Men, who are born for business, for action, cannot too soon contemplate
for themselves and animate all things. They must themselves grapple
with and pass through many relations, must harden their whole being
against the influence of new situations, and the dissipation which a
multitude and variety of objects engenders; and they must accustom
themselves, even in the urgency of great occasions to hold fast to the
thread of their object. They should not yield to the invitations of
inactive contemplation. Their soul must not be gazing at self; it must
be ceaselessly directed to outward things, a handmaid to the
understanding, active and prompt in discrimination. They are heroes;
and events press about them which must be fulfilled, and their problems
solved. By their influence all occurrences of chance become history,
and their life is an unbroken chain of remarkable and splendid,
intricate and singular events.
Far otherwise is it with those quiet, unknown men, whose world is their
own mind, whose activity the action of the contemplative intellect, and
whose life a gentle development of their inner powers. No desquietude
drives them to outward things. A tranquil possession satisfies them;
and the immense drama without does not entice them to engage in it
themselves; but they regard it as significant and wonderful, a source
of contemplation for their leisure moments. Longings for the spirit
hold them in the distance; and it is this spirit that destines them to
act the mysterious part of the mind in this human world, while others
represent the outer limbs and senses, the mind's projected powers. They
would be disturbed by great and various events. A simple life is their
lot, and they become acquainted with the rich subject-matter and
countless phenomena of the world from relations and writings alone. But
seldom in the course of their lives does any occurrence draw them along
with it in its sudden vortex, in order to acquaint them by a few
experiences more accurately with the situation and character of active
men. On the contrary, their susceptible minds are already sufficiently
busied with near and insignificant phenomena, which represent the great
world as it were renewed; and they will advance no step, without making
the most surprising discoveries in themselves, concerning the nature
and significance of these phenomena. They are poets, those men of rare
inspiration, who at times wander through our dwelling-place, and
everywhere renew the ancient, venerable, service of humanity, and of
its first gods,--the stars, spring, love, happiness, fertility, health,
and the joyous heart; they, who are already here in possession of
heavenly rest, and, driven about by no foolish desires, breathe only
the fragrance of earthly fruits, without devouring them, then to be
irrevocably chained to the lower world. They are free guests whose
golden feet tread softly, and whose presence involuntarily outspreads
its wings around. A poet may be known, like a good king, by cheerful
and bright faces, and he alone justly bears the name of sage. If you
compare him with heroes, you will find that the songs of the poets
frequently awake heroic courage in youthful hearts; but heroic deeds
have probably never awakened the spirit of poesy in any mind whatever.
Henry was a poet by nature. Many events seemed to conspire to aid his
development, and as yet nothing had disturbed the elasticity of his
soul. All that he saw and heard seemed only to remove new bars within
him, and to open new windows for his spirit. The world, with its great
and changing relations, lay before him. But as yet it was silent; and
its soul, its language was not yet awakened. Soon did a poet approach,
holding a lovely girl by the hand, that by the sound of the mother
tongue, and by the movement of a sweet and tender mouth; the soft lips
might unlock and the simple harmony unfold in unending melodies.
The journey was now ended. It was towards evening when our travellers,
in safety and good spirits, arrived at the far-famed city of Augsburg,
and, full of expectation, rode through the high streets to the spacious
mansion of the old Swaning.
The surrounding country had already appeared delightful to the eyes of
Henry. The animated bustle of the city, and the great houses of stone
affected him strangely, yet agreeably. He experienced a real pleasure
in thinking of his future abode. His mother was very much pleased to
see herself in her native city after her wearisome journey, soon to
embrace again her father and old acquaintances, to introduce Henry to
them, and for once be able quietly to forget all household cares in the
cordial remembrances of her youth. The merchants hoped by the pleasures
there to indemnify themselves for the discomforts of their journey, and
to do a profitable business.
Lights gleamed from the house of the old Swaning, and joyous music
swelled towards them. "What will you bet," said the merchants, "that
your grandfather is not giving a merry party? We came as if invited.
How much his uninvited guests will astonish him. He is not dreaming
that now the true festivity is about to commence." Henry felt
embarrassed, and his mother was only anxious about their dress. They
alighted; the merchants remained with the horses, and Henry and his
mother entered the splendid mansion. Not a soul belonging to the house
was to be seen below. They were obliged to ascend the lofty stairs.
Some servants ran past them; they asked them to inform the old Swaning
of the arrival of some strangers who wished to speak with him. The
servants made some objection at first, for the travellers did not
appear in very good condition as to dress, yet finally they announced
them to the master of the house. The old Swaning came out. He did not
know them at first, and asked them their names and business. Henry's
mother wept and fell upon his neck.
"Do you not know your own daughter?" she exclaimed weeping. "I bring
you my son."
The aged father was extremely moved. He pressed her long to his bosom.
Henry sank upon his knee and tenderly kissed his hand. He raised him to
himself and held both mother and son in his embrace.
"Come right in," said Swaning, "I have only my friends and
acquaintances here, who will rejoice with me." Henry's mother
hesitated, but had no time to consider. The father led them both into
the lighted hall.
"Here I bring my daughter and grandson from Eisenach," cried Swaning,
in the merry crowd of gaily dressed guests.
All eyes were turned towards the door; all ran to it; the music ceased,
and the two travellers stood bewildered and dazzled in their dusty
dresses, in the midst of the motley throng. A thousand joyful
exclamations passed from mouth to mouth. All her acquaintances pressed
around the mother. Innumerable were the questions which were asked.
Each one wished to be recognised and welcomed first. Whilst the elder
part of the company were attending to the mother, the attention of the
younger portion was directed to the strange youth, who was standing
with downcast eyes, not daring to look again upon the unknown faces.
His grandfather introduced him to the company, and inquired after his
father and about the occurrences of his journey.
The mother thought of the merchants, who out of politeness had remained
below by the horses. She told her father, who sent down for them
immediately, and invited them to ascend. The horses were led into the
stable, and the merchants appeared.
Swaning thanked them heartily for the friendly escort they had afforded
his daughter. They were acquainted with many who were present, and
exchanged friendly greetings. The mother asked permission to change her
dress. Swaning led her to her chamber, and Henry followed for the same
purpose.
The appearance of one man was very striking to Henry, who thought that
he had seen him in that book. His noble bearing distinguished him from
all the rest. His face wore an expression of serene gravity, an open,
finely arched forehead, large, black, penetrating, and tranquil eyes, a
humorous expression about his pleasant mouth, and his full manly
proportions, gave to him a meaning and fascinating appearance. He was
strongly built, his movements quiet and expressive, and where he stood
he seemed about to stay forever. Henry asked his grandfather about him.
"I am glad," said the old man, "that you noticed him. It is my
excellent friend Klingsohr, the poet. You should be prouder of his
acquaintance than of the emperor's. But how is your heart? He has a
beautiful daughter, who perhaps will surpass the father in your eyes.
It would be strange if you had not noticed her."
Henry blushed; "my mind has been distracted, dear grandfather. The
company is numerous, and I was looking only at your friend."
"We see that you came from the North," replied Swaning; "we shall soon
thaw you out here. You shall learn soon to look after pretty faces."
They were now ready, and returned to the hall, where in the mean time
preparations for supper had been made. The old Swaning led Henry to
Klingsohr, and told him that Henry had noticed him particularly, and
ardently desired to become acquainted with him.
Henry was confused. Klingsohr spoke kindly to him of his fatherland and
of his journey. There was so much to inspire confidence in his voice,
that Henry soon gained courage and conversed with him freely. After a
little while Swaning came to them again, bringing with him the
beautiful Matilda.
"You must receive my grandson kindly, and pardon him that he has
noticed your father before you. Your bright eyes will awaken his youth
within him. In his native land Spring comes too late."
Henry and Matilda blushed. They gazed admiringly upon each other. She
asked him, with scarcely audible words, whether he was fond of dancing.
While he was answering in the affirmative, the merry music struck up.
He silently offered her his hand; she accepted it, and they mingled
among the rows of waltzers. Swaning and Klingsohr looked on. The mother
and the merchants were delighted with Henry's grace and with his lovely
partner. The mother had enough to converse about with the friends of
her youth, who wished her much happiness from so well educated and
hopeful a son.
Klingsohr said to Swaning,--"Your grandson has an attractive
countenance; it indicates a clear and comprehensive mind, and his voice
comes deep from his heart."
"I hope," replied Swaning, "that he will become your docile pupil. It
seems to me that he is born for a poet. May your spirit fall upon him.
He looks like his father, only he seems more ardent and excitable. The
former was a youth of superior talents. He was wanting, however, in a
certain liberality of mind. He might have become something more than an
industrious and able mechanic."
Henry wished that the dance would never end. With heartfelt pleasure
his eyes rested on the roses of his partner. Her innocent eye did not
avoid his. She appeared like the spirit of her father in the most
lovely disguise. Eternal youth spoke from her full and quiet eyes. Upon
a light blue ground lay the mild splendor of the brown stars. Her
forehead and nose were beautifully formed. Her face was like a lily
inclined towards the rising sun, and from her slender white neck, the
blue veins clung round her tender cheeks in gentle curves. Her voice
was like a distant echo, and her small head with its brown tresses
seemed but to hover over her airy form.
Refreshments were brought in, and the dances closed. The elder people
seated themselves on one side, the younger on the other.
Henry remained with Matilda. A young relative seated herself at his
left, and Klingsohr sat opposite him. If Matilda said but little, his
other neighbor, Veronika, was so much the more talkative. She
immediately played the familiar with him, and soon made him acquainted
with all present. Henry lost much of her conversation. He was still
with his partner, and wished to turn much oftener to the right.
Klingsohr made an end to their talking. He asked about the band with
the strange devices, which Henry had fastened to his coat. He told him
with much emotion of the girl from the holy land. Matilda wept; and now
Henry could scarcely hide his tears. For this reason he entered into
conversation with her. All were enjoying themselves, and Veronika joked
and laughed with her acquaintances. Matilda described Hungary, where
her father often dwelt, and the mode of life in Augsburg. The enjoyment
was at its height. The music put all restraint to flight, and all the
affections into a joyful play. Baskets of flowers in all their splendor
exhaled their odors upon the table, and the wine danced about between
the dishes and the flowers, shook its golden wings, and formed many
varied pictures between the guests and the world. Henry now understood
for the first time what was meant by a festival. A thousand happy
spirits seemed to gambol around the table, and to live in silent
sympathy with the joys of the happy people, and to intoxicate
themselves with their pleasures. The enjoyment of life stood before
him, like a tinkling tree full of golden fruits. Pain had vanished, and
it seemed impossible that ever human inclination should have turned
from this tree to the dangerous fruit of knowledge, the tree of strife.
He now learned what were wine and food. They tasted very richly to him.
A heavenly oil seasoned them for him, and from the beaker sparkled the
splendor of earthly life. Some of the maidens brought a fresh garland
to the old Swaning. He put it on, and kissing them, said, "You must
bring one also to our friend Klingsohr, and for thanks he will teach
you a couple of new songs. You shall have mine immediately. He beckoned
for the music to commence, and sang with a clear voice:--
"Surely life is most distressing,
And a mournful fate we meet!
Stress and need our only blessing,
Practised only in deceit;
And our bosoms never daring
To unfold their soft despairing.
"What the elders all are telling,
To the youthful heart is waste;
Throes of longing are we feeling
The forbidden fruit to taste;
Would the gentle youths but deign us,
And believe that they could gain us!
"Thinking so then are we sinning?
All our thoughts are duty-free.
What indeed to us remaining,
Wretched wights, but fantasy?
Do we strive our dreams to banish,
Never, never will they vanish.
"When in prayer at even bending
Frightens us the loneliness,
Favor and desire are wending
Thitherward to our caress;
How disdain the fair offender,
Or resist the soft surrender?
"Mothers stern our charms concealing,
Every day prescribe anew.
What availeth all our willing?
Spring they not again to view?
Warm desire is ever riving
Closest fetters with its striving.
"Every impulse harshly spurning
Hard and cold to be as stone,
Never glances bright returning,
Close to be and all alone,
Heed to no entreaty giving,--
Call you that the flower of living?
"Ah, how great a maid's annoyance,
Sick and chafed her bosom is,--
And to make her only joyance,
Withered lips bestow a kiss!
Will the leaf be turning never,
Elders' reign to end forever?"
Both old and young laughed. The girls blushed and smiled aside. Amidst
a thousand railleries a second garland was brought and put upon
Klingsohr. They begged him, however, very earnestly not to give them
such a gay song. "No," said Klingsohr, "I will take good care not to
speak so lightly of your secrets; say yourselves what kind of a song
you would prefer."
"Anything but a love song," cried the girls; "let it be a drinking song
if you like." Klingsohr sang:--
"On verdant mountain-side is growing
The god, who heaven to us brings;
The sun's own foster-child, and glowing
With all the fire its favor flings.
"In Spring is he conceived with pleasure,
The bud unfolds in silent joy,
And mid the Autumn's harvest-treasure
Forth springs to life the golden boy.
"Within his narrow cradle lying,
In vaulted rooms beneath the ground,
He dreams of feasts and banners flying
And airy castles all around.
"Near to his dwelling none remaineth,
When chafeth he in restless strife,
And every hoop and fetter straineth
In all the pride of youthful life.
"For viewless watchmen round are closing,
Until his lordly dreams are o'er,
With air-enveloped spears opposing
The loiterer near the sacred door.
"So when unfold his sleeping pinions,
With sparkling eyes he greets the day,
Obeys in peace his priestly minions,
And forth he cometh when they pray.
"From cradle's murky bosom faring,
He winketh through a crystal dress,
The rose of close alliance bearing,
Expressive in its ruddiness.
"And everywhere around are pressing
His merry men in jubilee,
Their love find gratitude confessing
To him with jocund tongue and free.
"He scatters o'er the fields and valleys
His innerlife in countless rays,
And Love is sipping from his chalice,
And pledged forever with him stays.
"As spirit of the golden ages,
The Poet alway he beguiles,
Who everywhere in reeling pages
Doth celebrate his pleasant wiles.
"He gave him, his allegiance sealing,
To every pretty mouth a right,
And this the god through him revealing,
That none the edict dare to slight."
"A fine prophet!" exclaimed the girls. Swaning was heartily pleased.
They made some objections, but all to no purpose. They were obliged to
reach out their sweet lips to him. Henry blushed only on account of his
earnest neighbor; otherwise he would have loudly rejoiced in the
privilege of the poet. Veronika was among the garland bearers. She came
suddenly back and said to Henry, "truly, is it not a fine thing to be a
poet?"
Henry did not trust himself to take advantage of this question. Excess
of joy and the earnestness of first love were contending in his breast.
The charming Veronika was joking with the others, and in the meanwhile
he found time somewhat to quench his joy. Matilda told him that she
played the guitar. "Ah!" said he, "how I should love to learn it from
you. I have for a long time desired it."
"My father instructed me; he plays it matchlessly," said she blushing.
"I believe, however," said Henry, "that I can learn it more easily from
you. How delighted I should be to hear you sing."
"Do not expect too much."
"O!" said Henry, "what may I not expect, since your speech merely is
song, and your form is expressive of heavenly music."
Matilda was silent. Her father commenced a conversation, in which Henry
spoke with the most lively spirit. Those who were near wondered at the
fluency of the young man's speech, and the richness of his imagery.
Matilda gazed upon him with silent attention. She seemed to delight in
his words, which were still more clearly explained by his speaking
features. His eyes appeared unusually brilliant. He turned at times
towards Matilda, who was astonished by the expression of his face. In
the warmth of conversation, he involuntarily seized her hand, and she
could not but sanction much of what he said, with a gentle pressure.
Klingsohr knew how to keep up his enthusiasm, and gradually drew his
whole soul from his lips. At last all rose. There was a general
confusion. Henry remained by the side of Matilda. They stood apart
unobserved. He clasped her hand and kissed it tenderly. She suffered
him to hold it without opposition, and looked upon him with unspeakable
kindness. He could not restrain himself, bent towards her, and kissed
her lips. She was taken unawares and involuntarily returned his ardent
kiss. "Sweet Matilda,"--"Dear Henry,"--this was all they could say to
each other. She pressed his hand, and then mingled with her companions.
Henry stood as if in Heaven. His mother came to him. He told her all
concerning his love.
"Is it not a good thing that we have visited Augsburg?" said she. "Does
it not in truth please you?"
"Dear mother," said Henry, "I had not represented it to myself thus. It
is most glorious."
The remainder of the evening passed away in infinite pleasure. The old
people played, talked, and observed the dancing. The music undulated
through the hall like a pleasure-sea, and bore along the enraptured
youth upon its surface.
Henry felt the rapturous presages of the first buoyancy of love.
Matilda also willingly suffered herself to be carried away by the
flattering waves, and only concealed from him her tender trust, her
budding inclination, behind a light flower veil. The old Swaning
noticed the growing intimacy between them, and teazed them both about
it. Klingsohr had taken a liking to Henry, and was pleased with his
tenderness towards his daughter.--The other young men and girls soon
noticed it. They brought the sober Matilda forward with the young
Thuringian, and did not conceal that they were glad no longer to be
obliged to shun Matilda's observation of the secrets of their hearts.
It was late in the evening when the company separated. "The first and
only feast of my life," said Henry, when he was alone, and his mother
had retired wearied to rest. "Do I not feel as I felt in that dream
about the blue flower? What peculiar connexion is there between Matilda
and that flower? That face, which bowed towards me from the petals, was
Matilda's heavenly countenance, and I also now remember that I saw it
in that book. But why did it not there thus move my heart? O! she is
the visible spirit of song, the worthy daughter of her father. She will
dissolve me into music. She will become my inmost soul, the guardian
spirit of my holy fire. What an eternity of faithful love do I feel
within me? I was born only to revere her, to serve her forever, to
think of and to feel her. Does there not belong a peculiar, undivided
existence to her contemplation and worship? Am I the happy one, whose
being may be the echo, the mirror of her's? It is not owing to chance
that I have seen her at the end of my journey, that a happy feast has
encircled the highest moment of my life. It could not have been
otherwise; for does not her presence render every thing a feast?"
He stepped to the window. The choir of the stars stood in the dusky
sky, and in the east a white glimmer announced the coming day.
Full of rapture, Henry exclaimed, "Ye eternal stars, ye silent
wanderers, I call upon you as witnesses of my sacred oath. For Matilda
will I live, and eternal constancy shall bind her to my heart. The
morning of eternal day is also opening for me. The night is past. I
kindle myself to the rising sun, for an inextinguishable offering."
Henry was heated, and only fell asleep late in the morning. The
thoughts of his soul flowed together into a wonderful dream. A deep
blue stream glimmered from the green plains. A boat was floating upon
the smooth surface. Matilda was sitting in it, and steering. She was
adorned with garlands, singing a simple song, and looked over to him
with sweet sadness. His bosom was oppressed, he knew not why. The sky
was clear; the flood quiet. Her heavenly face was reflected in the
waves. Suddenly the boat began to whirl. He cried out to her earnestly.
She smiled and laid down the helm in the boat which continued its
whirling. He was seized with overwhelming fear. He plunged into the
stream, but could not move, and was hurried along. She beckoned to him,
as if she had something to tell him, and though the boat was fast
filling with water, yet she smiled with unspeakable tenderness, and
looked down serenely into the abyss. Suddenly it drew her in. A gentle
breath of air passed over the stream, which, flowed on as quiet and
glittering as ever. His intense anxiety robbed Henry of all
consciousness. His heart no longer throbbed. On recovering, his senses,
he was on the dry land. He must have floated a long distance. It was a
strange country. He knew not what had happened to him. His mind had
vanished. Thoughtlessly he plunged deeper and deeper into the country.
He was excessively weary. A little spring gushed from the side of a
hill, sounding like the music of bells. In his hand he caught
a few drops, and with them wetted his parched lips. The terrible
occurrence lay behind him like a fearful dream. He walked on farther
and farther;--flowers and trees spoke to him.
Now he felt in high spirits and at home. He heard that song again. He
ran to the place whence the sounds proceeded. Suddenly some one held
him by the clothes. "Dear Henry," cried a well known voice. He looked
round, and Matilda clasped him in her arms.
"Why did you run from me, dear heart," cried she panting. "I could
scarcely overtake you."
Henry wept. He clasped her to himself, "Where is the stream?" cried he
with tears.
"Do you not see its blue waves above us?"
He looked up, and the blue stream was flowing gently over his head.
"Where are we, dear Matilda?"
"With our fathers."
"Shall we remain together?"
"Forever," she replied, while she pressed her lips to his, and so
embraced him that she could not tear herself from him. She put a
wondrous, secret word into his mouth, and it rang through his whole
being. He was about to repeat it, when his grandfather called, and he
awoke. He would have given his life to remember that word.