One stormy season about the beginning of the present century, a great
tree came down among certain moss-covered ridges of old masonry which
break the surface of the Rosenmold heath, exposing, together with its
roots, the remains of two persons. Whether the bodies (male and female,
said German bone-science) had been purposely buried there was
questionable. They seemed rather to have been hidden away by the
accident, whatever it was, which had caused death--crushed, perhaps,
under what had been the low wall of a garden--being much distorted, and
lying, though neatly enough discovered by the upheaval of the soil, in
great confusion. People's attention was the more attracted to the
incident because popular fancy had long run upon a tradition of buried
treasures, golden treasures, in or about the antiquated ruin which the
garden boundary enclosed; the roofless shell of a small but
solidly-built stone house, burnt or overthrown, perhaps in the time of
the wars at the beginning of the eighteenth century. Many persons went
to visit the remains lying out on the dark, wild plateau, which
stretches away above the tallest roofs of the old grand-ducal town,
very distinctly outlined, on that day, in deep fluid grey against a sky
still heavy with coming rain. No treasure, indeed, was forthcoming
among the masses of fallen stone. But the tradition was so far
verified, that the bones had rich golden ornaments about them; and for
the minds of some long-remembering people their discovery set at rest
an old query. It had never been precisely known what was become of the
young Duke Carl, who disappeared from the world just a century before,
about the time when a great army passed over those parts, at a
political crisis, one result of which was the final absorption of his
small territory in a neighbouring dominion. Restless, romantic,
eccentric, had he passed on with the victorious host, and taken the
chances of an obscure soldier's life? Certain old letters hinted at a
different ending--love-letters which provided for a secret meeting,
preliminary perhaps to the final departure of the young Duke (who, by
the usage of his realm, could only with extreme difficulty go whither,
or marry whom, he pleased) to whatever worlds he had chosen, not of his
own people. The minds of those still interested in the matter were now
at last made up, the disposition of the remains suggesting to them the
lively picture of a sullen night, the unexpected passing of the great
army, and the two lovers rushing forth wildly at the sudden tumult
outside their cheerful shelter, caught in the dark and trampled out so,
surprised and unseen, among the horses and heavy guns.
Time, at the court of the Grand-duke of Rosenmold, at the beginning of
the eighteenth century might seem to have been standing still almost
since the Middle Age--since the days of the Emperor Charles the Fifth,
at which period, by the marriage of the hereditary Grand-duke with a
princess of the Imperial house, a sudden tide of wealth, flowing
through the grand-ducal exchequer, had left a kind of golden
architectural splendour on the place, always too ample for its
population. The sloping Gothic roofs for carrying off the heavy snows
still indented the sky--a world of tiles, with space uncurtailed for
the awkward gambols of that very German goblin, Hans Klapper, on the
long, slumberous, northern nights. Whole quarryfuls of wrought stone
had been piled along the streets and around the squares, and were now
grown, in truth, like nature's self again, in their rough, time-worn
massiveness, with weeds and wild flowers where their decay accumulated,
blossoming, always the same, beyond people's memories, every summer, as
the storks came back to their platforms on the remote chimney-tops.
Without, all was as it had been on the eve of the Thirty Years' War:
the venerable dark-green mouldiness, priceless pearl of architectural
effect, was unbroken by a single new gable. And within, human life--its
thoughts, its habits, above all, its etiquette--had keen put out by no
matter of excitement, political or intellectual, ever at all, one might
say, at any time. The rambling grand-ducal palace was full to
overflowing with furniture, which, useful or useless, was all
ornamental, and none of it new. Suppose the various objects, especially
the contents of the haunted old lumber-rooms, duly arranged and
ticketed, and their Highnesses would have had a historic museum, after
which those famed "Green Vaults" at Dresden would hardly have counted
as one of the glories of Augustus the Strong. An immense heraldry, that
truly German vanity, had grown, expatiating, florid, eloquent, over
everything, without and within--windows, house-fronts, church walls,
and church floors. And one-half of the male inhabitants were big or
little State functionaries, mostly of a quasi decorative order--the
treble-singer to the town-council, the court organist, the court poet,
and the like--each with his deputies and assistants, maintaining, all
unbroken, a sleepy ceremonial, to make the hours just noticeable as
they slipped away. At court, with a continuous round of ceremonies,
which, though early in the day, must always take place under a jealous
exclusion of the sun, one seemed to live in perpetual candle-light.
It was in a delightful rummaging of one of those lumber-rooms, escaped
from that candle-light into the broad day of the uppermost windows,
that the young Duke Carl laid his hand on an old volume of the year
1486, printed in heavy type, with frontispiece, perhaps, by Albert
Duerer--Ars Versificandi: The Art of Versification: by Conrad Celtes.
Crowned poet of the Emperor Frederick the Third, he had the right to
speak on that subject; for while he vindicated as best he might old
German literature against the charge of barbarism, he did also a man's
part towards reviving in the Fatherland the knowledge of the poetry of
Greece and Rome; and for Carl, the pearl, the golden nugget, of the
volume was the Sapphic ode with which it closed--To Apollo, praying
that he would come to us from Italy, bringing his lyre with him: Ad
Apollinem, Ut ab Italis cum lyra ad Germanos veniat. The god of light,
coming to Germany from some more favoured world beyond it, over leagues
of rainy hill and mountain, making soft day there: that had ever been
the dream of the ghost-ridden yet deep-feeling and certainly meek
German soul; of the great Duerer, for instance, who had been the friend
of this Conrad Celtes, and himself, all German as he was, like a gleam
of real day amid that hyperborean German darkness--a darkness which
clave to him, too, at that dim time, when there were violent robbers,
nay, real live devils, in every German wood. And it was precisely the
aspiration of Carl himself. Those verses, coming to the boy's hand at
the right moment, brought a beam of effectual daylight to a whole
magazine of observation, fancy, desire, stored up from the first
impressions of childhood. To bring Apollo with his lyre to Germany! It
was precisely that he, Carl, desired to do--was, as he might flatter
himself, actually doing.
The daylight, the Apolline aurora, which the young Duke Carl claimed to
be bringing to his candle-lit people, came in the somewhat questionable
form of the contemporary French ideal, in matters of art and
literature--French plays, French architecture, French
looking-glasses--Apollo in the dandified costume of Lewis the
Fourteenth. Only, confronting the essentially aged and decrepit graces
of his model with his own essentially youthful temper, he invigorated
what he borrowed; and with him an aspiration towards the classical
ideal, so often hollow and insincere, lost all its affectation. His
doating grandfather, the reigning Grand-duke, afforded readily enough,
from the great store of inherited wealth which would one day be the
lad's, the funds necessary for the completion of the vast unfinished
Residence, with "pavilions" (after the manner of the famous Mansard)
uniting its scattered parts; while a wonderful flowerage of
architectural fancy, with broken attic roofs, passed over and beyond
the earlier fabric; the later and lighter forms being in part carved
adroitly out of the heavy masses of the old, honest, "stump Gothic"
tracery. One fault only Carl found in his French models, and was
resolute to correct. He would have, at least within, real marble in
place of stucco, and, if he might, perhaps solid gold for gilding.
There was something in the sanguine, floridly handsome youth, with his
alertness of mind turned wholly, amid the vexing preoccupations of an
age of war, upon embellishment and the softer things of life, which
soothed the testy humours of the old Duke, like the quiet physical
warmth of a fire or the sun. He was ready to preside with all ceremony
at a presentation of Marivaux's Death of Hannibal, played in the
original, with such imperfect mastery of the French accent as the
lovers of new light in Rosenmold had at command, in a theatre copied
from that at Versailles, lined with pale yellow satin, and with a
picture, amid the stucco braveries of the ceiling, of the Septentrional
Apollo himself, in somewhat watery red and blue. Innumerable wax lights
in cut-glass lustres were a thing of course. Duke Carl himself, attired
after the newest French fashion, played the part of Hannibal. The old
Duke, indeed, at a council-board devoted hitherto to matters of state,
would nod very early in certain long discussions on matters of
art--magnificent schemes, from this or that eminent contractor, for
spending his money tastefully, distinguishings of the rococo and the
baroque. On the other hand, having been all his life in close
intercourse with select humanity, self-conscious and arrayed for
presentation, he was a helpful judge of portraits and the various
degrees of the attainment of truth therein--a phase of fine art which
the grandson could not value too much. The sergeant-painter and the
deputy sergeant-painter were, indeed, conventional performers enough;
as mechanical in their dispensation of wigs, finger-rings, ruffles, and
simpers, as the figure of the armed knight who struck the bell in the
Residence tower. But scattered through its half-deserted rooms, state
bed-chambers and the like, hung the works of more genuine masters,
still as unadulterate as the hock, known to be two generations old, in
the grand-ducal cellar. The youth had even his scheme of inviting the
illustrious Antony Coppel to the court; to live there, if he would,
with the honours and emoluments of a prince of the blood. The
illustrious Mansard had actually promised to come, had not his sudden
death taken him away from earthly glory.
And at least, if one must forgo the masters, masterpieces might be had
for their price. For ten thousand marks--day ever to be remembered!--a
genuine work of "the Urbinate," from the cabinet of a certain
commercially-minded Italian grand-duke, was on its way to Rosenmold,
anxiously awaited as it came over rainy mountain-passes, and along the
rough German roads, through doubtful weather. The tribune, the throne
itself, were made ready in the presence-chamber, with hangings in the
grand-ducal colours, laced with gold, together with a speech and an
ode. Late at night, at last, the waggon was heard rumbling into the
courtyard, with the guest arrived in safety, but, if one must confess
one's self, perhaps forbidding at first sight. From a comfortless
portico, with all the grotesqueness of the Middle Age, supported by
brown, aged bishops, whose meditations no incident could distract, Our
Lady looked out no better than an unpretending nun, with nothing to say
the like of which one was used to hear. Certainly one was not
stimulated by, enwrapped, absorbed in the great master's doings; only,
with much private disappointment, put on one's mettle to defend him
against critics notoriously wanting in sensibility, and against one's
self. In truth, the painter whom Carl most unaffectedly enjoyed, the
real vigour of his youthful and somewhat animal taste finding here its
proper sustenance, was Rubens--Rubens reached, as he is reached at his
best, in well-preserved family portraits, fresh, gay, ingenious, as of
privileged young people who could never grow old. Had not he, too,
brought something of the splendour of a "better land" into those
northern regions; if not the glowing gold of Titian's Italian sun, yet
the carnation and yellow of roses or tulips, such as might really grow
there with cultivation, even under rainy skies? And then, about this
time something was heard at the grand-ducal court of certain mysterious
experiments in the making of porcelain; veritable alchemy, for the
turning of clay into gold. The reign of Dresden china was at hand, with
one's own world of little men and women more delightfully diminutive
still, amid imitations of artificial flowers. The young Duke braced
himself for a plot to steal the gifted Herr Boettcher from his enforced
residence, as if in prison, at the fortress of Meissen. Why not bring
pots and wheels to Rosenmold, and prosecute his discoveries there? The
Grand-duke, indeed, preferred his old service of gold plate, and would
have had the lad a virtuoso in nothing less costly than gold--gold
snuff-boxes.
For, in truth, regarding what belongs to art or culture, as elsewhere,
we may have a large appetite and little to feed on. Only, in the things
of the mind, the appetite itself counts for so much, at least in
hopeful, unobstructed youth, with the world before it. "You are the
Apollo you tell us of, the northern Apollo," people were beginning to
say to him, surprised from time to time by a mental purpose beyond
their guesses--expressions, liftings, softly gleaming or vehement
lights, in the handsome countenance of the youth, and his effective
speech, as he roamed, inviting all about him to share the honey, from
music to painting, from painting to the drama, all alike florid in
style, yes! and perhaps third-rate. And so far consistently throughout
he had held that the centre of one's intellectual system must be
understood to be in France. He had thoughts of proceeding to that
country, secretly, in person, there to attain the very impress of its
genius.
Meantime, its more portable flowers came to order in abundance. That
the roses, so to put it, were but excellent artificial flowers,
redolent only of musk, neither disproved for Carl the validity of his
ideal nor for our minds the vocation of Carl himself in these matters.
In art, as in all other things of the mind, again, much depends on the
receiver; and the higher informing capacity, if it exist within, will
mould an unpromising matter to itself, will realise itself by
selection, and the preference of the better in what is bad or
indifferent, asserting its prerogative under the most unlikely
conditions. People had in Carl, could they have understood it, the
spectacle, under those superficial braveries, of a really heroic effort
of mind at a disadvantage. That rococo seventeenth-century French
imitation of the true Renaissance, called out in Carl a boundless
enthusiasm, as the Italian original had done two centuries before. He
put into his reception of the aesthetic achievements of Lewis the
Fourteenth what young France had felt when Francis the First brought
home the great Da Vinci and his works. It was but himself truly, after
all, that he had found, so fresh and real, among those artificial roses.
He was thrown the more upon such outward and sensuous products of
mind--architecture, pottery, presently on music--because for him, with
so large intellectual capacity, there was, to speak properly, no
literature in his mother-tongue. Books there were, German books, but of
a dulness, a distance from the actual interests of the warm, various,
coloured life around and within him, to us hardly conceivable. There
was more entertainment in the natural train of his own solitary
thoughts, humoured and rightly attuned by pleasant visible objects,
than in all the books he had hunted through so carefully for that
all-searching intellectual light, of which a passing gleam of interest
gave fallacious promise here or there. And still, generously, he held
to the belief, urging him to fresh endeavour, that the literature which
might set heart and mind free must exist somewhere, though court
librarians could not say where. In search for it he spent many days in
those old book-closets where he had lighted on the Latin ode of Conrad
Celtes. Was German literature always to remain no more than a kind of
penal apparatus for the teasing of the brain? Oh for a literature set
free, conterminous with the interests of life itself.
In music, it might be thought, Germany had already vindicated its
spiritual liberty. One and another of those North-german towns were
already aware of the youthful Sebastian Bach. The first notes had been
heard of a music not borrowed from France, but flowing, as naturally as
springs from their sources, out of the ever musical soul of Germany
itself. And the Duke Carl was a sincere lover of music, himself playing
melodiously on the violin to a delighted court. That new Germany of the
spirit would be builded, perhaps, to the sound of music. In those other
artistic enthusiasms, as the prophet of the French drama or the
architectural taste of Lewis the Fourteenth, he had contributed himself
generously, helping out with his own good-faith the inadequacy of their
appeal. Music alone hitherto had really helped HIM, and taken him out
of himself. To music, instinctively, more and more he was dedicate; and
in his desire to refine and organise the court music, from which, by
leave of absence to official performers enjoying their salaries at a
distance, many parts had literally fallen away, like the favourite
notes of a worn-out spinet, he was ably seconded by a devoted youth,
the deputy organist of the grand-ducal chapel. A member of the Roman
Church amid a people chiefly of the Reformed religion, Duke Carl would
creep sometimes into the curtained court pew of the Lutheran Church, to
which he had presented its massive golden crucifix, to listen to the
chorales, the execution of which he had managed to time to his liking,
relishing, he could hardly explain why, those passages of a pleasantly
monotonous and, as it might seem, unending melody--which certainly
never came to what could rightly be called an ending here on earth; and
having also a sympathy with the cheerful genius of Dr. Martin Luther,
with his good tunes, and that ringing laughter which sent dull goblins
flitting.
At this time, then, his mind ran eagerly for awhile on the project of
some musical and dramatic development of a fancy suggested by that old
Latin poem of Conrad Celtes--the hyperborean Apollo, sojourning, in the
revolutions of time, in the sluggish north for a season, yet Apollo
still, prompting art, music, poetry, and the philosophy which
interprets man's life, making a sort of intercalary day amid the
natural darkness; not meridian day, of course, but a soft derivative
daylight, good enough for us. It would be necessarily a mystic piece,
abounding in fine touches, suggestions, innuendoes. His vague proposal
was met half-way by the very practical executant power of his friend or
servant, the deputy organist, already pondering, with just a satiric
flavour (suppressible in actual performance, if the time for that
should ever come) a musical work on Duke Carl himself; Balder, an
Interlude. He was contented to re-cast and enlarge the part of the
northern god of light, with a now wholly serious intention. But still,
the near, the real and familiar, gave precision to, or actually
superseded, the distant and the ideal. The soul of the music was but a
transfusion from the fantastic but so interesting creature close at
hand. And Carl was certainly true to his proposed part in that he
gladdened others by an intellectual radiance which had ceased to mean
warmth or animation for himself. For him the light was still to seek in
France, in Italy, above all in old Greece, amid the precious things
which might yet be lurking there unknown, in art, in poetry, perhaps in
very life, till Prince Fortunate should come.
Yes! it was thither, to Greece, that his thoughts were turned during
those romantic classical musings while the opera was made ready. That,
in due time, was presented, with sufficient success. Meantime, his
purpose was grown definite to visit that original country of the Muses,
from which the pleasant things of Italy had been but derivative; to
brave the difficulties in the way of leaving home at all, the
difficulties also of access to Greece, in the present condition of the
country.
At times the fancy came that he must really belong by descent to a
southern race, that a physical cause might lie beneath this strange
restlessness, like the imperfect reminiscence of something that had
passed in earlier life. The aged ministers of heraldry were set to work
(actually prolonging their days by an unexpected revival of interest in
their too well-worn function) at the search for some obscure rivulet of
Greek descent--later Byzantine Greek, perhaps,--in the Rosenmold
genealogy. No! with a hundred quarterings, they were as indigenous,
incorruptible heraldry reasserted, as the old yew-trees' asquat on the
heath.
And meantime those dreams of remote and probably adventurous travel
lent the youth, still so healthy of body, a wing for more distant
expeditions than he had ever yet inclined to, among his own wholesome
German woodlands. In long rambles, afoot or on horseback, by day and
night, he flung himself, for the resettling of his sanity, on the
cheerful influences of their simple imagery; the hawks, as if asleep on
the air below him; the bleached crags, evoked by late sunset among the
dark oaks; the water-wheels, with their pleasant murmur, in the
foldings of the hillside.
Clouds came across his heaven, little sudden clouds, like those which
in this northern latitude, where summer is at best but a flighty
visitor, chill out the heart, though but for a few minutes at a time,
of the warmest afternoon. He had fits of the gloom of other
people--their dull passage through and exit from the world, the
threadbare incidents of their lives, their dismal funerals--which,
unless he drove them away immediately by strenuous exercise, settled
into a gloom more properly his own. Yet at such times outward things
also would seem to concur unkindly in deepening the mental shadow about
him, almost as if there were indeed animation in the natural world,
elfin spirits in those inaccessible hillsides and dark ravines, as old
German poetry pretended, cheerfully assistant sometimes, but for the
most part troublesome, to their human kindred. Of late these fits had
come somewhat more frequently, and had continued. Often it was a weary,
deflowered face that his favourite mirrors reflected. Yes! people were
prosaic, and their lives threadbare:---all but himself and organist
Max, perhaps, and Fritz the treble-singer. In return, the people in
actual contact with him thought him a little mad, though still ready to
flatter his madness, as he could detect. Alone with the doating old
grandfather in their stiff, distant, alien world of etiquette, he felt
surrounded by flatterers, and would fain have tested the sincerity even
of Max, and Fritz who said, echoing the words of the other, "Yourself,
Sire, are the Apollo of Germany!"
It was his desire to test the sincerity of the people about him, and
unveil flatterers, which in the first instance suggested a trick he
played upon the court, upon all Europe. In that complex but wholly
Teutonic genealogy lately under research, lay a much-prized thread of
descent from the fifth Emperor Charles, and Carl, under direction, read
with much readiness to be impressed all that was attainable concerning
the great ancestor, finding there in truth little enough to reward his
pains. One hint he took, however. He determined to assist at his own
obsequies.
That he might in this way facilitate that much-desired journey occurred
to him almost at once as an accessory motive, and in a little while
definite motives were engrossed in the dramatic interest, the pleasing
gloom, the curiosity, of the thing itself. Certainly, amid the living
world in Germany, especially in old, sleepy Rosenmold, death made great
parade of itself. Youth even, in its sentimental mood, was ready to
indulge in the luxury of decay, and amuse itself with fancies of the
tomb; as in periods of decadence or suspended progress, when the world
seems to nap for a time, artifices for the arrest or disguise of old
age are adopted as a fashion, and become the fopperies of the young.
The whole body of Carl's relations, saving the drowsy old grandfather,
already lay buried beneath their expansive heraldries: at times the
whole world almost seemed buried thus--made and re-made of the
dead--its entire fabric of politics, of art, of custom, being
essentially heraldic "achievements," dead men's mementoes such as
those. You see he was a sceptical young man, and his kinsmen dead and
gone had passed certainly, in his imaginations of them, into no other
world, save, perhaps, into some stiffer, slower, sleepier, and more
pompous phase of ceremony--the last degree of court etiquette--as they
lay there in the great, low-pitched, grand-ducal vault, in their
coffins, dusted once a year for All Souls' Day, when the court
officials descended thither, and Mass for the dead was sung, amid an
array of dropping crape and cobwebs. The lad, with his full red lips
and open blue eyes, coming as with a great cup in his hands to life's
feast, revolted from the like of that, as from suffocation. And still
the suggestion of it was everywhere. In the garish afternoon, up to the
wholesome heights of the Heiligenberg suddenly from one of the villages
of the plain came the grinding death-knell. It seemed to come out of
the ugly grave itself, and enjoyment was dead. On his way homeward
sadly, an hour later, he enters by chance the open door of a village
church, half buried in the tangle of its churchyard. The rude coffin is
lying there of a labourer who had but a hovel to live in. The enemy
dogged one's footsteps! The young Carl seemed to be flying, not from
death simply, but from assassination.
And as these thoughts sent him back in the rebounding power of youth,
with renewed appetite, to life and sense, so, grown at last familiar,
they gave additional purpose to his fantastic experiment. Had it not
been said by a wise man that after all the offence of death was in its
trappings? Well! he would, as far as might be, try the thing, while,
presumably, a large reversionary interest in life was still his. He
would purchase his freedom, at least of those gloomy "trappings," and
listen while he was spoken of as dead. The mere preparations gave
pleasant proof of the devotion to him of a certain number, who entered
without question into his plans. It is not difficult to mislead the
world concerning what happens to those who live at the artificial
distance from it of a court, with its high wall of etiquette. However
the matter was managed, no one doubted, when, with a blazon of
ceremonious words, the court news went forth that, after a brief
illness, according to the way of his race, the hereditary Grand-duke
was deceased. In momentary regret, bethinking them of the lad's taste
for splendour, those to whom the arrangement of such matters belonged
(the grandfather now sinking deeper into bare quiescence) backed by the
popular wish, determined to give him a funeral with even more than
grand-ducal measure of lugubrious magnificence. The place of his repose
was marked out for him as officiously as if it had been the
delimitation of a kingdom, in the ducal burial vault, through the
cobwebbed windows of which, from the garden where he played as a child,
the young Duke had often peered at the faded glories of the immense
coroneted coffins, the oldest shedding their velvet tatters around
them. Surrounded by the whole official world of Rosenmold, arrayed for
the occasion in almost forgotten dresses of ceremony as if for a
masquerade, the new coffin glided from the fragrant chapel where the
Requiem was sung, down the broad staircase lined with peach-colour and
yellow marble, into the shadows below. Carl himself, disguised as a
strolling musician, had followed it across the square through a
drenching rain, on which circumstance he overheard the old people
congratulate the "blessed" dead within, had listened to a dirge of his
own composing brought out on the great organ with much bravura by his
friend, the new court organist, who was in the secret, and that night
turned the key of the garden entrance to the vault, and peeped in upon
the sleepy, painted, and bewigged young pages whose duty it would be
for a certain number of days to come to watch beside their late
master's couch.
And a certain number of weeks afterwards it was known that "the mad
Duke" had reappeared, to the dismay of court marshals. Things might
have gone hard with the youth had the strange news, at first as
fantastic rumour, then as matter of solemn enquiry, lastly as
ascertained fact, pleasing or otherwise, been less welcome than it was
to the grandfather, too old, indeed, to sorrow deeply, but grown so
decrepit as to propose that ministers should possess themselves of the
person of the young Duke, proclaim him of age and regent. From those
dim travels, presenting themselves to the old man, who had never been
fifty miles away from home, as almost lunar in their audacity, he would
come back--come back "in time," he murmured faintly, eager to feel that
youthful, animating life on the stir about him once more.
Carl himself, now the thing was over, greatly relishing its satiric
elements, must be forgiven the trick of the burial and his still
greater enormity in coming to life again. And then, duke or no duke, it
was understood that he willed that things should in no case be
precisely as they had been. He would never again be quite so near
people's lives as in the past--a fitful, intermittent visitor--almost
as if he had been properly dead; the empty coffin remaining as a kind
of symbolical "coronation incident," setting forth his future relations
to his subjects. Of all those who believed him dead one human creature
only, save the grandfather, had sincerely sorrowed for him; a woman, in
tears as the funeral train passed by, with whom he had sympathetically
discussed his own merits. Till then he had forgotten the incident which
had exhibited him to her as the very genius of goodness and strength;
how, one day, driving with her country produce into the market, and,
embarrassed by the crowd, she had broken one of a hundred little police
rules, whereupon the officers were about to carry her away to be fined,
or worse, amid the jeers of the bystanders, always ready to deal hardly
with "the gipsy," at which precise moment the tall Duke Carl, like the
flash of a trusty sword, had leapt from the palace stair and caused her
to pass on in peace. She had half detected him through his disguise; in
due time news of his reappearance had been ceremoniously carried to her
in her little cottage, and the remembrance of her hung about him not
ungratefully, as he went with delight upon his way.
The first long stage of his journey over, in headlong flight night and
day, he found himself one summer morning under the heat of what seemed
a southern sun, at last really at large on the Bergstrasse, with the
rich plain of the Palatinate on his left hand; on the right hand
vineyards, seen now for the first time, sloping up into the crisp
beeches of the Odenwald. By Weinheim only an empty tower remained of
the Castle of Windeck. He lay for the night in the great whitewashed
guest-chamber of the Capuchin convent.
The national rivers, like the national woods, have a family likeness:
the Main, the Lahn, the Moselle, the Neckar, the Rhine. By help of such
accommodation as chance afforded, partly on the stream itself, partly
along the banks, he pursued the leisurely winding course of one of the
prettiest of these, tarrying for awhile in the towns, grey, white, or
red, which came in his way, tasting their delightful native "little"
wines, peeping into their old overloaded churches, inspecting the
church furniture, or trying the organs. For three nights he slept, warm
and dry, on the hay stored in a deserted cloister, and, attracted into
the neighbouring minster for a snatch of church music, narrowly escaped
detection. By miraculous chance the grimmest lord of Rosenmold was
there within, recognised the youth and his companions--visitors
naturally conspicuous, amid the crowd of peasants around them--and for
some hours was upon their traces. After unclean town streets the
country air was a perfume by contrast, or actually scented with
pinewoods. One seemed to breathe with it fancies of the woods, the
hills, and water--of a sort of souls in the landscape, but cheerful and
genial now, happy souls! A distant group of pines on the verge of a
great upland awoke a violent desire to be there--seemed to challenge
one to proceed thither. Was their infinite view thence? It was like an
outpost of some far-off fancy land, a pledge of the reality of such.
Above Cassel, the airy hills curved in one black outline against a
glowing sky, pregnant, one could fancy, with weird forms, which might
be at their old diableries again on those remote places ere night was
quite come there. At last in the streets, the hundred churches, of
Cologne, he feels something of a "Gothic" enthusiasm, and all a
German's enthusiasm for the Rhine.
Through the length and breadth of the Rhine country the vintage was
begun. The red ruins on the heights, the white-walled villages, white
Saint Nepomuc upon the bridges, were but isolated high notes of
contrast in a landscape, sleepy and indistinct under the flood of
sunshine, with a headiness in it like that of must, of the new wine.
The noise of the vineyards came through the lovely haze, still, at
times, with the sharp sound of a bell--death-bell, perhaps, or only a
crazy summons to the vintagers. And amid those broad, willowy reaches
of the Rhine at length, from Bingen to Mannheim, where the brown hills
wander into airy, blue distance, like a little picture of paradise, he
felt that France was at hand. Before him lay the road thither, easy and
straight.--That well of light so close! But, unexpectedly, the
capricious incidence of his own humour with the opportunity did not
suggest, as he would have wagered it must, "Go, drink at once!" Was it
that France had come to be of no account at all, in comparison of
Italy, of Greece? or that, as he passed over the German land, the
conviction had come, "For you, France, Italy, Hellas, is here!"--that
some recognition of the untried spiritual possibilities of meek Germany
had for Carl transferred the ideal land out of space beyond the Alps or
the Rhine, into future time, whither he must be the leader? A little
chilly of humour, in spite of his manly strength, he was journeying
partly in search of physical heat. To-day certainly, in this great
vineyard, physical heat was about him in measure sufficient, at least
for a German constitution. Might it be not otherwise with the
imaginative, the intellectual, heat and light; the real need being that
of an interpreter--Apollo, illuminant rather as the revealer than as
the bringer of light? With large belief that the Eclaircissement, the
Aufklaerung (he had already found the name for the thing) would indeed
come, he had been in much bewilderment whence and how. Here, he began
to see that it could be in no other way than by action of informing
thought upon the vast accumulated material of which Germany was in
possession: art, poetry, fiction, an entire imaginative world,
following reasonably upon a deeper understanding of the past, of
nature, of one's self--an understanding of all beside through the
knowledge of one's self. To understand, would be the indispensable
first step towards the enlargement of the great past, of one's little
present, by criticism, by imagination. Then, the imprisoned souls of
nature would speak as of old. The Middle Age, in Germany, where the
past has had such generous reprisals, never far from us, would reassert
its mystic spell, for the better understanding of our Raffaelle. The
spirits of distant Hellas would reawake in the men and women of little
German towns. Distant times, the most alien thoughts, would come near
together, as elements in a great historic symphony. A kind of ardent,
new patriotism awoke in him, sensitive for the first time at the words
NATIONAL poesy, NATIONAL art and literature, GERMAN philosophy. To the
resources of the past, of himself, of what was possible for German
mind, more and more his mind opens as he goes on his way. A free, open
space had been determined, which something now to be created, created
by him, must occupy. "Only," he thought, "if I had coadjutors! If these
thoughts would awake in but one other mind?"
At Strasbourg, with its mountainous goblin houses, nine stories high,
grouped snugly, in the midst of that inclement plain, like a great
stork's nest around the romantic red steeple of its cathedral, Duke
Carl became fairly captive to the Middle Age. Tarrying there week after
week he worked hard, but (without a ray of light from others) in one
long mistake, at the chronology and history of the coloured windows.
Antiquity's very self seemed expressed there, on the visionary images
of king or patriarch, in the deeply incised marks of character, the
hoary hair, the massive proportions, telling of a length of years
beyond what is lived now. Surely, past ages, could one get at the
historic soul of them, were not dead but living, rich in company, for
the entertainment, the expansion, of the present; and Duke Carl was
still without suspicion of the cynic afterthought that such historic
soul was but an arbitrary substitution, a generous loan of one's self.
The mystic soul of Nature laid hold on him next, saying, "Come!
understand, interpret me!" He was awakened one morning by the jingle of
sledge-bells along the street beneath his windows. Winter had descended
betimes from the mountains: the pale Rhine below the bridge of boats on
the long way to Kehl was swollen with ice, and for the first time he
realised that Switzerland was at hand. On a sudden he was captive to
the enthusiasm of the mountains, and hastened along the valley of the
Rhine by Alt Breisach and Basle, unrepelled by a thousand difficulties,
to Swiss farmhouses and lonely villages, solemn still, and untouched by
strangers. At Grindelwald, sleeping at last in the close neighbourhood
of the greater Alps, he had the sense of an overbrooding presence, of
some strange new companions around him. Here one might yield one's self
to the unalterable imaginative appeal of the elements in their highest
force and simplicity--light, air, water, earth. On very early spring
days a mantle was suddenly lifted; the Alps were an apex of natural
glory, towards which, in broadening spaces of light, the whole of
Europe sloped upwards. Through them, on the right hand, as he journeyed
on, were the doorways to Italy, to Como or Venice, from yonder peak
Italy's self was visible!--as, on the left hand, in the South-german
towns, in a high-toned, artistic fineness, in the dainty, flowered
ironwork for instance, the overflow of Italian genius was traceable.
These things presented themselves at last only to remind him that, in a
new intellectual hope, he was already on his way home. Straight through
life, straight through nature and man, with one's own self-knowledge as
a light thereon, not by way of the geographical Italy or Greece, lay
the road to the new Hellas, to be realised now as the outcome of
home-born German genius. At times, in that early fine weather, looking
now not southwards, but towards Germany, he seemed to trace the
outspread of a faint, not wholly natural, aurora over the dark northern
country. And it was in an actual sunrise that the news came which
finally put him on the directest road homewards. One hardly dared
breathe in the rapid uprise of all-embracing light which seemed like
the intellectual rising of the Fatherland, when up the straggling path
to his high beech-grown summit (was one safe nowhere?) protesting over
the roughness of the way, came the too familiar voices (ennui itself
made audible) of certain high functionaries of Rosenmold, come to claim
their new sovereign, close upon the runaway.
Bringing news of the old Duke's decease! With a real grief at his
heart, he hastened now over the ground which lay between him and the
bed of death, still trying, at quieter intervals, to snatch profit by
the way; peeping, at the most unlikely hours, on the objects of his
curiosity, waiting for a glimpse of dawn through glowing church
windows, penetrating into old church treasuries by candle-light, taxing
the old courtiers to pant up, for "the view," to this or that
conspicuous point in the world of hilly woodland. From one such at
last, in spite of everything with pleasure to Carl, old Rosenmold was
visible--the attic windows of the Residence, the storks on the
chimneys, the green copper roofs baking in the long, dry German summer.
The homeliness of true old Germany! He too felt it, and yearned
towards his home.
And the "beggar-maid" was there. Thoughts of her had haunted his mind
all the journey through, as he was aware, not unpleased, graciously
overflowing towards any creature he found dependent upon him. The mere
fact that she was awaiting him, at his disposition, meekly, and as
though through his long absence she had never quitted the spot on which
he had said farewell, touched his fancy, and on a sudden concentrated
his wavering preference into a practical decision. "King Cophetua"
would be hers. And his goodwill sunned her wild-grown beauty into
majesty, into a kind of queenly richness. There was natural majesty in
the heavy waves of golden hair folded closely above the neck, built a
little massively; and she looked kind, beseeching also, capable of
sorrow. She was like clear sunny weather, with bluebells and the green
leaves, between rainy days, and seemed to embody Die Ruh auf dem
Gipfel--all the restful hours he had spent of late in the wood-sides
and on the hilltops. One June day, on which she seemed to have
withdrawn into herself all the tokens of summer, brought decision to
our lover of artificial roses, who had cared so little hitherto for the
like of her. Grand-duke perforce, he would make her his wife, and had
already re-assured her with lively mockery of his horrified ministers.
"Go straight to life!" said his new poetic code; and here was the
opportunity;--here, also, the real "adventure," in comparison of which
his previous efforts that way seemed childish theatricalities, fit only
to cheat a little the profound ennui of actual life. In a hundred
stolen interviews she taught the hitherto indifferent youth the art of
love.
Duke Carl had effected arrangements for his marriage, secret, but
complete and soon to be made public. Long since he had cast complacent
eyes on a strange architectural relic, an old grange or hunting-lodge
on the heath, with he could hardly have defined what charm of
remoteness and old romance. Popular belief amused itself with reports
of the wizard who inhabited or haunted the place, his fantastic
treasures, his immense age. His windows might be seen glittering afar
on stormy nights, with a blaze of golden ornaments, said the more
adventurous loiterer. It was not because he was suspicious still, but
in a kind of wantonness of affection, and as if by way of giving yet
greater zest to the luxury of their mutual trust that Duke Carl added
to his announcement of the purposed place and time of the event a
pretended test of the girl's devotion. He tells her the story of the
aged wizard, meagre and wan, to whom she must find her way alone for
the purpose of asking a question all-important to himself. The fierce
old man will try to escape with terrible threats, will turn, or half
turn, into repulsive animals. She must cling the faster; at last the
spell will be broken; he will yield, he will become a youth once more,
and give the desired answer.
The girl, otherwise so self-denying, and still modestly anxious for a
private union, not to shame his high position in the world, had wished
for one thing at least--to be loved amid the splendours habitual to
him. Duke Carl sends to the old lodge his choicest personal
possessions. For many days the public is aware of something on hand; a
few get delightful glimpses of the treasures on their way to "the place
on the heath." Was he preparing against contingencies, should the great
army, soon to pass through these parts, not leave the country as
innocently as might be desired?
The short grey day seemed a long one to those who, for various reasons,
were waiting anxiously for the darkness; the court people fretful and
on their mettle, the townsfolk suspicious, Duke Carl full of amorous
longing. At her distant cottage beyond the hills, Gretchen kept herself
ready for the trial. It was expected that certain great military
officers would arrive that night, commanders of a victorious host
making its way across Northern Germany, with no great respect for the
rights of neutral territory, often dealing with life and property too
rudely to find the coveted treasure. It was but one episode in a cruel
war. Duke Carl did not wait for the grandly illuminated supper prepared
for their reception. Events precipitated themselves. Those officers
came as practically victorious occupants, sheltering themselves for the
night in the luxurious rooms of the great palace. The army was in fact
in motion close behind its leaders, who (Gretchen warm and happy in the
arms, not of the aged wizard, but of the youthful lover) are discussing
terms for the final absorption of the duchy with those traitorous old
councillors. At their delicate supper Duke Carl amuses his companion
with caricature, amid cries of cheerful laughter, of the sleepy
courtiers entertaining their martial guests in all their pedantic
politeness, like people in some farcical dream. A priest, and certain
chosen friends to witness the marriage, were to come ere nightfall to
the grange. The lovers heard, as they thought, the sound of distant
thunder. The hours passed as they waited, and what came at last was not
the priest with his companions. Could they have been detained by the
storm? Duke Carl gently re-assures the girl--bids her believe in him,
and wait. But through the wind, grown to tempest, beyond the sound of
the violent thunder--louder than any possible thunder--nearer and
nearer comes the storm of the victorious army, like some disturbance of
the earth itself, as they flee into the tumult, out of the intolerable
confinement and suspense, dead-set upon them.
The Enlightening, the Aufklaerung, according to the aspiration of Duke
Carl, was effected by other hands; Lessing and Herder, brilliant
precursors of the age of genius which centered in Goethe, coming well
within the natural limits of Carl's lifetime. As precursors Goethe
gratefully recognised them, and understood that there had been a
thousand others, looking forward to a new era in German literature with
the desire which is in some sort a "forecast of capacity," awakening
each other to the permanent reality of a poetic ideal in human life,
slowly forming that public consciousness to which Goethe actually
addressed himself. It is their aspirations I have tried to embody in
the portrait of Carl.
"A hard winter had covered the Main with a firm footing of ice. The
liveliest social intercourse was quickened thereon. I was unfailing
from early morning onwards; and, being lightly clad, found myself, when
my mother drove up later to look on, fairly frozen. My mother sat in
the carriage, quite stately in her furred cloak of red velvet, fastened
on the breast with thick gold cord and tassels.
"'Dear mother,' I said, on the spur of the moment, 'give me your furs,
I am frozen.'
"She was equally ready. In a moment I had on the cloak. Falling below
the knee, with its rich trimming of sables, and enriched with gold, it
became me excellently. So clad I made my way up and down with a
cheerful heart."
That was Goethe, perhaps fifty years later. His mother also related the
incident to Bettina Brentano;--"There, skated my son, like an arrow
among the groups. Away he went over the ice like a son of the gods.
Anything so beautiful is not to be seen now. I clapped my hands for
joy. Never shall I forget him as he darted out from one arch of the
bridge, and in again under the other, the wind carrying the train
behind him as he flew." In that amiable figure I seem to see the
fulfilment of the Resurgam on Carl's empty coffin--the aspiring soul of
Carl himself, in freedom and effective, at last.