Transcriber’s note
Variable spelling and hyphenation have been retained. Minor punctuation
inconsistencies have been silently repaired. A list of the changes made
can be found at the end of the book. Formatting and special characters
are indicated as follows:
_italic_
_INTERNATIONAL HUMOUR._
EDITED BY W. H. DIRCKS.
THE HUMOUR OF GERMANY.
[Illustration: “HE WAS TOO FOND OF DELIVERING LONG SPEECHES AT THE
ALEHOUSE.” [_See page 410._]
THE HUMOUR OF GERMANY
SELECTED AND TRANSLATED, WITH INTRODUCTION AND BIOGRAPHICAL INDEX, BY
HANS MÜLLER-CASENOV: WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY C. E. BROCK.
[Illustration]
LONDON 1892 WALTER SCOTT LTD.
CONTENTS.
PAGE
INTRODUCTION xi
MASTER FOX, THE CONFESSOR--_Hugo von Trimberg_ (1260-1309) 1
ST. PETER’S LESSON--_Hans Sachs_ (1494-1576) 4
A RAID ON THE PARSON’S KITCHEN--_Christoffel von Grimmelshausen_
(1620-1676) 6
THE REVOLT IN THE THEATRE--_Ludwig Tieck_ (1773-1853) 12
THE UNACCOUNTABLE STRANGER--_Ludwig Tieck_ 24
VAN DER KABEL’S LAST WILL AND TESTAMENT--_Jean Paul Friedrich Richter_
(1763-1825) 28
DIVISION OF LABOUR IN MATTERS SENTIMENTAL--_Jean Paul Friedrich
Richter_ 35
A TENDER-HEARTED CRITIC--_Jean Paul Friedrich Richter_ 37
THE ACCIDENT OF THE DISTINGUISHED STRANGER--_August von Kotzebue_
(1761-1819) 38
HOW THE VICAR CAME AROUND--_Heinrich Zschokke_ (1771-1848) 49
THE MAN WHO SOLD HIS SHADOW--_A. von Chamisso_ (1781-1838) 62
THE GHOST OF DR. ASCHER--_Heinrich Heine_ (1799-1856) 66
TOURISTS AT THE BROCKEN--_Heinrich Heine_ 70
MY APPRECIATIVE FRIEND--_Heinrich Heine_ 72
“MADAM, DO YOU KNOW THE OLD PLAY?”--_Heinrich Heine_ 73
VERSES FROM HEINE 100
ABOUT MONEY--_M. G. Saphir_ (1795-1858) 105
A NIGHT IN THE BREMER RATHSKELLER--_Wilhelm Hauff_ (1802-1827) 107
THE DUEL WITH THE DEVIL--_Wilhelm Hauff_ 125
EDITORIAL CO-OPERATION--_Wilhelm Hauff_ 130
MOZART’S JOURNEY TO PRAGUE--_Edward Mörike_ (1804-1875) 133
A RABID PHILOSOPHER (AUCH EINER)--_Friedrich Theodor v. Vischer_
(1807-1889) 146
HIS SERENITY WILL BUILD A PALACE--_Fritz Reuter_ (1810-1874) 159
HIS SERENITY AND THE THUNDER-STORM--_Fritz Reuter_ 167
THE LIEUTENANT’S DINNER--_Fritz Reuter_ 177
THE HIGHER ALTRUISM--_Fritz Reuter_ 181
MY PICTURES--_Fritz Reuter_ 182
LISZT EXPECTED AT AN EVENING PARTY--_E. Kossak_ (1814-1880) 188
A PRINCE IN DISGUISE--_Gottfried Keller_ (1815-1887) 196
A DISREPUTABLE SAINT--_Gottfried Keller_ 203
MILITARY INSPECTION--_F. W. Hackländer_ (1816-1877) 221
THE KING OF MACCAROONIA--_Professor Volkmann_ (1830-1891) 225
THE SAD TALE OF SEVEN KISSES--_Professor Volkman_ 232
A COUNTRY COMEDY--_Heinrich Schaumberger_ (1843-1874) 235
HOW BLINDSCHLEICHER WENT COURTING--_P. K. Rosegger_ 249
“WHOM FIRST WE LOVE”--_H. von Kahlenberg_ 255
WOOING THE GALLOWS--_W. H. Riehl_ 261
ELECTIVE AFFINITIES--_Franz von Schönthan_ 274
HOT PUNCH--_Julius Stinde_ 281
WOMAN--_Bogumil Golz_ (1801-1870) 284
A CHRISTMAS TALE--_Eduard Pötzl_ 288
THE CASE OF MINCKWITZ--_Paul Lindau_ 293
STUDENTS’ SONGS--
OLD ASSYRIAN-JONAH--_Joseph Victor Scheffel_ 304
HEINZ VON STEIN 305
BRIGAND SONG 306
A FARTHING AND A SIXPENCE--_Count Albert von Schlippenbach_ 307
THE TEUTOBURGER BATTLE--_J. V. Scheffel_ 308
THE LAST PAIR OF BREECHES--_J. V. Scheffel_ 311
ENDERLE VON KETSCH--_J. V. Scheffel_ 313
GOD AND THE LOVER--_Old German_ 316
UNINTENTIONAL WITTICISMS OF THE ABSENT-MINDED GERMAN PROFESSOR 317
THE INCARCERATION OF THE HERR PROFESSOR--_Ernst Eckstein_ 320
OUR WAR-CORRESPONDENT--_Julius Stettenheim_ 335
SCHNORPS’ SWALLOW-TAIL--_Fritz Brentano_ 339
THE MAN OF ORDER--_Johannes Scherr_ 352
THE LUXURY OF GOING ABOUT INCOGNITO--_Hans Arnold_ 359
THE INNER LIFE OF THE SECOND-CLASS CAB-DRIVER--_Ernst von Wildenbruch_
382
BON-MOTS 404
THE EARLY DAYS OF A GENIUS--_Wilhelm Raabe_ 408
NEWSPAPER HUMOUR 423
BIOGRAPHICAL INDEX OF WRITERS 431
INTRODUCTION.
IN endeavouring to bring together examples of so significant and at the
same time elusive a phase of national character--literary as well as
psychological--as a nation’s humour, it were of course vain to seek to
make each selection typical in itself--typical, that is, in the sense
of referring to the broad basis of a nation’s individuality in respect
of its humour as distinguished from other nations.
A general idea can only be obtained by scanning a broad field; here,
as elsewhere, details have little meaning unless considered in their
relation to the broader outlook. A constant interplay of varied
influences has to be taken into account. The purely national aspect
is obtruded upon by the individuality of each author, which nowhere
expresses with such effect as in the literature of humour. The _time_
of writing, considered historically, with its political tendencies, has
also to be considered; its church dependence perhaps, and the peculiar
trend of its social interests. It is intruded upon also by the time
considered in its relation to literature as a whole, to the tendencies
of form and style predominant at given periods.
Furthermore, there are strictly _local_ peculiarities, subdividing
Germany itself. It is more especially these that the student of
literature, unless he be also a student of ethnological influences,
is likely to wrongly estimate, while it is of the utmost importance
that they be borne in mind to arrive at a just view of qualities that
oversway minor differences, which are often the first to catch the eye.
The more the Comic Muse is bound within the narrow limits of place,
time, and personality, the more is she in her element. She of all muses
is a painter of detail, versed in the art of reproducing punctiliously
those petty traits which disengage her subject from all broader
problems, and make it effective in proportion to its _unimportance_ to
the world’s general affairs.
Writers upon the theory of humour are apt to deplore the absence of
just such local land-marks in Germany as are strongly characteristic
and still recognisable to the foreigner. It would appear to me that
they have done so with some injustice. The _Volkscharacter_ of southern
and northern Germany, of the lowlands, and the Franco-Bavarian and
Suabian districts, even of the various centres of civilisation, the
large towns, is abundant in those differentiating qualities which go
to make up originality of manner. The modes of thought and feeling
characterising the population of different districts bear a stamp so
distinct that one is inclined to consider them more strongly marked by
provincial locality than by nationality.
In these days dialect proper, having gained the prestige of comparative
rarity, like a peasant’s national costume, or a bit of _bric-à-brac_,
has been favoured by the humorist, although its reproduction in our
literature has well-nigh insurmountable difficulties to cope with. The
Low German, one of the most interesting of German dialects, because,
historically, the most intact, and the most incapable of amalgamation
with the language that has superseded it, had been left to grow rusty
so far as literature was concerned, until Fritz Reuter rescued it
from threatening oblivion, and made it the vehicle of a naïve and
spontaneous _genre_ of humour, to which it lent itself with singular
charm and appropriateness.
The cause of the former neglect of Low German as a means of literary
expression was very obvious, and there was no gainsaying the justice of
it--viz., that it is used to-day only by the lower classes of Northern
Germany, and that among readers there is but a very limited number to
whom it is more comprehensible than a foreign language would be. It is
this fact also which explains why Fritz Reuter, the most intimate and
sympathetic of German humorists, although extensively read, has never
attained the widest popularity.
Fundamentally, the German character appears to be averse to humour. Its
mirth does not come to it spontaneously, a gift of the gods, arising
out of the mere exuberance of being. This nation shares the temperament
of all northern races, it moves more to the minor strains of feeling,
to the _Adagio_ which Richard Wagner found so aptly expressive of its
character. It is quick to respond to things mystic, and yearns over the
vague grace of twilight moods. It worships at the shrine of the hapless
Prince of Denmark.--I say fundamentally, for, looking at the life of
the nation as it appears to-day, in those pleasures of the lower and
middle classes which have their scene of action in the out-of-door
world, there would appear to be in plenty a spirit of merry-making and
pleasure-seeking inherent in the German character. The mere primitive
love of a good time, however, is inseparably connected with those
classes representing, in a manner, a child-like stage of intellectual
development the world over, and is not characteristic in any special
sense of the German people.
It is safe to admit that a certain lightness of disposition, which
seems indispensable to the humorous attitude, is absent among those
race-qualities which go to make up the German nature pure and simple.
If the nation has developed within itself those germs which have
blossomed into a sense of the humorous; if it has passed through all
those early stages of perception and expression which have culminated
in a humorous literature of sturdy strength; if it has found at length
a humorous literature (with Gottfried Keller for its prophet, and
F. T. Vischer for its critic and exponent), it is due probably to a
complexity of influences somewhat difficult to determine.
However free in its purely literary aspect humour may be from all
ulterior purpose and aim, the tale of its growth with us is largely
interwoven with impulses received from outside sources and sources
didactic and philosophical. Outwitting the devil, the theme that recurs
again and again as the oldest form of farcical expression in mediæval
Germany, meant dealing with the stresses of adverse circumstance. This
was the first step taken on the road to humour in Germany. The Powers
of Evil had all the brute force upon their side; there was no coping
with them, except by sharpening one’s wits and irritating them by
practical jokes until they might yield. The laugh that followed had
all the hard ring of the victor’s triumphant scorn. Early satirical
writings were imbued with a like spirit. There was the lash to be swung
at some enemy, and derision at his downfall was tempered by no kindlier
emotion. There was a grim attitude of self-defence throughout it all.
Indeed, it is only in going back painfully step by step that one is
enabled to discern in this early literature the germs of humour at all.
The farces and puppet-shows at country fairs and the burlesques at the
early theatre began to make room for the idea of retaliation. It became
a question of clown against clown. The supremacy was never yielded
long to one side. Laying aside all personal interest in the matter for
the time being, there was an impartial shout of laughter at him who
got the most kicks and cuffs. The popular mind began to rise above the
situation, to put itself in the position of an unbiassed spectator, and
to take delight in merely putting down whatever asserted itself. As an
instance of this may be counted the practice of granting the devil, or
a person disguised as such, a hearing in church on certain days of the
year instead of the parish priest.
Then the sense of discrepancy between things great and small, things
important and unimportant, the world of the senses and the world of
the spirit, began to enter the popular perception, the impossibility
of reconciliation, and, as a consequence, the pleasure of turning this
world topsy-turvy, and so demonstrating the supremacy of the individual.
Side by side with this development, or partly perhaps based upon it,
went the philosophic development. Thinkers, dreamers, and philosophers
went on constructing a universe according to the laws of their
individual minds, a universe containing nothing at all to be laughed
at, and for many decades scholars were deeply buried in obstruse
problems and finely-spun theories and systems, the lighter muse of
poetry and art for the most part following but humbly and timorously
from afar. But when philosophy and theology had spoken at large, and
the mystery and fatal contradiction at the heart of things had not been
unravelled, the pale brooding of some turned to melancholy, with others
it turned to boisterous living and philosophic indifferentism.
Then it was that irony, directed upon the inordinate intellectual
ambitions of man, removed him half imperceptibly into the sphere of
the ludicrous. Self-irony may be the result of misanthropy, but it is
certainly the beginning of a cure. One finds oneself to be made up of
two absurdly contradicting hemispheres, as well as the rest of the
world; the sense of the universal incongruity seems to make the case
less tragic. To pass through this stage into the clearer atmosphere
of conscious reconciliation with the actuality of things, of placid
acceptance of the ups and downs, the shortcomings inherent in things,
and in human nature withal,--into the atmosphere of pure humour,
unperturbed by the possibility of personal disappointment, is a long
step, easy to some, to others impossible. And it would seem that German
Humour--taking the term in its widest sense as signifying subjective
apprehension on the one hand and artistic expression on the other--is
less the result of a temperamental predisposition than the culmination
of a development. With a turn for flaccid sentimentalism, and by
nature inclined to take themselves very seriously, it was a reaction,
a bankruptcy in metaphysical methods that inaugurated and established
something of a humorous _Weltanschauung_. The often oppressively heavy
_Zeitgeist_ has borne along its own corrective in the literature of
two centuries as on an ever-strengthening under-current. There have
been silent forces at play working imperceptibly through the innate
robustness of the national character. It was this undeniable robustness
which could not for long brook the extravagancies of weak emotionalism.
Revolt was opened upon it on the one hand by the spirit of exact
science, on the other by the need of æsthetic equilibrium. These two
tendencies, the æsthetic and the scientific, are still contending for
the field with much ado and bustle in some quarters.
Though a nation counting Heine and Lichtenberg among its own, it is not
in the _spielende Urtheil_, as Jean Paul has called inspired sallies
of wit, that German humour specially distinguishes itself; now and
again there it has its moods of riotous absurdity; but where it is
most characteristic is in the telling of the humorous tale, lovingly
handled in its details, the pathetic verging very near upon the comic,
finally succumbing in a ripple of good-natured laughter at somebody
or other who is really not so very bad, but only very human, and for
whose misfortunes--poor devil!--we may have a kindly feeling. Then
we have a mastership in spectral stories, uncanny and imaginative,
leaving the reader’s mind in a delightful condition of doubt as to
their actual meaning and significance; and we have also the expression
of the spirit of poetic adventure,--a determination to have fun at all
hazards, either _with_ the public or else _at_ the public, if perchance
it should prove too dull to be taken into partnership. There is much of
this in Chamisso’s _Peter Schlemihl_, which, in the face of many dizzy
structures of elucidation that have been based upon it, remains so
truly humorous and so profoundly touching.
It is by no means always the _funny_ element that predominates in
German writings of a humorous tendency. Their office seems to be more
to suggest the effect which these lighter moods of fancy have upon
the serious affairs of life, and in studying the humour of Germany
in a spirit of literary criticism it is indispensable to take these
two aspects in their action and reaction upon each other. There is a
psychical development of the individual which runs parallel to that of
the nation. In confirmation of the theory of humorous development here
faintly outlined, it may be said that in Germany, humorous perception
is for the most part not the possession of youth. It is not until the
need of a corrective to a habit of speculative brooding has been felt
that imperceptibly and unconsciously healthful minds rise to those
dispassionate heights whence the Occidental Brahmin gazes upon a motley
world.
HANS MÜLLER-CASENOV.
[_For Acknowledgments to Authors and Publishers, see page 430._]
THE HUMOUR OF GERMANY.
_MASTER FOX, THE CONFESSOR._
THEY overtook the Ass, and so
All three to Rome together go.
And when they saw the city near,
The Wolf said to his cousin dear:
“Reynard, my plan I’ll name to you:--
The Pope, we know, has much to do;
I doubt if he can spend his time
To hear our catalogues of crime.
’Twill spare some trouble for the Pope
(And also for ourselves, I hope,
As we may ’scape with penance less),
If to each other we confess.
Let each describe his greatest sin,
So, without preface, I’ll begin.
To notice trifles I disdain;
But one fact gives my conscience pain.
’Tis this--there dwelt beside the Rhine
A man who lived by feeding swine.
He had a sow who rambled wide
While all her pigs with hunger cried.
I punished her in such a way
That never more she went astray.
Her little ones, deserted now,
Oft moved my pity, I’ll avow;
I ended all their woes one night--
Now let my punishment be light!”
“Well,” said the Fox, “your sin was small,
And hardly can for penance call;
For such a venial transgression
You’ve made amends by this confession.
And now I’ll do as you have done--
Of all my sins I’ll name but one:
A man such noisy fowls would keep,
That no one near his house could sleep;
The crowings of his chanticleer
Disturbed the country far and near.
Distracted by the noise, one night
I went and stopped his crowing quite.
But this feat ended not the matter--
The hens began to crow and chatter;
And so (the deed I slightly rue)
I killed them and their chickens too.”
“Well,” said the Wolf, “to hush that din
Was surely no alarming sin;
Abstain from poultry for three days,
And, if you like, amend your ways.
But now the Ass must be confessed.
Donkey! how far have you transgressed?”
“Ah!” said the Ass, with dismal bray,
“You know I have not much to say;
For I have toiled from day to day,
And done for master service good,
In carrying water, corn, and wood.
But once, in winter time, ’tis true,
I did what I perhaps must rue:
A countryman, to keep him warm
(We had just then a snowy storm),
Had put some straw into his shoes;
To bite it I could not refuse;
And so (for hunger was my law)
I took, or stole, a single straw.”
“There! say no more!” the Fox exclaimed;
“For want of straw that man was lamed;
His feet were bitten by the frost;
’Tis probable his life was lost.
’Twas theft and murder.--No reply!
Your penance is, that you must die.”
_Hugo von Trimberg_ (1260-1309).
[Illustration: “BUT NOW THE ASS MUST BE CONFESSED.”]
[Illustration: “THE GOAT RUNS ON AND NEVER TIRES.”]
_ST. PETER’S LESSON._
THE young goat had a playful mind,
And never liked to be confined;
The apostle, at a killing pace,
Followed the goat, in a desperate chase;
Over the hills and among the briers
The goat runs on and never tires,
While Peter, behind, on the grassy plain,
Runs on, panting and sighing, in vain.
All day, beneath a scorching sun,
The good apostle had to run
Till evening came; the goat was caught,
And safely to the Master brought.
Then, with a smile, to Peter said
The Lord: “Well, friend, how have you sped;
If such a task your powers has tried,
How could you keep the world, so wide?”
Then Peter, with his toil distressed,
His folly, with a sigh, confessed.
“No, Master! ’tis for me no play
To rule one goat for one short day;
It must be infinitely worse
To regulate the universe.”
_Hans Sachs_ (1494-1576).
[Illustration]
A RAID ON THE PARSON’S KITCHEN.
THE commandant at Soest looked at me with approval, and said, “Tut,
little huntsman, you shall be my servant, and wait upon my horses.”
“Sir,” I replied, “I should prefer a master in whose service the horses
wait upon me. As it is not likely I shall find such a one, I am going
to be a soldier.”
“Hoity-toity,” he said, “you have no more hair on your lip than a
tree-frog. You are too young.”
“Oh, no,” I replied, “I will venture to brave any man of eighty. The
beard does not make a man, else the he-goats would be in high esteem.”
He said, “If you can show courage as well as you can wag your tongue,
so be it.”
I answered, “The first opportunity shall furnish the proof.”
And so the commandant made over to me my dragoon’s old trousers, in
which my master had sewed a goodly number of ducats. Out of their
vitals I provided myself with a good horse and the best fire-arms
I could get; I thereupon polished up my belongings to their utmost
possibility of brightness. I got me a new suit of green, for I
delighted in the name of “huntsman,” and gave my old garments to my
boy, as they had grown too short and too tight for me. I sat on my
horse like a young nobleman, and did not think small beer of myself.
I took special delight in decorating my hat with a smart bunch of
feathers like an officer. There were enough to envy me, and soon words
and blows were the order of the day. But no sooner had I given proof
to two of my enemies as to the nature of the thrusts I was skilled in,
than I was left in peace, and my friendship was much sought for. In our
raids upon the enemy I threw myself forward like bubbles in a boiling
kettle, to be always the first in the fight. Whenever it was my good
fortune to lay hands upon a desirable bit of pillage I shared it freely
with the officers. The consequence was that I was allowed to plunder
even in forbidden places, and could be secure of protection under all
circumstances. So I was soon looked up to by friend and foe, and my
purse grew as great as my name; even the peasants I managed to keep
upon my side by fear and love, for I took vengeance upon those that
tried to hinder me, and gave rich rewards to all who were helpful. I
did not confine myself to large schemes, and never despised small ones
if there was praise and admiration to be won thereby.
At one time we had been vainly hoping for some waggons with provisions
to come into our way at the Castle of Recklinkhausen, and the pangs
of hunger were upon us. And when I and my comrade, a student just run
away from school, were leaning out of one of the windows, and hungrily
gazing out into the country, my companion sighed after the barley-soup
of his dear mother, and said: “Ah, brother, isn’t it a shame to think
that after having studied all the arts, I should not be able to supply
food for myself? Brother, I know for certain, if I were only allowed to
visit the parson in yonder village--you can see the church steeple just
beyond the poplars--I should find a most excellent feast.”
After a short parley the captain gave us permission; I exchanged my
clothes with those of another, and the student and I betook ourselves
to the village on a very roundabout way. The reverend gentleman
received us civilly. When my companion had greeted him in Latin,
accompanying his words with a profound bow, and briskly conjuring up a
fine array of lies how the soldiers had robbed him, a poor student, of
all his provisions, the parson gave him bread and butter and a drink
of beer. I passed myself off as a painter’s apprentice, and acting as
if my companion and I had never met before, I told them both I should
go down the village street to the inn for refreshment, and would then
call for him, as we seemed to be going the same way. So I went away in
search of anything that might be worth the trouble of coming for the
following night, and I was so fortunate as to meet a peasant who was
plastering up an earthen oven in which large loaves of brown bread were
to lie and bake for twenty-four hours. I thought, “Go ahead; plaster
away! I’ll find you a customer for these delicious viands.” I made but
a short stay at the inn, knowing this cheaper way of getting bread,
and returned to my companion, who had eaten his fill, and had told the
parson that I was on my way to Holland to perfect myself in my art. The
parson asked me to go and see the church with him, as he would like to
show me some paintings that were in need of restoration. As it would
not do to spoil the game, I consented. He conducted us through the
kitchen, and when he opened the night-lock on the strong oaken door
which led to the churchyard, I saw a wonderful sight. From the black
heavens of this kitchen violins, flutes, and cymbals were pendent--in
reality they were hams, sausages, and slices of bacon. I looked at them
with happy forebodings, and they seemed to smile irritatingly upon me.
I wished them in the castle to my comrades, but in vain; they were
obstinate, and remained hanging where they were. I mused on ways and
means of bringing them under my plan regarding the peasant’s loaves of
bread, but there were serious difficulties in the way, as the yard of
the parsonage was surrounded by a stone wall, and all the windows were
well protected with iron bars. Moreover, there were two large dogs in
the yard that certainly would object to having that stolen the remnants
of which was, in the course of time, to be the reward due to their
watchfulness.
Once in church, it appeared that the parson generously intended to
entrust me with the restoration of his old pictures. As I was exerting
myself to find some plausible subterfuge, the sexton turned to me and
said: “Fellow, you look more like a disreputable soldier-lad than like
a painter.” I was no longer accustomed to such speeches, and yet there
was nothing for it but to swallow the taunt. I shook my head softly and
replied, “Oh, you knave! give me a brush and colours, and I will paint
a fool in a twinkling who shall resemble you throughout.”
The parson made a joke of the matter, and reminded both of us that it
is not meet to tell each other unsavoury truths in so holy a spot. Then
he gave us another drink, and we departed. But I left my heart with the
sausages.
Returning to our people, I picked out six reliable fellows to help me
carry home the bread. About midnight we entered the village and quietly
took the bread out of the oven, and as we were about to pass the
parsonage I could not bring myself to go on without the bacon. I stood
still and looked up and down to discover some way into the parson’s
kitchen, but there was no opening except the chimney. We stored our
guns and our treasured booty of bread in the charnel-house of the
churchyard, managed to get a ladder and rope out of the barn, and I and
my crony Springinsfeld climbed up on the tiled roof. I twisted my long
hair into a top-knot, and let myself down by the rope to the objects
of my desire. Once there, I did not delay, and tied ham after ham, and
sausage after sausage to the rope. Springinsfeld fished everything out
skilfully from his post on the roof and handed it down to the others.
But, alack-a-day! as I was just going to give myself a holiday and come
out, the pole that I was standing on gave way, and poor Simplicisimus
was suddenly precipitated, and found himself in as bad a fix as need
be--in fact, it was like a regular man-trap. Springinsfeld tried to
help me by letting down the rope, but that also broke. I said to
myself, “Now, huntsman, you are in for a chase in which there will be
small mercy for your hide.”
Sure enough, my fall had waked up the parson, and he called his
cook and bade her strike a light. She appeared in night-attire, her
petticoat around her shoulders, and stood close beside me. She seized
a coal from the hearth, held her candle up close to it, and began to
blow. At the same time I blew much stronger than she, which frightened
the poor body so that she dropped both candle and coal, and retreated
near her master. Now the parson himself struck a light, while the woman
was telling him there was a horrible two-headed ghost crouching in the
kitchen; she had probably mistaken my top-knot for a second head. When
I heard this I quickly rubbed my face and hands with ashes and soot,
until I doubtless bore small resemblance to the angel I had figured for
at the nunnery. And if the sexton could have seen me thus occupied,
he would certainly have given me credit for being a rapid painter.
Thereupon I began to make as much noise as I possibly could, throwing
pans and kettles about. I hung the ring of the large kettle about my
neck, and took the poker in my hand, to have a weapon in case of need.
All this did not put out the pious parson, who approached as if he were
heading a procession, his cook behind him, carrying two wax tapers and
a stoup. He was attired in his surplice, and had a book in one hand and
his holy-water sprinkle in the other. He read some ritual of exorcism
aloud before me, and then asked me who I was, and what was my business
here. Seeing that he was labouring under the impression that I was the
Evil One, I thought it but fair that I should act in accordance with
my new _rôle_, and I answered him as I had once answered the robbers
in the woods, “I am the devil, and I have come to turn your neck, and
your servant’s as well.” He thereupon tried his most potent charm, “All
good spirits praise the Lord! I conjure thee, return from whither thou
comest!” I replied that this was impossible, happy though I should be
to comply with his request.
Meanwhile my boon-companion Springinsfeld was indulging in spectral
revelries upon the roof. When he heard what was going on in the kitchen
below, and how I was passing myself off for the devil, he began to hoot
like an owl, then barking like a dog, neighing like a horse, bleating
like a sheep, crying like a donkey, cackling down the chimney like a
hen about to lay an egg, and then again giving forth unearthly music
like a hundred serenading cats; for this fellow was clever in imitating
the voices of animals, and could howl as naturally as if a pack of
wolves were standing about the house.
During the consternation of the parson and his charming feminine
choir-boy I had time to look about me, and, to my joy, I made the
discovery that the night-lock had not been put on the back door. Quick
as a flash I pushed back the bolt, slipped out into the churchyard,
where my companions were standing with triggers drawn, and left the
parson to conjure devils as long as he pleased. And when Springinsfeld
came down from the roof, bringing my hat along, and we had packed
our spoils upon our shoulders, we returned to our party, not having
anything more to do in the village, though I admit that we might have
returned the borrowed ladder and rope.
_Christoffel von Grimmelshausen_ (1620-1676).
_THE REVOLT IN THE THEATRE._
(FROM ACT I. OF “A TOPSY-TURVY WORLD.”)
SCARAMUCCIO.[1] POET.
SCARAMUCCIO.
No, Sir Poet, say what you please, talk as you wish, make as many
objections as you can possibly make, it shall in no wise alter my
purpose, to listen to nothing, to consider nothing, to insist upon
having my own way,--so there!
POET.
Dear Scaramuccio!
SCARAMUCCIO.
I listen to nothing. Look, Sir Poet, how I am stopping up my ears.
POET.
But the piece----
SCARAMUCCIO.
Nonsense! the piece! I am a piece too, and I have a perfect right to
say my say. Or do you suppose I have no will of my own? Do you poets
labour under the delusion that a gentleman actor is called upon to do
just as you say? My dear sir, know you not that the times are changing?
POET.
But the spectators----
SCARAMUCCIO.
And because there are spectators in the world, would you make me
unhappy? Nice principles those!
POET.
Friend, you must listen to me.
SCARAMUCCIO.
Very well then, if I must. Here I sit; now talk like a sensible man, if
it is in your nature so to do. (_Sits down on the ground._)
POET.
Most esteemed Sir Scaramuccio! Your Grace has been engaged at this
theatre for a special _rôle_--in a word, to express myself briefly, you
are the _Scaramuccio_. It is not to be denied that you have reached
a degree of excellence in this your speciality, and there is no man
in the world more willing than myself to do justice to your talents;
but, my dear sir, for all that you are not possessed of the qualities
fitting you for a tragedian; for all that you will never be able to
play a lofty character.
SCARAMUCCIO.
The impudence of it! By my soul, I’ll play you a loftier character than
you will be able to write. I take your remark as a personal insult,
and I challenge the whole world to out-do me in the high and lofty.
SCAEVOLA (_one of the spectators_).
Oh, Sir Scaramuccio, we’ll all take up your challenge.
SCARAMUCCIO.
How so? What now? I confess I am struck dumb by this insolence.
SCAEVOLA.
My dear sir, there is no cause for that. I am here for my money, Sir
Scaramuccio, and I can think what I please.
SCARAMUCCIO.
You are free to think as you see best, but you are not allowed to speak
here.
SCAEVOLA.
So long as you may speak, I don’t see why I shouldn’t.
SCARAMUCCIO.
Well, then, what have you done that was so noble?
SCAEVOLA.
The day before yesterday I helped my spendthrift of a nephew out of his
debts.
SCARAMUCCIO.
And yesterday I saved the prompter from talking himself hoarse by
leaving out a whole scene.
SCAEVOLA.
I was in a merry humour at table one day last week, and gave a whole
shilling in charity.
SCARAMUCCIO.
The day before yesterday I quarrelled with my tailor, who came to dun
me, and I had the last word.
SCAEVOLA.
A week ago I helped get a tipsy man home.
SCARAMUCCIO.
Sir, I was this tipsy man; but I had been drinking my sovereign’s
health.
SCAEVOLA.
I confess myself vanquished.
(_Enter Pierrot in a state of excitement._)
POET.
What’s the matter, Pierrot?
PIERROT.
What’s the matter? I will not play to-day. On no account will I play.
POET.
Why not?
PIERROT.
Why not? Because it’s high time for me to become a spectator. I’ve been
a _mime_ long enough.
(_Enter Wagemann, the manager._)
POET.
You are just in time, Herr Wagemann. There is confusion abroad.
WAGEMANN.
How so?
POET.
Pierrot will not play to-day. He wants to be a spectator, and
Scaramuccio insists upon taking the _rôle_ of Apollo in my drama.
SCARAMUCCIO.
And am I not right, Herr Wagemann? I have played the fool long enough,
and I should like to try my hand at the wise.
WAGEMANN.
You are too severe, Sir Poet. You must give the poor fellows a little
more liberty. Let them have it their own way.
POET.
But the requirements of the drama, of art----
WAGEMANN.
Oh, all that will come right enough. Look you, my way of thinking is
this--the spectators have paid their money, and with that the most
important thing is regulated.
PIERROT.
Adieu, Sir Poet. I go to join the illustrious assembly of spectators.
I will venture the bold leap over the footlights, to see if I can
be cured of being a fool, and graduate to a spectator. (_Sings._)
Fare-thee-well, thou old love; a new life is dawning for me, and most
sensible impulses are moving my heart. No footlight shall affright me,
no prompter can hold me. Ah, I would taste the peaceful bliss of being
an auditor. Receive me, wild waves; stage, fare-thee-well, my spirit
yearns to be drawn beyond thy precincts. (_Jumps into the parterre._)
Where am I? Oh heavens! do I still breathe? Ah! is it possible I stand
here below? The rays of the footlights shine over yonder. Ye gods, ye
behold me surrounded by people. Who gave me this life, this better life?
THE AUDIENCE.
Monsieur Pierrot is one of us. A hearty welcome to thee, Spectator
Pierrot. We greet thee, thou great man!
PIERROT.
Can it be, ye noble ones, that you will count me as your brother? Ah,
my gratitude will last as long as there is breath within this bosom.
GRÜNHELM (_one of the spectators_).
Glorious, glorious! By my soul he speaks well! But as for me, I should
like to take a part on the stage for a change; it would do my heart
good. To be sure I tremble and stammer, and my wit is not of the
quickest, but I am never so happy as when I am making a little joke.
(_He scrambles up on the stage._) And so, Sir Scaramuccio, leave your
funny _rôle_ to me, and then, for all I care, you may play the Apollo.
POET.
And what then is to become of my excellent drama?
AUDIENCE.
Scaramuccio shall play the Apollo. It is a unanimous decision.
POET.
’Tis well. I wash my hands of it. The audience may bear the
responsibility. I am deeply miserable. Ah, yes, it is the fate of Art
to be misunderstood and travestied, and it is only then that it finds
its public. In vengeance for the judgment passed upon Marsyas, Poetry
herself is flayed alive to-day. My sorrow is greater than I can endure.
Herr Grünhelm, so you undertake to do the joking?
GRÜNHELM.
I do, Sir Poet, and I will hold my own against any rival.
POET.
How will you do it?
GRÜNHELM.
Sir, I have been one of those whose chief business it is to be amused
long enough to know what will please. The people down there want to
be entertained. At bottom that is the only reason they stand there so
quietly and patiently. The good-will of the public is the principal
thing, I know that as well as you do. True art is to keep this
good-will on the surface.
POET.
Yes, of course, but by what means do you propose----?
GRÜNHELM.
Let that be my care, Sir Poet. (_Sings_:)
“A fowler’s trade is mine, heigh-ho,” etc.
AUDIENCE.
Bravo! bravo!
GRÜNHELM.
Are you pretty well amused, gentlemen?
AUDIENCE.
Excellently, most excellently!
GRÜNHELM.
Do you feel a longing for anything reasonable?
AUDIENCE.
No, no; but by-and-by we should like to have our feelings worked upon.
GRÜNHELM.
Patience, you can’t have all good things in a lump. Do you miss the
genuine Apollo?
AUDIENCE.
Not in the least.
GRÜNHELM.
Well, Sir Poet, do you still object to granting the excellent
Scaramuccio’s request?
POET.
Not in the least. I withdraw all my objections.
AUDIENCE.
But we don’t want him to give us nothing but nonsense.
SCARAMUCCIO.
Mercy on us! We would not be guilty of such a sinful thing. What kind
of an Apollo were I if I should admit of that? No, gentlemen, there
shall be an abundance of serious things--things to think about, things
to train one’s intellectual faculties.
SCAEVOLA.
Is it to be a tragedy?
PIERROT.
No, gentlemen, we actors have all sworn that we will not die, so it
won’t be a tragedy, whatever the poet may have in his mind.
SCAEVOLA.
I am relieved to hear it, for I am possessed of a very soft heart.
PIERROT.
Hang it, sir, neither are we made of stone and iron. I have the honour
of assuring you that my susceptibilities are uncommonly delicate. The
devil take all inelegancies.
SCAEVOLA.
That is what I say. There is nothing above being a spectator. It is the
highest thing one can be.
PIERROT.
Ay, that it is. Are we not more than all the emperors and princes that
are but acted?
SCARAMUCCIO.
Thunder and lightning! Where, in the hangman’s name, is my Parnassus?
GRÜNHELM.
I will go and get it. (_Exit._)
WAGEMANN.
Now all is in order. Adieu, Sir Scaramuccio.
SCARAMUCCIO.
Your humble servant. Beg you to express my respects to Madam, your
wife. (_The manager exit. Three attendants enter, carrying the
Parnassus._) Put it down here,--a trifle further to this side, so that
I can hear the prompter. (_He climbs up and takes a seat._) A pleasant
mount this. What revenues does it yield? Can any one tell me? Send for
the treasurer.
(_Enter the Treasurer._)
SCARAMUCCIO.
What does the mount bring me annually?
TREASURER.
Under your predecessor, the only profits derived were those from the
Castalian Spring.
SCARAMUCCIO.
What sort of a spring? Was it a mineral spring; a sulphur spring,
perhaps? Was there much demand for the waters? What was the price per
bottle?
TREASURER.
What little there was wanted was given away. Few people liked the
water. Your predecessor, the other Apollo, was fond of it.
SCARAMUCCIO.
I hope there are no mortgages on the mount?
TREASURER.
No, your majesty.
SCARAMUCCIO.
Is it insured?
TREASURER.
Oh, yes.
SCARAMUCCIO.
There is some security in that. I shall have a brewery and a bakery
put up at the foot. The common pastures must be otherwise disposed of;
Pegasus and the other beasts that belong to me must henceforth be fed
in the stable.
TREASURER.
It shall be as you say.
SCARAMUCCIO.
Have the spectators paid for the play?
TREASURER.
Yes, your excellency.
SCARAMUCCIO.
I hereby decree that there shall be no complimentary tickets in future.
TREASURER.
These are innovations not at all in accordance with the institutions of
Greece.
SCARAMUCCIO.
Hang Greece! Thank goodness we live in better times. This is an age
of enlightenment, and I reign supreme. Send for the Muses. (_Exit the
Treasurer._)
(_Enter the nine Muses, bowing profoundly._)
SCARAMUCCIO (_lightly nodding to them_).
Pleased to make your acquaintance, Mademoiselles. Hope we shall get on
finely together. Henceforth you shall be my tenants on the Parnassus.
Should you ever desire to change your residence, quarterly notice is
required. What is your name, fair child?
MELPOMENE.
I am Melpomene.
SCARAMUCCIO.
You look so woe-begone.
MELPOMENE.
Oh, Herr Apollo! I am of a very good family. My father had a high
position at court, and the thane gave me a matchless education. Ah,
how happy I was in my parents’ house, and what a dutiful daughter did
I strive to be! I also had a lover, but he jilted me, and my parents
died of grief. Our family physician, a worthy man, took an interest in
me; but he was too poor to marry me, so there was nothing for it but to
join the Muses. Have I no right to be sad?
SCARAMUCCIO.
Yes indeed, my child; but I will be as a father to you.
SCAEVOLA (_to another spectator_).
Now see, for heaven’s sake, how the tears are flowing from my eyes.
THE OTHER.
Why, neighbour, save them for the fifth act.
SCARAMUCCIO.
And who are you, pretty maid?
THALIA.
Thank you kindly, sir, for asking; I was christened Thalia. I was a
servant in the family of this excellent lady, and I could not bring
myself to leave her in her distress, and followed her among the Muses.
SCARAMUCCIO.
When the last act comes your faithfulness will surely be rewarded.
Where is my groom?
(_Enter the Groom._)
SCARAMUCCIO.
Saddle my Pegasus. I wish to go riding.
(_Exit the Groom, coming back immediately with a bridled donkey._)
Help me. (_He gets in the saddle._)
[Illustration: THE MOUNTING OF PEGASUS.]
GROOM.
By what rules of quantity does your Honour choose to take his pleasure
to-day?
SCARAMUCCIO.
Oh, fool! I will ride in plain, sensible prose. Do you suppose I wish
to be jolted in Alcaic measures, or break my neck in Proceleusmatics?
No, I am for sense and order.
GROOM.
Your predecessor was always flying in the air.
SCARAMUCCIO.
Don’t talk to me about the fellow. He must have been a very clown, a
most eccentric ass. To fly into the air! No, the air has no pillars,
I am all for the earth. Adieu, my friends! I am only going to ride
a short essay on the value of family portraits. I shall be back
presently. (_He rides slowly away._)
(_The curtain drops._)
SCAEVOLA.
That was only the introduction.
PIERROT.
The first act is always of great importance for the lucidity of the
whole.
THE OTHER TO SCAEVOLA.
There is much morality in the piece.
SCAEVOLA.
Indeed there is; I feel myself growing better already.
PIERROT.
Music!
_Ludwig Tieck_ (1773-1853).
_THE UNACCOUNTABLE STRANGER._
(FROM SCENE IV. OF “A TOPSY-TURVY WORLD.”)
(_The room of an Inn._)
INNKEEPER.
Few enough guests put up at my house nowadays. If this goes on I might
as well take down my sign. Dear me, those were other times when there
was scarce a piece performed but had a tavern and a host in it. I well
remember in how many hundreds of pieces the foundations for the finest
plots were laid in this very room. Now it was a prince in disguise,
who spent his money here; now it was a prime minister, or a wealthy
count at the very least, who lay in ambush here for some conspiracy.
Yes, even in things that were translated from the English, I always
earned an honest penny. Some drawbacks to be sure there were, when I
was required to be a disguised member of a band of sharpers, and then
be smartly rated by the moral characters; but there was always healthy
activity in it. But now!--Now when a wealthy stranger returns from a
journey, he goes to stay with his relatives by way of doing something
novel and original, and does not drop his disguise until the fifth act;
others appear only upon the street, as if there were no respectable
house for them to stay at. All this keeps the audience in a marvellous
state of curiosity, but it takes the bread out of our mouth.
(_Enter Anne._)
ANNE.
You seem to be in low spirits, father.
INNKEEPER.
Yes, child, I’m out of sorts about my calling.
ANNE.
Would you like to be something finer?
INNKEEPER.
No, not exactly; but it vexes me more than I can tell you that there is
no more demand for my calling.
ANNE.
Surely in time all that will change for the better.
INNKEEPER.
No, dear daughter. The times do not tend that way. Oh, why was I not a
Hofrath! You may look at any play-bill this day, it always says at the
bottom: “The scene is at the house of the Hofrath.” If things go on
like this I’ll study for a gaoler, for prisons, you know, still occur
in patriotic and mediæval pieces. But my son must see to it that he
gets to be a Hofrath.
ANNE.
Be comforted, dear father, and do not yield to your melancholy.
INNKEEPER.
I’ve half a mind to turn poet myself, and invent a new art of poetry
which shall supersede the Hofrath pieces, and in which the scene shall
invariably play in a tavern.
ANNE.
Do so, dear father, and I will attend to the love-scenes.
INNKEEPER.
Hist! There is a diligence pulling up at the door. Indeed it seems to
be an express. Kind heavens, where can the unsophisticated person come
from who would put up at this house?
(_Enter a Stranger._)
STRANGER.
Good morrow, mine host.
INNKEEPER.
Your servant, your servant, noble lord. Who in the world are you to
travel _incognito_, and put up at my house? Surely you are of the old
school, eh? A man of the good old times! Perhaps translated from the
English!
STRANGER.
I am neither a noble lord nor do I travel _incognito_. Can I lodge here
this day and night?
INNKEEPER.
My whole house is at your disposal. But really, is there no family in
the vicinity you wish to make happy? Or do you wish to marry suddenly,
or find a sister?
STRANGER.
No, good friend.
INNKEEPER.
So you are only journeying as a simple, ordinary traveller?
STRANGER.
Yes.
INNKEEPER.
Then you will have but little applause.
STRANGER.
The fellow must be crazy.
(_Enter a Postillion._)
POSTILLION.
Here is your trunk, sir.
STRANGER.
And here is your fee.
POSTILLION.
Oh, that is very little. I drove down the hill so smartly!
STRANGER.
There.
POSTILLION.
Many thanks. (_Exit._)
STRANGER.
Shall I succeed in finding her? Oh, how all my thoughts turn to my
beloved native shore! How can I endure the sight, when once more I view
it?--when the past, with all its joys and pains, passes before my inner
vision? Ah, thou poor mortal! what callest thou the past? For thee
there is no present. Between the times that are flown and the future
thou clingest to a little moment, and joys flit past thee, and do not
so much as touch thy heart.
INNKEEPER.
If I may be permitted to ask, I take it your grace is from some old
worm-eaten drama that some unknown author has modernised a bit?
STRANGER.
What say you?
INNKEEPER.
I greatly doubt that you will have applause! I hope, at any rate, that
you have money? Or is it a part of the plot that you should pretend to
be poor?
STRANGER.
You are very inquisitive, good friend.
INNKEEPER.
That’s part of my trade, sir, as any schoolboy will tell you. Old
people must be old; Telephus must be a beggar; the slave must chatter
in keeping with his _rôle_. You can look it up in the _Ars poetica_, to
which I too am subject in my office as host.
STRANGER.
Thank you for this graceful frenzy; I have not found so rare a
curiosity for a long time. Show me to my room.
(_Exeunt._)
_Ludwig Tieck._
_VAN DER KABEL’S LAST WILL AND TESTAMENT._