patrician elders and those of the guilds, who were subdivided according

to their different trades, both strove for power; so that while they

were bound in union to resist and guard against outside robber-nobles,

they were, nevertheless, constantly having domestic dissensions over

disputed interests. Consequently there was but little social

intercourse, much mistrust, and not infrequently actual outbursts of

passion. The ruling governor sat in his lofty castle of Sareck, and

swooped down like his falcon, whenever he was called, and often when not

called. The clergy ruled in darkness by darkening the souls of others.

One of the most forsaken and helpless of the social elements, which had

been gradually bound down by local laws, was the little Jewish

community. This had first settled in Bacharach in the days of the

Romans, and during the later persecution of the Jews it had taken in

many a flock of fugitive co-religionists.

The great oppression of the Jews began with the crusades, and raged most

furiously about the middle of the fourteenth century, at the end of the

great pestilence, which, like all other great public disasters, was

attributed to the Jews, because people declared they had drawn down the

wrath of God, and, with the help of the lepers, had poisoned the wells.

The enraged populace, especially the hordes of Flagellants, or

half-naked men and women, who, lashing themselves for penance and

singing a mad hymn to the Virgin, swept over South Germany and the

Rhenish provinces, murdered in those days many thousand Jews, tortured

others, or baptized them by force. There was another accusation which in

earlier times and all through the Middle Ages, even to the beginning of

the last century, cost much blood and suffering. This was the ridiculous

story, recurring with disgusting frequency in chronicle and legend, that

the Jews stole the consecrated wafer, and pierced it with knives till

blood ran from it; and to this it was added that at the feast of the

Passover the Jews slew Christian children to use their blood in the

night sacrifice.

[Illustration: BACHARACH ON THE RHINE]

Consequently on the day of this festival the Jews, hated for their

wealth, their religion, and the debts due to them, were entirely in the

hands of their enemies, who could easily bring about their destruction

by spreading the report of such a child-murder, and perhaps even

secretly putting a bloody infant's corpse in the house of a Jew thus

accused. Then at night they would attack the Jews at their prayers, and

murder, plunder, and baptize them; and great miracles would be wrought

by the dead child aforesaid, whom the Church would eventually canonize.

Saint Werner is one of these holy beings, and in his honor the

magnificent abbey of Oberwesel was founded. The latter is now one of the

most beautiful ruins on the Rhine, and with the Gothic grandeur of its

long ogival windows, proud and lofty pillars, and marvelous

stone-carving, it strangely enchants us when we wander by it on some

bright, green summer's day, and do not know the story of its origin. In

honor of this saint there were also three great churches built on the

Rhine, and innumerable Jews murdered and maltreated. All this happened

in the year 1287; and in Bacharach, where one of these Saint Werner's

churches stood, the Jews suffered much misery and persecution. However,

they remained there for two centuries after, protected from such

outbreaks of popular rage, though they were continually subject to spite

and threats.

Yet the more they were oppressed by hate from without, the more

earnestly and tenderly did the Jews of Bacharach cherish their domestic

life within, and the deeper was the growth among them of piety and the

fear of God. An ideal example of a life given to God was seen in their

Rabbi Abraham, who, though still a young man, was famed far and wide for

his learning. He was born in Bacharach, and his father, who had been the

rabbi there before him, had charged him in his last will to devote his

life to that office and never to leave the place unless for fear of

life. This command, except for a cabinet full of rare books, was all

that his parent, who had lived in poverty and learning, left him.

Rabbi Abraham, however, was a very rich man, for he had married the only

daughter of his father's brother, who had been a prosperous dealer in

jewelry, and whose possessions he had inherited. A few gossips in the

community hinted now and then that the Rabbi had married for money. But

the women all denied this, declaring that the Rabbi, long ere he went to

Spain, had been in love with "Beautiful Sara," and recalling how she had

awaited his return for seven years, while, as a matter of fact, he had

already wedded her against the will of her father, and even without her

own consent, by the betrothal-ring. For every Jew can make a Jewish girl

his lawful wife, if he can succeed in putting a ring on her finger, and

say at the same time: "I take thee for my wife, according to the law of

Moses and Israel." And when Spain was mentioned, the same gossips were

wont to smile in the same significant manner, all because of a vague

rumor that Rabbi Abraham, though he had studied the holy law

industriously enough at the theological school in Toledo, had

nevertheless followed Christian customs and become imbued with habits of

free thinking, like many of the Spanish Jews who at that time had

attained a very remarkable degree of culture.

And yet in the bottom of their hearts these gossips put no faith in such

reports; for ever since his return from Spain the daily life of the

Rabbi had been pure, pious, and earnest in every way. He performed every

detail of all religious customs and ceremonies with painstaking

conscientiousness; he fasted every Monday and Thursday--only on

Sabbaths and feast days did he indulge in meat or wine; his time was

passed in prayer and study; by day he taught the Law to students, whom

his fame had drawn to Bacharach; and by night he gazed on the stars in

heaven, or into the eyes of Beautiful Sara. His married life was

childless, yet there was no lack of life or gaiety in his home. The

great hall in his house, which stood near the synagogue, was open to the

whole community, so that people went in and out without ceremony, some

to offer short prayers, others to gather news, or to hold a consultation

when in trouble. Here the children played on Sabbath mornings while the

weekly "section" was being read; here people met for wedding and funeral

processions, and quarreled or were reconciled; here, too, those who were

cold found a warm stove, and those who were hungry, a well-spread table.

And, moreover, the Rabbi, as well as his wife, had a multitude of

relatives, brothers and sisters, with their wives and children, and an

endless array of uncles and cousins, all of whom looked up to the Rabbi

as the head of the family, and so made themselves at home in his house,

never failing to dine with him on all great festivals.

Special among these grand gatherings in the Rabbi's house was the annual

celebration of the Passover, a very ancient and remarkable feast which

the Jews all over the world still hold every year in the month Nissen,

in eternal remembrance of their deliverance from Egyptian servitude.

This takes place as follows:

As soon as it is dark the matron of the family lights the lamps, spreads

the table-cloth, places in its midst three flat loaves of unleavened

bread, covers them with a napkin, and places on them six little dishes

containing symbolical food, that is, an egg, lettuce, horse-radish, the

bone of a lamb, and a brown mixture of raisins, cinnamon, and nuts. At

this table the father of the family sits with all his relatives and

friends, and reads to them from a very curious book called the _Agade_,

whose contents are a strange mixture of legends of their forefathers,

wondrous tales of Egypt, disputed questions of theology, prayers, and

festival songs. During this feast there is a grand supper, and even

during the reading there is at specified times tasting of the symbolical

food and nibbling of Passover bread, while four cups of red wine are

drunk. Mournfully merry, seriously gay, and mysteriously secret as some

old dark legend, is the character of this nocturnal festival, and the

traditional singing intonation with which the _Agade_ is read by the

father, and now and then reëchoed in chorus by the hearers, first

thrills the inmost soul as with a shudder, then calms it as mother's

lullaby, and again startles it so suddenly into waking that even those

Jews who have long fallen away from the faith of their fathers and run

after strange joys and honors, are moved to their very hearts, when by

chance the old, well-known tones of the Passover songs ring in their

ears.

And so Rabbi Abraham once sat in his great hall surrounded by relatives,

disciples, and many other guests, to celebrate the great feast of the

Passover. Everything was unusually brilliant; over the table hung the

gaily embroidered silk canopy, whose gold fringes touched the floor; the

plates of symbolic food shone invitingly, as did the tall wine goblets,

adorned with embossed pictures of scenes in holy legends. The men sat in

their black cloaks and black low hats, and white collars, the women, in

wonderful glittering garments of Lombard stuffs, wore on their heads and

necks ornaments of gold and pearls, while the silver Sabbath lamp cast

its festive light on the cheerful, devout faces of parents and children.

On the purple velvet cushions of a chair, higher than the others,

reclined, as custom requires, Rabbi Abraham, who read and sang the

_Agade_, while the gay assembly joined in, or answered in the appointed

places. The Rabbi also wore the prescribed black festival garment, his

nobly-formed, but somewhat severe features had a milder expression than

usual, his lips smiled through his dark-brown beard as if they would

fain say something kind, while in his eyes one could see happy

remembrances combined with some strange foreboding. Beautiful Sara, who

sat on the high velvet cushion with her husband, as hostess, had on none

of her jewelry--nothing but white linen enveloped her slender form and

innocent face. This face was touchingly beautiful, even as all Jewish

beauty is of a peculiarly moving kind; for the consciousness of the deep

wretchedness, the bitter ignominy, and the evil dangers amid which their

kindred and friends dwell, imparts to their lovely features an

expression of soulful sadness and watchful, loving anxiety, which

particularly charms our hearts. So on this evening Beautiful Sara sat

looking into the eyes of her husband, yet glancing ever and anon at the

beautiful parchment book of the _Agade_ which lay before her, bound in

gold and velvet.

[Illustration: HOUSE IN BACHARACH]

It was an old heirloom, with ancient wine stains on it, and had come

down from the days of her grandfather; and in it there were many boldly

and brightly-colored pictures, which as a little girl she had often

looked at so eagerly on Passover evenings. They represented all kinds of

Bible incidents--Abraham breaking with a hammer the idols of his father

and the angels appearing to him; Moses slaying Mizri; Pharaoh sitting in

state on his throne, and the frogs giving him no peace even at the

table; his death by drowning--the Lord be praised!--the children of

Israel cautiously crossing the Red Sea, and then standing open-mouthed,

with their sheep, cows, and oxen, before Mount Sinai; pious King David

playing the harp; and, finally, Jerusalem, with its towers and

battlements, shining in the splendor of the setting sun.

The second wine-cup had been served, the faces and voices of the guests

were growing merrier, and the Rabbi, as he took a loaf of unleavened

bread and raised it with a cheerful smile, read these words from the

_Agade_: "Behold! This is the food which our fathers ate in Egypt! Let

every one who is hungry come and enjoy it! Let every one who is

sorrowful come and share the joy of our Passover! This year we celebrate

it here, but in years to come in the land of Israel. This year we

celebrate it as servants, but in the years to come as sons of freedom!"

Then the hall door opened, and two tall, pale men, wrapped in very loose

cloaks, entered and said:

"Peace be with you. We are men of your faith on a journey, and wish to

share the Passover-feast with you!" And the Rabbi replied promptly and

kindly:

"Peace be with you! Sit ye down near me!" The two strangers immediately

sat down at the table, and the Rabbi read on. Several times while the

others were repeating a sentence after him, he said an endearing word to

his wife; once, alluding to the old humorous saying that on this evening

a Hebrew father of a family regards himself as a king, he said to her,

"Rejoice, oh my Queen!" But she replied with a sad smile, "The Prince is

wanting," meaning by that a son, who, as a passage in the _Agade_

requires, has to ask his father, with a certain formula of words, what

the meaning of the festival is? The Rabbi said nothing, but pointed with

his finger to an opened page of the _Agade_, on which was a pretty

picture, showing how the three angels came to Abraham, announcing that

he would have a son by his wife Sara, who, meanwhile, urged by feminine

curiosity, is slyly listening to it all behind the tent-door. This

little sign caused a threefold blush to color the cheeks of Beautiful

Sara, who first looked down, and then glanced pleasantly at her husband,

who went on chanting the wonderful story how Rabbi Jesua, Rabbi Eliezer,

Rabbi Asaria, Rabbi Akiba, and Rabbi Tarphen sat reclining in Bona-Brak,

and conversed all night long of the Exodus from Egypt, till their

disciples came to tell them that it was daylight, and that the great

morning prayer was being read in the synagogue.

While Beautiful Sara sat devoutly listening to and looking at her

husband, she saw his face suddenly assume an expression of agony or

horror, his cheeks and lips become deathly pale, and his eyes harden

like two balls of ice; but almost immediately he regained his previous

composure and cheerfulness, his cheeks and lips grew ruddy, and he

looked about him gaily--nay, it seemed as if a strange, wild humor, such

as was foreign to his nature, had seized him. Beautiful Sara was

frightened as she had never been before in all her life, and a cold

shudder went through her--due less to the momentary manifestation of

dumb horror which she had seen in her husband's face, than to the

cheerfulness which followed it, and which was now gradually developing

into jubilant hilarity. The Rabbi cocked his cap comically, first on one

ear, then on the other, pulled and twisted his beard ludicrously, and

sang the _Agade_ texts as if they were tavern-songs; and in the

enumeration of the Egyptian plagues, where it is usual to dip the

forefinger in the full wine-cup and flip off the drops that adhere, he

sprinkled the young girls near him with the red wine, so that there was

great wailing over spoiled collars, combined with loud laughter. Every

moment Beautiful Sara was becoming more amazed by this convulsive

merriment of her husband, and she was oppressed with nameless fears as

she gazed on the buzzing swarm of gaily glittering guests who were

comfortably enjoying themselves here and there, nibbling the thin

Passover cakes, drinking wine, gossiping, or joyfully singing aloud.

Then came the time for supper. All rose to wash, and Beautiful Sara

brought the large silver basin, richly adorned with embossed gold

figures, which was held before all the guests in turn, while water was

poured over their hands. As she was doing this for the Rabbi, he gave

her a significant glance, and quietly slipped out of the door. When

Beautiful Sara walked out after him, he grasped her hand, and in the

greatest haste hurried her through the dark lanes of Bacharach, out of

the city gate to the highway which leads along the Rhine to Bingen.

It was one of those spring nights which, to be sure, are mild and starry

enough, yet which inspire the soul with strange, uncanny feelings. There

was something funereal in the odor of the flowers, the birds chirped

spitefully and at the same time apprehensively, the moon cast malicious

yellow stripes of light over the dark murmuring stream, the lofty banks

of the Rhine looked like vague, threatening giants' heads. The watchman

on the tower of Castle Strahleck blew a melancholy blast, and with it

rang in jarring discord the funeral bell of Saint Werner's.

Beautiful Sara still had the silver basin in her right hand, while the

Rabbi held her left, and she felt that his fingers were ice-cold, and

that his arm was trembling; but still she went on with him in silence,

perhaps because she had become accustomed to obey her husband blindly

and unquestioningly--perhaps, too, because her lips were mute with

fear and anxiety.

Below Castle Sonneck, opposite Lorch, about the place where the hamlet

of Nieder Rheinbach now lies, there rises a cliff which arches out over

the Rhine bank. The Rabbi ascended this with his wife, looked around on

every side, and gazed on the stars. Trembling and shivering, as with the

pain of death, Beautiful Sara looked at his pale face, which seemed

ghastly in the moonlight, and seemed to express by turns pain, terror,

piety, and rage. But when the Rabbi suddenly snatched from her hands the

silver basin and threw it far out into the Rhine, she could no longer

endure the agony of uncertainty, and crying out "_Schadai_, be

merciful!" threw herself at his feet and conjured him to explain the

dark mystery.

At first unable to speak, the Rabbi moved his lips without uttering a

sound; but finally he cried, "Dost thou see the Angel of Death? There

below he sweeps over Bacharach. But we have escaped his sword. God be

praised!" Then, in a voice still trembling with excitement, he told her

that, while he was happily and comfortably singing the _Agade_, he

happened to glance under the table, and saw at his feet the bloody

corpse of a little child. "Then I knew," continued the Rabbi, "that our

two guests were not of the community of Israel, but of the army of the

godless, who had plotted to bring that corpse into the house by stealth

so as to accuse us of child-murder, and stir up the people to plunder

and murder us. Had I given a sign that I saw through that work of

darkness I should have brought destruction on the instant down upon me

and mine, and only by craft did I save our lives. Praised be God! Grieve

not, Beautiful Sara. Our relatives and friends shall also be saved; it

was only my blood which the wretches wanted. I have escaped them, and

they will be satisfied with my silver and gold. Come with me, Beautiful

Sara, to another land. We will leave misfortune behind us, and so that

it may not follow us I have thrown to it the silver ewer, the last of my

possessions, as an offering. The God of our fathers will not forsake us.

Come down, thou art weary. There is Dumb William standing by his boat;

he will row us up the Rhine."

Speechless, and as if every limb were broken, Beautiful Sara sank into

the arms of the Rabbi, who slowly bore her to the bank. There stood

William, a deaf and dumb but very handsome youth, who, to support his

old foster-mother, a neighbor of the Rabbi, caught and sold fish, and

kept his boat in this place. It seemed as if he had divined the

intention of Abraham, and was waiting for him, for on his silent lips

there was an expression of tender sympathy, and his large blue eyes

rested as with deep meaning on Beautiful Sara, as he lifted her

carefully into the boat.

The glance of the silent youth roused Beautiful Sara from her lethargy,

and she realized at once that all which her husband had told her was not

a mere dream. A stream of bitter tears poured over her cheeks, which

were as white as her garment. Thus she sat in the boat, a weeping image

of white marble, and beside her sat her husband and Dumb William, who

was busily rowing.

Whether it is due to the measured beat of the oars, or to the rocking of

the boat, or to the fresh perfume from those steep banks whereon joy

grows, it ever happens that even the most sorrowful heart is marvelously

relieved when on a night in spring it is lightly borne along in a small

boat on the dear, limpid waters of the Rhine. For, in truth,

kind-hearted, old Father Rhine cannot bear to see his children weep, and

so, drying their tears, he rocks them on his trusty arm, and tells them

his most beautiful stories, and promises them his most golden treasures,

perhaps even the old, old, long-sunk Nibelungen hoard. Gradually the

tears of Beautiful Sara ceased to flow; her extreme sorrow seemed to be

washed away by the whispering waves, while the hills about her home bade

her the tenderest farewell. But especially cordial seemed the farewell

greeting of Kedrich, her favorite mountain; and far up on its summit, in

the strange moonlight, she imagined she saw a lady with outstretched.

arms, while active little dwarfs swarmed out of their caverns in the

rocks, and a rider came rushing down the side in full gallop. Beautiful

Sara felt as if she were a child again, and were sitting once more in

the lap of her aunt from Lorch, who was telling her brave tales of the

bold knight who freed the stolen damsel from the dwarfs, and many other

true stories of the wonderful Wisperthal over there, where the birds

talk as sensibly as men, and of Gingerbread Land, where good, obedient

children go, and of enchanted princesses, singing trees, crystal

castles, golden bridges, laughing water-fairies.... But suddenly in the

midst of these pleasant tales, which began to send forth notes of music

and to gleam with lovely light, Beautiful Sara heard the voice of her

father, scolding the poor aunt for putting such nonsense into the

child's head. Then it seemed to her as if they set her on the little

stool before her father's velvet-covered chair, and that he with a soft

hand smoothed her long hair, smiling as if well pleased, while he rocked

himself comfortably in his loose, Sabbath dressing-gown of blue silk.

Yes, it must be the Sabbath, for the flowered cover was spread on the

table, all the utensils in the room were polished like looking-glasses,

the white-bearded usher sat beside her father, eating raisins and

talking in Hebrew; even little Abraham came in with a very large book,

and modestly begged leave of his uncle to expound a portion of the Holy

Scripture, that he might prove that he had learned much during the past

week, and therefore deserved much praise--and a corresponding quantity of

cakes.... Then the lad laid the book on the broad arm of the chair, and

set forth the history of Jacob and Rachel--how Jacob raised his voice

and wept when he first saw his cousin Rachel, how he talked so

confidingly with her by the well, how he had to serve seven years for

her, and how quickly the time passed, and how he at last married and

loved her for ever and ever.... Then all at once Beautiful Sara

remembered how her father cried with merry voice, "Wilt thou not also

marry thy cousin Sara like that?" To which little Abraham gravely

replied, "That I will, and she shall wait seven years too." These

memories stole like twilight shadows through the soul of the young

wife, and she recalled how she and her little cousin--now so great a man

and her husband--played together as children in the leafy tabernacle; how

delighted they were with the gay carpets, flowers, mirrors, and gilded

apples; how little Abraham caressed her more and more tenderly, till

little by little he began to grow larger and more self-interested, and

at last became a man and scarcely noticed her at all.... And now she

sits in her room alone on a Saturday evening; the moon shines in

brightly. Suddenly the door flies open, and cousin Abraham, in traveling

garb, and as pale as death, enters, grasps her hand, puts a gold ring on

her finger, and says, solemnly, "I hereby take thee to be my wife,

according to the laws of God and of Israel." "But now," he adds, with a

trembling voice, "now I must go to Spain. Farewell! For seven years thou

must wait for me." With that he hurried away, and Sara, weeping, told

the tale to her father, who roared and raged, "Cut off thy hair, for

thou art now a married woman." Then he wanted to ride after Abraham to

compel him to write a letter of divorce; but Abraham was over the hills

and far away, and the father silently returned to his house. And when

Beautiful Sara was helping him to draw off his boots, and trying to

soothe him, saying that Abraham would return in seven years, he cursed,

and cried, "Seven years shalt thou be a beggar," and shortly after he

died.

And so old memories swept through her soul like a hurried play of

shadows, the images intermixing and blending strangely, while between

them came and went half-familiar, half-strange bearded faces, and large

flowers with marvelously spreading foliage. Then the Rhine seemed to

murmur the melodies of the _Agade_, and from its waters the pictures, as

large as life, but wild and distorted, came forth one by one. There was

Father Abraham anxiously breaking the idols into pieces which

immediately flew together again; Mizri defending himself fiercely

against the maddened Moses; Mount Sinai flashing and flaming; King

Pharaoh swimming in the Red Sea, holding his pointed gold crown tightly

in his teeth, while frogs with human faces swam along behind, in the

foaming, roaring waves, and a dark giant-hand rose up threatening from

below.

Yonder was the Mouse Tower of Bishop Hatto, and the boat was just

shooting through the Bingen Eddy. By this time Beautiful Sara had

somewhat awakened from her dreams, and she gazed at the hills on the

shore, on the summits of which lights of castles were gleaming, and at

the foot of which the mist, shimmering in the moonlight, was beginning

to rise. Suddenly she seemed to see her friends and relatives, as they,

with corpse-like faces and flowing shrouds, passed in awful procession

along the Rhine.... The world grew dark before her eyes, an icy current

ran through her soul, and, as if in sleep, she only heard the Rabbi

repeating the night-prayer slowly and painfully, as if at a deathbed.

Dreamily she stammered the words, "Ten thousand to the right, ten

thousand to the left, to protect the king from the terrors of the

night."

Then all at once the oppressive gloom and terror passed away, the dark

curtain was torn from heaven, and far above there appeared the holy city

Jerusalem, with its towers and gates; the Temple gleamed in golden

splendor, and in its fore-court Sara saw her father in his yellow

Sabbath dressing-gown, smiling as if well pleased. All her friends and

relatives were looking out from the round windows of the Temple,

cordially greeting her; in the Holy of Holies knelt pious King David,

with his purple mantle and golden crown; sweetly rang his song and the

tones of his harp, and smiling happily, Beautiful Sara awoke.

CHAPTER II

As Beautiful Sara opened her eyes they were almost dazzled by the rays

of the sun. The high towers of a great city rose before her, and Dumb

William, with his oar upright, was standing in the boat, pushing and

guiding it through the lively confusion of many vessels, gay with their

pennons and streamers, whose crews were either gazing idly at

passers-by, or else were busily loading with chests, bales, and casks

the lighters which were to bear them to the shore. And with it all was a

deafening noise, the constant halloh cry of steersmen, the calling of

traders from the shore, and the scolding of the custom-house officials

who, in their red coats and with their white maces and white faces,

jumped from boat to boat.

"Yes, Beautiful Sara," said the Rabbi, cheerfully smiling to his wife,

"this is the famous, free, imperial, and commercial city of

Frankfort-on-the-Main, and we are now passing along the river Main. Do

you see those pleasant-looking houses up there, surrounded by green

hills? That is Sachsenhausen, from which our lame Gumpert brings us the

fine myrrh for the Feast of the Tabernacles. Here you see the strong

Main Bridge with its thirteen arches, over which many men, wagons, and

horses can safely pass. In the middle of it stands the little house

where Aunty Täubchen says there lives a baptized Jew, who pays six

farthings, on account of the Jewish community, to every man who brings

him a dead rat; for the Jews are obliged to deliver annually to the

State council five thousand rats' tails for tribute."

At the thought of this war, which the Frankfort Jews were obliged to

wage with the rats, Beautiful Sara burst out laughing. The bright

sunlight, and the new gay world now before her, had driven all the

terrors and horrors of the past night from her soul, and as she was

helped ashore from the boat by Dumb William and her husband, she felt

inspired as with a sense of joyful safety. Dumb William for a long time

fixed his beautiful, deep-blue eyes on hers, half sadly, half

cheerfully, and then, casting a significant glance at the Rabbi, sprang

back into his boat and was soon out of sight.

"Dumb William much resembles my brother who died," said Beautiful Sara.

"All the angels are alike," answered the Rabbi; and, taking his wife by

the hand, led her through the dense crowd on the shore, where, as it was

the time of the Easter Fair, a great number of wooden booths had been

erected by traders. Then passing through the gloomy Main Gate, they

found themselves in quite as noisy a crowd. Here, in a narrow street,

the shops stood close beside one another, every house, as was usual in

Frankfort, being specially adapted to trade. There were no windows on

the ground floor, but broad, open arches, so that the passer-by, looking

in, could see at a glance all there was for sale. And how astonished

Beautiful Sara was at the mass of magnificent wares, and at the

splendor, such as she had never seen before! Here stood Venetians, who

offered cheaply all the luxuries of the Orient and Italy, and Beautiful

Sara was enchanted by the sight of the ornaments and jewels, the gay

caps and bodices, the gold bangles and necklaces, and the whole display

of finery which women so admire and love to wear. The richly embroidered

stuffs of velvet and silk seemed fairly to speak to Beautiful Sara, and

to flash and sparkle strange wonders back into her memory, and she

really felt as if she were a little girl again, and as if Aunty Täubchen

had kept her promise and taken her to the Frankfort Fair, and as if she

were now at last standing before the beautiful garments of which she had

heard so much. With a secret joy she reflected what she should take back

with her to Bacharach, and which of her two little cousins, Posy and

Birdy, would prefer that blue silk girdle, and whether the green

stockings would suit little Gottschalk. But all at once it flashed on

her, "Ah, Lord! they are all grown up now, and yesterday they were

slain!" She shuddered, and the pictures of the previous night filled her

soul with all their horror again. But the gold-embroidered cloths

glittered once more with a thousand roguish eyes, and drove the gloomy

thoughts from her mind, and when she looked into her husband's face she

saw that it was free from clouds, and bore its habitual, serious

gentleness. "Shut your eyes, Sara!" said the Rabbi, and he led his wife

on through the crowd.

What a gay, active throng! Most prominent were the tradesmen, who were

loudly vying one another in offering bargains, or talking together and

summing on their fingers, or, following heavily loaded porters, who at a

dog-trot were leading the way to their lodgings. By the faces of others

one could see that they came from curiosity. The stout councilman was

recognizable by his scarlet cloak and golden chain; a black,

expensive-looking, swelling waistcoat betrayed the honorable and proud

citizen. An iron spike-helmet, a yellow leather jerkin, and rattling

spurs, weighing a pound, indicated the heavy cavalry-man. Under little

black velvet caps, which came together in a point over the brow, there

was many a rosy girl-face, and the young fellows who ran along after

them, like hunting-dogs on the scent, showed that they were finished

dandies by their saucily feathered caps, their squeaking peaked shoes,

and their colored silk garments, some of which were green on one side

and red on the other, or else striped like a rainbow on the right and

checkered with harlequin squares of many colors on the left, so that the

mad youths looked as if they were divided in the middle.

Carried along by the crowd, the Rabbi and his wife arrived at the Römer.

This is the great market-place of the city, surrounded by houses with

high gables, and takes its name from an immense building, "the Römer,"

which was bought by the magistracy and dedicated as the town-hall. In it

the German Emperor was elected, and before it tournaments were often

held. King Maximilian, who was passionately fond of this sport, was then

in Frankfort, and in his honor the day before there had been great

tilting in the Römer. Many idle men still stood on or about the

scaffolding, which was being removed by carpenters, telling how the Duke

of Brunswick and the Margrave of Brandenburg had charged one another

amid the sound of drums and of trumpets, and how Lord Walter the

Vagabond had knocked the Knight of the Bear out of his saddle so

violently that the splinters of the lances flew high into the air, while

the tall, fair-haired King Max, standing among his courtiers upon the

balcony, rubbed his hands for joy. The golden banners were still to be

seen on the balconies and in the Gothic windows of the town-hall. The

other houses of the market-place were still likewise festively bedecked

and adorned with shields, especially the Limburg house, on whose banner

was painted a maiden with a sparrow-hawk in her hand, and a monkey

holding out to her a mirror. Many knights and ladies standing on the

balcony were engaged in animated conversation, or looking at the crowd

below, which, in wild groups and processions, surged back and forth.

What a multitude of idlers of all ages and ranks were crowded together

here to gratify their curiosity! There was laughing, grumbling,

stealing, rib-poking, hurrahing, while every now and then blared the

trumpet of the mountebank, who, in a red cloak and with his clown and

monkey, stood on a high stand loudly boasting of his own skill, and

sounding the praises of his marvelous tinctures and salves, ere he

solemnly examined the glass of urine brought by some old woman, or

applied himself to pull a poor peasant's tooth. Two fencing-masters,

dancing about in gay ribbons and brandishing their rapiers, met as if by

accident and began to cut and pass with great apparent anger; but after

a long bout each declared that the other was invincible, and took up a

collection. Then the newly-organized guild of archers marched by with

drummers and pipers, and these were followed by the constable, who was

carrying a red flag at the head of a flock of traveling strumpets,

hailing from the brothel known as "The Ass," in Würzburg, and bound for

Rosendale, where the highly honorable authorities had assigned them

quarters during the fair. "Shut your eyes, Sara," said the Rabbi. For

indeed these fantastic, and altogether too scantily clad women, among

whom were a few really beautiful girls, behaved in a most immodest

manner, baring their bold, white breasts, chaffing those who went by

with shameless words, and swinging their long walking sticks; and using

the latter as hobby-horses, they rode down toward the gate of St.

Katherine, singing in shrill tones the witch-song--

"Where is the goat? the hellish beast;

Where is the goat? Oh bring him quick!

And if there is no goat, at least

We'll ride upon the stick."

This wild sing-song, which rang afar, was finally drowned

out by the long-drawn, sacred tones of a church procession.

It was a solemn train of bare-headed and bare-footed monks,

who carried burning wax tapers, banners with pictures of

the saints, and large silver crucifixes. Before it ran boys

clad in red and white gowns, bearing censers of smoking

frankincense. In the middle of the procession, under a

beautiful canopy, marched priests in white robes adorned

with costly lace, or in bright-colored, silk stoles; one of

them held in his hand a sun-like, golden vessel, which, on

arriving at a shrine by the market-corner, he raised on high,

while he half-sang, half-spoke in Latin--when all at once

a little bell rang, and all the people around, becoming silent,

fell to their knees and made the sign of the cross. "Shut

your eyes, Sara!" cried the Rabbi again, and he hastily

drew her away through a labyrinth of narrow, crooked

streets, and at last over the desolate, empty place which

separated the new Jewish quarter from the rest of the city.

Before that time the Jews dwelt between the Cathedral and the bank of

the Main, that is, from the bridge down as far as the Lumpenbrunnen, and

from the Mehlwage as far as Saint Bartholomew's. But the Catholic

priests obtained a Papal bull forbidding the Jews to live so near the

high church, for which reason the magistrates assigned them a place on

the Wollgraben, where they built their present quarter. This was

surrounded by high walls, the gate of which was held by iron chains to

keep out the rabble. For here, too, the Jews lived in misery and

anxiety, and with far more vivid memories of previous suffering than

they have at present. In 1240 the unrestrained populace had caused awful

bloodshed among them, which people called the first Jewish massacre. In

1349, when the Flagellants, in passing through the town, set fire to it,

and accused the Jews of the deed, the latter were nearly all murdered or

burned alive in their own houses; this was called the second Jewish

massacre. After this the Jews were often threatened with similar

slaughter, and during the internal dissensions of Frankfort, especially

during a dispute between the council and the guilds, the mob was often

on the point of breaking into the Jewish quarter, which, as has been

said, was surrounded by a wall. The latter had two gates in it, which on

Catholic holidays were closed from without and on Jewish holidays from

within, and before each gate was a watch-house with city soldiers.

When the Rabbi with his wife came to the entrance to the Jewish quarter,

the soldiers, as one could see through the open windows, lay on the

wooden bench inside the watch-house, while out before the door in the

sunshine sat the drummer beating capriciously on his large drum. He was

a heavy, fat fellow, wearing a jerkin and hose of fiery yellow, greatly

puffed out at his arms and thighs, and profusely dotted with small red

tufts, sewed on, which looked as if innumerable tongues were protruding

from him. His breast and back were padded with cushions of black cloth,

against which hung his drum. He had on his head a flat, round black cap,

which in roundness and flatness was equaled by his face, and the latter

was also in keeping with his dress, being an orange-yellow, spotted with

red pimples, and distorted into a gaping grin. So the fellow sat and

drummed to the melody of a song which the Flagellants had sung at the

Jewish massacre, while he gurgled, in a coarse, beery voice--

"Our dear Lady true

Walked in the morning dew,

Kyrie eleison!"

"Hans, that is a terrible tune," cried a voice from behind the closed

gate of the Jewish quarter. "Yes, Hans, and a bad song too-doesn't suit

the drum; doesn't suit it at all--by my soul--not the day of the fair

and on Easter morning--bad song--dangerous song--Jack, Jacky, little

drum--Jacky boy--I'm a lone man--and if thou lovest me, the Star, the

tall Star, the tall Nose Star--then stop it!"

These words were uttered by the unseen speaker, now in hasty anxiety,

now in a sighing drawl, with a tone which alternated between mild

softness and harsh hoarseness, such as one hears in consumptive people.

The drummer was not moved, and went on drumming and singing--

"There came a little youth,

His beard had run away, in truth,

Halleluja!"

"Jack," again cried the voice of the invisible speaker, "Jack, I'm a

lone man, and that is a dangerous song, and I don't like it; I have my

reasons for it, and if you love me, sing something else, and tomorrow we

will drink together."

At the word "drink" Jack ceased his drumming and singing, and said in

friendly tone, "The devil take the Jews! But thou, dear Nose Star, art

my friend, I protect thee; and if we drink together often enough I shall

have thee converted. Yea, I shall be thy godfather, and when thou art

baptized thou shalt be eternally happy; and if thou hast genius and wilt

study industriously under me, thou mayest even become a drummer. Yes,

Nose Star, thou mayest yet become something great. I will drum the whole

catechism into thee when we drink together tomorrow. But now open the

gate, for here are two strangers who wish to enter."

"Open the gate?" cried Nose Star, and his voice almost deserted him.

"That can't be done in such a hurry, my dear Jack; one can't tell--one

can never tell, you know--and I'm a lone man. Veitel Oxhead has the

key, and he is now standing in the corner mumbling his eighteen-prayer,

and he must not be interrupted. And Jäkel the Fool is here too, but he

is making water; I'm a lone man."

"The devil take the Jews!" cried the drummer, and, laughing loudly at

this, his one and only joke, he trudged off to the guard-room and lay

down on the bench.

While the Rabbi stood with his wife before the locked gate, there rose

from behind it a snarling, nasal, somewhat mocking voice. "Starry--don't

groan so much. Take the keys from Oxheady's coat pockets, or else go

stick your nose in the keyhole, and so unlock the gate. The people have

been standing and waiting a long time." "People!" cried the anxious

voice of the man called Nose Star, "I thought there was only one! I beg

you, Fool--dear Jäkel Fool--look out and see who is there."

A small, well-grated window in the gate opened, and there appeared in

it a yellow cap with two horns, and the funny, wrinkled, and twisted

jest-maker's face of Jäkel the Fool. The window was immediately shut

again, and he cried angrily, "Open the gate--it is only a man and a

woman."

"A man and a woman!" groaned Nose Star. "Yes, but when the gate's opened

the woman will take her skirt off, and become a man; and then there'll

be two men, and there are only three of us!"

"Don't be a hare," replied Jäkel the Fool. "Be a man and show courage!"

"Courage!" cried Nose Star, laughing with bitter vexation. "Hare! Hare

is a bad comparison. The hare is an unclean animal. Courage! I was not

put here to be courageous, but cautious. When too many come I am to give

the alarm. But I alone cannot keep them back. My arm is weak, I have a

seton, and I'm a lone man. If one were to shoot at me, I should be a

dead man. Then that rich man, Mendel Reiss, would sit on the Sabbath at

his table, and wipe the raisin-sauce from his mouth, and rub his belly,

and perhaps say, 'Tall Nose Star was a brave fellow after all; if it had

not been for him, perhaps they would have burst open the gate. He let

himself be shot for us. He was a brave fellow; too bad that he's dead!'"

Here the voice became tender and tearful, but all at once it rose to a

hasty and almost angry tone. "Courage! and so that the rich Mendel Reiss

may wipe away the raisin-sauce from his mouth, and rub his belly, and

call me a brave fellow, I'm to let myself be shot! Courage! Be a man!

Little Strauss was a man, and yesterday went to the Römer to see the

tilting, thinking they would not know him because he wore a frock of

violet velvet--three florins a yard-covered with fox-tails and

embroidered with gold--quite magnificent; and they dusted his violet

frock for him till it lost its color, and his own back became violet and

did not look human. Courage, indeed! The crippled Leser was courageous,

and called our scoundrel of a magistrate a blackguard, and they hung him

up by the feet between two dogs, while Jack drummed. Courage! Don't be

a hare! Among many dogs the hare is helpless. I'm a lone man, and I am

really afraid."

"That I'll swear to," cried Jäkel.

"Yes; I _have_ fear," replied Nose Star, sighing. "I know that it runs

in my blood, and I got it from my dear mother"--

"Yes, yes," interrupted Jäkel, "and your mother got it from her father,

and he from his, and so all thy ancestors one from the other, back to

the forefather who marched under King Saul against the Philistines, and

was the first to take to his heels. But look! Oxheady is all ready--he

has bowed his head for the fourth time; now he is jumping like a flea at

the Holy, Holy, Holy, and feeling cautiously in his pocket."

In fact the keys rattled, the gate grated and creaked and opened, and

the Rabbi led his wife into the empty Jews' Street. The man who opened

it was a little fellow with a good-naturedly sour face, who nodded

dreamily, like one who did not like to be disturbed in his thoughts, and

after he had carefully closed the gate again, without saying a word he

sank into a corner, constantly mumbling his prayers. Less taciturn was

Jäkel the Fool, a short, somewhat bow-legged fellow, with a large, red,

laughing face, and an enormous leg-of-mutton hand, which he now

stretched out of the wide sleeve of his gaily-chequered jacket in

welcome. Behind him a tall, lean figure showed, or rather, hid

itself--the slender neck feathered with a fine white cambric ruff, and

the thin, pale face strangely adorned with an incredibly long nose,

which peered with anxious curiosity in every direction.

"God's welcome to a pleasant feast-day!" cried Jäkel the Fool. "Do not

be astonished that our street is so empty and quiet just now. All our

people are in the synagogue, and you have come just in time to hear the

history of the sacrifice of Isaac read. I know it--'tis an interesting

story, and if I had not already heard it thirty-three times, I would

willingly listen to it again this year. And it is an important history,

too, for if Abraham had really killed Isaac and not the goat, then there

would be more goats in the world now--and fewer Jews." And then with

mad, merry grimaces, Jäkel began to sing the following song from the

_Agade_:[60]

"A kid, a kid, which my father bought for two pieces of money. A kid!

A kid!

There came a cat which ate the kid, which my father

bought for two pieces of money. A kid!

There came a dog, who bit the cat, who ate the kid, which my father

bought for two pieces of money. A kid!

There came a stick, which beat the dog, who bit the cat, who ate the

kid, which my father bought for two pieces of money. A kid! A kid!

There came a fire, which burnt the stick, which beat the dog, who bit

the cat, who ate the kid, which my father bought for two pieces of money.

A kid! A kid!

There came the water, which quenched the fire, which burnt the stick,

which beat the dog, who bit the cat, who ate the kid, which my father

bought for two pieces of money. A kid! A kid!

There came an ox, who drank the water, which quenched the fire, which

burnt the stick, which beat the dog, who bit the cat, who ate the kid,

which my father bought for two pieces of money. A kid! A kid!

There came the butcher, who slew the ox, who drank the water, which

quenched the fire, which burnt the stick, which beat the dog, who bit the

cat, that ate the kid, which my father bought for two pieces of money.

A kid! A kid!

"Then came the Angel of Death, who slew the butcher, who killed the

ox, who drank the water, which quenched the fire, which burnt the stick,

which beat the dog, who bit the cat, who ate the kid, which my father

bought for two pieces of money. A kid! A kid!"[61]

"Yes, beautiful lady," added the singer, "and the day will come when

the Angel of Death will slay the slayer, and all our blood come over

Edom, for God is a God of vengeance."

But all at once, casting aside with a violent effort the seriousness

into which he had involuntarily fallen, Jäkel plunged again into his mad

buffoonery, and went on in his harsh jester tones, "Don't be afraid,

beautiful lady, Nose Star will not harm you. He is only dangerous to old

Schnapper-Elle. She has fallen in love with his nose--which, faith!

deserves it. Yea, for it is as beautiful as the tower which looketh

forth toward Damascus, and as lofty as a cedar of Lebanon. Outwardly it

gleameth like gold loaf and syrup, and inwardly it is all music and

loveliness. It bloometh in summer and in winter it is frozen up--but in

summer and winter it is petted and pulled by the white hands of

Schnapper-Elle. Yes, she is madly in love with him. She nurses him, and

feeds him, and for her age she is young enough. When he is fat enough,

she means to marry him; and whoever comes to Frankfort, three hundred

years hence, will not be able to see the heavens for Nose Stars."

"Ah, you are Jäkel the Fool," exclaimed the Rabbi, laughing. "I mark it

by your words. I have often heard of you."

"Yes--yes," replied Jäkel, with comical modesty. "Yes, that is what

reputation does. A man is often known far and wide as a bigger fool than

he himself has any idea of. However, I take great pains to be a fool,

and jump and shake myself to make the bells ring; others have an easier

time. But tell me, Rabbi, why do you journey on a holiday?"

"My justification," replied the Rabbi, "is in the Talmud, where it says,

'Danger drives away the Sabbath.'"

"Danger!" screamed the tall Nose Star, in mortal terror. "Danger!

danger! Drummer Jack!--drum, drum. Danger! danger! Drummer Jack!" From

without resounded the deep, beery voice of Drummer Jack, "Death and

destruction! The devil take the Jews. That's the third time today that

you've roused me out of a sound sleep, Nose Star! Don't make me mad! For

when I am mad I'm the very devil himself; and then as sure as I'm a

Christian, I'll up with my gun and shoot through the grated window in

your gate--and then fellow, let everybody look out for his nose!"

"Don't shoot! don't shoot! I'm a lonely man," wailed Nose Star

piteously, pressing his face against the wall, and trembling and

murmuring prayers in this position.

"But say, what has happened?" cried Jäkel the Fool, with all the

impatient curiosity which was even then characteristic of the Frankfort

Jews.

But the Rabbi impatiently broke loose from them, and went his way along

the Jews' Street. "See, Sara!" he exclaimed, "how badly guarded is our

Israel. False friends guard its gates without, and within its watchers

are Folly and Fear."

They wandered slowly through the long empty street, where only here and

there the head of some young girl showed itself in a window, against the

polished panes of which the sun was brilliantly reflected. At that time

the houses in the Jewish quarter were still neat and new, and much lower

than they now are, since it was only later on that the Jews, as their

number greatly increased, while they could not enlarge their quarter,

built one story over another, squeezed themselves together like

sardines, and were thus stunted both in body and soul. That part of the

Jewish quarter which remained standing after the great fire, and which

is called the Old Lane, those high blackened houses, where a grinning,

sweaty race of people bargains and chaffers, is a horrible relic of the

Middle Ages. The older synagogue exists no more; it was less capacious

than the present one, which was built later, after the Nuremberg exiles

were taken into the community, and lay more to the north.

The Rabbi had no need to ask where it was. He recognized it from afar by

the buzz of many loud voices. In the court of the House of God he parted

from his wife, and after washing his hands at the fountain there, he

entered the lower part of the synagogue where the men pray, while Sara

ascended a flight of stairs and entered the place reserved for women.

The latter was a kind of gallery with three rows of seats painted a

reddish brown, whose backs were fitted with a hanging board, which held

the prayer-books, and which could be raised and lowered. Here the women

either sat gossiping or stood up in deep prayer. They often went and

peered with curiosity through the large grating on the eastern side,

through the thin, green lattice of which one could look down on the

lower floor of the synagogue. There, behind high praying-desks, stood

the men in their black cloaks, their pointed beards shooting out over

white ruffs, and their skull-capped heads more or less concealed by a

four-cornered scarf of white wool or silk, furnished with the prescribed

tassels, and in some instances also adorned with gold lace. The walls of

the synagogue were uniformly white-washed, and no ornament was to be

seen other than the gilded iron grating around the square stage, where

extracts from the Law were read, and the holy ark, a costly embossed

chest, apparently supported by marble columns with gorgeous capitals,

whose flower-and leaf-work shot up in beautiful profusion, and covered

with a curtain of purple velvet, on which a pious inscription was worked

in gold spangles, pearls, and many colored gems. Here hung the silver

memorial-lamp, and there also rose a trellised dais, on whose crossed

iron bars were all kinds of sacred utensils, among them the

seven-branched candlestick. Before the latter, his countenance toward

the ark, stood the choir-leader, whose song was accompanied, as if

instrumentally, by the voices of his two assistants, the bass and the

treble. The Jews have banished all instrumental music from their church,

maintaining that hymns in praise of God are more edifying when they

rise from the warm breast of man, than from the cold pipes of an organ.

Beautiful Sara felt a childish delight when the choir-leader, an

admirable tenor, raised his voice and sounded forth the ancient, solemn

melodies, which she knew so well, in a fresher loveliness than she had

ever dreamed of, while the bass sang in harmony the deep, dark notes,

and, in the pauses, the treble's voice trilled sweetly and daintily.

Such singing Beautiful Sara had never heard in the synagogue of

Bacharach, where the presiding elder, David Levi, was the leader; for

when this elderly, trembling man, with his broken, bleating voice, tried

to trill like a young girl, and in his forced effort to do so, shook his

limp and drooping arm feverishly, it inspired laughter rather than

devotion.

A sense of pious satisfaction, not unmingled with feminine curiosity,

drew Beautiful Sara to the grating, where she could look down on the

lower floor, or the so-called men's division. She had never before seen

so many of her faith together, and it cheered her heart to be in such a

multitude of those so closely allied by race, thought, and sufferings.

And her soul was still more deeply moved when three old men

reverentially approached the sacred ark, drew aside the glittering

curtain, raised the lid, and very carefully brought forth the Book which

God wrote with His own hand, and for the maintenance of which Jews have

suffered so much--so much misery and hate, disgrace and death--a

thousand years' martyrdom. This Book--a great roll of parchment--was

wrapped like a princely child in a gaily embroidered scarlet cloak of

velvet; above, on both wooden rollers, were two little silver shrines,

in which many pomegranates and small bells jingled and rang prettily,

while before, on a silver chain, hung gold shields with many colored

gems. The choir-leader took the Book, and, as if it really were a

child--a child for whom one has greatly suffered, and whom one loves all

the more on that account--he rocked it in his arms, skipped about with

it here and there, pressed it to his breast, and, thrilled by its holy

touch, broke forth into such a devout hymn of praise and thanksgiving,

that it seemed to Beautiful Sara as if the pillars under the holy ark

began to bloom; and the strange and lovely flowers and leaves on the

capitals shot ever higher, the tones of the treble were converted into

the notes of the nightingale, the vaulted ceiling of the synagogue

resounded with the tremendous tones of the bass singer, while the glory

of God shone down from the blue heavens. Yes, it was a beautiful psalm.

The congregation sang in chorus the concluding verse, and then the

choir-leader walked slowly to the raised platform in the middle of the

synagogue bearing the holy Book, while men and boys crowded about him,

eager to kiss its velvet covering, or even to touch it. On the platform,

the velvet cover, as well as the wrappings covered with illuminated

letters, were removed, and the choir-leader, in the peculiar intonation

which in the Passover service is still more peculiarly modulated, read

the edifying narrative of the temptation of Abraham.

Beautiful Sara had modestly withdrawn from the grating, and a stout,

much ornamented woman of middle age, with a forward, but benevolent

manner, had with a nod invited her to share her prayer-book. This lady

was evidently no great scholar, for as she mumbled to herself the

prayers as the women do, not being allowed to take part in the singing,

Sara observed that she made the best she could of many words, and

skipped several good lines altogether. But after a while the watery blue

eyes of the good woman were languidly raised, an insipid smile spread

over her red and white porcelain face, and in a voice which she strove

to make as genteel as possible, she said to Beautiful Sara, "He sings

very well. But I have heard far better singing in Holland. You are a

stranger, and perhaps do not know that the choir-leader is from Worms,

and that they will keep him here if he will be content with four hundred

florins a year. He is a charming man, and his hands are as white as

alabaster. I admire beautiful hands; they make one altogether

beautiful." Having said this, the good lady laid her own hand, which

was really a fine one, on the shelf before her, and with a polite nod

which intimated that she did not like to be interrupted while speaking,

she added, "The little singer is a mere child, and looks very much worn

out. The basso is too ugly for anything; our Star once made the witty

remark: 'The bass singer is a bigger fool than even a basso is expected

to be!' All three eat in my restaurant--perhaps you don't know that I'm

Elle Schnapper?"

Beautiful Sara expressed thanks for this information, whereupon

Schnapper-Elle proceeded to narrate in detail how she had once been in

Amsterdam, how she had been subjected to the advances of men on account

of her beauty, how she had come to Frankfort three days before

Whit-suntide and married Schnapper, how he had died, and what touching

things he had finally said on his deathbed, and how hard it was to carry

on the restaurant business and keep one's hands nice. Several times she

glanced aside with a contemptuous air, apparently at some giggling

girls, who seemed to be eyeing her clothes. And the latter were indeed

remarkable enough--a very loose skirt of white satin, on which all the

animals of Noah's Ark were embroidered in gaudy colors; a jacket of gold

cloth, like a cuirass, with sleeves of red velvet, yellow slashed; a

very high cap on her head, with a mighty ruff of stiff white linen

around her neck, which also had around it a silver chain hung with all

kinds of coins, cameos, and curiosities, among them a large picture of

the city of Amsterdam, which rested on her bosom.

But the dresses of the other women were no less remarkable. They

consisted of a variety of fashions of different ages, and many a woman

there was so covered with gold and diamonds as to look like a wandering

jeweler's shop. It is true that there was at that time a fashion of

dress prescribed by law to the Frankfort Jews, and to distinguish them

from Christians the men had to wear yellow rings on their cloaks, and

the women very stiff, blue-striped veils on their caps. However, in the

Jewish quarter the law was little observed, and there, in the synagogue,

especially on festival days, the women put on as much magnificent

apparel as they could--partly to arouse envy of others, and partly to

advertise the wealth and credit of their husbands.

While passages from the Books of Moses are being read on the lower floor

of the synagogue, the devotion is usually somewhat lulled. Many make

themselves comfortable and sit down, whispering perhaps business affairs

with a friend, or go out into the court to get a little fresh air. Small

boys take the liberty of visiting their mothers in the women's balcony;

and here worship is still more loosely observed, as there is gossiping,

chattering, and laughing, while, as always happens, the young quizz the

old, and the latter censure the light-headedness of the girls and the

general degeneracy of the age.

And just as there was a choir-leader on the floor below, so was there a

gossip-leader in the balcony above. This was Puppy Reiss, a vulgar,

greenish woman, who found out about everybody's troubles, and always had

a scandal on her tongue. The usual butt of her pointed sayings was poor

Schnapper-Elle, and she could mock right well the affected genteel airs

and languishing manner with which the latter accepted the insincere

compliments of young men.

"Do you know," cried Puppy Reiss, "Schnapper-Elle said yesterday, 'If I

were not beautiful and clever, and beloved, I had rather not be alive.'"

Then there was loud tittering, and Schnapper-Elle, who was not far

distant, noting that this was all at her expense, lifted her nose in

scorn, and sailed away, like a proud galley, to some remote corner. Then

Birdie Ochs, a plump and somewhat awkward lady, remarked compassionately

that Schnapper-Elle might be a little vain and small of mind, but that

she was an honest, generous soul, and did much good to many folk in

need.

"Particularly to Nose Star," snapped Puppy Reiss. And all who knew of

this tender relation laughed all the louder.

"Don't you know," added Puppy spitefully, "that Nose Star now sleeps in

Schnapper-Elle's house! But just look at Susy Flörsheim down there,

wearing the necklace which Daniel Fläsch pawned to her husband! Fläsch's

wife is vexed about it--_that_ is plain. And now she is talking to Mrs.

Flörsheim. _How_ amiably they shake hands!--and hate each other like

Midian and Moab! How sweetly they smile on each other! Oh, you dear

souls, _don't_ eat each other up out of pure love! I'll just steal up

and listen to them!"

And so, like a sneaking wildcat, Puppy Reiss crept up and listened to

the two women bewailing to each other how they had worked all the past

week to clean up the house and scour the kitchen things, and complaining

about all they had to do before Passover, so that not a crumb of

leavened bread should stick to anything. And such troubles as they had

baking the unleavened bread! Mrs. Fläsch had special cause for

complaint--for she had had no end of trouble over it in the public

bakery, where, according to the ticket she drew, she could not bake till

the afternoon of the very last day, just before Passover Eve; and then

old Hannah had kneaded the dough badly, and the maids had rolled it too

thin, and half of it was scorched in baking, and worst of all, rain came

pouring through the bake-house roof; and so, wet and weary, they had had

to work till late in the night.

"And, my dear Mrs. Flörsheim," said Mrs. Fläsch, with gracious

friendliness most insincere, "you were a little to blame for that,

because you did not send your people to help me in baking."

"Ah! pardon," replied the other. "My servants were so busy--the goods

for the fair had to be packed--my husband"--

"Yes, I know," interrupted Mrs. Fläsch, with cutting irony in her

speech. "I know that you have much to do--many pledges and a good

business, and necklaces"--

And a bitter word was just about to slip from the lips of the speaker,

and Dame Flörsheim had turned as red as a lobster, when Puppy Reiss

cried out loudly, "For God's sake!--the strange lady lies dying--water!

water!"

Beautiful Sara lay in a faint, as pale as death, while a swarm of

excited women crowded around her, one holding her head, another her arm,

while some old women sprinkled her with the glasses of water which hung

behind their prayer desks for washing the hands in case they should by

accident touch their own bodies. Others held under her nose an old lemon

full of spices, which was left over from the last feast-day, when it had

served for smelling and strengthening the nerves. Exhausted and sighing

deeply, Beautiful Sara at last opened her eyes, and with mute glances

thanked them for their kind care. But now the eighteen-prayer, which no

one dared neglect, was being solemnly chanted below, and the busy women

hurried back to their places and offered the prayer as the rite ordains,

that is, standing up with their faces turned toward the east, which is

that part of the heavens where Jerusalem lies. Birdie Ochs,

Schnapper-Elle, and Puppy Reiss stayed to the last with Beautiful

Sara--the first two to aid her as much as possible, the other two to

find out why she had fainted so suddenly.

Beautiful Sara had swooned from a singular cause. It is a custom in the

synagogue that any one who has escaped a great danger shall, after the

reading of the extracts from the Law, appear in public and return thanks

for his divine deliverance. As Rabbi Abraham rose to his feet to make

his prayer, and Beautiful Sara recognized her husband's voice, she

noticed that his voice gradually subsided into the mournful murmur of a

prayer for the dead. She heard the names of her dear kinsfolk,

accompanied by the words which convey the blessing on the departed; and

the last hope vanished from her soul, for it was torn by the certainty

that those dear ones had really been slain, that her little niece was

dead, that her little cousins Posy and Birdy were dead, that little

Gottschalk too was dead--all murdered and dead! And she, too, would have

succumbed to the agony of this realization, had not a kind swoon poured

forgetfulness over her senses.

CHAPTER III

When Beautiful Sara, after divine service was ended, went down into the

courtyard of the synagogue, the Rabbi stood there waiting for her. He

nodded to her with a cheerful expression, and accompanied her out into

the street, where there was no longer silence but a noisy multitude. It

was like a swarm of ants--bearded men in black coats, women gleaming and

fluttering like gold-chafers, boys in new clothes carrying prayer-books

after their parents, young girls who, because they could not enter the

synagogue, now came bounding to their parents, bowing their curly heads

to receive their blessing--all gay and merry, and walking up and down

the street in the happy anticipation of a good dinner, the savory odor

of which--causing their mouths to water--rose from many black pots,

marked with chalk, and carried by smiling girls from the large community

kitchens.

In this multitude particularly conspicuous was the form of a Spanish

cavalier, whose youthful features bore that fascinating pallor which

ladies generally attribute to an unfortunate--and men, on the contrary,

to a very fortunate--love affair. His gait, although naturally carefree,

had in it, however, a somewhat affected daintiness. The feathers in his

cap were agitated more by the aristocratic motion of his head than by

the wind; and his golden spurs, and the jeweled hilt of his sword, which

he bore on his arm, rattled rather more than was necessary. A white

cavalier's cloak enveloped his slender limbs in an apparently careless

manner, but, in reality, betrayed the most careful arrangement of the

folds. Passing and repassing, partly with curiosity, partly with an air

of a connoisseur, he approached the women walking by, looked calmly at

them, paused when he thought a face was worth the trouble, gave to many

a pretty girl a passing compliment, and went his way heedless as to its

effect. He had met Beautiful Sara more than once, but every time had

seemed to be repelled by her commanding look, or else by the enigmatical

smile of her husband. Finally, however, proudly conquering all

diffidence, he boldly faced both, and with foppish confidence made, in a

tenderly gallant tone, the following speech: "Señora!--list to me!--I

swear--by the roses of both the kingdoms of Castile, by the Aragonese

hyacinths and the pomegranate blossoms of Andalusia! by the sun which

illumines all Spain, with its flowers, onions, pea-soups, forests,

mountains, mules, he-goats, and Old Christians! by the canopy of heaven,

on which this sun is merely a golden tassel! and by the God who abides

in heaven and meditates day and night over the creation of new forms of

lovely women!--I swear that you, Señora, are the fairest dame whom I

have seen in all the German realm, and if you please to accept my

service, then I pray of you the favor, grace, and leave to call myself

your knight and bear your colors henceforth in jest or earnest!"

A flush of pain rose in the face of Beautiful Sara, and with one of

those glances which cut the deeper when they come from gentle eyes, and

with a tone such as is bitterest coming from a beautiful voice, the lady

answered, as one deeply hurt:

"My noble lord, if you will be my knight you must fight whole races, and

in the battle there will be little thanks to win and less honor; and if

you will wear my colors, then you must sew yellow rings on your cloak,

or bind yourself with a blue-striped scarf, for such are my colors--the

colors of my house, the House of Israel, which is wretched indeed, one

mocked in the streets by the sons of fortune."

A sudden purple red shot into the cheeks of the Spaniard; an

inexpressible confusion seemed to have seized him as he stammered--

"Señora, you misunderstood me--an innocent jest--but, by God, no

mockery, no scorn of Israel. I myself am sprung from that house; my

grandfather was a Jew, perhaps even my father."

"And it is very certain, Señor, that your uncle is one," suddenly

exclaimed the Rabbi, who had calmly witnessed this scene; and with a

merry, quizzical glance, he added, "And I myself will vouch that Don

Isaac Abarbanel, nephew of the great Rabbi, is sprung from the best

blood of Israel, if not from the royal race of David!"

The chain of the sword rattled under the Spaniard's cloak, his cheeks

became deadly white, his upper lip twitched as with scorn in which there

was pain, and angry death grinned in his eyes, as in an utterly changed,

ice-cold, keen voice he said:

"Señor Rabbi, you know me. Well, then, you know also who I am. And if

the fox knows that I belong to the blood of the lion, let him beware and

not bring his fox-beard into danger of death, nor provoke my anger. Only

he who feels like the lion can understand his weakness."

"Oh, I understand it well," answered the Rabbi, and a melancholy

seriousness came over his brow. "I understand it well, how the proud

lion, out of pride, casts aside his princely coat and goes about

disguised in the scaly armor of the crocodile, because it is the fashion

to be a grinning, cunning, greedy crocodile! What can you expect the

lesser beasts to be when the lion denies his nature? But beware, Don

Isaac, _thou_ wert not made for the element of the crocodile. For

water--thou knowest well what I mean--is thy evil fortune, and thou

shalt drown. Water is not thy element; the weakest trout can live in it

better than the king of the forest. Hast thou forgotten how the current

of the Tagus was about to draw thee under--?"

Bursting into loud laughter, Don Isaac suddenly threw his arms round the

Rabbi's neck, covered his mouth with kisses, leapt with jingling spurs

high into the air, so that the passing Jews shrank back in alarm, and in

his own natural hearty and joyous voice cried--

"Truly thou art Abraham of Bacharach! And it was a good joke, and more

than that, a friendly act, when thou, in Toledo, didst leap from the

Alcantara bridge into the water, and grasp by the hair thy friend, who

could drink better than he could swim, and drew him to dry land. I came

very near making a really deep investigation as to whether there is

actually gold in the bed of the Tagus, and whether the Romans were right

in calling it the golden river. I assure you that I shiver even now at

the mere thought of that water-party."

Saying this the Spaniard made a gesture as if he were shaking water

from his garments. The countenance of the Rabbi expressed great joy as

he again and again pressed his friend's hand, saying every time--

"I am indeed glad."

"And so, indeed, am I," answered the other. "It is seven years now since

we met, and when we parted I was as yet a mere greenhorn, and thou--thou

wert already a staid and serious man. But whatever became of the

beautiful Doña who in those days cost thee so many sighs, which thou

didst accompany with the lute?"

"Hush, hush! the Doña hears us--she is my wife, and thou thyself hast

given her today proof of thy taste and poetic skill."

It was not without some trace of his former embarrassment that the

Spaniard greeted the beautiful lady, who amiably regretted that she, by

expressing herself so plainly, had pained a friend of her husband.

"Ah, Señora," replied Don Isaac, "he who grasps too clumsily at a rose

must not complain if the thorns scratch. When the star of evening

reflects its golden light in the azure flood"--

"I beg of you!" interrupted the Rabbi, "to cease! If we wait till the

star of evening reflects its golden light in the azure flood, my wife

will starve, for she has eaten nothing since yesterday, and suffered

much in the mean-while."

"Well, then, I will take you to the best restaurant of Israel," said Don

Isaac, "to the house of my friend Schnapper-Elle, which is not far away.

I already smell the savory odors from the kitchen! Oh, didst thou but

know, O Abraham, how this odor appeals to me. This it is which, since I

have dwelt in this city, has so often lured me to the tents of Jacob.

Intercourse with God's people is not a hobby of mine, and truly it is

not to pray, but to eat, that I visit the Jews' Street."

"Thou hast never loved us, Don Isaac."

"Well," continued the Spaniard, "I like your food much better than your

creed--which wants the right sauce. I never could rightly digest you.

Even in your best days, under the rule of my ancestor David, who was

king over Judah and Israel, I never could have held out, and certainly I

should some fine morning have run away from Mount Zion and emigrated to

Phoenicia or Babylon, where the joys of life foamed in the temple of

the gods."

"Thou blasphemest, Isaac, blasphemest the one God," murmured the Rabbi

grimly. "Thou art much worse than a Christian--thou art a heathen, a

servant of idols."

"Yes, I am a heathen, and the melancholy, self-tormenting Nazarenes are

quite as little to my taste as the dry and joyless Hebrews. May our dear

Lady of Sidon, holy Astarte, forgive me, that I kneel before the many

sorrowed Mother of the Crucified and pray. Only my knee and my tongue

worship death--my heart remains true to life. But do not look so

sourly," continued the Spaniard, as he saw what little gratification his

words seemed to give the Rabbi. "Do not look at me with disdain. My nose

is not a renegade. When once by chance I came into this street at dinner

time, and the well-known savory odors of the Jewish kitchen rose to my

nose, I was seized with the same yearning which our fathers felt for the

fleshpots of Egypt--pleasant tasting memories of youth came back to me.

In imagination I saw again the carp with brown raisin sauce which my

aunt prepared so sustainingly for Friday eve; I saw once more the

steamed mutton with garlic and horseradish, which might have raised

the dead, and the soup with dreamily swimming dumplings in it--and my

soul melted like the notes of an enamored nightingale--and since then I

have been eating in the restaurant of my friend Doña Schnapper-Elle."

Meanwhile they had arrived at this highly lauded place, where

Schnapper-Elle stood at the door cordially greeting the strangers who

had come to the fair, and who, led by hunger, were now streaming in.

Behind her, sticking his head out over her shoulder, was the tall Nose

Star, anxiously and inquisitively observing them. Don Isaac with an

exaggerated air of dignity approached the landlady, who returned his

satirical reverence with endless curtsies. Thereupon he drew the glove

from his right hand, wrapped it, the hand, in the fold of his cloak, and

grasping Schnapper-Elle's hand, slowly drew it over his moustache,

saying:

"Señora! your eyes rival the brilliancy of the sun! But as eggs, the

longer they are boiled the harder they become, so _vice versa_ my heart

grows softer the longer it is cooked in the flaming flashes of your

eyes. From the yolk of my heart flies up the winged god Amor and seeks a

confiding nest in your bosom. And oh, Señora, wherewith shall I compare

that bosom? For in all the world there is no flower, no fruit, which is

like to it! It is the one thing of its kind! Though the wind tears away

the leaves from the tenderest rose, your bosom is still a winter rose

which defies all storms. Though the sour lemon, the older it grows the

yellower and more wrinkled it becomes, your bosom rivals in color and

softness the sweetest pineapple. Oh, Señora, if the city of Amsterdam be

as beautiful as you told me yesterday, and the day before, and every

day, the ground on which it rests is far lovelier still."

The cavalier spoke these last words with affected earnestness, and

squinted longingly at the large medallion which hung from

Schnapper-Elle's neck. Nose Star looked down with inquisitive eyes, and

the much-bepraised bosom heaved so that the whole city of Amsterdam

rocked from side to side.

"Ah!" sighed Schnapper-Elle, "virtue is worth more than beauty. What use

is my beauty to me? My youth is passing away, and since Schnapper is

gone--anyhow, he had handsome hands--what avails beauty?"

With that she sighed again, and like an echo, all but inaudible, Nose

Star sighed behind her. "Of what avail is your beauty?" cried Don Isaac.

"Oh, Dona Schnapper-Elle, do not sin against the goodness of creative

Nature! Do not scorn her most charming gifts, or she will reap most

terrible revenge. Those blessed, blessing eyes will become glassy balls,

those winsome lips grow flat and unattractive, that chaste and charming

form be changed into an unwieldy barrel of tallow, and the city of

Amsterdam at last rest on a spongy bog." Thus he sketched piece by

piece the appearance of Schnapper-Elle, so that the poor woman was

bewildered, and sought to escape the uncanny compliments of the

cavalier. She was delighted to see Beautiful Sara appear at this

instant, as it gave her an opportunity to inquire whether she had quite

recovered from her swoon. Thereupon she plunged into lively chatter, in

which she fully developed her sham gentility, mingled with real kindness

of heart, and related with more prolixity than discretion the awful

story of how she herself had almost fainted with horror when she, as

innocent and inexperienced as could be, arrived in a canal boat at

Amsterdam, and the rascally porter, who carried her trunk, led her--not

to a respectable hotel, but oh, horrors!--to an infamous brothel! She

could tell what it was the moment she entered, by the brandy-drinking,

and by the immoral sights! And she would, as she said, really have

swooned, if it had not been that during the six weeks she stayed in the

disorderly house she only once ventured to close her eyes.

"I dared not," she added, "on account of my virtue. And all that was

owing to my beauty! But virtue will stay--when good looks pass away."

Don Isaac was on the point of throwing some critical light on the

details of this story when, fortunately, Squinting Aaron Hirschkuh from

Homburg-on-the-Lahn came with a white napkin on his arm, and bitterly

bewailed that the soup was already served, and that the boarders were

seated at table, but that the landlady was missing.

(The conclusion and the chapters which follow are lost, not from any

fault of the author.)

THE LIFE OF FRANZ GRILLPARZER

BY WILLIAM GUILD HOWARD, A.M.

Assistant Professor of German, Harvard University

Franz Grillparzer is the greatest poet and dramatist among the

Austrians. Corresponding to the Goethe Society at Weimar, the

Grillparzer Society at Vienna holds its meetings and issues its annual;

and the edition of Goethe's works instituted by the Grand Duchess Sophie

of Weimar is paralleled by an edition of Grillparzer's works now in

process of publication by the city of Vienna. Not without a sense of

local pride and jealousy do the Viennese extol their fellow-countryman

and hold him up to their kinsmen of the north as worthy to stand beside

Goethe and Schiller. They would be ungrateful if they did not cherish

the memory of a man who during his life-time was wont to prefer them,

with all their imperfections upon their heads, to the keener and more

enterprising North Germans, and who on many occasions sang the praises

of their sociability, their wholesome naturalness, and their sound

instinct. But even from the point of view of the critical North German

or of the non-German foreigner, Grillparzer abundantly deserves his

local fame--and more than local fame; for a dozen dramas of the first

class, two eminently characteristic short stories, numerous lyrical

poems, and innumerable studies and autobiographical papers are a man's

work entitling their author to a high place in European, not merely

German, literature.

It is, however, as an Austrian that Grillparzer is primarily to be

judged. Again and again he insisted upon his national quality as a man

and as a poet, upon the Viennese atmosphere of his plays and his poems.

He was never happy when away from his native city, and though his pieces

are now acceptably performed wherever German is spoken, they are most

successful in Vienna, and some of them are to be seen only on the

Viennese stage.

What are, then, the distinguishing features of the Austrians, and of

Grillparzer as one of them? Grillparzer said these features are an open

heart and a single mind, good sense and reliable intuition, frankness,

naïveté, generosity, modest contentment with being while others are up

and doing. The Austrians are of mixed blood, and partake of South

European characteristics less prominent among the purer blooded Teutons

of the north. They have life on easier terms, are less intellectual, are

more sensuous, emotional, more fanciful, fonder of artistic enjoyment,

more sensitive to color and to those effects called "color," by contrast

to form, in other arts than that of painting. The art of music is most

germane to the Austrian spirit; and we have a ready key to the

peculiarities of the Austrian disposition in the difference between

Haydn, Mozart, Schubert, and Johann Strauss, on the one hand, and

Händel, Beethoven, Schumann, and Wagner on the other. Moreover, the

Austrians are in all respects conservative, in literary taste no less

than in politics and religion. The pseudo-classicism of Gottsched

maintained its authority in Austria not merely after the time of

Lessing, but also after the time of Schiller. Wieland was a favorite

long before Goethe began to be appreciated; and as to the romantic

movement, only the gentle tendencies of such a congenial spirit as

Eichendorff found a sympathetic echo on the shores of the Danube.

Romance influences, however, more particularly Spanish, were manifest

there even before the time when they became strong upon Grillparzer.

Franz Grillparzer was born in Vienna on the fifteenth of January, 1791.

His father, Wenzel Grillparzer, a self-made man, was a lawyer of the

strictest probity, who occupied a respectable position in his

profession; but, too scrupulous to seize the opportunities for profit

that lawyers easily come upon, he lived a comparatively poor man and in

1809 died in straitened circumstances. At home he was stern and

repressive.

[Illustration: FRANZ GRILLPARZER]

Both his legal habit of mind and also his true discipleship of the age

of enlightenment in which he grew up disposed him to intellectual

tyranny over everything that looked like sentimentality or foolish

fantasy in wife or children. His own hobbies, however, such as long

walks in the country and the cultivation of flowers or--strangely

enough--the reading of highly romantic novels, he indulged in as matters

of course. It is with some surprise that we find him married to a woman

of abnormal nervousness, who was given to mysticism and was feverishly

devoted to music. Marianne Grillparzer, born Sonnleithner, belonged to a

substantial middle-class family. Her father was a friend of Haydn and

Mozart and was himself a composer of music; her brothers became men of

note in the history of the Viennese operatic stage; and she herself

shared in the artistic temperament of the family, but with ominously

pathological over-development in one direction. She took her own life in

1819 and transmitted to her sons a tendency to moodiness and melancholy

which led to the suicide of one and the haunting fear of insanity in

that other who is the subject of this sketch.

That Franz Grillparzer was destined to no happy childhood is obvious,

and it is equally clear that he needed a strong will to overcome not

merely material obstacles to progress but also inherited dispositions of

such antithetical sort. The father and the mother were at war in his

breast. Like the mother in sensitiveness and imaginativeness, he was the

son of his father in a stern censoriousness that was quick to ridicule

what appeared to be nonsense in others and in himself; but he was the

son of his father also in clearness of understanding and devotion to

duty as he saw it.

Grillparzer once said that his works were detached fragments of his

life; and though many of their themes seem remote from him in time and

place, character and incident in them are unmistakably enriched by being

often conceived in the light of personal experience. Outwardly,

however, his life was comparatively uneventful. After irregular studies

with private tutors and at school, Grillparzer studied law from 1807 to

1811 at the University of Vienna, gave instruction from 1810 to 1813 to

the sons of various noblemen, and in 1813 began in the Austrian civil

service the humdrum career which, full of disappointments and undeserved

setbacks, culminated in his appointment in 1832 to the directorship of

the _Hofkammerarchiv,_ and lasted until his honorable retirement in

1856. He was a conscientious official; but throughout this time he was

regarded, and regarded himself, primarily as Grillparzer the poet; and

in spite of loyalty to the monarchy, he was entirely out of sympathy

with the antediluvian administration of Metternich and his successors.

Little things, magnified by pusillanimous apprehension, stood in his

way. In 1819 he expressed in a poem _The Ruins of Campo Vaccino_

esthetic abhorrence of the cross most inappropriately placed over the

portal of the Coliseum in Rome, and was thereafter never free of the

suspicion of heresy. In 1825 membership in a social club raided by the

police subjected him to the absurd suspicion of plotting treason. Only

once do we find him, during the first half of the century, _persona

gratissima_ with the powers that be. Grillparzer firmly disapproved the

disintegrating tendencies of the revolution of 1848, and uttered his

sense of the duty of loyal coöperation under the Habsburgs in a spirited

poem, _To Field-Marshal Count Radetzky_. For the moment he became a

national hero, especially in the army. His latter years were indeed

years of honor; but the honor came too late. He was given the cross of

the order of Leopold in 1849, was made _Hofrat_ and a member of the

House of Lords in 1856, and received the grand cross of the order of

Franz Josef upon the celebration of his eightieth birthday in 1871. He

died on the twenty-first of January, 1872.

Grillparzer led for the most part a solitary life--for the last third of

his life he was almost a hermit--and he was rather an observer than an

actor in the affairs of men; but nevertheless he saw more of the world

than a mere dreamer would have cared to see, and the circle of his

friends was not inconsiderable. Besides making the trip to Italy,

already alluded to, in 1819, he journeyed in 1826 to North Germany,

seeing Goethe in Weimar, in 1836 to Paris, in 1837 to London, in 1843

down the Danube to Athens, and in 1847 again to Berlin and to Hamburg.

No one of these trips gave him any particular poetic impetus, except

perhaps the first, on which he found in the classical atmosphere of Rome

a refreshing antidote to the romantic miasma which he hated. Nor did he

derive much profit from the men of letters whom he visited in various

places, such as Fouqué, Chamisso, and Heine. He dined with Goethe, but

was too bashful to accept an indirect invitation to spend an evening

with Goethe alone. He paid his respects to Uhland, whom he esteemed as

the greatest German poet of that time (1837); but Uhland was then no

longer productive and was never a magnetic personality. Indeed, there

was hardly more than one man, even in Vienna, who exerted a strong

personal influence upon Grillparzer, and this was Josef Schreyvogel,

journalist, critic, playwright, from 1814 to 1831 secretary of the

_Burgtheater_. A happy chance gained for Grillparzer in 1816 the

friendship of this practical theatre manager, and under Schreyvogel's

auspices he prepared his first drama for the stage.

On another side, Grillparzer's character is illumined for us by the

strange story of his relations with four Viennese women. He was not a

handsome man, but tall, with an abundance of blond hair, and bewitching

blue eyes that made him very attractive to the other sex. He, too, was

exceedingly sensitive to sexual attraction and in early youth suffered

torments from the pangs of unsatisfied longing. From the days when he

knew that he was in love, but did not yet know with whom, to the time of

final renunciation we find him irresolute, ardent, but apparently

selfish in the inability to hazard the discovery that the real might

prove inferior to his ideal. Thus his critical disposition invaded

even the realm of his affections and embroiled him not merely with the

object of them, but also with himself. Charlotte von Paumgarten, the

wife of a cousin of Grillparzer's, Marie Däffinger, the wife of a

painter, loved him not wisely, but too well; and a young Prussian girl,

Marie Piquot, confessed in her last will and testament to such a

devotion to him as she was sure no other woman could ever attain,

wherefore she commended "her Tasso" to the fostering care of her mother.

Grillparzer had experienced only a fleeting interest in Marie Piquot; so

much the more lasting was the attachment which bound him to her

successful rival, Katharina Fröhlich. Katharina, one of four daughters

of a Viennese manufacturer who had seen better days, and, like her

sisters, endowed with great artistic talent and practical energy, might

have proved the salvation of Grillparzer's existence as a man if he had

been more capable of manly resolution, and she had been less like him in

impetuosity and stubbornness. They became engaged, they made

preparations for a marriage which was never consummated and for years

was never definitely abandoned; mutual devotion is ever and anon

interrupted by serious or trivial quarrels, and the imperfect relation

drags on to the vexation of both, until Grillparzer as an old man of

sixty takes lodgings with the Fröhlich sisters and, finally, makes

Katharina his sole heir.

Grillparzer's development as a poet and dramatist follows the bent of

his Austrian genius. One of the first books that he ever read was the

text to Mozart's _Magic Flute_. Music, opera, operetta, and fairy drama

gave the earliest impulse to his juvenile imagination. Even as a boy he

began the voluminous reading which, continued throughout his life, made

him one of the best informed men of his time in European literature.

History, natural history, and books of travel are followed by the plays

of Shakespeare, Lessing, Goethe, and Schiller, while Gesner's idyls

charm him, and he absorbs the stories and romances of Wieland. In 1808

he reads the early works of Schiller and admires the ideal enthusiasm of

_Don Carlos_.

[Illustration: FRANZ GRILLPARZER AND KAETHI FRÖHLICH IN 1823]

In 1810 he revolts from Schiller and swears allegiance to Goethe. In

the ensuing years he learns English, Greek, and Spanish; Shakespeare

supplants Goethe in his esteem, and he is attracted first to Calderón

and then to Lope de Vega in whom, ere long, he discovers the dramatic

spirit most closely akin to his.

We read of Grillparzer, as of Goethe, that as a child he was fond of

improvising dramatic performances with his playmates. Occasionally he

was privileged to attend an operetta or a spectacular play at one of the

minor theatres. When he reached adolescence he experimented with a large

number of historical and fantastic subjects, and he left plans and

fragments that, unoriginal as most of them are, give earnest of a talent

for scenic manipulation and for the representation of character. These

juvenile pieces are full of reminiscences of Schiller and Shakespeare.

Grillparzer's first completed drama of any magnitude, _Blanca of

Castile_ (1807-09), is almost to be called Schiller's _Don Carlos_ over

again, both as to the plot and as to the literary style--though of

course the young man's imitation seems like a caricature. The fragments

_Spartacus_ (1810) and _Alfred the Great_ (1812), inspired by patriotic

grief for Austria humiliated by Napoleon, are Shakespearean in many

scenes, but are in their general disposition strongly influenced by

Schiller's _Robbers and Maid of Orleans_. In all three of these pieces,

the constant reference to inscrutable fate proves that Grillparzer is a

disciple of Schiller and a son of his time.

There is, therefore, a double significance in the earliest play of

Grillparzer's to be performed on the stage, _The Ancestress_

(1816)--first, in that, continuing in the direction foreshadowed by its

predecessors, it takes its place beside the popular dramas of fate

written by Werner and Müllner; and secondly, because at the same time

the poet, now yielding more to the congenial impulse of Spanish

influences, establishes his independence even in the treatment of a more

or less conventional theme. Furthermore, _The Ancestress_ marks the

beginning of Grillparzer's friendship with Schreyvogel. Grillparzer had

translated some scenes of Calderon's _Life is a Dream_ which, published

in 1816 by an enemy of Schreyvogel's who wished to discredit the

adaptation which Schreyvogel had made for the _Burgtheater,_ served only

to bring the two men together; for Schreyvogel was generous and

Grillparzer innocent of any hostile intention. As early as 1813

Grillparzer had thought of _The Ancestress_. Schreyvogel encouraged him

to complete the play, and his interest once again aroused and soon

mounting to enthusiasm, he wrote in less than a month the torrent of

Spanish short trochaic verses which sweeps through the four acts of this

romantic drama. Schreyvogel was delighted; but he criticized the

dramatic structure; and in a revised version in five acts Grillparzer so

far adopted his suggestions as to knit up the plot more closely and thus

to give greater prominence to the idea of fate and retribution. The play

was performed on the thirty-first of January, 1817, and scored a

tremendous success.

Critics, to be sure, were not slow to point out that the effectiveness

of _The Ancestress_ was due less to poetical qualities than to

theatrical--unjustly; for even though we regard the play as but the

scenic representation of the incidents of a night, the representation is

of absorbing interest and is entirely free from the crudities which make

Müllner's dramas more gruesome than dramatic. But Grillparzer

nevertheless resolved that his next play should dispense with all

adventitious aids and should take as simple a form and style as he could

give it. A friend chanced to suggest to him that the story of Sappho

would furnish a text for an opera. Grillparzer replied that the subject

would perhaps yield a tragedy. The idea took hold of him; without delay

or pause for investigation he made his plan; and in three weeks his

second play was ready for the stage. Written in July, 1817, _Sappho_ was

produced at the _Hofburgtheater_ on April 21, 1818. Grillparzer said

that in creating _Sappho_ he had plowed pretty much with Goethe's steer.

In form his play resembles _Iphigenia_ and in substance it is not unlike

_Tasso;_ but upon closer examination _Sappho_ appears to be neither a

classical play of the serene, typical quality of _Iphigenia_ nor a

_Künstlerdrama_ in the sense in which _Tasso_ is one. Grillparzer was

not inspired by the meagre tradition of the Lesbian poetess, nor yet by

anything more than the example of Goethe; he took only the outline of

the story of Sappho and Phaon; his play is almost to be called a

romantic love story, and the influence strongest upon him in the writing

of it was that of Wieland. The situation out of which the tragedy of

Sappho develops is that of a young man who deceives himself into

believing that admiration for a superior woman is love, and who is

undeceived when a _naïve_ maiden awakens in him sentiments that really

are those of love. This situation occurs again and again in the

voluminous works of Wieland--most obviously perhaps in the novelette

_Menander and Glycerion_ (1803), but also in the novel _Agathon_

(1766-1767), and in the epistolary novel _Aristippus_ (1800-1802).

Moreover, it is the essential situation in Mme. de Staël's _Corinne_

(1807). In the third place, this situation was Grillparzer's own, and it

is so constantly found in his dramas that it may be called the

characteristic situation for the dramatist as well as for the man. In

this drama, finally, we have a demonstration of Grillparzer's profound

conviction that the artistic temperament is ill suited to the demands of

practical life, and in the solitary sphere to which it is doomed must

fail to find that contentment which only life can afford. Sappho is not

assailed by life on all sides as Tasso is; but she makes an egregious

mistake in her search for the satisfactions of womanhood, thereby

unfitting herself for the priesthood of poetry as well as forfeiting her

life.

_Sappho_ was as successful on the stage as _The Ancestress_ had been,

and the dramatist became the lion of the hour. He was received in

audience by Prince Metternich, was lauded in high social circles in

Vienna, and was granted an annual pension of 1000 florins for five

years, on condition that the _Hofburgtheater_ should have the right

to first production of his forthcoming plays. It was, therefore, with

great enthusiasm and confidence that he set to work upon his next

subject, _The Golden Fleece._ The story of Jason and Medea had long been

familiar to him, not only in the tragedies of Euripides and Seneca, but

also in German dramas and operas of the eighteenth century which during

his youth were frequently produced in Vienna. The immediate impulse to

treat this story came to him when, in the summer of 1818, he chanced

upon the article _Medea_ in a mythological lexicon. His plan was soon

formed and was made to embrace the whole history of the relations of

Jason and Medea. For so comprehensive a matter Grillparzer, like

Schiller in _Wallenstein,_ found the limits of a single drama too

narrow; and as Schiller said of _Wallenstein--_

"His camp alone explains his fault and crime,"

so Grillparzer rightly perceived that the explanation to modern minds of

so incredible a crime as Medea's must be sought and presented in the

untoward circumstances under which her relations with Jason began.

Accordingly, he showed in _The Guest Friend_ how Phryxus, obedient to

what he believed to be the will of the gods, bore the Golden Fleece to

Colchis, only to meet death at the hands of Æëtes, the king of that

land, who coveted the precious token. Medea, the king's daughter, vainly

tries to prevent the crime, but sees herself included in the dying man's

curse; for she shares her father's desire for the treasure and is

appalled only by the sense of outraged hospitality, even to a haughty

intruder. When, in _The Argonauts,_ Jason comes to recover the Fleece,

Medea, still an Amazon and an enchantress, is determined with all her

arts to aid her father in repulsing the invaders. But the sight of the

handsome stranger soon touches her with an unwonted feeling. Against her

will she saves the life and furthers the enterprise of Jason; they

become partners in the theft of the Fleece; whereupon Jason, fascinated

by the dark-eyed barbarian and gratified with the sense of subjugating

an Amazon, assures her of his love and takes her and the Fleece in

triumph away from Colchis.

[Illustration: GRILLPARZER'S HOUSE IN THE SPIEGELGASSE]

Four years elapse before the action of _Medea_ commences. Medea has

borne two sons to Jason; as a husband and father he returns to Greece

with the object of his quest. But he is now received rather as the

husband of a sorceress than as the winner of the Fleece. Ostracism and

banishment accentuate the humiliation of marriage to a barbarian. Medea

has sacrificed all to serve him; without her aid his expedition would

have been fruitless, but with her he cannot live in the civilized

community where she has no place. She frantically endeavors to become a

Greek, but to no purpose. Jason strives to overcome a growing repugnance

and loyally makes common cause with her; but he cannot follow her in

banishment from Corinth, nor appreciate the feelings of the wife who

sees him about to marry Creusa, and of the mother who sees her children

prefer Creusa to herself. Then the barbarian in Medea reasserts herself

and the passion of a just revenge, stifling all other feeling, moves her

to the destruction of all her enemies and a final divorce from her

heartless husband. To Jason she can give no other words of comfort than

that he may be stronger in suffering than he has been in acting.

Such an eminently personal tragedy Grillparzer constructed on the basis

of a mythological story. The Fleece, like the hoard of the Nibelungen,

is the occasion, but the curse attached to it is not the cause, of

crimes; this cause is the cupidity of human nature and the helplessness

of the individual who allows the forces of evil to gain sway over him.

Jason, in overweening self-indulgence, attaches himself to a woman to

whom he cannot be true. Medea, in too confident self-sufficiency, is not

proof against the blandishments of an unscrupulous adventurer and

progresses from crime to crime, doing from beginning to end what it is

not her will to do. An unnatural and unholy bond cannot be severed even

to make way for a natural and holy one. And the paths of glory lead not

to the grave but to a living death in the consciousness of guilt and the

remorse for misdeeds.

Grillparzer never again wrote with such tumultuous passion as swayed him

at the time of his work on the first half of _The Golden Fleece._ His

illicit love of Charlotte Paumgarten gave him many a tone which thrills

in the narrative of Jason and Medea; the death of his mother brought

home to him the tragedy of violence and interrupted his work in the

midst of _The Argonauts;_ his visit to Rome enabled him to regain

composure and increase his sense of the local color of ancient

civilization; so that when he completed _Medea,_ in the fall and early

winter of 1819-20, he wrote with the mastery of one who had ventured,

suffered, observed, and recovered. In his own person he had experienced

the dangers of the _vita activa_ against which _The Golden Fleece_ is a

warning.

Mention has already been made of Grillparzer's pride in the history of

Austria. In 1809 he wrote in his diary, "I am going to write an

historical drama on Frederick the Warlike, Duke of Austria." A few

stanzas of a ballad on this hero were written, probably at this time;

dramatic fragments have survived from 1818 and 1821. In the first two

decades of the nineteenth century vigorous efforts were made, especially

by Baron von Hormayr and his collaborators, to stir up Austrian poets to

emulate their North-German colleagues in the treatment of Austrian

subjects. With these efforts Grillparzer was in hearty sympathy. The

Hanoverian A.W. Schlegel declared in a lecture delivered at Vienna in

1808 that the worthiest form of the romantic drama was the historical;

and made special mention of the house of Habsburg. In 1817 Matthäus von

Collin's play _Frederick the Warlike_ was published, as one of three

(_Leopold the Glorious, Frederick the Warlike_, and _Ottocar_) planned

as a cycle on the house of Babenberg. Collin's _Frederick_ interested

Grillparzer; Ottocar, who married Frederick's sister and whose fate

closely resembled Frederick's, appealed to him as a promising character

for dramatic treatment; a performance of Kleist's _Prince Frederick of

Homburg,_ which Grillparzer witnessed in 1821, may well have stimulated

him to do for the first of the Habsburgs, Ottocar's successful rival,

what Kleist had done for the greatest of the early Hohenzollerns; and

particularly the likeness of Ottocar's career to that of Napoleon gave

him the point of view for _King Ottocar's Fortune and Fall,_ composed in

1823.

_Ottocar_ is remarkable for the amount of matter included in the space

of a single drama, and it gives an impressive picture of the dawn of the

Habsburg monarchy; but only in the first two acts can it be said to be

dramatic. The middle and end, though spectacular, are rather epic than

dramatic, and our interest centres more in Rudolf the triumphant than in

Ottocar the defeated and penitent. The play is essentially the tragedy

of a personality. Ottocar is a _parvenu,_ a strong man whom success

makes too sure of the adequacy of his individual strength, ruthless when

he should be politic, indulgent when stern measures are requisite, an

egotist even when he acts for the public weal. Grillparzer treated his

case with great fulness of sensuous detail, but without superabundance

of antiquarian minutiæ, in spite of careful study of historical sources

of information. "Pride goeth before destruction," is the theme, but

Grillparzer was far from wishing either to demonstrate or illustrate

that truth. _Ottocar_ is the tragedy of an individual unequal to

superhuman tasks; it does not represent an idea, but a man.

After having been retained by the censors for two years, lest Bohemian

sensibilities should be offended, _Ottocar_ was finally freed by order

of the emperor himself, and was performed amid great enthusiasm on

February nineteenth, 1825. In September of that year the empress was to

be crowned as queen of Hungary, and the imperial court suggested to

Grillparzer that he write a play on a Hungarian subject in celebration

of this event. He did not immediately find a suitable subject; but his

attention was attracted to the story of the palatin Bancbanus, a

national hero who had found his way to the dramatic workshop of Hans

Sachs in Nuremberg, had been recommended to Schiller, and had recently

been treated in Hungarian by Joseph Katona. Grillparzer knew neither of

the plays of his predecessors. In connection with this subject he

thought rather of Shakespeare's _King Lear_ and _Othello_, of Byron's

_Marino Faliero_--he had early experimented with this hero himself--and

this was the time of his first thorough study of Lope de Vega. In

November and December, 1826, he wrote _A Faithful Servant of His

Master._ This is a drama of character triumphant in the severest test to

which the sense of duty can be put. Bancbanus, appointed regent while

his sovereign goes to war, promises to preserve peace in the kingdom,

and keeps his promise even when his own relatives rise in arms against

the queen's brother who has insulted Bancbanus' wife and, they think,

has killed her. We have to do, however, not merely with a brilliant

example of unselfish loyalty; we have a highly special case of

individualized persons. Bancbanus is a little, pedantic old man, almost

ridiculous in his personal appearance and in his over-conscientiousness.

Erny, his wife, is a childlike creature, not displeased by flattery, too

innocent to be circumspect, but faithful unto death. And Otto von Meran,

the princely profligate, is one of Grillparzer's boldest creations--not

bad by nature, but utterly irresponsible; crafty, resourceful, proud as

a peacock and, like a monkey in the forest, wishing always to be

noticed. He cannot bear disregard; contempt makes him furious; and a

sense of disgrace which would drive a moral being to insanity reduces

him to a state of stupidity in which, doing good deeds for the first

time and unconsciously, he gradually acquires consciousness of right and

wrong. It is Bancbanus who brings about this transformation in the

character of Otto, who holds rebellious nobles and populace in check,

who teaches his master how to be a servant of the State, and who, by

saving the heir to the throne and praying that he may deserve the

loyalty shown his father, points forward to the better day when

feudalism shall give way to unselfish enlightened monarchy.

[Illustration: GRILLPARZER'S ROOM IN THE HOUSE OF THE SISTERS FRÖHLICH]

This play, a glorification of patriotic devotion and, in spite of the

self-repressive character of the hero, as full of stirring action as any

German historical play whatever, was presented on the twenty-eighth of

February, 1828, and was received with applause by high and low. The

emperor caused a special word of appreciation to be conveyed to the

poet. How great was Grillparzer's astonishment, therefore, when, on the

following day, the president of police summoned him and informed him

that the emperor was so well pleased with the play that he wished to

have it all to himself; wherefore the dramatist would please hand over

the manuscript, at his own price! Dynastic considerations probably moved

the emperor to this preposterous demand. The very futility of it--since

a number of copies of the manuscript had already been made, and one or

the other was sure to escape seizure--is a good example of the trials to

which the patience of Austrian poets was subjected during the old

régime. Grillparzer was at this time depressed enough on his own

account, as his poems _Tristia ex Ponto_ bear witness. This new attempt

at interference almost made him despair of his fatherland. "An Austrian

poet," he said, "ought to be esteemed above all others. The man who does

not lose heart under such circumstances is really a kind of hero."

Grillparzer was not a real hero. But in the midst of public frictions,

personal tribulations, apprehension that his powers of imagination were

declining, and petulant surrenders to discouragement, he kept pottering

along with compositions long since started, and by 1831 he had completed

two more plays, _A Dream is Life_ and _Waves of the Sea and of Love_.

Like _The Ancestress_, _A Dream is Life_ is written in short trochaic

verses of irregular length and with occasional rhyme. The idea was

conceived early, the first act was written at the time of _The

Ancestress,_ and the title, though chosen late, being a reversal of

Calderón's _Life is a Dream_, suggests the connection with that Spanish

drama. Grillparzer's principal source for the plot, was, however,

Voltaire's narrative entitled _White and Black_. In the psychology of

dreams he had long been interested, and life in the dream state formed a

large part of the opera text _Melusina_ which, in 1821-23, he wrote for

Beethoven. A particular flavor was doubtless given to the plot by the

death of Napoleon on May fifth, 1821, and the beginning of Grillparzer's

friendship with Katharina Fröhlich shortly before; for _A Dream is Life_

represents in the dream of a harmless but ambitious young man such a

career of conquest as Napoleon was thought to have exemplified, and the

hero, waking after a nightmare of deceits and crimes that were the

stepping stones to success, is warned of the dangers that beset

enterprise and taught to prefer the simple life in union with a rustic

maiden. There are two actions, corresponding to the waking and sleeping

states, the actors in the latter being those of real life fantastically

transformed; but there is no magic or anything else super-natural, and

the most fascinating quality in the drama is the skill with which the

transformation is made in accordance with the irrational logic of

dreams. Accompanied by the weird music of Gyrowetz and exquisitely

staged, this is the most popular of Grillparzer's plays in Vienna. But

it is by no means merely theatrical. There is profound truth in the

theory upon which it is constructed: a dream is the awakening of the

soul; dreams do not create wishes, they reveal them, and the actions of

a dreamer are the potentialities of his character. Moreover, the

quietistic note of renunciation for the sake of peace to the soul and

integrity of personality is the final note of _The Golden Fleece_ no

less than of this fantasmagoria. _Waves of the Sea and of Love_ is a

far-fetched and sentimental title for a dramatization of the story of

Hero and Leander. Grillparzer chose the title, he said, because he

wished to suggest a romantic treatment that should humanize the matter.

The play really centres in the character of Hero and might much better

be called by her name. In it Grillparzer's experiences with Charlotte

von Paumgarten and Marie Däffinger are poetically fructified, and his

capacity for tracing the incalculable course of feminine instincts

attains to the utmost of refinement and delicacy. The theme is the

conflict between duty to a solemn vow of sacerdotal chastity and the

disposition to satisfy the natural desire for love. But Grillparzer has

represented no such conflict in the breast of Hero. Her antagonist is

not her own conscience but the representative of divine law in the

temple of which she is priestess. The action of the play therefore takes

the form of an intrigue on the part of this representative to thwart the

intrigue of Hero and Leander. This external collision is, however, far

from supplying the chief interest in a drama unquestionably dramatic,

although its main action is internal. Hero is at the beginning a Greek

counterpart to the barbarian Medea. She has the same pride of station

and self-assurance. Foreordained to asceticism, she is ready to embrace

it because she thinks it superior to the worldliness of which she has no

knowledge. When worldliness presents itself to her in the attractive

form of Leander, she is first curious, then offended, apprehensive of

danger to herself and to him, only soon to apprehend nothing but

interruption of the new rapture to which she yields in oblivion of

everything else in the world. Only a poet of the unprecedented _naïveté_

of Grillparzer could so completely obliterate the insurgency of moral

scruples against this establishment of the absolute monarchy of love.

In spite of admirable dramatic qualities and the most exquisite poetry

even in the less dramatic passages, this play on Hero and Leander

disappointed both audience and playwright when it was put upon the stage

in April, 1831. Other disappointments were rife for Grillparzer at

this time. But he put away his desires for the unattainable, and with

the publication of _Tristia ex Ponto_ in 1835, took, as it were, formal

leave of the past and its sorrow. Indeed, he seemed on the point of

beginning a new epoch of ready production; for he now succeeded, for the

first time since 1818, in the quick conception and uninterrupted

composition of an eminently characteristic play, the most artistic of

German comedies, _Woe to the Liar_. It was the more lamentable that when

the play was enacted, on the sixth of March, 1838, the brutal behavior

of an unappreciative audience so wounded the sensitive poet that he

resolved never again to subject himself to such ignominy--and kept his

word. In 1840 he published _Waves of the Sea and of Love, A Dream is

Life_, and _Woe to the Liar_; but the plays which he wrote after that

time he kept in his desk.

The year 1838, accordingly, sharply divides the life of Grillparzer into

two parts--the first, productive and more or less in the public eye; the

second, contemplative and in complete retirement from the stage. To be

sure, the poet became conspicuous once more with his poem to Radetzky in

1848; in 1851 Heinrich Laube, recently appointed director of the

_Hofburgtheater_, instituted a kind of Grillparzer revival; and belated

honors brought some solace to his old age. But he had become an

historical figure long before he ceased to be seen on the streets of his

beloved Vienna, and the three completed manuscripts of plays that in

1872 he bequeathed to posterity had lain untouched for nearly twenty

years.

Two of these posthumous pieces, _Brothers' Quarrels in the House of

Habsburg_ and _Libussa_, undoubtedly reveal the advancing years of their

author, in a good and in a bad sense. They lack the theatrical

self-evidence of the earlier dramas. But on the other hand, they are

rich in the ripest wisdom of their creator, and in significance of

characterization as well as in profundity of idea they amply atone for

absence of the more superficial qualities. Kaiser Rudolf II. in

_Brothers' Quarrels_ is one of the most human of the men who in the face

of inevitable calamity have pursued a Fabian policy. Even to personal

predilections, like fondness for the dramas of Lope, he is a replica of

the mature Grillparzer himself. _Libussa_ presents in Primislaus a

somewhat colorless but nevertheless thoroughly masculine representative

of practical coöperation and progress, and in Libussa, the heroine, a

typical feminine martyr to duty.

[Illustration: FRANZ GRILLPARZER In his Sixtieth Year]

The third of the posthumous pieces, however, _The Jewess of Toledo_, may

perhaps be said to mark the climax of Grillparzer's productive activity.

It is an eminently modern drama of passion in classical dignity of form.

Grillparzer noted the subject as early as 1813. In 1824 he read Lope de

Vega's play on it, and wrote in trochees two scenes of his own; in

1848-49--perhaps with Lola Montez and the king of Bavaria in mind--he

worked further on it, and about 1855 brought the work to an end. The

play is properly called _The Jewess of Toledo_; for Rachel, the Jewess,

is at the centre of the action, and is a marvelous creation--"a mere

woman, nothing but her sex"; but the king, though relatively passive, is

the most important character. He is attracted to Rachel by a charm that

he has never known in his coldly virtuous English consort, and, after an

error forgivable because made comprehensible, is taught the duty of

personal sacrifice to morality and to the state. In doctrine and in

inner form this drama is comparable to Hebbel's _Agnes Bernauer_; it is

a companion piece to _A Faithful Servant of his Master_, and the

sensuality of Rachel contrasts instructively with the spirituality of

Hero. The genuine dramatic collision of antithetical forces produces,

furthermore, a new synthesis, the effect of which is to make us wish

morality less austere and the sense of obligation stronger than they at

first are in two persons good by nature but caused to err by

circumstances. In the series of dramas thus passed in review there is

a great variety of setting and incident, and an abundance of dramatic

_motifs_ that show Grillparzer to have been one of the most opulent of

playwrights. The range of characters, too, each presented with due

regard for _milieu_, is seen to be considerable, and upon closer

examination would be seen to be more considerable still. The greatest

richness is found in the characters of women. Grillparzer himself lacked

the specifically masculine qualities of courageous enterprise and

tenacity of purpose. His men are rather affected by the world than

active creators of new conditions, and their contact with conditions as

they are leaves them with the scars of battle instead of the joy of

victory. No one, however, could attribute a feministic spirit to

Grillparzer; or, if so, it must be said that the study of reaction is no

less instructive than the study of action and that being is at least as

high an ideal as doing. Being, existence in a definite place amid the

tangible surroundings of personal life, Grillparzer gives us with

extraordinary abundance of sensuous details. The drama was for him what

Goethe said it should always be, a present reality; and for the greater

impressiveness of this reality he is fond of the use of visible

objects--whether they be symbols, like the Golden Fleece in _Medea_, the

lyre in _Sappho_, the medallion in _The Jewess of Toledo_, or

characteristic weapons, accoutrement, and apparel. Everything expressive

is welcome to him, gesture or inarticulate sound reinforces the spoken

word or replaces it. Unusually sensuous language and comparative fulness

of sententious passages go hand in hand with a laconic habit which

indulges in many ellipses and is content to leave to the actor the task

of making a single word convey the meaning of a sentence.

Grillparzer's plays were written for the stage. He abhorred what the

Germans call a book drama, and had, on the other hand, the highest

respect for the judgment of a popular audience as to the fact whether a

play were fit for the stage or not. The popular audience was a jury

from which there was no appeal on this question of fact. A passage in

_The Poor Musician_ gives eloquent expression to Grillparzer's regard

for the sure esthetic instinct of the masses and, indirectly, to his own

poetic _naïveté._ But his plays are also poems; they are all in verse;

and like the plays of his French prototype, Racine, they reveal their

full merit only to connoisseurs. They are the work of a man who was

better able than most men of his generation to prove all things, and who

held fast to that which he found good. His art is not forward-looking,

like that of Kleist, nor backward-looking, like that, say, of Theodor

Körner. It is in the strictest sense complementary and co-ordinate to

that of Goethe and Schiller, a classicism modified by romantic

tendencies toward individuation and localization. He did not aim at the

typical. He felt, and rightly, that a work of art, being something

individual, should be created with concentrated attention upon the

attainment of its perfection as an individual; this perfection attained,

the artist would attain to typical, symbolical connotation into the

bargain. From anything like the grotesqueness of exaggerated

characterization Grillparzer was saved by his sense of form. He had as

fertile an imagination and as penetrating an intellect as Kleist, and he

excelled Kleist in the reliability of his common sense. It was no play

upon words, but the expression of conviction when he wrote, in 1836:

"Poetry is incorporation of the spirit, spiritualization of the body,

feeling of the understanding, and thought of the feeling." In its

comprehensive appeal to all of these faculties a work of art commends

itself and carries its meaning through its existence as an objective

reality, like the phenomena of nature herself. A comprehensive

sensitiveness to such an appeal, whether of art or of nature, was

Grillparzer's ideal of individual nature and culture. He thought the

North Germans had cultivated their understanding at the expense of their

feeling, and had thereby impaired their esthetic sense. He thought the

active life in general inevitably destroyed the harmony of the faculties

and substituted an extrinsic for an intrinsic good. In the mad rush of

our own time after material wealth and power we may profitably

contemplate the picture which Grillparzer drew of himself in the

following characteristic verses:

THE ANGLER

Below lies the lake hushed and tranquil,

And I sit here with idle hands,

And gaze at the frolicking fishes

Which glide to and fro o'er the sands.

They come, and they go, and they tarry;

But if I now venture a cast,

Of a sudden the playground is empty,

As my basket remains to the last.

Mayhap if I stirred up the water,

My angling might lure the shy prey.

But then I must also give over

The sight of the fishes at play.

[Illustration: THE GRILLPARZER MONUMENT AT VIENNA.]

FRANZ GRILLPARZER

* * * * *

MEDEA

A TRAGEDY IN FIVE ACTS

DRAMATIS PERSONAE

CREON, _King of Corinth

CREUSA, _his daughter

JASON

MEDEA

GORA, _Medea's aged nurse_

_A herald of the Amphictyons_

_A peasant_

_Medea's children_

_Slaves and slave-women, attendants of

the King, etc._

MEDEA (1822)

TRANSLATED BY THEODORE A. MILLER, PH.D.

ACT I

_Before the walls of Corinth. At the left, halfway up stage, a tent is

pitched; in the background lies the sea, with a point of land jutting

out into it, on which is built a part of the city. The time is early

morning, before daybreak; it is still dark.

At the right in the foreground a slave is seen standing in a pit digging

and throwing up shovelfuls of earth; on the opposite side of the pit

stands MEDEA, before a black chest which is strangely decorated with

gold; in this chest she keeps laying various utensils during the

following dialogue.

MEDEA. Is it, then, done?

SLAVE. A moment yet, my mistress.

[GORA _comes out of the tent and stands at a distance_.]

MEDEA. Come! First the veil, and then the goddess' staff.

I shall not need them more; here let them rest.

Dark night, the time for magic, is gone by,

And what is yet to come, or good or ill,

Must happen in the beamy light of day.--

This casket next; dire, secret flames it hides

That will consume the wretch who, knowing not,

Shall dare unlock it. And this other here,

Full-filled with sudden death, with many an herb,

And many a stone of magic power obscure,

Unto that earth they sprang from I commit.

[_She rises_.]

So! Rest ye here in peace for evermore.

Now for the last and mightiest thing of all!

[Illustration: MEDEA _From the Painting by Anselm Feuerbach_]

[_The slave, who has meanwhile climbed out of the pit and taken his

stand behind the princess awaiting the conclusion of her enterprise,

now turns to help her, and grasps at an object covered with a veil and

hanging from a lance that has been resting against a tree behind MEDEA;

the veil falls, revealing the banner, with the Golden Fleece glowing

radiantly through the darkness._]

SLAVE (_grasping the Fleece_). 'Tis this?

MEDEA. Nay, hold thy hand! Unveil it not.

(_Addressing the Fleece_.)

Once more let me behold thee, fatal gift

Of trusting guest-friend! Shine for one last time,

Thou witness of the downfall of my house,

Bespattered with my father's, brother's blood,

Sign of Medea's shame and hateful crime!

[_She stamps upon the lance-haft and breaks it in two_.]

So do I rend thee now, so sink thee deep

In earth's dark bosom, whence, a bane to men,

Thou sprang'st.

[_She lays the broken standard in the chest with the other objects and

shuts down the cover_.]

GORA (_comes down_).

What does my mistress here?

MEDEA. Thou seest.

GORA. Wilt thou, then, bury in the earth that Fleece,

The symbol of thy service to the gods,

That saved thee, and shall save thee yet again?

MEDEA (_scornfully_).

That saved me? 'Tis because it saved me not,

That here I lay it. I am safe enough.

GORA (_ironically_).

Thanks to thy husband's love?

MEDEA (_to the slave, ignoring Gora's taunt_).

Is all prepared?

SLAVE. Yea, mistress.

MEDEA. Come!

[_She grasps one handle of the chest, the slave the other, and together

they carry it to the pit._]

GORA (_observing them from a distance_).

Oh, what a task is this

For a proud princess, daughter of a king!

MEDEA. Nay, if it seem so hard, why dost not help?

GORA. Lord Jason's handmaid am I--and not thine!

Nor is it meet one slave another serve.

MEDEA (_to the slave_).

Now lay it in, and heap the earth upon it.

[_The slave lets the chest down into the pit and shovels in the earth

upon it. MEDEA kneels at one side of the pit as he works._]

GORA (_standing in the foreground_).

Oh, let me die, ye gods of Colchis, now,

That I may look no more on such a sight!

Yet, first hurl down your lightning-stroke of wrath

Upon this traitor who hath wrought us woe.

Let me but see him die; then slay me too!

MEDEA (_to the slave_).

'Tis finished. Stamp the earth about it close,

And go.--I charge thee, guard my secret well.

Thou art a Colchian, and I know thee true.

[_The slave departs._]

GORA (_calling after him with grim scorn_).

If thou shalt tell thy master, woe to you both!

(_To MEDEA._)

Hast finished?

MEDEA. Ay. At last I am at peace!

GORA. The Fleece, too, didst thou bury?

MEDEA. Even the Fleece.

GORA. Thou didst not leave it in Iolcos, with

Thine husband's uncle?

MEDEA. Nay, thou saw'st it here.

GORA. Thou hadst it still--and now hast buried it!

Gone, gone! And naught is left; all thy past life

Vanished, like wreaths of vapor in the breeze!

And naught's to come, and naught has been, and all

Thou seest is but this present fleeting hour!

There _was_ no Colchis! All the gods are dead!

Thou hadst no father, never slew thy brother I

Thou think'st not of it; lo, it never happened!--

Think, then, thou art not wretched. Cheat thyself

To dream Lord Jason loves thee yet. Perchance

It may come true!

MEDEA (angrily).

Be silent, woman!

GORA.

Nay!

Let her who knows her guilty lock her lips,

But I _will_ speak. Forth from my peaceful home

There in far Colchis, thou hast lured me here,

To be thine haughty paramour's meek slave.

Freeborn am I, yet see! mine arms are chained!--

Through the long, troubled nights, upon my couch

I lie and weep; each morn, as the bright sun

Returns, I curse my gray hairs and my weight

Of years. All scorn me, flout me. All I had

Is gone, save heavy heart and scalding tears.--

Nay, I will speak, and thou shalt listen, too!

MEDEA. Say on.

GORA. All I foretold has come to pass.

'Tis scarce one moon since the revolted sea

Cast you ashore, seducer and seduced;

And yet e 'en now these folk flee from thy face,

And horror follows wheresoe'er thou goest.

The people shudder at the Colchian witch

With fearful whispers of her magic dark.

Where thou dost show thyself, there all shrink back

And curse thee. May the same curse smite them all!--

As for thy lord, the Colchian princess' spouse,

Him, too, they hate, for his sake, and for thine.

Did not his uncle drive him from his palace?

Was he not banished from his fatherland

What time that uncle perished, none knows how?

Home hath he none, nor resting-place, nor where

To lay his head. What canst thou hope from him?

MEDEA. I am his wife!

GORA. And hop'st--?

MEDEA. To follow him

In need and unto death.

GORA. Ay, need and death!

Ætes' daughter in a beggar's hut!

MEDEA. Let us pray Heaven for a simple heart;

So shall our humble lot be easier borne.

GORA. Ha!--And thy husband--?

MEDEA. Day breaks. Let us go.

GORA. Nay, thou shalt not escape my questioning!--One

comfort still is left me in my grief,

And only one: our wretched plight shows clear

That gods still rule in Heaven, and mete out

To guilty men requital, late or soon.

Weep for thy bitter lot; I'll comfort thee.

Only presume not rashly to deny

The gods are just, because thou dost deny

This punishment they send, and all this woe.--

To cure an evil, we must see it clear.

Thy husband--tell me--is he still the same?

MEDEA. What should he be?

GORA. O, toy not so with words!

Is he the same impetuous lover still

Who wooed thee once; who braved a hundred swords

To win thee; who, upon that weary voyage,

Laughed at thy fears and kissed away thy grief,

Poor maid, when thou wouldst neither eat nor drink,

But only pray to die? Ay, all too soon

He won thee with his passionate, stormy love.

Is he thy lover still?--I see thee tremble.

Ay, thou hast need; thou knowest he loves thee not,

But shudders at thee, dreads thee, flees thee, _hates_ thee!

And as thou didst betray thy fatherland,

So shalt thou be betrayed--and by thy lover.

Deep in the earth the symbols of thy crime

Lie buried;--but the crime thou canst not hide.

MEDEA. Be silent!

GORA. Never!

MEDEA (_grasping her fiercely by the arm _).

Silence, dame, I say!

What is this madness? Cease these frantic cries!

'Tis our part to await whate'er may come,

Not bid it hasten.--Thou didst say but now

There is no past, no future; when a deed

Is done, 'tis done for all time; we can know

Only this one brief present instant, Now.

Say, if this Now may cradle a dim future,

Why may it not entomb the misty past?

My past! Would God that I could change it--now!

And bitter tears I weep for it, bitterer far

Than thou dost dream of.--Yet, that is no cause

To seek destruction. Rather is there need

Clearly to know myself, face honestly

The thing I am. Here to these foreign shores

And stranger folk a god hath driven us;

And what seemed right in Colchis, here is named

Evil and wickedness; our wonted ways

Win hatred here in Corinth, and distrust.

So, it is meet we change our ways and speech;

If we may be no longer what we would,

Let us at least, then, be e'en what we can.--

The ties that bound me to my fatherland

Here in earth's bosom I have buried deep;

The magic rites my mother taught me, all

Back to the Night that bare them I have given.

Now, but a woman, weak, alone, defenseless,

I throw me in my husband's open arms!

He shuddered at the Colchian witch! But now

I am his true, dear wife; and surely he

Will take me to his loving, shelt'ring arms.--

Lo, the day breaks, fair sign of our new life

Together! The dark past has ceased to be,

The happy future beckons!--Thou, O Earth,

The kind and gentle mother of us all,

Guard well my trust, that in thy bosom lies.

[_As she and_ GORA _approach the tent, it opens, and _JASON _appears,

talking with a Corinthian rustic, and followed by a slave._]

JASON. Thou saw'st the king himself?

RUSTIC. I did, my lord.

JASON. How went thy tale?

RUSTIC. I Said, "One waits without,

A guest-friend of thy house, well-known to thee,

Yet so hedged round is he with traitorous foes,

He dares not enter, ere thou promise him

Peace and protection."

JASON. And his answer?--Speak!

RUSTIC. He comes, my lord, to meet thee. All this folk

Make pious offering to Poseidon here

Upon the seashore. Soon in festal train

They come with garlands and fair gifts, the king

Leading his daughter by the hand. 'Tis then,

As they pass by, that he will speak with thee.

JASON. Thou hast done well. I thank thee.

MEDEA (_coming up to him_).

Jason, hail!

JASON. Hail to thee, too!

(_To the slave._)

Go, thou, and all the others,

And pluck green branches from the budding trees

To mark you suppliants. 'Tis the custom here.

And keep a quiet, peaceful mien. Dost hear?

Now go.

[_They depart._]

MEDEA. Thou'rt full of thought?

JASON. Ay, full.

MEDEA. Thou givest

Thyself no rest.

JASON. A fugitive--and rest?

There is no rest for such, but only flight.

MEDEA. Last night thou didst not close thine eyes in sleep,

But wand'redst forth in the murky night, alone.

JASON. I love the night; the sunlight hurts my eyes.

MEDEA. And thou hast sent a message to the king.

Will he receive us kindly?

JASON. That I wait

To hear.

MEDEA. He is thy friend?

JASON. He was.

MEDEA. Then sure

His heart will soften.

JASON. Even the kindest men

Shun friendship with the accurst. And thou dost know

How all the world doth flee us, since the death

Of my false uncle, Pelias, whom some god

In devilish sport caused to be strangled. Thus

The people whisper that I slew him, I,

Thy husband, from that land of magic come.

Dost thou not know this?

MEDEA. Yea.

JASON. Here's cause enough

To wake and wander all the dark night through.--

But what hath brought thee forth, before the sun

Is up? What seek'st thou in this darkling hour?

Calling old friends from Colchis?

MEDEA. Nay.

JASON. Speak truth!

MEDEA. I say, I am not.

JASON. And I say to thee,

Better for thee if thou forget all such.

Pluck no more herbs, brew no more poison-drinks,

Nor commune with the moon, let dead men's bones

Rot in their graves at peace! Such magic arts

This folk here love not,--and I hate them, too!

This is not Colchis dark,--but sunny Greece;

Not hideous monsters, but our fellow-men

Dwell round about us. Come, henceforth, I know,

Thou wilt give o'er these rites and magic spells;

I have thy promise, and I know thee true.--

That crimson wimple bound about thy hair

Calls long-forgotten scenes to memory.

Why wilt not wear our country's wonted dress?

I was a Colchian on thy Colchian soil;

Be thou a Greek, now I have brought thee home.

The past is dead. Why call it back to life?

Alas! It haunts us yet, do what we will!

[MEDEA _silently removes the veil and gives it to_ GORA.]

GORA (_whispering_).

Scorn'st thou thy homeland thus--and all for him?

JASON (_catching sight of _GORA).

What! Art thou here, thou ancient beldame? Ha!

I hate thee most of all this Colchian crew.

One glance at thy dim eyes and wrinkled brow,

And lo! before my troubled sight there swims

The dusky shore of Colchis! Why must thou

Be ever hovering close beside my wife?

Begone!

GORA (_grumblingly_).

Why should I?

JASON. Go!

MEDEA. Begone, I pray.

GORA (_sullenly to _JASON).

Am I thy purchased slave, that thou shouldst speak

So lordly?

JASON. Go! My hand, of its own will,

Is on my sword! Go, while there yet is time!

Often ere this I have thought to make essay

If that stern brow be softer than it seems!

[MEDEA _leads the reluctant_ GORA _away, whispering words of comfort as

they go._ JASON _throws himself on a grass-bank, and strikes his

breast._]

JASON. O, heart of mine, burst from thy prison-house,

And drink the air!--

Ay, there they lie, fair Corinth's lofty towers,

Marshalled so richly on the ocean-strand,

The cradle of my happy, golden youth!

Unchanging, gilded by the selfsame sun

As then. 'Tis I am altered, and not they.

Ye gods! The morning of my life was bright

And sunny; wherefore is my eventide

So dark and gloomy? Would that it were night!

[MEDEA _has brought the two children out of the tent, and now leads them

by the hand to_ JASON.]

MEDEA. See, Jason, thy two babes, who come to greet thee.

Come, children, give your sire your little hands.

[_The children draw back, and stand shyly at one side._]

JASON (_stretching out his hands yearningly toward the little group._)

Is this the end, then? Do I find myself

Husband and father of a savage brood?

MEDEA. Go, children.

ONE CHILD. Father, is it true thou art

A Greek?

JASON. And why?

CHILD. Old Gora says thou art,

And calls the Greeks bad names.

JASON. What names, my boy?

CHILD. Traitors she says they are, and cowards, too.

JASON (_to_ MEDEA).

Dost hear?

MEDEA. 'Tis Gora's foolish tales that they

Have heard, and treasured, child-like. Mark them not.

[_She kneels beside the two children, whispering in the ear now of one,

now of the other._]

JASON. I will not.

[_He rises from the grass._]

There she kneels--unhappy fate!--

Bearing two burdens, hers, and mine as well.

[_He paces up and down, then addresses_ MEDEA.]

There, leave the babes awhile, and come to me.

MEDEA (_to the children_).

Now go, and be good children. Go, I say.

[_The children go._]

JASON. Think not, Medea, I am cold and hard.

I feel thy grief as deeply as mine own.

Thou'rt a brave comrade, and dost toil as truly

As I to roll away this heavy stone

That, ever falling backwards, blocks all paths,

All roads to hope. And whether thou'rt to blame,

Or I, it matters not. What's done is done.

[_He clasps her hands in one of his, and with the other lovingly strokes

her brow._]

Thou lov'st me still, I know it well, Medea.

In thine own way, 'tis true; but yet thou lov'st me.

And not this fond glance only--all thy deeds

Tell the same tale of thine unending love.

[MEDEA _hides her face on his shoulder._]

I know how many griefs bow this dear head,

How love and pity in thy bosom sit

Enthroned.--Come, let us counsel now together

How we may 'scape this onward-pressing fate

That threatens us so near. Here Corinth lies;

Hither, long years agone, a lonely youth,

I wandered, fleeing my uncle's wrath and hate;

And Creon, king of Corinth, took me in,--

A guest-friend was he of my father's house--

And cherished me ev'n as a well-loved son.

Full many a year I dwelt here, safe and happy.

And now--

MEDEA. Thou'rt silent!

JASON. Now, when all the world

Flouts me, avoids me, now, when each man's hand

In blind, unreasoning rage is raised to strike,

I hope to find a refuge with this king.--

One fear I have, though, and no idle one.

MEDEA. And what is that?

JASON. Me he will shelter safe--

That I hold certain--and my children, too,

For they are mine. But thee--

MEDEA. Nay, have no fear.

If he take them, as being thine, then me,

Who am thine as well, he will not cast away.

JASON. Hast thou forgotten all that lately chanced

There in my home-land, in my uncle's house,

When first I brought thee from dark Colchis' shores?

Hast thou forgot the scorn, the black distrust

In each Greek visage when it looked on thee,

A dark barbarian from a stranger-land?

They cannot know thee as I do,--true wife

And mother of my babes;--homekeepers they,

Nor e'er set foot on Colchis' magic strand

As I.

MEDEA. A bitter speech. What is the end?

JASON. The worst misfortune of mankind is this:

Calm and serene and unconcerned to court

Fate's heaviest blows, and then, when these have fallen,

To whine and cringe, bewailing one's sad lot.--

Such folly we will none of, thou and I.

For now I seek King Creon, to proclaim

My right as guest-friend, and to clear away

These clouds of dark distrust that threaten storm.--

Meanwhile, take thou the babes and get thee hence

Without the city walls. There wait, until--

MEDEA. Till when?

JASON. Until--Why hidest thou thy face?

MEDEA. Ah, say no more! This is that bitter fate

Whereof my father warned me! Said he not

We should torment each other, thou and I?

But no!--My spirit is not broken yet!

All that I was, all that I had, is gone,

Save this: I am thy wife! To that I'll cling

Even to death.

JASON. Why twist my kindly words

To a false meaning that I never dreamed of?

MEDEA. Prove that I twist thy words! I'll thank thee for it.

Quick, quick! The king draws nigh.--Let thy heart speak!

JASON. So, wait we here the breaking of the storm.

[GORA _comes out of the tent with the two children_; MEDEA _places

herself between the children, and at first waits in the distance,

watching anxiously all that passes. The_ KING _enters with his daughter

and attended by youths and maidens who carry the vessels for the

sacrifice._]

KING. Where is this stranger?--Who he is, my heart,

By its wild beating, warns me; wanderer,

And banished from his homeland, nay, mayhap

E'en guilty of those crimes men charge him with.--

Where is the stranger?

JASON. Here, my lord, bowed low

Before thee, not a stranger, though estranged.

A suppliant I, and come to pray thine aid.

Thrust forth from house and home, by all men shunned,

I fly to thee, my guest-friend, and beseech

In confidence the shelter of thy roof.

CREUSA. Ay, it is he! Look, father, 'tis Prince Jason!

[_She takes a step toward him._]

JASON. Yea, it is I. And is this thou, Creusa,

Crowned with a yet more gentle, radiant grace,

But still the same? O, take me by the hand

And lead me to thy father, where he stands

With thoughtful brow, fixing his steady gaze

Upon my face, and dallies with his doubt

Whether to greet me kindly. Is he wroth

At me, or at my guilt, which all men cry?

CREUSA (_taking_ JASON's _hand and leading him to her father_).

See, father, 'tis Prince Jason!

KING. He is welcome.

JASON. Thy distant greeting shows me clear what place

Now best beseems me. Here at thy feet I fall

And clasp thy knees, and stretch a timid hand

To touch thy chin. Grant me my prayer, O King!

Receive and shelter a poor suppliant wretch!

KING. Rise, Jason.

JASON. Never, till thou--

KING. Rise, I say.

[_Jason rises to his feet._]

KING. So, from thine Argo-quest thou art returned?

JASON. 'Tis scarce one moon since I set foot on land.

KING. What of the golden prize ye sought? Is't won?

JASON. The king who set the task--he hath it now.

KING. Why art thou banished from thy fatherland?

JASON. They drove me forth--homeless I wander now.

KING. Ay, but why banished? I must see this clear.

JASON. They charged me with a foul, accursèd crime.

KING. Truly or falsely? Answer me this first.

JASON. A false charge! By the gods I swear, 'tis false!

KING (_swiftly grasping_ JASON's _hand and leading him forward_).

Thine uncle perished?

JASON. Yea, he died.

KING. But how?

JASON. Not at my hands! As I do live and breathe,

I swear that bloody deed was none of mine!

KING. Yet Rumor names thee Murderer, and the word

Through all the land is blown.

JASON. Then Rumor lies,

And all that vile land with it!

KING. Dream'st thou then

I can believe thy single tale, when all

The world cries, "Liar!"

JASON. 'Tis the word of one

Thou knowest well, against the word of strangers.

KING. Say, then, how fell the king?

JASON. 'Twas his own blood,

The children of his flesh, that did the deed.

KING. Horror of horrors! Surely 'tis not true?

It cannot be!

JASON. The gods know it is truth.

Give ear, and I will tell thee how it chanced.

KING. Nay, hold. Creusa comes. This is no tale

For gentle ears. I fain would shield the maid

From knowledge of such horror. (_Aloud._) For the moment

I know enough. We'll hear the rest anon.

I will believe thee worthy while I can.

CREUSA (_coming up to _KING CREON).

Hast heard his tale? He's innocent, I know.

KING. Go, take his hand. Thou canst without disgrace.

CREUSA. Didst doubt him, father? Nay, I never did!

My heart told me these tales were never true,

These hideous stories that men tell of him.

Gentle he was, and kind; how could he, then,

Show him so base and cruel? Couldst thou know

How they have slandered thee, heaped curse on curse!

I've wept, to think our fellow-men could be

So bitter, false. For thou hadst scarce set sail,

When, sudden, all men's talk throughout the land

Was of wild deeds and hideous midnight crimes--

The fruit of witchcraft on far Colchis' shores--

Which thou hadst done.--And, last, a woman, dark

And dreadful, so they said, thou took'st to wife,

Brewer of poisons, slayer of her sire.

What was her name? It had a barbarous sound--

MEDEA (_stepping forward with the children_).

Medea! Here am I.

KING. Is 't she?

JASON (_dully_).

It is.

CREUSA (_pressing close to her father_).

O, horror!

MEDEA (_to_ CREUSA).

Thou'rt wrong. I never slew my sire.

My brother died, 'tis true; but ask my lord

If 'twas my doing.

[_She points to _JASON.]

True it is, fair maid,

That I am skilled to mix such magic potions

As shall bring death or healing, as I will.

And many a secret else I know. Yet, see!

I am no monster, no, nor murderess.

CREUSA. Oh, dreadful, horrible.

KING. And is she thy--wife?

JASON. My wife.

KING. Those children there?

JASON. They are mine own.

KING. Unhappy man!

JASON. Yea, sooth!--Come, children, bring

Those green boughs in your hands, and reach them out

To our lord the King, and pray him for his help,

[_He leads them up by the hand._]

Behold, my lord, these babes. Thou canst not spurn them!

ONE CHILD (_holding out a bough timidly to the _KING).

See, here it is.

KING (_laying his hands gently on the children's heads_).

Poor tiny birdlings, snatched from out your nest!

CREUSA (_kneeling compassionately beside the children_).

Come here to me, poor, homeless, little orphans!

So young, and yet misfortune bows you down

So soon! So young, and oh! so innocent!--

And look, how this one has his father's mien!

[_She kisses the smaller boy._]

Stay here with me. I'll be your mother, sister.

MEDEA (_with sudden fierceness_).

They are not orphans, do not need thy tears

Of pity! For Prince Jason is their father;

And while Medea lives, they have no need

To seek a mother!

(_To the children._)

Come to me-come here.

CREUSA (_glancing at her father_).

Shall I let them go?

KING. She is their mother.

CREUSA. Run

To mother, children.

MEDEA (to children).

Come! Why stand ye there

And wait?

CREUSA (_to the children, who are clasping her about the neck_).

Your mother calls, my little ones.

Run to her quick!

[_The children go to_ MEDEA.]

JASON (_to the_ KING).

My lord, what is thy will?

KING. Thou hast my promise.

JASON. Thou wilt keep me safe?

KING. I have said it.

JASON. Me and mine thou wilt receive?

KING. Nay, _thee_ I said, not _thine_.--Now follow on,

First to the altar, to our palace then.

JASON (_as he follows the king, to _CREUSA).

Give me thy hand, Creusa, as of yore!

CREUSA. Thou canst not take it as of old thou didst.

MEDEA. They go,--and I am left, forgot! Oh, children,

Run here and clasp me close. Nay, closer, tighter!

CREUSA (_to herself, turning as they go_).

Where is Medea? Why does she not follow?

[_She comes back, but stands at a distance from_ MEDEA.]

Com'st thou not to the sacrifice, then home

With us?

MEDEA. Unbidden guests must wait without.

CREUSA. Nay, but my father promised shelter, help.

MEDEA. Thy words and his betokened no such aid!

CREUSA (_approaching nearer_).

I've grieved thee, wounded thee! Forgive, I pray.

MEDEA. Ah, gracious sound! Who spake that gentle word?

Ay, many a time they've stabbed me to the quick,

But none e'er paused, and, pitying, asked himself

If the wound smarted! Thanks to thee, sweet maid!

Oh, when thou art thyself in sore distress,

Then may'st thou find some tender, pitying soul

To whisper soft and gracious words to thee,

To give one gentle glance--as thou to me!

[MEDEA _tries to grasp _CREUSA's _hand, but the princess draws back

timidly._]

Nay, shudder not! 'Tis no plague-spotted hand.--

Oh, I was born a princess, even as thou.

For me the path of life stretched smooth and straight

As now for thee; blindly thereon I fared,

Content, where all seemed right.--Ah, happy days!

For I was born a princess, even as thou.

And as thou stand'st before me, fair and bright

And happy, so I stood beside my father,

The idol of his heart, and of his folk.

O Colchis! O my homeland! Dark and dread

They name thee here, but to my loving eyes

Thine is a shining shore!

CREUSA _(taking her hand)_.

Poor, lonely soul!

MEDEA. Gentle art thou, and mild, and gracious too;

I read it in thy face. But oh, beware!

The way _seems_ smooth.--One step may mean thy fall!

Light is the skiff that bears thee down the stream,

Advance upon the silvery, shining waves,

Past gaily-flowered banks, where thou would'st pause.--

Ah, gentle pilot, is thy skill so sure?

Beyond thee roars the sea! Oh, venture not

To quit these flowery banks' secure embrace,

Else will the current seize thy slender craft

And sweep thee out upon the great gray sea.--

Why that fixed gaze? Dost shudder at me still?

There was a time when I had shuddered, too,

At thought of such a thing as I'm become!

_[She hides her face on CREUSA's neck.]_

CREUSA. She is no wild thing! Father, see, she weeps!

MEDEA. I am a stranger, from a far land come,

Naught knowing of this country's ancient ways;

And so they flout me, look at me askance

As at some savage, untamed animal.

I am the lowest, meanest of mankind,

I, the proud child of Colchis' mighty king!--

Teach me what I must do. Oh, I will learn

Gladly from thee, for thou art gentle, mild.

'Tis patient teaching, and not angry scorn,

Will tame me.--

Is't thy wont to be so calm

And so serene? To me that happy gift

The gods denied. But I will learn of _thee_!

Thou hast the skill to know what pleases him,

What makes him glad. Oh, teach me how I may

Once more find favor in my husband's sight,

And I will thank thee, thank thee!

CREUSA. Look, my father!

KING. Ay, bring her with thee.

CREUSA. Wilt thou come, Medea?

MEDEA. I'll follow gladly, whereso'er thou goest.

Have pity on me, lone, unfriended, sad,

And hide me from the king's stern, pitiless eyes!

(_To the_ KING.)

Now may'st thou gaze thy fill. My fears are fled,

E'en while I know thy musings bode me ill.

Thy child is tenderer than her father.

CREUSA. Come!

He would not harm thee. Come, ye children, too.

[CREUSA _leads_ MEDEA _and the children away_.]

KING. Hast heard?

JASON. I have.

KING. And so, that is thy wife!

That thou wert wedded, Rumor long since cried,

But I believed not. Now, when I have seen,

Belief is still less easy. She--thy wife?

JASON. 'Tis but the mountain's peak thou seest, and not

The toilsome climb to reach it, nor those steps

By which alone the climber guides his feet.--

I sailed away, a hot, impetuous youth,

O'er distant seas, upon the boldest quest

That e'er within the memory of man

Was ventured. To this life I said farewell,

And, the world well forgot, I fixed my gaze

Solely upon that radiant Golden Fleece

That, through the night, a star in the storm, shone out.

And none thought on return, but one and all,

As though the hour that saw the trophy won

Should be their last, strained every nerve to win.

And so, a valorous band, we sailed away,

Boastful and thirsting deep for daring deeds,

O'er sea and land, through storm and night and rocks,

Death at our heels, Death beckoning us before.

And what at other times we had thought full

Of terror, now seemed gentle, mild, and good;

For Nature was more awful than the worst

That man could do. And, as we strove with her,

And with barbarian hordes that blocked our path,

The hearts of e'en the mildest turned to flint.

Lost were those standards whereby men at home

Judge all things calmly; each became a law

Unto himself amid these savage sights.--

But that which all men deemed could never be

Came finally to pass, and we set foot

On Colchis' distant and mysterious strand.

Oh, hadst thou seen it, wrapped in murky clouds!

There day is night, and night a horror black,

Its folk more dreadful even than the night.

And there I found--_her_, who so hateful seems

To thee. In sooth, O king, she shone on me

Like the stray sunbeam that some prisoner sees

Pierce through the crannies of his lonely cell!

Dark though she seem to thee, in that black land

Like some lone, radiant star she gleamed on me.

KING. Yet wrong is never right, nor evil good.

JASON. It was some god that turned her heart to me.

Fast friend was she in many a dangerous pass.

I saw how in her bosom love was born,

Which yet her royal pride bade firm restrain;

No word she spake betrayed her--'twas her looks,

Her deeds that told the secret. Then on me

A madness came, like to a rushing wind.

Her silence but inflamed me; for a new

And warlike venture then I girded me,

For love I struggled with her--and I won!

Mine she became.--Her father cursed his child;

But mine she was, whether I would or no.

'Twas she that won me that mysterious Fleece;

She was my guide to that dank horror-cave

Where dwelt the dragon, guardian of the prize,

The which I slew, and bore the Fleece away.

Since then I see, each time I search her eyes,

That hideous serpent blinking back at me,

And shudder when I call her wife!--

At last

We sailed away. Her brother fell.

KING (_quickly_).

She slew him?

JASON. The gods' hand smote him down. Her aged father,

With curses on his lips for her, for me,

For all our days to come, with bleeding nails

Dug his own grave, and laid him down to die,

So goes the tale--grim victim of his own

Rash passion.

KING. Dread beginning of your life

Together!

JASON. Ay, and, as the days wore on,

More dreadful still.

KING. Thine uncle--what of him?

JASON. For four long years some god made sport of us

And kept us wandering far from hearth and home

O'er land and sea. Meanwhile, pent up with her

Within the narrow confines of our bark,

Seeing her face each moment of the day,

The edge of my first shuddering fear grew blunt.

The past was past.--So she became my wife.

KING. When home thou camest, what befell thee there?

JASON. Time passed; the memory of those ghastly days

In Colchis dimmer grew and mistier.

I, the proud Greek, now half barbarian grown,

Companioned by my wife, barbarian too,

Sought once again my home-land. Joyfully

The people cried Godspeed! as forth I fared

Long years agone. Of joyfuller greetings now,

When I returned a victor, I had dreamed.

But lo, the busy streets grew still as death

When I approached, and whoso met me, shrank

Back in dismay! The tale, grown big with horrors,

Of all that chanced in Colchis had bred fear

And hatred in this foolish people's hearts.

They fled my face, heaped insults on my wife--

_Mine_ she was, too; who flouted her, struck me!

This evil talk my uncle slily fed;

And when I made demand that he yield up

The kingdom of my fathers, stolen by him

And kept from me by craft, he made reply

That I must put away this foreign wife,

For she was hateful in his eyes, he feared

Her dark and dreadful deeds! If I refused,

My fatherland, his kingdom, I must flee.

KING. And thou--?

JASON. What could I? Was she not my wife,

That trusted to my arm to keep her safe?

Who challenged her, was he not then my foe?

Why, had he named some easier behest,

By Heaven, I had obeyed not even that!

Then how grant this? I laughed at his command.

KING. And he--?

JASON. Spake doom of banishment for both.

Forth from Iolcos on that selfsame day

We must depart, he said. But I would not,

And stayed.

Forthwith a grievous illness seized

The king, and through the town a murmur ran

Whisp'ring strange tidings: How the aged king,

Seated before his household shrine, whereon

They had hung the Fleece in honor of the god,

Gazed without ceasing on that golden prize,

And oft would cry that thence his brother's face

Looked down on him,--my father's, whom he slew

By guile, disputing of the Argo-quest.

Ay, that dead face peered down upon him now

From every glittering lock of that bright Fleece,

In search of which, false man! he sent me forth

To distant lands, in hope that I should perish!

At last, when all the king's house saw their need,

To me for succor his proud daughters came,

Begging my wife to heal him by her skill.

But I cried, "No! Am I to save the man

Who plotted certain death for me and mine?"

And those proud maidens turned again in tears.

I shut me up within my house, unheeding

Aught else that passed. Weeping, they came again,

And yet again; each time I said them nay.

And then one night, as I lay sleeping, came

A dreadful cry before my door! I waked

To find Acastus, my false uncle's son,

Storming my portal with loud, frenzied blows,

Calling me murderer, slayer of his sire!

That night the aged king had passed from life.

Up from my couch I sprang, and sought to speak,

But vainly, for the people's howls of rage

Drowned my weak cries. Then one among them cast

A stone, then others. But I drew my blade

And through the mob to safety cut my way.

Since then I've wandered all fair Hellas o'er,

Reviled of men, a torment to myself.

And, if thou, too, refuse to succor me,

Then am I lost indeed!

KING. Nay, I have sworn

And I will keep my oath. But this thy wife--

JASON. Hear me, O king, before thou end that speech!

Needs must thou take us both, or none at all!

I were a happy man,--ay, born anew--

Were she but gone forever. But no, no!

I must protect her--for she trusted me.

KING. These magic arts she knows--'tis them I fear.

The power to injure, spells the will to do it.

Besides, these strange, suspicious deeds of hers--

These are not all her guilt.

JASON. Give her one chance.

Then, if she stay not quiet, hound her forth,

Hunt her, and slay her, me, and these my babes.

Yet, till that time, I pray thee let her try

If she can live at peace with this thy folk.

This boon I crave of thee by mightiest Zeus,

The god of strangers--ay, and call upon

The ancient bond of friendship that, long since,

Our fathers formed, mine in Iolcos, thine

In Corinth here. On that long-vanished day

They dreamed there might fall need of such a tie.

And, now that need is here, do thou thy part

And succor me, lest in like evil pass

Thou make the same request, and meet denial.

KING. 'Tis the gods' will; I yield, against my judgment,

And she shall stay. But, look you, if she show

One sign that those wild ways are not forgot,

I drive her forth from out this city straight

And yield her up to those who seek her life!

Here in this meadow, where I found thee first,

A sacred altar shall be raised, to Zeus,

The god of strangers, consecrate and to

Thy murdered uncle Pelias' bloody shades.

Here will we kneel together and pray the gods

To send their blessing on thy coming here,

And turn to mercy that which bodes us ill.--

Now to my royal city follow swift.

[_He turns to his attendants, who approach._]

See my behests are faithfully obeyed.

[_As they turn to depart, the curtain falls._]

The German Classics of the Nineteenth and Twentieth Centuries, Volume 06 Masterpieces of German Literature Translated into English. in Twenty Volumes · 第 1 / 7 章