On a clear, frosty autumn morning, a young man of student-like
appearance slowly loitered through the avenue of the Düsseldorf Court
Garden, often, with childlike pleasure, kicking aside the leaves which
covered the ground, and often sorrowfully gazing towards the bare trees,
on which a few golden-hued leaves still hung. As he thus gazed up, he
thought on the words of Glaucus--
"Like the leaves in the forests, so are the races of mortals;
Leaves are blown down to the earth by the wind, while others are shooting
Again in the green budding wood, when fresh up-liveth the spring-tide;
So are the races of man--this grows and the other departeth."
In earlier days the youth had gazed with far different eyes on the same
trees. He was then a boy, and sought birds' nests or summer insects,
which delighted him as they merrily hummed around, and were glad in the
beautiful world, and contented with a sap-green leaf and a drop of
water, with a warm sunbeam and the sweet perfumes of the grass. In those
times the boy's heart was as gay as the fluttering insects. But now his
heart had grown older, its little sunbeams were quenched, all its
flowers had faded, even its beautiful dream of love had grown dim; in
that poor heart was nothing but pride and care, and, saddest of all, it
was my heart.
I had returned that day to my old father-town, but I would not remain
there over night, and I longed for Godesberg, that I might sit at the
feet of my girl-friend and tell of the little Veronica. I had visited
the dear graves. Of all my living friends I had found but an uncle and
an aunt. Even when I met once known forms in the street they knew me no
more, and the town itself gazed on me with strange glances. Many houses
were coloured anew, strange faces gazed on me through the window-panes,
worn-out old sparrows hopped on the old chimneys, everything looked dead
and yet fresh, like a salad growing in a graveyard; where French was
once spoken I now heard Prussian; even a little Prussian court had taken
up its retired dwelling there, and the people bore court titles. My
mother's old hair dresser had now become the Court Hair dresser, and
there were Court-Tailors, Court-Shoemakers, Court-Bed-Bug-Destroyers,
Court-Grog-Shops--the whole town seemed to be a Court-Asylum for
Court-lunatics. Only the old Prince Elector knew me, he still stood in
the same old place; but he seemed to have grown thinner. For just
because he stood in the Market Place, he had had a full view of all the
miseries of the time, and people seldom grow fat on such sights. I was
in a dream, and thought of the legend of the enchanted city, and
hastened out of the gate, lest I should awake too soon. I missed many a
tree in the Court Garden, and many had grown crooked with age, and the
four great poplars, which once seemed to me like green giants, had
become smaller. Pretty girls were walking here and there, dressed as
gaily as wandering tulips. And I had known these tulips when they were
but little buds; for ah! they were the neighbours' children with whom I
had once played "Princes in the Tower." But the fair maidens, whom I had
once known as blooming roses, were now faded roses, and in many a high
brow whose pride had once thrilled my heart, Saturn had cut deep
wrinkles with his scythe. And now for the first time, and alas! too
late, I understood what those glances meant, which they had once cast on
the adolescent boy; for I had meanwhile in other lands fathomed the
meaning of similar glances in other lovely eyes. I was deeply moved by
the humble bow of a man whom I had once known as wealthy and
respectable, and who had since become a beggar. Everywhere in the world
we see that men when they once begin to fall, do so according to
Newton's law, ever faster and faster as they descend to misery. One,
however, who did not seem to be in the least changed was the little
baron, who tripped merrily as of old through the Court Garden, holding
with one hand his left coat-skirt on high, and with the other swinging
hither and thither his light cane;--he still had the same genial face as
of old, its rosy bloom now somewhat concentrated towards the nose, but
he had the same comical hat and the same old queue behind, only that the
hairs which peeped from it were now white instead of black. But merry as
the old baron seemed, it was still evident that he had suffered much
sorrow--his face would fain conceal it, but the white hairs of his queue
betrayed him behind his back. Yet the queue itself seemed striving to
lie, so merrily did it shake.
I was not weary, but a fancy seized me to sit once more on the wooden
bench, on which I had once carved the name of my love. I could hardly
discover it there, so many new names were cut around. Ah! once I slept
upon this bench, and dreamed of happiness and love. "Dreams are foam."
And the old games of childhood came again to my memory, and with them
old and beautiful stories; but a new treacherous game, and a new
terrible tale ever resounded through them, and it was the story of two
poor souls who were untrue to each other, and went so far in their
untruth, that they were at last untrue to the dear God himself. It is a
sad story, and when one has nothing better to do, one can weep over it.
Oh, Lord! once the world was so beautiful, and the birds sang thy
eternal praise, and little Veronica looked at me with silent eyes, and
we sat by the marble statue before the castle court; on one side lies
an old ruined castle, wherein ghosts wander, and at night a headless
lady in long, trailing black-silken garments sweeps around, and on the
other side is a high, white dwelling, in whose upper rooms gay pictures
gleamed beautifully in their golden frames, while below stood thousands
of mighty books, which Veronica and I beheld with longing when the good
Ursula lifted us up to the window. In later years, when I had become a
great boy, I climbed every day to the very top of the library ladder,
and brought down the topmost books, and read in them so long, that
finally I feared nothing--least of all ladies without heads--and became
so wise that I forgot all the old games and stories and pictures and
little Veronica, even her name.
But while I sat upon the old bench in the Court Garden, and dreamed my
way back into the past, there was a sound behind me of the confused
voices of men lamenting the ill-fortune of the poor French soldiers,
who, having been taken prisoners in the Russian war and sent to Siberia,
had there been kept prisoners for many a long year, though peace had
been re-established, and who now were returning home. As I looked up, I
beheld in reality these orphan children of Fame. Through their tattered
uniforms peeped naked misery, deep sorrowing eyes were couched in their
desolate faces, and though mangled, weary, and mostly lame, something of
the military manner was still visible in their mien. Singularly enough,
they were preceded by a drummer who tottered along with a drum, and I
shuddered as I recalled the old legend of soldiers, who had fallen in
battle, and who by night rising again from their graves on the
battle-field, and with the drummer at their head, marched back to their
native city. And of them the old ballad sings thus--
"He beat on the drum with might and main,
To their old night-quarters they go again;
Through the lighted street they come;
Trallerie--trallerei--trallera,
They march before Sweetheart's home.
And their bones lie there at break of day,
As white as tombstones in cold array,
And the drummer he goes before;
Trallerie--trallerei--trallera,
And we see them come no more."
Truly the poor French drummer seemed to have risen but half repaired
from the grave. He was but a little shadow in a dirty patched grey
capote, a dead yellow countenance, with a great moustache which hung
down sorrowfully over his faded lips, his eyes were like burnt-out
tinder, in which but a few sparks still gleamed, and yet by one of those
sparks I recognised Monsieur Le Grand.
He too recognised me and drew me to the turf, and we sat down together
as of old, when he taught me French and Modern History on the drum. He
had still the well-known old drum, and I could not sufficiently wonder
how he had preserved it from Russian plunderers. And he drummed again as
of old, but without speaking a word. But though his lips were firmly
pressed together, his eyes spoke all the more, flashing fiercely and
victoriously as he drummed the old marches. The poplars near us
trembled, as he again thundered forth the red guillotine march. And he
drummed as before the old war of freedom, the old battles, the deeds of
the Emperor, and it seemed as though the drum itself were a living
creature which rejoiced to speak out its inner soul. I heard once more
the thunder of cannon, the whistling of balls, the riot of battle; I saw
once more the death rage of the Guards,--the waving flags, again, the
Emperor on his steed--but little by little there fell a sad tone in amid
the most stirring confusion, sounds rang from the drum, in which the
wildest hurrahs and the most fearful grief were mysteriously mingled; it
seemed a march of victory and a march of death. Le Grand's eyes opened
spirit-like and wide, and I saw in them nothing but a broad white field
of ice covered with corpses--it was the battle of Moscow.
I had never thought that the hard old drum could give forth such wailing
sounds as Monsieur Le Grand had drawn from it. They were tears which he
drummed, and they sounded ever softer and softer, and, like a troubled
echo, deep sighs broke from Le Grand's breast. And he became ever more
languid and ghost-like, his dry hands trembled, as if from frost, he sat
as in a dream, and stirred with his drum-stick nothing but the air, and
seemed listening to voices far away, and at last he gazed on me with a
deep, entreating glance--I understood him--and then his head sank down
on the drum.
In this life Monsieur Le Grand never drummed more. And his drum never
gave forth another sound; it was not destined to serve the enemies of
liberty for their servile roll calls. I had well understood Le Grand's
last entreating glance, and at once drew the sword from my cane, and
pierced the drum.