A young hunter was sitting in the midst of the mountain-ranges, musing
beside his fowling-floor, whilst the rush of waters and of the woods
resounded through the solitude. He was thinking on his destiny; how he
was so young, and had forsaken father and mother, and his familiar
home, and all the acquaintances of his native village, to seek out for
himself a new country, to escape from the circle of recurring habits;
and he looked up with a kind of wonder that he now found himself in
this valley, and in this employment. Great clouds were passing over
the heavens and sinking behind the hills; birds were singing from the
bushes, and an echo answered them. He slowly descended to the foot of
the hill, and seated himself beside a stream that was rushing over
rugged stones with a foamy murmur. He listened to the changeful melody
of the water; and it seemed as if the waves were telling him, in
unintelligible words, a thousand things that nearly concerned him, and
he could not but feel inwardly troubled that he was not able to
understand their speech. Then again he looked around him, and thought
he was joyful and happy; so he took fresh courage, and sang with a
loud voice this hunting-song:
Joyful and merry amid the height
The huntsman goes to the chase;
His booty must appear in sight
In the bright green thickets, though till night
Its path he vainly trace.
And there his faithful dogs are yelling
Through the solitude sublime;
Through the wood the horns are telling,
And all hearts with courage swelling,
O thou happy hunting-time!
His home is clefts and caves among,
The trees all greet him well:
Autumnal airs breathe round him strong;
And when he finds his prey, his song
Resounds from every dell.
Leave the landsman to his labour,
And the sailor to the sea;
None so views Aurora's favour,
None so tastes the morning's savour,
When the dew lies heavily,
As who follows wood and game,
While Diana's smile doth shew,
Till some beauteous form inflame
His heart, that he most loved can name,
Happy hunting man art thou!
Whilst he thus sang, the sun had sunk deeper, and broad shadows fell
across the narrow valley. A cooling twilight stole over the earth;
while only the tops of the trees and the round summits of the
mountains were gilded by the evening glow. Christian's heart grew
still sadder: he liked not to return to his fowling-floor, and yet he
might not stay; he seemed to himself so lonely, and he longed for
society. Now he wished for those old books which once he had seen at
his father's house, and which he never would read, though his father
had often urged him thereto; the scenes of his childhood came before
him, his sports with the youth of the village, his acquaintances among
the children, the school that had so often distressed him; he wished
himself back again amid those scenes, which he had wilfully forsaken
to seek his fortune in unknown regions, on mountains, among strange
men, in a new occupation. As it grew darker, and the brook rushed
louder, and the birds of night with fitful wing began their devious
wanderings, he still sat dejected and disconsolate, and quite
unresolved what to do or purpose. Thoughtlessly he pulled out a
straggling root from the earth; when suddenly he heard a hollow
moaning under ground, which wound itself onward underneath, and only
died away plaintively in the distance. The sound penetrated his inmost
heart; it seized him as if he had unconsciously stirred the wound of
which the dying frame of nature was expiring in agony. He started up,
and would have fled away; for he had heard aforetime of the wondrous
mandrake-root, which, on being torn, sends forth such heart-rending
moans, that the person who has done it is fain to run away maddened by
its wailings. As he was about to depart, a stranger stood behind him,
and asked him, with a friendly air, whither he was going. Christian
had wished for society, and yet he was terrified anew at this friendly
presence.
"Whither so hastily?" asked the stranger again.
The young hunter tried to collect his thoughts, and related how the
solitude had suddenly become so frightful to him, that he wished to
escape from it; the evening so dark, the green shades of the wood so
dreary, the brook spoke in loud lamentations, the clouds traversing
the heavens, drew his longing over to the other side of the mountains.
"You are yet young," said the stranger, "and cannot well endure the
rigour of solitude. I will accompany you; for you will meet with no
house or hamlet within a league of this. On our way we can talk
together, and tell tales to each other; so your troublous thoughts
will leave you. In an hour the moon will emerge from behind the
mountains; her light will also dispel the darkness from your mind."
They went on, and the stranger seemed to the youth almost as an old
acquaintance.
"How came you on these mountains?" asked the former; "by your speech I
perceive you are not at home here."
"Ah!" replied the youth, "much might be said on that subject; and yet
it is not worth the talk, not worth relating. I was forced away by a
singular impulse from my parents and relations; my spirit was not
master of itself; like a bird which is taken in a net, and vainly
struggles, so was my soul ensnared in strange imaginations and wishes.
We dwelt far from hence, in a plain where all around, you see no hill,
scarcely a height: few trees adorned the green level; but meadows,
fruitful corn-fields, and gardens, extended far as the eye could
reach; and a broad river glided like a mighty spirit by them. My
father was gardener to the castle, and wished to bring me up to the
same employment. He loved plants and flowers beyond every thing, and
could devote himself the entire day long to the watching and tending
of them. Indeed he went so far as to maintain he could almost converse
with them; that he learnt from their growth and thriving, as well as
from the varied form and colour of their leaves. I, however, was
averse to the gardening occupation; and the more, as my father tried
to persuade me thereto, and even with threats to compel me. I wished
to be a fisherman, and made the attempt; but neither did a life upon
the waters suit me: I was then apprenticed to a tradesman in the town;
but soon came home from him also. Once on a time my father was telling
of the mountains, which, in his youth, he had travelled over; of the
subterranean mines and their workmen; of hunters and their occupation;
and suddenly there awoke in me the most decisive impulse, the feeling
that now I had found my destined way of life. Day and night I mused
thereon, and imagined high mountains, caves, and pine-forests, before
me: my fancy created for itself immense rocks; I heard, in thought,
the din of the chase, the horns, the cry of the hounds and of the
game; all my dreams were filled with these things, and therefore I had
no longer any rest or peace. The plains, the castle, my father's
little contracted garden with the prim flower-beds; the confined
dwelling; the wide heaven extended all around so dreary, and embracing
no heights, no lofty mountains,--all became more and more melancholy
and odious to me. It seemed to me as if all men about me were living
in deplorable ignorance, and that they would all feel and think as I
did, if once the feeling of their misery could arise within their
souls. Thus I harassed myself: till one morning I formed the
resolution to leave my parents' house for ever. I had found in a book
some descriptions of the nearest mountains, with pictures of the
neighbouring districts, and thereafter I directed my way. It was in
the early spring, and I felt myself quite light and joyful. I hastened
with all speed to leave the plain; and, one evening, I saw in the
distance the dim outline of the mountain-chains lying before me. I
could scarcely sleep in the inn, so impatient was I to tread the
region which I regarded as my home: with the earliest dawn I was
awake, and again upon my journey. In the afternoon, I found myself
already below my much-loved hills; and, as a drunkard, I went on, then
stopped awhile, looked backward, and felt as if intoxicated with the
strange and yet familiar objects. Soon the plain behind me was lost to
my sight; the forest-streams were rushing to meet me; beech-trees and
oaks sounded down to me from steep precipices, with waving boughs; my
path led me past giddy abysses; and blue hills were standing high and
solemn in the distance. A new world was unlocked to me. I was not
weary. So I came, after certain days, having traversed a great part of
the mountains, to an old forester, who, at my earnest request, took me
to instruct me in the arts of the chase. I have now been three months
in his service. I took possession of the district in which I was to
have my abode, as of a kingdom. I made myself acquainted with every
cliff and cleft of the mountains; in my occupation, when at early dawn
we went to the woods, or felled trees in the forest, or exercised my
eye and my fowling-piece, or trained our faithful companions, the
dogs, to their duty, I was completely happy. But now I have been
sitting here for eight days upon my fowling-floor, in the loneliest
part of the mountains; and this evening my mind grew so sad as never
in my life before; I seemed so lost, so utterly unhappy; and even now
I cannot rid myself of that melancholy humour."
The stranger listened attentively, as they both wandered through a
dark alley of the wood. They now came into the open country; and the
light of the moon, which above them was standing with its horns over
the mountain top, greeted them friendly. In undistinguishable forms,
and many sundered masses, which the pale glimmer again deceptively
united, the cleft mountain-range lay before them; in the background
was a steep hill, on which an ancient weather-worn ruin shewed
ghastly in the white light. "Our way parts here," said the stranger;
"I am going down into this hollow; there, by that old mineshaft, is my
dwelling: the metal ores are my neighbours; the mountain-streams tell
me wonderful things in the night-season; thither, however, thou canst
not follow me. But see there, the Runenberg, with its rugged walls,
how beautiful and alluring the old stone-work looks down to us! Wert
thou never there?"
"Never," replied young Christian. "I once heard my old forester relate
strange things of this mountain, which, foolishly enough, I have
forgotten; but I remember my mind was horror-struck that evening. I
should like at some time to ascend the height; for the lights are
there most beautiful; the grass must there be very green, the world
around very strange; and, perhaps, one might find up there many a
wonder of the ancient time."
"You can scarcely fail," replied the other; "whoever only understands
how to seek, whose heart is right inwardly moved thereto, will find
there old friends, and all that he most ardently desires." With these
words the stranger rapidly descended the hill, without bidding his
companion farewell; he soon vanished in the thicket, and shortly after
the sound of his footsteps also died away. The young hunter was not
surprised, but only quickened his footsteps towards the Runenberg,
whereto every thing beckoned him: thither the stars seemed to shine,
the moon pointed out a bright path towards the ruins; light clouds
rose up in that direction; and out of the depths the waters and
rushing woods persuaded him, and spoke to him new courage. His steps
were as if winged; his heart beat; he felt within a joy so great, that
it almost rose to anguish. He came into places he had never seen
before, where the rocks became steeper, the foliage disappeared, and
the naked walls called out to him as with angry voices, while a
lonesome moaning wind drove him on. Thus he hastened on without
stopping, and came late after midnight upon a narrow footpath which
ran along by the side of an abyss. He heeded not the chasm which
yawned beneath, and which threatened to devour him, so impelled was he
by wild imaginings and unintelligible desires. Now his perilous way
drew nigh a high wall, which appeared to lose itself in the clouds;
the path grew narrower at every step, so that the youth was obliged to
hold fast by the projecting stones to avoid plunging into the gulf
below.
At length he could proceed no further; the path ended under a window;
he was obliged to come to a stand, and knew not whether to turn or
stay. Suddenly he saw a light, which behind the ancient wall appeared
to be moving. He looked after the gleam, and discovered that he could
see into an antique spacious hall, strangely adorned with various
kinds of precious stones and crystals, that sparkled in manifold
splendour, and mysteriously reflected each other from the wandering
light, which was borne in the hand of a tall female form, who, in a
thoughtful mood, was pacing up and down the apartment. She seemed not
to belong to mortals, so large, so powerful were her limbs, so firm
her countenance; but the enraptured youth thought he had never before
seen or imagined such beauty. He trembled, and yet secretly wished
that she might come to the window and perceive him. At last she
stopped, set down the light upon a crystal table, and sang with a
thrilling voice:
Where can the Ancients keep,
That they do not appear?
From diamond pillars weep
The crystals, many a tear,
In full fountain falling round;
And within sad tones resound.
In the waves so clear and bright,
And transparent as the light,
There is form'd the beauteous glance,
That doth the raptur'd soul entrance,
And moves the heart in glowing dance.
Come, ye spirits all,
To the golden hall;
Raise, from out the depths of gloom,
Heads that sparkle; quickly come,
Ye that are of wondrous power,
Be of hearts the masters now,
Where bright tears with passion glow;
Be the rulers of the hour.
As soon as she had ended, she began to undress, laying aside her
garments in a splendid wardrobe. First, she took from her head a
golden veil, and her long black hair flowed in full ringlets down to
her waist; then she loosed her bosom-dress, and the youth forgot
himself and the world in gazing at the superterrestrial beauty. After
some time, she went to another golden cabinet, took thereout a tablet
that glittered with inlaid stones, rubies, diamonds, and all kinds of
jewels, and stood contemplating it with scrutinising look. The tablet
seemed to form a strange unintelligible figure, with its several lines
and colours; one while, as its brightness glanced towards him, he was
painfully dazzled; then, again, a soft green and blue playing over it,
refreshed his eye; but he stood devouring the objects with his looks,
and at the same time absorbed in deep thoughts. In his inmost heart
there was opened up an abyss of forms and harmony, of longing and
desire; troops of winged tones and sad and joyful melodies passed
through his spirit, that was moved to the very foundation: he saw a
world of pain and hope arise within himself, mighty wondrous rocks of
trust and daring confidence, deep torrents as of melancholy flowing
by. He no longer knew himself; and he was terrified as the fair one
opened the window, and reaching forth to him the magic tablet, spoke
to him these few words: "Take this in remembrance of me!" He grasped
the tablet, and felt the figure; the invisible within him immediately
passed away, and the light, and the potent beauty, and the strange
hall, had vanished. As it were, a dark night, with cloud-curtains,
fell within his inmost soul; he searched after his former feelings,
after that inspiration and incomprehensible love; he gazed at the
costly tablet, in which the sinking moon was mirrored faint and
bluish.
He still held the tablet fast pressed within his hands, when the
morning dawned; and he, exhausted, giddy, and half-asleep, fell
headlong down the steep mountain-side.
The sun shone on the face of the stupified sleeper; who, on awaking,
found himself again upon a pleasant hill. He looked around, and beheld
far behind him, and scarcely discernible at the extreme horizon, the
ruins of the Runenberg; he searched for the tablet, and could no where
find it. Astonished and perplexed, he tried to collect his thoughts
and unite his recollections; but his memory was as if filled with a
confused mist, in which shapeless and unknown forms were wildly
contending with one another. His entire former life lay behind him, as
in a far distance; the strangest and the most familiar were so mingled
together, that he found it impossible to sever them. After long
struggle with himself, he at last thought that a dream, or sudden
madness, must have befallen him that night; but still he could not
understand how he had wandered so far into a strange and remote
region.
Still, almost overcome with sleep, he descended the hill, and came
upon a beaten path, which led him down from the mountains on to the
open country. All was strange to him; he at first thought that he
should find his native home, but he saw before him quite a different
region, and at length conjectured that he must be on the southern side
of the mountains, which in the spring he had trodden from the north.
Towards noon he stood over a village from whose cottages a peaceful
smoke was ascending; children clad in festal dress were playing on the
green, and from the little church came the sound of the organ and the
chant of the congregation. All seized him with a sweet, indescribable
melancholy; all so stirred his heart, that he was forced to weep. The
narrow gardens, the little cottages with their smoking chimneys, the
neatly parted cornfields, reminded him of the wants of poor human
nature, of its dependence on the friendly earth, in whose beneficence
it is obliged to trust; while the singing and the tones of the organ
filled his heart with a devoutness he had never felt before. His
feelings and wishes of the previous night appeared to him reckless and
wicked; he wished again, in a childlike, dependent, and humble spirit,
to unite himself to men as his brethren, and to withdraw from his
ungodly purposes and opinions. The plain, with its little river that
wound itself in manifold turnings about the gardens and meadows,
seemed charming and alluring to him; he thought with fear on his abode
in the solitary mountains amid the desolate rocks; he longed that he
might dwell in this peaceful village; and with these feelings he
entered the crowded church.
The singing was just ended, and the priest had begun his sermon, which
was on the kindness of God in the harvest; how His goodness feeds all,
and satisfies every living thing; how wonderfully in the corn He has
provided for the support of the human race; how the love of God is
incessantly communicating itself in bread; and therefore the devout
Christian may, with thankfulness, perpetually celebrate a holy supper.
The congregation was edified. The young hunter's looks were fixed on
the pious preacher, and observed close by the pulpit a young maiden,
who seemed, beyond all others, resigned to devotion and attention. She
was slim and fair, her blue eye gleamed with the most piercing
softness, her countenance was as if transparent, and blooming with the
tenderest colours. The stranger youth had never felt himself and his
heart so before; so full of love and so calm, so resigned to the
stillest and the most enlivening feelings. He bowed himself in tears,
when the priest at last spoke the blessing; he felt penetrated by the
holy words, as by an invisible power; and the shadowy image of the
night sank down behind him, like a spectre, into the deepest
distance. He left the church, stopped a while under a tall lime-tree,
and thanked God in a fervent prayer, that, without his deserving, He
had freed him from the snares of the evil spirit. The village was that
day celebrating the harvest-feast, and all men were determined to be
joyful; the children gaily dressed were rejoicing in cakes and dances;
the young men on the village square, which was encircled with young
trees, were preparing all things for the festival, where also the
musicians were sitting and trying their instruments. Christian went
again into the fields, in order to collect his thoughts and fix his
contemplations, and then returned to the village, where now all were
united in joyfulness and celebration of the festival. The fair
Elizabeth was also there with her parents; and the stranger joined
himself to the joyful throng. Elizabeth was dancing; and he had, in
the mean time, entered into conversation with the father, who was a
farmer, and one of the richest men in the village. The youth and
speech of the stranger seemed to please him, and so in a short time it
was agreed that Christian should remain with him as gardener. This he
was able to undertake; for he hoped that now the knowledge and
occupations he had so much despised at home would stand him in good
stead.
From this time a new life began for him. He went to live with the
farmer, and was reckoned with his family. With his station also he
changed his dress. He was so good, so serviceable, and ever kind; so
diligent at his labour, that soon all in the house, but especially the
daughter, became friendly to him. So often as on Sunday he saw her
going to church, he held for her in readiness a beautiful nosegay,
which she received from him with blushing thankfulness: he missed her
when the day passed without his seeing her; and then in the evening
she would relate to him legends and pleasant stories. They became ever
more needful to each other; and the old people, who observed it,
seemed not to have any thing against it; for Christian was the
handsomest and most industrious youth in the village. They themselves,
from the first moment, had felt a constraint of love and friendship
towards him. After half a year, Elizabeth was his wife. It was again
spring; the swallows and birds of song had come into the land; the
garden stood in its gayest attire; the marriage was celebrated with
all joyfulness; bride and bridegroom appeared as if intoxicated with
their happiness. Late in the evening, as they went to their chamber,
the young husband said to his beloved: "No, thou art not that form
which once charmed me in a dream, and which I never can quite forget;
yet am I happy in thy presence, and blest in thine embrace."
How joyful was the family, when, after a year, it was increased by a
little daughter, that was named Leonora. It is true that Christian was
at times somewhat more serious as he contemplated the child; but yet
his youthful sprightliness always again returned to him. He scarcely
ever thought of his former way of life, for he felt himself quite at
home and contented. After some months, however, the thought of his
parents occurred to him, and especially how his father would rejoice
at his peaceful lot, at his condition as gardener and husbandman; it
pained him that he had been able for so long a time to forget father
and mother; his own child reminded him of what joy children are to
parents; and so he at length resolved to put himself on the journey,
and revisit his native home.
Unwillingly he left his wife; all wished him happiness; and in the
fine season of the year, on foot he took his way. Already, after a few
miles, he felt how painful was the parting; for the first time in his
life he felt the smart of separation; the strange objects around
seemed almost savage to him; he felt as if he were lost in a hostile
solitude. Then the thought occurred to him that his youth was over;
that he had found a home to which he belonged, in which his heart had
taken root; he could almost lament the lost levity of former years;
and he felt the extremest dejection of spirit as at a village he
turned into the inn to pass the night. He could not comprehend why he
had left his affectionate wife and acquired parents; and peevish and
discontented, he next morning set forth to continue his journey.
His anguish increased as he came near the chain of mountains; the
distant ruins were already visible, and gradually became more
distinguishable; while numerous hill-tops rose round and clear from
out the blue mist. He went timidly on; often stopping and wondering
with himself at the fear, at the horror, which more and more oppressed
him at every step. "Madness!" he exclaimed, "I know thee well, and thy
perilous allurement; but I will manfully withstand thee. Elizabeth is
no idle dream; I know that she now thinks on me, that she is expecting
me, and, full of love, counts the hours of my absence. Do I not
already see forests as black hair before me? Do not the lightening
eyes look towards me from the brook? The giant forms, are they not
advancing to me from the mountains?"
With these words, he was about to lay himself down to rest beneath a
tree, when he saw an old man sitting under its shadow, who was, with
the greatest attention, contemplating a flower, now holding it towards
the sun, then again shading it with his hand, counting its leaves, and
striving in all ways to impress it strictly on his memory. As he
approached nearer, the form seemed known to him, and soon no doubt
remained that the old man with the flower was his father. He rushed
into his arms with an expression of the most vehement joy; the other
was delighted, but not astonished, at meeting him so suddenly.
"Art thou come to meet me already, my son?" said the old man; "I knew
that I should soon find thee, but I did not think that to-day such joy
would happen to me."
"How came you to know, father, that you would meet with me?"
"By this flower," replied the old gardener; "all my life I have been
wishing to be able once to find it, but never had the fortune; for it
is very rare, and grows only on the mountains. I set out in quest of
thee, because thy mother is dead, and the solitude at home was too
oppressive and afflicting to me. I knew not whither to direct my way.
At last I wandered through the mountains, dreary as the journey seemed
to me. By the way, I sought for this flower, but could nowhere
discover it; and now, quite unexpected, I find it here, where the
beautiful plain lies stretched before me; thereby I knew that I should
find thee soon; and, see! how truly the dear flower has prophesied!"
They embraced each other again, and Christian wept for his mother; but
the old man grasped his hand, and said: "Let us be going, that we may
soon lose sight of the mountain shadows. My heart is always sad at the
steep wild shapes, the horrid chasms, the gurgling waterfalls. Let us
again visit the kind, harmless level country."
They wandered back; and Christian became more cheerful. He told his
father of his new fortune, of his child and of his home: his speech
made him as if intoxicated; and, in talking, he now for the first time
felt truly how nothing more was wanting to his happiness. Thus, amid
tales joyful and melancholy, they arrived at the village. All were
rejoiced at the speedy termination of the journey; most of all,
Elizabeth. The old man took up his abode with them, joined his little
fortune to their estate, and they formed, together, the most contented
and united circle among men. The field increased; the cattle throve;
Christian's house became in a few years one of the most considerable
in the village; and he soon saw himself the father of several
children.
Five years had in this manner passed away, when a stranger, on his
journey, stopped, and took up his abode in Christian's house, as being
the most respectable in the village. He was a friendly, communicative
man, who related many things of his journey, played with and gave
presents to the children, and, in short, was kind to every one. He was
so pleased with the neighbourhood, that he was resolved to spend some
days there; but the days grew to weeks, and at length to months. His
sojourn surprised no one, for all had already been accustomed to
regard him as belonging to the family. Only Christian often sat
musing; for it occurred to him that he had already aforetime known the
traveller, and yet he could not recollect the occasion when he could
have seen him.
At last, after three months, the stranger took his leave, and said,
"My dear friends, a wonderful destiny and strange expectations impel
me forward into the nearest mountains; a magical form, which I cannot
withstand, allures me. I now leave you, and know not whether I shall
return to you. I have a sum of money by me, which is safer in your
hands than in mine, and therefore I pray you to take charge of it:
should I not come back in a year's time, then keep it, and take it as
a thank-offering for your kindness shewn to me."
So the stranger departed; and Christian took the money into his
keeping. He carefully locked it up; and at times, in the excess of
anxiety, looked over it, counted it to see that none was missing, and
made himself much ado with it.
"This sum would make us right happy," he once said to his father,
"should the stranger not return; we and our children would then be for
ever provided for."
"Let alone the gold," said the old man; "therein lies no blessing:
hitherto, praise God, we have wanted nothing, and by all means put
this thought away from thee."
Christian often arose in the night to waken the servants to their
labour, and himself to look after every thing. The father was anxious
lest, through excessive diligence, he should injure his youth and
health; therefore, one night, he arose in order to admonish him on the
subject, when, to his astonishment, he saw him sitting at a table, and
with the greatest eagerness counting over the gold.
"My son," said the old man, in sadness, "shall it come to this with
thee? has this cursed metal been brought under the roof only to our
unhappiness? Bethink thyself, my son, or the wicked fiend will consume
thy blood and life."
"Yes," said Christian, "I no longer comprehend myself; neither by
night nor by day have I any rest; see now how it looks at me, till the
ruddy glow goes deep into my heart. Listen how it clinks, this golden
blood; it calls me when asleep; I hear it when music sounds, when the
wind blows, when people are talking in the street. If the sun shines,
I see only these yellow eyes, with which it blinks at me, and wishes
to whisper secretly a word of love into my ear: so I am obliged
nightly to get up, though only to satisfy its strong desire, and then
I feel it inwardly exulting and rejoicing; when I touch it with my
fingers, it grows ruddier and more glorious in its joy. Only look
yourself now at the glow of its rapture!"
The grey-haired man, shuddering and weeping, took his son in his arms,
prayed, and then said, "Christel, thou must turn again to the word of
God; thou must more diligently and devoutly go to church: otherwise
thou wilt languish, and in the saddest misery pine thyself away."
The money was again locked up. Christian promised to betake himself to
other subjects; and the old man was composed. A year and more had
already passed, and no tidings heard of the stranger: the old man at
last yielded to the entreaties of his son; and the relinquished money
was laid out in lands and other ways. The young farmer's wealth was
soon talked of in the village; and Christian seemed extremely
contented and joyful, so that his father thought himself happy at
seeing him so well and cheerful; all fear had now vanished from his
soul. What, then, must have been his astonishment when, one evening,
Elizabeth took him aside, and told him, with tears, that she could no
longer understand her husband; he spoke so wildly, especially at
night; he had perplexing dreams; would often in his sleep for a long
time walk about the room without knowing it, and tell of wondrous
things which oft made her shudder. But most frightful to her was his
merriment in the daytime; his laugh was wild and boisterous, his look
strange and wandering. The father stood terror-struck; and the
troubled wife continued: "He is always speaking of the stranger, and
maintains that otherwise he has long known him, for that this
stranger-man is really none other than a woman of wondrous beauty; he
also will no longer go out into the field, nor work in the garden, for
he says that he hears underground a fearful groaning when he only
pulls up a root; he starts and seems terrified at the plant and herbs,
as if they were spectres."
"Merciful God!" exclaimed the father, "is the frightful hunger so fast
grown within him that it has come to this? Then is his enchanted heart
no longer human, but of cold metal; he who loves not flowers, has lost
all love and fear of God."
The following day the father went for a walk with his son, and
repeated to him much of what he had heard from Elizabeth; he exhorted
him to piety, and to devote his spirit to holy contemplations.
Christian replied, "Willingly, my father; and often I feel quite
happy, and every thing succeeds well with me: for a long time, for
years, I can forget the true form of my inward being, and lead, as it
were, a strange life with cheerfulness: but then suddenly, like a new
moon, the ruling star, which I myself am, arises on my heart, and
vanquishes the foreign influence. I could be quite happy, but that
once, on an extraordinary night, a mysterious sign was impressed
through my hand deeply within my soul; often the magic figure sleeps
and is at rest; I think it has passed away, when suddenly it springs
forth again as a poison, and makes its way in all directions. Then I
can think and feel nothing else; all around me is changed, or, rather,
is by this form swallowed up. As the madman shudders at the water, and
the infused poison within him becomes more venomous, so it happens to
me with every cornered figure, every line, every beam; all will then
unbind the form that dwells within me, and promote its birth; and my
body and soul feel the anguish; as my spirit received it by a feeling
from without, so into an outward feeling she desires, with agonising
throes, to work it forth again, that she may be free from it and at
rest."
"It was an unlucky star," said the old man, "that drew thee away from
us. Thou wert born for a still life; thy mind tended to quietness and
plants; then thy impatience led thee away into the society of savage
stones; the rocks, the rent cliffs, with their rugged shapes, have
overset thy spirit, and planted within thee the desolating hunger
after metal. Thou oughtest ever to have been on thy guard, and kept
thy view from the mountains. So I thought to bring thee up; but it was
not so to be. Thy humility, thy calmness, thy childlike feelings, have
been all overturned by obstinacy, wildness, and overbearing."
"No," said the son; "I remember quite distinctly that it was a plant
which first made known to me the misery of the whole earth; only then
I understood the sighs and lamentations which are every where
perceptible in all nature, if only one will listen. In plants, herbs,
flowers, and trees, there moves and stirs painfully only one general
wound; they are the corpse of former glorious worlds of rock, they
present to our eye the frightfullest corruption. Now I well understand
that it was this which that root with its deep-fetched moaning wished
to say to me; in its agony it forgot itself, and told me all.
Therefore are all green plants so angry with me, and wait for my life;
they desire to obliterate the loved figure in my heart; and every
spring, with their distorted deathly looks, to win my soul. With
unpermitted and malicious art have they deceived thee, old man; for
they have gained complete possession of thy soul. Only ask the rocks,
thou wilt be astonished when thou hearest them speak."
The father looked at him a long while, but could answer him no more.
They went silently back to the house, and the old man was likewise
horrified at his son's mirth; for it seemed quite foreign to him, and
as if another being was, as from a machine, sporting and awkwardly
labouring within him.
The harvest-feast was again to be celebrated; the people went to
church, and Elizabeth, with her children, set out to be present at the
service; her husband also prepared to accompany them; but at the
church-door he turned aside, and, deep in thought, went forth out of
the village. He seated himself on the height, and looked down on the
smoking cottages beneath him; heard the singing and organ-tones coming
from the church; and saw children gaily clad dancing and sporting upon
the village-green. "How have I lost my life in a dream!" said he to
himself: "years have passed away since I went down this hill among the
children; those who then were playing are to-day serious in the
church; I also went into the sacred building; but Elizabeth is now no
more a blooming child-like maiden; her youth is gone by; I cannot with
the longing of that time seek for the glance of her eyes: thus have I
wantonly neglected a high eternal happiness, to gain one that is only
passing and transitory."
Full of strange desires, he walked to the neighbouring wood, and
buried himself in its thickest shades. A shuddering stillness
encompassed him; no breeze stirred amid the leaves. Meanwhile he saw a
man approaching him from the distance, whom he imagined to be the
stranger; he was struck with terror, and his first thought was, that
he would demand back his money. But as the form came nearer, he saw
how greatly he had been mistaken; for the features which he had
fancied, dissolved away as into one another, and an old woman of the
extremest ugliness came up to him. She was clad in dirty rags; a
tattered cloth bound together some grey hairs; and she hobbled on a
crutch. With frightful voice she spoke to Christian, and asked after
his name and station. He answered her minutely, and added, "But who
art thou?"
"I am called the Woodwoman," said she; "and every child can tell of
me. Hast thou never known me?" With the last words she turned herself
about, and Christian thought he again recognised among the trees the
golden veil, the lofty gait, the majestic limbs. He wished to hasten
after her, but he had sight of her no more.
Meanwhile something glittering drew his eye down to the grass. He took
it up, and saw again the magic tablet with its coloured precious
stones and remarkable figure, that he had lost so many years before.
The form and its varied light pressed all his senses with a sudden
power. He grasped it firmly, to assure himself that he had it once
more in his hands, and then hastened back with it to the village. His
father met him.
"See," cried he to him, "that of which I have so often told you, and
which I thought only to have seen in a dream, is now truly and surely
mine."
The old man contemplated the tablet a long while, and said: "My son,
my heart quite shudders as I view the aspect of these stones, and
foreboding guess the meaning of this inscription. See here, how cold
they sparkle, what cruel looks they cast up, bloodthirsty, like the
red eye of the tiger! Throw away this writing, which makes thee cold
and cruel, which will turn thy heart to stone.
See the tender flowers beaming,
As from out themselves they waken;
Like as children from their dreaming,
In smiling loveliness are taken.
Their various hues in playful bliss
All turn they to the golden sun;
And when they feel his burning kiss,
'Tis then their happiness is won.
And on his kisses so to languish,
To pine in love and melancholy;
Then smiling in their dearest anguish,
Soon fade in soft tranquillity.
This is to them the highest joy,
The fond delight they love to cherish;
Themselves in death to glorify,
Beneath their lover's glance to perish.
Then all around their perfum'd treasure
They profluent pour in raptur'd calm;
Until the air grows drunk with pleasure,
Enliven'd with the odorous balm.
Love comes all human hearts approving,
Responsive touching every chord;
Well may the conscious soul record,
'Now I know the due reward,
The gladness, sadness, pain of loving.'"
"Wonderful incalculable treasures," answered the son, "must there
still be in the depths of the earth! Could some one but explore them,
raise them up, and snatch them to himself! Could he but so press to
his bosom the earth as a beloved bride, that in anguish and love she
would willingly grant to him what she had most precious! The Woodwoman
has called me; I go to seek her. Close by is an old ruined shaft,
which centuries ago some miner has dug open; perhaps there I shall
find her."
He hastened forward. In vain the old man strove to detain him; he soon
vanished from his sight. Some hours afterwards, the father, with much
exertion, arrived at the old shaft: he saw footsteps impressed on the
sand at the entrance; and returned in tears, convinced that his son
had, in his madness, gone in, and been drowned in the depths of the
old collected waters.
From that time he was always melancholy and in tears. The whole
village mourned for the young farmer. Elizabeth was inconsolable; the
children lamented aloud. Half a year after the old father died;
Elizabeth's parents soon followed him, and she was obliged to take the
sole management of the large estate. Her many avocations removed her
somewhat from her sorrow; the education of her children, the
superintendence of her property, left her no time for care and grief.
So after two years she resolved on a new marriage, and gave her hand
to a young sprightly man, who had loved her from his youth. But soon
all things in the house assumed another form. The cattle died; men and
maid-servants were unfaithful; the barns filled with grain were
consumed by fire; people in the town who owed them various sums fled
away with the money. The landlord soon found himself compelled to sell
some fields and meadows; but a failure in the crops, and a year of
scarcity, only brought him into new embarrassments. It seemed nought
else than as if the gold, so wondrously obtained, were in all ways
seeking a speedy flight.
Meanwhile the family increased; and Elizabeth, as well as her husband,
became careless and dilatory from despair. He endeavoured to drown his
cares by drinking much of intoxicating wine, which made him irritable
and passionate, so that Elizabeth often bewailed her misery with
bitter tears.
As soon as their fortune declined, their friends in the village kept
aloof; so that in a few years, they found themselves quite forsaken,
and with the greatest difficulty could struggle on from week to week.
They had only a few sheep and one cow remaining; which Elizabeth
herself often tended with her children. She was once sitting thus with
her work on the grass, Leonora by her side, and a child at her breast,
when they saw from the distance a strange form coming towards them. It
was a man in a coat all in tatters, barefoot, his countenance sunburnt
to a dark-brown, and still more disfigured by a long rough beard; he
wore no covering on his head, but had a garland of green leaves
twisted through his hair, which made his wild appearance still more
strange and incomprehensible. On his back he carried in a fast-bound
sack a heavy burden; in walking he supported himself on a young
fir-tree.
When he came nearer, he set down his load, and heavily fetched his
breath. He wished the lady good-day; she was terrified at his
presence, the child clung closely to her mother. When he had rested a
while, he said: "I have just come from a very fatiguing journey among
the roughest mountains upon earth; but have, at last, succeeded in
bringing with me the most precious treasures which imagination can
conceive or heart can wish. Look here and wonder!" Hereupon he opened
his sack, and emptied it; it was full of pebbles, mixed with large
pieces of flint and other stones. "It is only," he continued, "that
these jewels are not yet ground and polished, that they fail to take
the eye. The outward fire, with its brightness, is yet too deeply
buried in their inmost heart; but one has only to strike it out, and
make them feel that no dissimulation will any more serve them, then
you will see of what spirit they are the offspring." With these words,
he took one of the hard stones and struck it vehemently against
another, so that red sparks sprang forth between them, "Did you see
the glance?" he cried. "Thus are they all fire and light; they
illuminate the darkness with their laughter, but as yet they do it not
willingly." So saying, he again packed all up carefully in his sack,
which he tied fast together. "I know thee very well," he then said
sadly; "thou art Elizabeth." She started with terror.
"How earnest thou to know my name?" she asked, with foreboding
shudder.
"Ah, good God!" said the unhappy one; "I am indeed Christian, who once
came to thee as a hunter. Dost thou, then, know me no more?"
She knew not, in her horror and deepest compassion, what to say. He
fell upon her neck and kissed her. Elizabeth exclaimed, "O God! my
husband is coming!"
"Be tranquil," said he; "I am as good as dead to thee. There in the
forest my fair one awaits me; the powerful one, she that is adorned
with the golden veil. This is my dearest child Leonora. Come hither,
my dear, beloved heart; give me too a kiss,--one only,--that I may
once again feel thy mouth upon my lips, then I will leave you."
Leonora wept; she clasped close to her mother, who, in sobs and tears,
half turned her towards the wanderer; he half drew her to himself,
took her in his arms, and pressed her to his bosom. Then he went
silently away, and in the wood they saw him speaking with the
frightful Woodwoman.
"What is the matter?" asked the husband, as he found mother and
daughter pale and dissolved in tears. Neither would answer him.
But the unhappy one was from that day never again seen.