TALES
FROM
THE GERMAN,
COMPRISING
SPECIMENS FROM THE MOST CELEBRATED AUTHORS.
TRANSLATED BY
JOHN OXENFORD AND C. A. FEILING.
LONDON:
CHAPMAN AND HALL, 186, STRAND.
1844.
C. WHITING, BEAUFORT HOUSE, STRAND.
TABLE OF CONTENTS.
INTRODUCTION
LIBUSSA. BY J. H. MUSÆUS. (J. O.)
THE CRIMINAL FROM LOST HONOUR. BY FRIEDRICH SCHILLER. (J. O.)
THE COLD HEART. BY WILHELM HAUFF. (C. A. F.)
THE WONDERS IN THE SPESSART. BY KARL IMMERMANN. (J. O.)
NOSE, THE DWARF. BY W. HAUFF. (C. A. F.)
AXEL. BY C. F. VAN DER VELDE. (C. A. F.)
THE SANDMAN. BY E. T. W. HOFFMANN. (J. O.)
MICHAEL KOHLHAAS. BY HEINRICH VON KLEIST. (J. O.)
THE KLAUSENBURG. BY LUDWIG TIECK. (C. A. F.)
THE MOON. BY JEAN PAUL FRIEDRICH RICHTER. (J. O.)
THE ELEMENTARY SPIRIT. BY E. T. W. HOFFMANN. (J. O.)
ST. CECILIA; OR, THE POWER OF MUSIC. BY H. VON KLEIST. (J. O.)
THE NEW PARIS. BY J. W. GOETHE. (J. O.)
ALI AND GULHYNDI. BY ADAM OEHLENSCHLAEGER. (C. A. F.)
ALAMONTADE. BY HEINRICH ZSCHOKKE. (C. A. F.)
THE JESUITS’ CHURCH IN G----. BY E. T. W. HOFFMANN. (J. O.)
THE SEVERED HAND. BY W. HAUFF. (C. A. F.)
INTRODUCTION.
The object of the translators of the following tales was to present the
English public with a collection, which should combine effectiveness
with variety, and at the same time should contain specimens of the most
celebrated writers of prose fiction whom Germany has produced. The
names of the authors will, they think, be a sufficient guarantee that
they have not failed in this last respect, and if the reader finds
himself amused or interested by the series, they will have succeeded
entirely.
It will be remembered that the collection is a collection of tales
only, and that it was absolutely necessary, according to the plan of
the book, that these tales should be numerous. Any thing like a
lengthened novel was therefore excluded, as it would have exceeded the
prescribed limits, or rendered impossible that variety which the
translators considered an essential of their work. That short tales,
from their very nature, cannot often promote any very high purpose, and
that amusement for a leisure hour is their principal purpose, the
translators are perfectly aware, admitting that their collection,
generally speaking, does not convey that amount of instruction in life
and thought, which might be obtained from more elaborate works, such
as, for example, the _Wilhelm Meister_ of Göthe. At the same time they
trust that Kleist’s _Michael Kohlhaas_, Zschokke’s _Alamontade_,
Schiller’s _Criminal from Lost Honour_[1] and even Hauff’s fanciful
_Cold Heart_, will be acceptable to those who look for something beyond
mere amusement, and that some readers will be found to appreciate the
psychological truth and profundity of Hoffmann’s tales beneath their
fantastic exterior.
In their versions of the tales the translators have endeavoured, to the
utmost of their power, to be correct, preferring even hardness of
language to liberties with the original text. The initials in the
table of contents will show who was the translator of each particular
tale; but it must not be supposed that they worked so separately that
the printer and the binder have alone connected the results of their
labours. Every tale when finished by the translator was carefully
revised by his colleague. In those instances alone have the
translators deviated from the original, where they found passages and
phrases that they conceived would not accord with English notions of
propriety. That in such instances they have softened or omitted, needs
no apology.[2]
It has been suggested to the translators that a notice of the authors
and the works themselves might, with advantage, be prefixed to the
collection. With this suggestion they have complied, trusting that the
limited space allowed will be a sufficient excuse for the very sketchy
nature of the biographies, if indeed the following notices are worthy
of that name.
* * * * *
Göthe and Schiller have attained that universal celebrity, that it
would be mere impertinence to say any thing about their lives in a
sketch like this. Those eminent promoters of German literature in this
country, Mr. T. Carlyle and Sir E. B. Lytton, have done all they could
to make the English public familiar with the life of Schiller, and a
tolerably full notice of his literary progress will be found in No. LX.
of the _Foreign Quarterly Review_. Those who can read German are
recommended to the elaborate life of Schiller by Dr. Hoffmeister, which
is a perfect treasury of information and criticism. The materials for
a biography of Göthe lie scattered through a vast quantity or
correspondence, reminiscences, conversations, and characteristics; but
a biography, such as the greatness of the subject requires, is still a
desideratum in German literature.
The _New Paris_, by Göthe, which appears in this collection, is from
that delightful autobiography, to which the poet has given the name of
_Dichtung und Wahrheit_. The circumstances under which it is told are
sufficiently explained by the short introduction prefixed to it.
Schiller’s _Criminal from Lost Honour_ was written during what is
called the “second period” of his life, when after the completion of
_Don Carlos_ he had quitted dramatic writing for a time, and devoted
himself to the study of philosophy and history. The facts of the story
he had learned from his friend Abel at an early period. Hoffmeister’s
remarks on this story may be found interesting.
“This misguided man, Wolf,” says Hoffmeister, “appears as a mournful
sacrifice to the law, which, from this example, should learn mercy.
The severity of law has, from a merely conventional offence, elicited a
grievous crime, and him, who sinned from thoughtlessness, and was
delivered to the care of justice, she has cast off as though he were
absolutely worthless. The progress in crime, which is gradually forced
upon the man by civil institutions, and his return to virtue, when vice
has completed her lesson, are developed and painted to our eyes with
extraordinary art. Every action is deduced from thoughts and motives;
and these, again, are deduced from states of mind, which necessarily
result from the reciprocal action which the soul of the man, and the
circumstances by which he was surrounded, had upon each other.
Everywhere do we find natural connexion; not a link in the chain is
wanting. This psychological novel, like a tragedy, awakens in the
reader not only pity, but terror. He feels that in the situation of
the unhappy man, he would not have been better himself. The writer
fulfils his purpose of plucking us down from our proud security. Man
is just as good or bad, we say to ourselves, as his external situation;
out external situation is the fate of all of us; and we see in the
history of a single individual a sketch of the common lot of man.
Moreover, this history of the ‘criminal’ is so remarkable in point of
style, that one always reads it with fresh interest. The language is
extremely simple, clear, and natural, and there is not a trace of the
wearisome, constantly occurring breaks, and the affected antitheses
that marked Schiller’s early style. Every thing shows that the author
moved in a clear, free element. In some portions he has been eminently
successful; as, for instance, in describing the poacher’s state of
mind, when he is about to point his gun, at his evil genius, Robert.
If, after all our praise, we have one particular to blame, it is this
circumstance, that the weakly and delicate ‘host of the Sun,’ who had
not as yet distinguished himself in the trade of thieving, should have
been unanimously chosen by the robbers for their leader, on his first
entrance into their cave. Although he was well known to them as a good
poacher, they might yet have reasonable doubts whether he was qualified
to be their captain.”
Before quitting Göthe and Schiller, it is as well to state that Göthe
was born at Frankfort on the Maine, on the 28th of August, 1749, and
died at Weimar on the 22nd of March, 1832; and that Schiller was born
at Marbach, on the Neckar, on the 10th of November, 1759, and died at
Weimar on the 9th of May, 1805.
Johann August Musäus, one of the most popular tale writers of Germany,
was born at Jena, in 1735. His father was a justice there, and was
soon afterwards removed to Eisenach, by an official appointment. Young
Musäus was educated by a relation named Weissenborn, who held the
situation of “General Superintendent” at Eisenach, and with whom he
lived from the age of nine to that of nineteen. He studied theology
for four years at Jena, and it is thought he might have succeeded as a
pastor had not the peasants of Eisenach refused to accept him, because
he had been convicted of the grievous crime of--dancing. In
consequence of this check to his theological career, he turned his
thoughts to literature, and made his first essay by a parody on
Richardson’s celebrated novel, called _Grandison the Second_, which
first appeared in 1760. In 1763 he was made Pagenhofmeister (governor
of the pages) at the court of Weimar, and some years afterwards
professor at the Gymnasium of that place. A considerable period
elapsed before he again appeared as an author, when he satirised
Lavater in a novel called the _Physiognomical Travels_. This had an
immense success, encouraged by which, he proceeded to collect materials
for his _Popular Tales of the Germans_. This collection he made in a
singular manner. Sometimes he would gather round him a crowd of old
women with their spinning-wheels and listen to their gossip, sometimes
he would hear the stories of children from the street. On one
occasion, his wife, returning from a visit, was surprised, as she
opened the room-door, by a cloud of tobacco smoke, through which she at
last discovered her husband sitting with an old soldier, who was
telling him all sorts of tales. On the stories collected by him thus
strangely, and afterwards narrated with great humour, though with
occasional vulgarity, the fame of Musäus chiefly depends. They were
written under the assumed name of Runkel, and were designed, according
to the author’s own statement, to put an end to the taste for
sentimentality. He began a new series of tales called _Ostrich
Feathers_, of which he only completed one volume. On the 28th of
October, 1787, he died of a polypus in the heart, and a handsome
monument was erected to him by an unknown hand. His _Popular Tales_
were, at the request of his widow, re-edited after his death by the
celebrated Wieland, and this is the edition now current. The story of
_Libussa_, which is taken from the _Popular Tales_ is founded on the
Latin history of Bohemia, by Dubravius, and the work of Æneas Sylvius,
_De Boliemorum gestis et origine_. The fables which are uttered by the
personages will be found in Dubravius.
The name of Jean Paul Friedrich Richter is almost as well known here as
that of Göthe and Schiller; but the eccentricity of his style, and the
quantity of local allusions with which he abounds, will probably for
ever prevent his works from being extensively read out of Germany.
Jean Paul was born at Wimsiedel, in the Baireuth territory, in the
early part of 1763, and died at Baireuth on the 14th of November, 1825.
He first wrote under the signature of “Jean Paul” only, this he
extended to “J. P. F. Halsus,” and it was to his _Quintus Fixlein_
(1796), that he first affixed his real and entire name. In 1780 he
went to Leipzig, but this he soon abandoned and resided for some time
at Schwarzbach. He visited various cities where he was greatly
respected, and received the title of “Legationsrath” from the Duke of
Sachsen-Hildburghausen, with a pension, which was afterwards paid by
the King of Bavaria. His favourite residence was, however, his native
Baireuth. A complete edition of his works, which are very numerous,
was published at Berlin in 21 vols., small octavo, in the year 1840,
and another in 4 vols., royal octavo, has been published by Baudry of
Paris. The short tale of the _Moon_ will give the reader a slight
notion--only a slight one--of Jean Paul’s peculiarities. It is
prefixed in the original to _Quintus Fixlein_. An interesting paper on
Jean Paul will be found in Mr. Carlyle’s admirable _Miscellanies_.
The fame of Ludwig Tieck as a writer of romances, and an enthusiastic
admirer of all that belongs to the romantic period of literature, is
almost as great in England as in Germany. In the history of the
“romantic” school, Tieck takes a most prominent position, being one of
the chief colleagues and most zealous partisans of the brothers
Schlegel. He was born at Berlin on the 31st of May, 1773, and even at
school displayed his talents for composition by the commencement of his
_Abdallah_. He studied at Halle, Göttingen, and Erlangen, and read
history and poetry, both ancient and modern, with great assiduity. In
1796, his novel, _William Lovell_, was published at Berlin. A journey
from Berlin to Jena made him acquainted with the Schlegels and
Hardenberg (Novalis), and at Weimar he became intimate with Herder.
His satirical dramas of _Blue Beard_ and _Puss in Boots_, displayed an
Aristophanic vein, and his works relating to art, began to attract
general attention. These were _The Outpourings from the Heart of an
Art-loving Cloister-brother_ (Berlin, 1797), the _Fantasies of Art_
(Hamburg, 1799), and _Franz Sternbald’s Travels_ (Berlin, 1798), in all
of which his friend Wackenrode more or less took a part. Tieck
cultivated his taste for the fine arts by a residence in Dresden,
Munich, and Rome, and at Jena kept up his acquaintance with Schelling
and the Schlegels. In the years 1799-1801, he published his
translation of _Don Quixote_, and about the same period several works
of imagination. In 1801-2 he resided at Dresden, and edited, with A.
W. Schlegel, the _Musenalmanach_. For the diffusion of a taste for the
middle-age literature of Germany, Tieck made an important contribution
by his publication of a selection of the _Minnelieder_ from the Swabian
period, that is to say, the period of the German emperors during the
dynasty of the Hohenstauffen family, with an elaborate preface, in
which he called the attention of the Germans to their old poetry. In
1804 appeared his romantic drama of _The Emperor Octavian_, and in 1805
he published, in connexion with T. Schlegel, the works of his deceased
friend Hardenberg (Novalis),[3] which may be classed among the most
extraordinary phenomena of modern literature. The preface to this
edition is entirely by Tieck. A long pause now ensued in the midst of
his literary productiveness, during which he visited Rome. In 1814 and
1816 appeared his _Old English Theatre_, consisting of translations
from our early drama, and in the same year he published the work to
which, more than to any other, he owes his celebrity in this country,
his _Phantasus_. The entire work has never been translated, but the
tales which are introduced into it, such as the _Blond Eckbert_ and the
_Trusty Eckart_, are generally known. Another contribution to the
study of the old German literature he made by his edition of Ulrich von
Lichtenstein’s _Frauendienst_ (service of ladies), a kind of romance,
by a celebrated Minnesänger, and a collection of plays under the title
of Old German Theatre. In 1818 he visited London, where he was
received with great respect, and employed his time in making
collections for the study of Shakspeare, in Schlegel’s translation of
whom he has taken an important part. Since 1821 he has chiefly been
engaged with a series of novels, which are widely different from his
former manner, and he is now (we believe) resident at Berlin. The
tales from the _Phantasus_ being already so generally known, one of a
totally different kind has been given in this volume. The powerful
tale of the _Klausenburg_ is from Tieck’s collected novels.
Heinrich von Kleist, from whom two tales have been taken, is another
poet of the romantic school, and was born at Frankfort on the Oder, in
1777. He led an unsettled kind of life, residing successively at
Paris, Dresden, and Berlin, and after the battle of Jena, retired from
the latter city to Königsberg, where he devoted himself to literary
pursuits. Returning to Berlin during the French occupation of Prussia,
he was taken prisoner, and though he was shortly afterwards released,
this imprisonment seems to have had a fatal effect upon a temperament
naturally morbid. In 1811, at Potsdam, he voluntarily terminated his
own existence, and that of an invalid lady of his acquaintance. His
works, which are somewhat numerous, consist of dramas and tales, and
are all distinguished by a sort of rugged power. Of his plays, the
most celebrated is the romantic drama, _Käthchen von Heilbronn_, and of
his tales, the narrative of _Michael Kohlhaas_, contained in this
collection. A complete edition of his works was published at Berlin,
in 1821, by the indefatigable, Ludwig Tieck. The critical remarks
which he has made on _Kohlhaas_, may be extracted with profit.
“_Michael Kohlhaas_,” says Tieck, “is unquestionably the most
remarkable of all Kleist’s narratives, and if we see with what firmness
he sketches the various forms, how faithfully the events and feelings
are deduced from each other, with what steadiness the narrator
advances, step by step, we are tempted to believe that this style is
more suitable to the author, and that his talents might have shone
forth more brilliantly here than in the drama. Here, as in his plays,
we see, as in the form of a law-suit, the misfortune and the guilt of a
remarkable man unfolded before his eyes. Few writers understand how to
shake our hearts to the very depth, like Kleist, and this is precisely
because he goes to work with so steady a purpose, and consciously
avoids all soft sentimentality. The insulted and injured Kohlhaas
becomes unhappy;--nay, becomes a criminal through his misery and his
keen sense of justice, until he is called back from his career by the
revered Luther, and by his means obtains a hearing for his suit, so
that he can stand boldly forward. It is only by chance without any
fault on his own part, that he finds at Dresden, that his position has
grown more unfavourable. It is unnecessary to call attention to the
masterly hand which has portrayed all the characters from the prince
and Luther, down to the humblest menial, in such living colours, that
we seem to behold the realities themselves. Whether it was by
intention or unconsciously, the writer has made important deviations
from history. This might be excused on account of his leading motive,
and the admirable freshness of his colouring; but he is more culpable
for his incorrectness in the necessary circumstances of an event, which
did not happen so very long ago,--circumstances which can scarcely
escape the recollection of the reader. Kleist forgets that Wittenberg,
not Dresden, was the residence of the Elector of Saxony. Moreover, he
describes Dresden just according to its present aspect. The old town,
(Altstadt) scarcely existed at the time, and what shall we say of the
elector himself, who appears as a romantic, amorous, eccentric,
fantastical personage, when certainly it must have been either
Frederick the Wise, or the Steadfast, who belonged to the period of the
narrative? By over haste--for it certainly was not from design--this
excellent story loses its proper costume and accompanying
circumstances, whereas it would have been far more effective had the
author allowed himself time to place himself in the period with greater
truth. Another consequence of this deficiency in true locality is,
that the author, after long alluring us by his truth and nature, leads
us through a fanciful visionary world, which will not accord with the
previous one, which he has taught us to know so accurately. That
wondrous gipsy, who afterwards turns out to be the deceased wife of
Kohlhaas, that mysterious inscription, those ghost-like forms, that
sick, half-mad, and, afterwards, disguised elector; those weak, for the
most part, characterless forms, which, nevertheless, come forward with
a pretension, as if they would be considered superior to the real world
previously described, as if they would sell as dearly as possible that
mysterious nature, which comes to us little as possible,--that horrible
foreboding which the author suddenly feels in the presence of the
creatures of his own fancy--all this, we say, reminds us so forcibly of
many a weak product of our times, and of the ordinary demands of the
reading public, that we are forced, mournfully, to admit that even
distinguished authors, like Kleist--who in other respects does not
participate in these diseases of his day--must pay their tribute to the
time that has produced them.”
No literature can produce a more original writer, than Ernst Theodore
Amadeus Hoffmann, from whom the translators have not scrupled to take
three stories. Some have called Hoffmann an imitator of Jean Paul, but
the assertion seems to be made rather because both writers are of an
eccentric and irregular character, than because their eccentricities
and irregularities are similar. However wild may be the subjects of
Hoffmann, and however rambling his method of treating them, his style
is remarkably lucid; and while Jean Paul is one of the most difficult
authors for a foreigner to read, Hoffmann is comparatively easy. He
was born at Königsberg on the 24th of January, 1776, where he studied
law, and in 1800 became assessor of the government at Posen. In 1802
he became a councillor of the government at Plock, and in 1803 went in
a similar capacity to Warsaw. His legal career was terminated by the
invasion of the French, in 1806, and he made use of his musical talents
to obtain a subsistence. In the autumn of 1808 he accepted the
invitation of Count Julius von Soden to go to a theatre at Bamberg,
where he was appointed musical director. The theatre soon closed, and
he was reduced to such distress that he was forced to part with his
last coat. He then occupied himself with musical instruction, and
contributed to the Leipzig _Musikalische Zeitung_. From 1813 to 1815
he conducted the orchestra of a theatrical company, alternately in
Dresden and Leipzig, and in 1816 was appointed councillor of the royal
_Kammergericht_ in Berlin, where he died on the 24th of July, 1822.
Hoffmann had devoted himself to music from his earliest years, he
composed the music for an opera on the subject of Undine, played at the
Berlin theatre, and many of his writings have an immediate reference to
the feelings and fortunes of the musician. This is conspicuous in the
collection called, _Fantasia-pieces in Callot’s Manner_, which he
published in 1814, and which was followed by his _Devil’s Elixir_,
published in 1816. His works, consisting of narratives, are very
numerous, and were published at Berlin, in fifteen volumes, and by
Baudry, of Paris, in one volume, royal octavo. Among the most
conspicuous are the fantastic _Confessions of Tomcat Murr_, the
collection called the _Scrapions Brothers_, and _Master Flea_. Many of
Hoffmann’s stories have been translated into English, but they have not
been so successful here as in France, where, when the translations
appeared, they created a complete _furore_. Of the tales in this
collection, the _Sandman_, and the _Jesuits’ Church_, are from the
“night-pieces,” and the _Elementary Spirit_ is from Hoffmann’s “later
works.” In all these stories it will be observed that Hoffmann’s
purpose is to point out the ill-effect of a morbid desire after an
imaginary world, and a distaste for realities. Different as their
adventures are, there is a striking similarity in the characters of
Nathaniel, Victor, and the painter Berthold, and Hoffmann seems to be
exhibiting his own internal nature as the extreme of unhealthiness.
The same tone may be perceived in his other writings, and his obvious
reverence for the prosaic and common-place, as the antithesis to
himself, is remarkable. The story of the _Sandman_ had its origin in a
discussion which actually took place between La Motte Fouqué and some
friends, at which Hoffmann was present. Some of the party found fault
with the cold, mechanical deportment of a young lady of their
acquaintance, while La Motte Fouqué zealously defended her. Here
Hoffmann caught the notion of the automaton Olympia, and the arguments
used by Nathaniel are those that were really employed by La Motte
Fouqué.
A writer of extraordinary fancy and invention, but working for a more
obvious purpose, and producing narratives more related in character to
popular legends, was Wilhelm Hauff, of whom likewise there are three
specimens in this volume. He was born on the 29th of November, 1809,
at Stuttgard, and in early life showed a great predilection for telling
childish narratives. Being designed for the theological profession, he
went to the University of Tübingen in 1820. Afterwards he became a
private teacher at Stuttgard, and began his literary career with the
_Almanach of Tales for the year_ 1826. This was followed by
_Contributions from Satan’s Memoirs_, and the _Man in the Moon_, the
latter of which was designed to satirise the popular writer Clauren.
Hauff’s historical romance of _Lichtenstein_ acquired great celebrity,
and the collection of tales called the _Caravan_, which have
contributed to this volume, are in the happiest vein. Hauff needs only
to be known to become popular in any country. His works, which are
somewhat numerous, although he died before he had completed his
twenty-sixth year (18th of November, 1827), were published in a
complete edition by the poet Gustav Schwab, in 1830.
Adam Oehlenschläger appears as the head of the romantic party in
Denmark, though he is as well known to the Germans as the Danes, having
published his works in both languages. He was born near Copenhagen, on
the 14th of November, 1779, and passed his youth in the Castle
Friedrichsberg, where his father was castellan. He began to study law
in 1800, but soon quitted the study, and, at the cost of the
government, travelled through Germany, France, and Italy. He was then
appointed Professor of “Æsthetics” at the University of Copenhagen,
and, in 1816, took another journey through the countries above-named,
and visited Sweden in 1829, where he was received with enthusiasm, and
was made Doctor of Philosophy by the University of Lund. The dramatic
tale of _Aladdin_, published at Leipzig in 1808, first made him known
in Germany, and his fame has been maintained by a variety of
narratives, some founded on the legends of his own country; and a
number of dramas, of which his beautiful _Corregio_ is the most
celebrated. The tale of _Ali and Gulhyndi_, which appears in this
collection, is most striking for its felicitous resemblance of the
Oriental style of fiction. Oehlenschläger’s entire works were
published at Breslau, in eighteen volumes.
Karl Immermann, who is exceedingly admired by a section of the German
literati, was born at Magdeburg, in 1796, and died at Düsseldorf in
1841. He was a precocious genius, having composed a drama and a
romance at the early age of sixteen. Joining the volunteers during the
war with France, he was present during the whole campaign in the
Netherlands, and was in France in 1815. He became, in 1827, counsellor
of the provincial court (Landgerichtsrath) at Düsseldorf. At this time
he entertained a notion of forming a national German theatre; but his
scheme proved a failure, notwithstanding he adopted all sorts of
decorative means to ensure success. His works, which are very
numerous, have been collected, and one of them, a mythical drama,
called _Merlin_, is placed by his admirers, with more enthusiasm than
judgment, by the side of Göthe’s _Faust_. The tale in this volume is
from his _Munchhausen_, a work of unequal merit, but displaying great
genius and originality. A very full account of it will be found in the
_Foreign Quarterly Review_, No. LXI.
Franz Karl van der Velde, the author of _Axel_, was a popular author of
historical romances, born at Breslau in 1779. Passing through a
variety of judicial appointments, he died at Breslau in 1824. His
works, which were published at Dresden, in 1824, occupy twenty-five
volumes.
Of all the modern writers of Germany, there is none more truly popular
than Johann Heinrich Daniel Zschokke, however doubtful it may be
whether his wonderful popularity be commensurate with his merit. He
was born at Magdeburg, in 1771; and, after the completion of his
juvenile education, travelled about with a company of strolling
players. Becoming reconciled with his relations, after this vagabond
life, he went to the University at Frankfort on the Oder, where he
studied in a desultory manner. After travelling through Germany,
Switzerland, and France, he settled in the Grisons, and took a most
active part in Swiss politics, to follow which would exceed the bounds
of a sketch of this sort. His _History of Switzerland_ is a standard
work; and his collection of tales, copious as it is, forms a vast
treasury of fiction for his admirers. The account which Zschokke
himself gives of his _Alamontade_, is added to that tale.[4]
* * * * *
Here closes this imperfect sketch. It is not intended to convey any
new information to those who are acquainted with German literature; but
it may, at least, be of use in conveying a few facts and dates to the
general English reader.
[1] The fact that Schiller’s “Ghost Seer” is so familiar in an English
garb, that it is almost an English novel, is a sufficient reason that
it does not appear in this collection. Almost the same may be said of
the more celebrated romance of La Motte Fouqué.
[2] This has been especially the case with “Libussa,” which is often
indelicate in the original. An oversight in the translation of that
tale should, however, be corrected. The provincial word, “Imme,”
should be translated “Queen-bee,” not “ant.” Vide p. 14, line 5 from
the bottom.
[3] An admirable paper on Novalis is in Mr. Carlyle’s _Miscellanies_.
[4] To Zschokke is attributed the religious work _Stunden der Andacht_,
a judicious selection from which has been translated by Mr. Haas.
TALES FROM THE GERMAN.
LIBUSSA.
BY J. H. MUSÆUS.
Deep in the Bohemian forest, of which now only a shadow remains, dwelt
years ago, when it spread itself far and wide into the country, a
little spiritual people, aeriel, uncorporeal, and shunning the light.
They were of a finer nature than mankind, which is formed out of gross
clay, and were therefore imperceptible to the coarser sense; but to the
more refined they were half visible by moonlight, being well known to
the poets under the name of the Dryads, and to the old bards under the
name of the Elves. From time immemorial they had lived undisturbed
here, until the forest suddenly resounded with the tumult of war; Duke
Czech, of Hungary, crossed the mountains with his Slavonic hordes, to
seek a new dwelling-place in this spot. The beautiful inhabitants of
the aged oaks, of rocks, caves and grottoes, as well as those of the
reeds in ponds and marshes fled from the noise of weapons, and the
snorting of war-horses. Even for the mighty Erl-king the tumult was
too much, and he removed his court to the more remote deserts. One elf
alone could not resolve to quit her beloved oak, and when the wood was
hewn down in every direction to make the land arable, she alone had the
courage to defend her tree against the power of the new comers, and
chose its lofty top for her abode.
Among the courtiers of the duke was a young squire, named Crocus, full
of courage and youthful fire, active, well made, and of noble stature.
To him was entrusted the care of his master’s horses, which he
sometimes drove out to feed in the forest. Often he rested under the
oak which the elf inhabited; she regarded the stranger with pleasure,
and when at night he slumbered by the root, she whispered pleasant
dreams into his ear, predicted to him in significant images the events
of the coming day; or if one of his horses had strayed in the
wilderness, and the keeper had lost all traces of him, and went to
sleep with heavy heart, he saw in his dream the marks of the concealed
path which led to the spot where the stray horse was feeding.
The farther the new settlers spread the nearer did they approach the
dwelling of the elf, who by means of her faculty of divination foresaw
how soon the axe threatened her tree of life, and therefore resolved to
communicate her trouble to her friend. One moonlight summer’s evening
Crocus drove his herd later than usual into the fence, and hastened to
his usual couch beneath the tall oak. His road wound about a lake well
stored with fish, in the silver waves of which the golden crescent was
reflected in the shape of a glittering cone. Straight over this
shining part of the lake, on the opposite shore, he perceived in the
vicinity of the oak a female form, that seemed to be walking on the
cool bank. This apparition surprised the young warrior. “Whence,” he
thought to himself, “could this maiden come, so solitary in these
deserts, at the time of evening twilight?” But the adventure was of
such a nature, that to a young man it was more alluring than alarming
to search into the affair. He doubled his pace without losing sight of
the form which occupied his attention, and soon reached the place where
he had first perceived her, under the oak. It now seemed to him as if
what he saw was more of a shadow than a reality. He stood astounded,
and a cold shuddering came over him; but he heard a soft voice, which
whispered to him these words: “Come hither, dear stranger, and be not
afraid; I am no deceptive form, no delusive shadow; I am the elf of
this grove, the dweller in the oak, under the thick-leaved boughs of
which thou hast often slumbered; I lulled thee to sweet delightful
repose, foretold to thee what would befall thee, and if a mare or a
colt of thy herd had strayed, I told thee of the place where it was to
be found. Repay this favour by another service which I require of
thee. Be the protector of this tree, which has so often protected thee
against sun and rain, and prevent the murderous axe of thy brothers,
who are destroying the woods, from injuring this venerable trunk.”
The young warrior, whose courage revived at this soft discourse,
answered thus: “Goddess or mortal, whichever thou art, ask of me
whatever thou pleasest, and if I can I will accomplish it. But I am
only a humble man among my people, the servant of my lord the duke. If
he says to me to-day or to-morrow, ‘feed your horses here, feed them
there,’ how shall I be able to protect thy tree in this remote wood?
But if thou commandest it I will leave the service of my prince, dwell
in the shadow of thine oak, and protect it as long as my life lasts.”
“Do so,” said the elf, “and thou wilt not repent of it.” Upon this she
vanished, and there was a rustling in the tree above, as if some loud
evening breeze had caught itself there, and was moving the leaves.
Crocus stood for awhile quite enchanted at the heavenly apparition
which had appeared to him. Such a delicate, truly feminine creature,
of such a slender form, and of such noble appearance he had never seen
among the stunted Slavonic girls. At last he stretched him upon the
soft moss, although sleep did not close his eyes; morning twilight
surprised him in a tumult of delicious sensations, which were to him as
strange and novel as the first beam of light to the newly opened eyes
of one who has been born blind. At the break of day he hastened to the
duke’s palace, asked for his dismissal, packed up his baggage, and
hastily started with his head filled with glowing fantasies and his
burden on his back, for his delightful retreat in the forest.
During his absence, however, an artificer among the people, by trade a
miller, had pitched upon the sound straight trunk of the oak as an axle
for his mill-wheel, and went with his men to fell it. The trembling
elf sighed when the greedy saw began with its iron teeth to gnaw the
foundations of her dwelling. From the top of the tree she looked
anxiously around for her faithful protector; but her glance was unable
to discover him anywhere, and her consternation rendered the gift of
prophecy peculiar to her race so ineffective, that she no more ventured
to decipher her impending fate than the sons of Esculapius with their
boasted “prognosis” are able to tell when death will knock at their own
doors.
However Crocus was on his way, and so near the scene of this mournful
catastrophe, that the noise of the creaking saw reached his ears. He
augured no good from this noise in the forest, and setting wings to his
feet beheld--horrible sight--the impending destruction of the tree he
had taken under his protection in his very presence. Like a madman he
flew upon the workmen with his spear and drawn sword, and frightened
them from their work; for they thought that a mountain demon was in
their presence and fled in great confusion. Fortunately the tree’s
wound was curable, and in a few summers the scar had disappeared.
In the hours of rest in the evening, after the new-comer had selected a
spot for his future dwelling, had marked out the space to be hedged in
for a little garden, and had again considered in his mind the whole
plan of the hermitage in which he designed to pass his days, far
removed from human society, in the service of a shadowy friend, who
seemed to be totally unreal, the elf appeared to him on the banks of
the lake, and with graceful gestures thus accosted him: “Thanks, dear
stranger, that thou hast prevented the strong arms of thy brethren from
felling this tree, to which my life is attached; for know that mother
nature, who has endowed my race with such various powers and faculties,
has nevertheless united our life to the growth and duration of the
oaks. Through us does the queen of the forest raise her venerable head
above the rabble of other trees and shrubs; we promote the circulation
of the sap through trunk and branches, so that she gains strength to
combat with the whirlwind, and to defy for centuries the destroying
power of time. On the other hand, our life is knit to hers. When the
oak, to whom fate has assigned us as a partner, grows old, we grow old
with it, and when it dies, we die away also, and sleep like mortals, a
sleep of death, until by the eternal revolution of all things, chance
or some secret arrangement of nature unites our being to a new germ,
which opened by our vivifying power, sprouts up after a long time to a
mighty tree, and affords us the joys of life anew. From this thou
mayst perceive what a service thou hast rendered me by thy assistance,
and what gratitude is due to thee. Require of me the reward of thy
noble act, reveal to me the desire of thy heart, and it shall be
fulfilled at once.”
Crocus was silent. The sight of the charming elf had made upon him
more impression than her discourse, of which he understood but little.
She perceived his confusion, and to extricate him from it took a dry
reed from the bank of the lake, broke it into three pieces, and said:
“Choose one of these three, or take one without choice. In the first
is fame and honour, in the second are riches and wise use of them, and
in the third happy love is contained for thee.” The young man cast his
eyes to the ground and answered: “Daughter of Heaven, if thou intendest
to grant the wish of my heart, know that it is not contained in the
three reeds which thou offerest; my heart seeks a still greater reward.
What is honour but the fuel of pride, what are riches but the root of
avarice, and what is love but the trap of passion, to ensnare the noble
liberty of the heart? Grant me my desire of resting beneath the shadow
of thy oak, from the fatigue of the campaign, and of hearing from thy
sweet mouth doctrines of wisdom, that thus I may decipher the future.”
“Thy wish,” replied the elf, “is great, but what thou deservest at my
hands is not less, and therefore let it be as thou hast requested. The
bandage before thy corporeal eyes shall vanish, that thou mayst behold
the secrets of hidden wisdom. With the enjoyment of the fruit take
also the shell, for the wise man is also held in honour. He alone is
rich, for he desires no more than he actually needs, and he tastes the
nectar of love without poisoning it with impure lips.” When she had
said this she again presented him the three pieces of reed, and
vanished.
The young hermit prepared his bed of moss under the oak, highly
delighted at the reception which the elf had accorded him. Sleep
overcame him like an armed man, cheerful morning dreams danced round
his head, and nourished his fancy with the fragrance of happy
anticipations. As soon as he woke he joyously began his day’s work,
built himself a commodious hut, dug his garden, and planted roses and
lilies, and other sweetly-smelling flowers and vegetables, not without
cabbages and kitchen herbs, besides an assortment of fruit-trees. The
elf did not fail to pay him a visit in the twilight of every evening,
took pleasure in the produce of his industry, walked with him hand in
hand along the reedy bank of the pond, until the waving reed murmured
forth a melodious evening greeting to the friendly pair, when the
breeze rustled through it. The elf initiated her docile pupil into the
secrets of nature, instructed him in the origin and issue of things,
taught him their natural and magical qualities and virtues, and formed
the rough warrior to a thinker and a philosopher.
In the same degree as the feelings and senses of the young man became
more refined by his intercourse with the fair shadow, the tender form
of the elf became denser, and acquired more consistency. Her bosom was
filled with animation and life, fire glistened from her hazel eyes, and
with the form of a young girl, she seemed also to have acquired the
feelings of one. In a few months the sighing Crocus was blessed with
the happiness which the third reed had promised him, and did not regret
that the freedom of his heart was ensnared by the trap of love.
Although the marriage of the tender pair took place without witnesses,
it was productive of as much happiness as the most obstreperous
nuptials, and in due time pledges of conjugal affection were not
wanting. The elf presented her husband with three daughters at one
birth, and the delighted father, in the first embrace, called her who
had cried in his house before the two others, Bela; the next Therba,
and the youngest Libussa. All were like genii in the beauty of their
form; and although they did not consist of such a delicate material as
their mother, their corporeal nature was finer than the coarse earthy
form of their father. They were also free from all the infirmities of
children, and needed no leading strings, for, after the first nine
days, they all ran like so many partridges. As they grew up, they
displayed all their mother’s talent for detecting hidden things, and
predicting the future.
With the aid of time, Crocus also acquired much knowledge of these
mysteries. When the wolf had dispersed the cattle in the wood, and the
shepherds searched about for their lost sheep and oxen; when the
woodmen missed an adze or a hatchet, they sought advice from the wise
Crocus, who told them where to find what they had lost. If a bad
neighbour made away with any of the common property, broke at
night-time into the fold or dwelling of another, robbed him, or
murdered his host, and no one could guess who was the criminal, the
wise Crocus was always sought for counsel. He then summoned the
community to a grass-plot, made them form a circle, stepped into the
midst of it, and let the infallible sieve turn, which invariably
pointed out the malefactor. His fame was thus spread over all the land
of Bohemia, and whoever had an affair or any business of importance,
consulted the wise man as to its issue. Nay, cripples and sick persons
sought from him aid and recovery; even diseased cattle were brought to
him, and he knew how to cure ailing cows with his shadow, as well as
the renowned St. Martin, of Schierbach. The concourse of people that
sought him increased every day, just as if the tripod of the Delphic
Apollo had been removed to the Bohemian forest; and although Crocus,
without gain and reward, gave his information to those that questioned
him, and healed the sick and crippled, the treasure of his mysterious
wisdom proved very productive, and brought him great profit; for the
people pressed to him with their gifts, and quite overwhelmed him with
the proofs of their good-will. He first revealed the secret of washing
gold out of the sand of the Elbe, and received a tenth from all who
collected the gold sand. Thus his means and his wealth were increased;
he built strong castles and palaces, he kept large herds of cattle, he
possessed fertile lands, woods, and fields, and imperceptibly found
himself in the possession of all the wealth which the liberal elf had
prophetically enclosed for him, in the second piece of reed.
One fine summer evening, when Crocus, with his attendants, was
returning from an excursion, where he had settled the boundary disputes
of two neighbouring congregations at their request, he perceived his
wife on the brink of the pond, where she had first appeared to him.
She beckoned to him with her hand, so he dismissed his retinue, and
hastened to embrace her. As usual, she received him with tender love,
but her heart was oppressed and mournful, while from her eyes trickled
ethereal tears, so fair and transient, that they were hastily absorbed
by the air, without reaching the earth. Crocus was astonished at the
sight, for he had never seen the eyes of his wife look otherwise than
cheerful, and with all the brilliancy of youthful joy. “What ails
thee, beloved of my heart?” said he; “my soul is torn by uneasy
forebodings. Tell me, what is the meaning of these tears?” The elf
sighed, leaned her head mournfully on his shoulder, and said: “Dear
husband, in thine absence I have read in the book of fate, that an
unhappy destiny threatens my tree of life; I must leave thee for ever.
Follow me to the castle, that I may bless my children, for from this
day you will never see me again.” “Oh, my beloved,” replied Crocus,
“banish these melancholy thoughts! What misfortune can threaten thy
tree? Are not its roots and trunk firmly fixed? Look at its healthy
branches, as, laden with fruit and leaves, they extend themselves, and
see how it raises its top to the clouds. As long as this arm moves, it
shall defend itself against every impious man who shall dare to injure
its trunk.”--“Weak is the protection,” replied she, “which a mortal arm
can afford! Ants can only contend with ants, gnats only with gnats,
and all the worms of the earth can merely guard off their like. What
can the strongest of you do against the operations of nature, or the
inscrutable decrees of fate? The kings of the earth can easily
overthrow the little mounds which you call your fortresses and castles,
but the slightest breeze scorns their power, rustles when its pleases,
and heeds not their command. Thou hast already defended this oak
against the might of man, but canst thou also resist the whirlwind,
when it arises to strip the leaves from its boughs; or if a concealed
worm gnawed at its core, could you draw it forth and crush it?”
Discoursing thus, the affectionate pair entered the castle. The
slender maidens sprang joyfully towards them, as they were accustomed
to do on their mother’s evening visits, gave an account of their daily
occupation, brought their embroidery and needle-work as a proof of
their industry and skill; but, on this occasion, the hour of domestic
happiness was totally joyless. The girls soon perceived that the
traces of deep sorrow were imprinted on their father’s face, and saw
with sympathising grief their mother’s tears, without venturing to
inquire into the cause. Their mother gave them many wise instructions
and good admonitions; but her discourse was like the song of a swan, as
if she were about to take leave of the world. She remained with her
beloved family till the morning-star arose; she then embraced her
husband and children with melancholy tenderness, retired to her tree as
usual, at day-break, through a secret door, and left them all to the
most melancholy forebodings.