homage. We had to wait a long time till this was over. At last the
balcony of the Council House was filled with gay gentlemen, flags and
trumpets; and our burgomaster, in his celebrated red coat, delivered
an oration, which stretched out like india-rubber, or like a night-cap
into which one has thrown a stone--only that it was not the stone of
wisdom--and I could distinctly understand many of his phrases; for
instance, that “We are now to be made happy”--and at the last words
the trumpets and drums sounded, and the flags waved, and the people
cried hurrah!--and as I, myself, cried hurrah! I held fast to the old
Prince-Elector. And that was necessary, for I began to grow giddy; it
seemed to me that the people were standing on their heads while the
world whizzed round, and the Prince-Elector, with his long wig, nodded
and whispered, “Hold fast to me!” and not till the cannon re-echoed
along the wall did I become sobered, and climbed slowly down from the
great bronze horse.
As I went home I saw crazy Aloysius again dancing on one leg while
he chattered the names of French generals, and crooked Gumpertz was
rolling in the gutter drunk and growling _ça ira, ça ira_--and I said
to my mother that we were all to be made happy, and so there was no
school to-day.
The next day the world was again all in order, and we had school as
before, and things were got by heart as before--the Roman kings,
chronology--the _nomina_ in _im_, the _verba irregularia_--Greek,
Hebrew, geography, German, mental arithmetic--Lord! my head is still
giddy with it!--all must be learnt by heart. And much of it was
eventually to my advantage. For had I not learnt the Roman kings by
heart it would subsequently have been a matter of perfect indifference
to me whether Niebuhr had or had not proved that they never really
existed. And had I not learnt chronology how could I ever in later
years have found out any one in Berlin, where one house is as like
another as drops of water, or as grenadiers, and where it is impossible
to find a friend unless you have the number of his house in your head.
Therefore I associated with every friend some historical event which
had happened in a year corresponding to the number of his house, so
that the one recalled the other, and some curious point in history
always occurred to me whenever I met an acquaintance. For instance,
when I met my tailor I at once thought of the battle of Marathon; if
I saw the well-dressed banker, Christian Gumpel, I remembered the
destruction of Jerusalem; if a Portuguese friend, deeply in debt, of
the flight of Mahomet; if the University Judge, a man whose probity
is well known, of the death of Haman; and if Wadzeek, I was at once
reminded of Cleopatra. _Ach, lieber Himmel!_ the poor creature is
dead now; our tears are dry, and we may say of her with Hamlet, “Take
her for all in all; she was a hag--we oft shall look upon her like
again!” As I said, chronology is necessary. I know men who have nothing
in their heads but a few years, yet who knew exactly where to look
for the right houses, and are, moreover, regular professors. But oh!
the trouble I had at school with dates!--and it went even worse with
arithmetic. I understood _subtraction_ best, and for this I had a very
practical rule--“Four from three won’t go, I must borrow one;” but I
advise every one, in such a case, to borrow a few extra shillings, for
one never knows.
But as for the Latin, Madam, you can really have no idea how muddled
it is. The Romans would never have found time to conquer the world
if they had been obliged first to learn Latin. Those happy people
knew in their cradles the nouns with an accusative in _im_. I, on
the contrary, had to learn them by heart in the sweat of my brow;
but still it is well that I knew them. For if, for example, when I
publicly disputed in Latin, in the College Hall of Göttingen, on the
20th of July 1825--Madam, it was well worth while to hear it--if, I
say, I had said _sinapen_ instead of _sinapim_, the blunder would
have been evident to the Freshmen, and an endless shame for me.
_Vis buris_, _sitis_, _tussis_, _cuiumis_, _amussis_, _cannabis_,
_sinapis_--these words, which have attracted so much attention in the
world, effected this, because they belonged to a determined class,
and yet were exceptions; on that account I value them highly, and the
fact that I have them ready at my finger’s ends when I perhaps need
them in a hurry affords me in many dark hours of life much internal
tranquillity and consolation. But, Madam, the _verba irregularia_--they
are distinguished from the _verbis regularibus_ by the fact that in
learning them one gets more whippings--are terribly difficult. In the
damp arches of the Franciscan cloister, near our schoolroom, there hung
a large crucified Christ of grey wood, a dismal image, that even yet
at times marches through my dreams, and gazes sorrowfully on me with
fixed, bleeding eyes--before this image I often stood and prayed, “Oh,
thou poor and equally tormented God, if it be possible for Thee, see
that I get by heart the irregular verbs!”
I will say nothing of Greek; I should irritate myself too much. The
monks of the Middle Ages were not so very much in the wrong when they
asserted that Greek was an invention of the devil. Lord knows what I
suffered through it. It went better with Hebrew, for I always had a
great predilection for the Jews, although they to this very hour have
crucified my good name; but I never could get so far in Hebrew as my
watch, which had an intimate intercourse with pawnbrokers, and in
consequence acquired many Jewish habits--for instance, it would not
go on Saturday--and learned the holy language, and was subsequently
occupied with its grammar, for often when sleepless in the night I
have to my amazement heard it industriously repeating--_Katal, katalta,
katalki; kittel, kittalta, kittalki; pokat, pokadeti; pikat, pik, pik_.
[Illustration: “MY SCHOOLFELLOWS FOUGHT WITH ESPECIAL VIGOUR.”]
Meanwhile I learned much more German, and that is not such
child’s-play. For we poor Germans, who have already been sufficiently
plagued with soldiers quartered on us, military duties, poll-taxes, and
a thousand other exactions, must needs over and above all this torment
each other with accusatives and datives. I learned much German from the
old Rector Schallmeyer, a brave clerical gentleman, whose _protégé_
I was from childhood. Something of the matter I also learned from
Professor Schram, a man who had written a book on Eternal Peace, and in
whose class my schoolfellows fought with especial vigour.
And while thus dashing on in a breath, and thinking of everything, I
have unexpectedly found myself back among old school stories, and I
avail myself of this opportunity to show you, Madam, that it was not my
fault if I learned so little geography that later in life I could not
make my way in the world. For in those days the French had deranged all
boundaries; every day countries were re-coloured--those which were once
blue suddenly became green, many even blood-red; the old established
rules were so confused and confounded that no devil would recognise
them. The products of the country also changed--chickory and beets
now grew where only hares and hunters running after them were once to
be seen; even the characters of different races changed--the Germans
became pliant, the French paid compliments no longer, the English
ceased making ducks and drakes of their money, and the Venetians
were not subtle enough; there was promotion among princes, old kings
obtained new uniforms, new kingdoms were cooked up and sold like hot
cakes; many potentates, on the other hand, were chased from house and
home, and had to find some new way of earning their bread, while others
went at once at a trade, and manufactured, for instance, sealing-wax,
or--Madam, this sentence must be brought to an end, or I shall be out
of breath--in short, it is impossible in such times to advance far in
geography.
I succeeded better in natural history, for there we find fewer changes,
and we always have standard engravings of apes, kangaroos, zebras,
rhinoceroses, etc. And having many such pictures in my memory, it
often happens that at first sight many mortals appear to me like old
acquaintances.
I did well in mythology; I took real delight in the mob of gods and
goddesses who ruled the world in joyous nakedness. I do not believe
that there was a schoolboy in ancient Rome who knew the chief articles
of his catechism--that is, the loves of Venus--better than I. To tell
the truth, it seems to me that if we must learn all the heathen gods by
heart, we might as well have kept them from the first, and we have not
perhaps made so much out of our new Roman Trinity, or even our Jewish
monotheism. Perhaps that mythology was not in reality so immoral as we
imagine, and it was, for example, a very decent thought of Homer’s to
give the much-loved Venus a husband.
But I succeeded best of all in the French class of the Abbé d’Aulnoi, a
French _émigré_, who had written a number of grammars, and wore a red
wig, and jumped about very nervously when he recited his _Art poetique_
and his _Histoire Allemande_. He was the only man in the whole
gymnasium who taught German history. Still French has its difficulties,
and to learn it there must be much quartering of troops, much drumming
in, much _apprendre par cœur_, and above all, no one should be a _bête
allemande_. Thus many bitter words came in. I remember still, as though
it happened yesterday, the scrapes I got into through _la religion_.
Six times came the question: “Henri, what is the French for ‘the
faith’?” And six times, ever more tearfully, I replied: “It is called
_le crédit_.” And at the seventh question, with a deep cherry-red face,
my furious examiner cried, “It is called _la religion_,” and there
was a rain of blows, and all my schoolfellows laughed. Madam, since
that day I can never hear the word _religion_ but my back turns pale
with terror, and my cheeks red with shame. And to speak truly, _le
crédit_ has during my life stood me in better stead than _la religion_.
It occurs to me at this moment that I still owe the landlord of the
“Lion,” in Bologna, five thalers; and I pledge you my word of honour
that I would give him five thalers more if I could only be certain that
I should never again hear that unlucky word _la religion_.
_Parbleu_, Madam, I have succeeded well in French. I understand not
only _patois_, but even aristocratic nurse-maid French. Not long ago,
when in noble society, I understood full one-half of the conversation
of two German Countesses, each of whom could count at least sixty-four
years, and as many ancestors. Yes, in the Café Royal, at Berlin, I
once heard Monsieur Hans Michel Martens talking French, and understood
every word, though there was no understanding in it. We must know the
spirit of a language, and this is best learned by drumming. _Parbleu!_
how much do I not owe to the French drummer who was so long quartered
in our house, who looked like a devil, and yet had the heart of an
angel, and who drummed so excellently?
He was a little nervous figure, with a terrible black moustache,
beneath which the red lips turned suddenly outwards, while his fiery
eyes glanced around.
I, a youngster, stuck to him like a cur, and helped him to rub his
military buttons like mirrors, and to pipe-clay his vest, for Monsieur
Le Grand liked to look well; and I followed him to the watch, to the
roll-call, to the parade. In those times there was nothing but the
gleam of weapons and merriment--_les jours de fête sont passés!_
Monsieur Le Grand knew only a little broken German, only the chief
expressions--“Bread,” “kiss,” “honour,” but he could make himself very
intelligible with his drum. For instance, if I did not know what the
word _liberté_ meant, he drummed the _Marseillaise_, and I understood
him. If I did not understand the word _egalité_, he drummed the
march, “_Ça ira ... les aristocrats a la lanterne!_” and I understood
him. If I did not know what _bêtise_ meant, he drummed the Dessauer
March, which we Germans, as Goethe also declares, have drummed in
champagne--and I understood him. He once wanted to explain to me the
word _l’Allemagne_, and he drummed the all too simple primeval melody,
which on market days is played to dancing dogs--namely, _Dum-dum-dum_.
I was vexed, but I understood him.
In the same way he taught me modern history. I did not understand
the words, it is true; but as he constantly drummed while speaking,
I knew what he meant. At bottom this is the best method. The history
of the storming of the Bastille, of the Tuilleries, and the like,
we understand first when we know how the drumming was done. In our
school compendiums of history we merely read: “Their excellencies the
Baron and Count, with the most noble spouses of the aforesaid, were
beheaded. Their highnesses the Dukes and Princes, with the most noble
spouses of the aforesaid, were beheaded. His Majesty the King, with
his most sublime spouse, the Queen, was beheaded.” But when you hear
the red guillotine march drummed, you understand it correctly for the
first time, and you know the how and the why. Madam, that is indeed
a wonderful march! It thrilled through marrow and bone when I first
heard it, and I was glad that I forgot it. One forgets so much as one
grows older, and a young man has nowadays so much other knowledge to
keep in his head--whist, Boston, genealogical tables, parliamentary
data, dramaturgy, the liturgy, carving--and yet notwithstanding all
jogging up of my brain, I could not for a long time recall that
tremendous tune! But only think, Madam, not long ago I sat at table
with a whole menagerie of counts, princes, princesses, chamberlains,
court marshalesses, seneschals, upper court mistresses, court keepers
of the royal plate, court hunters’ wives, and whatever else these
aristocratic domestics are termed, and their under domestics ran about
behind their chairs and shoved full plates before their mouths; but
I, who was passed by and neglected, sat without the least occupation
for my jaws, and I kneaded little bread-balls, and drummed for _ennui_
with my fingers, and to my astonishment I suddenly drummed the red,
long-forgotten guillotine march!
“And what happened?” Madam, the good people were not disturbed in their
eating, nor did they know that other people, when they have nothing to
eat, suddenly begin to drum, and that, too, very queer marches, which
people thought long forgotten.
Is drumming, now, an inborn talent, or was it early developed in
me? Enough--it lies in my limbs, in my hands, in my feet, and
often manifests itself involuntarily. I once sat at Berlin in the
lecture-room of the Privy Councillor Schmaltz, a man who had saved the
State by his book on the _Red and Black Coat Danger_. You remember,
perhaps, Madam, out of Pausanias, that by the braying of an ass
an equally dangerous plot was once discovered; and you also know
from Livy, or from Becker’s _History of the World_, that geese once
saved the capital; and you must certainly know from Sallust that a
loquacious _putain_, the Lady Livia, brought the terrible conspiracy of
Cataline to light. But to return to the mutton aforesaid. I listened
to international law in the lecture-room of the Herr Privy Councillor
Schmaltz, and it was a sleepy summer afternoon, and I sat on the bench
and heard less and less--my head had gone to sleep, when all at once I
was wakened by the noise of my own feet, which had stayed awake, and
had probably observed that the exact opposite of international law and
constitutional tendencies was being preached; and my feet, which, with
the little eyes of their corns, had seen more of how things go in the
world than the Privy Councillor with his Juno eyes--these poor dumb
feet, incapable of expressing their immeasurable meaning by words,
strove to make themselves intelligible by drumming, and they drummed so
loudly that I thereby nearly came to grief.
Cursed, unreflecting feet! They once played me a similar trick, when I
on a time, in Göttingen, sponged without subscribing on the lectures
of Professor Saalfeld; and as, with an angular activity, he jumped
about here and there in his pulpit, and heated himself in order to
curse the Emperor Napoleon in regular set style,--no, my poor feet, I
cannot blame you for drumming then; indeed, I would not have blamed you
if in your dumb _naïveté_ you had expressed yourselves by still more
energetic movements. How could I, the scholar of Le Grand, hear the
Emperor cursed? The Emperor, the Emperor, the great Emperor!
The Emperor is dead. On a waste island in the Atlantic Ocean is his
grave; and he for whom the world was too narrow lies quietly under a
little hillock, where five weeping willows hang their green heads,
and a little brook, murmuring sorrowfully, ripples by. There is no
inscription on his tomb; but Clio, with a just pen, has written thereon
invisible words, which will resound, like spirit tones, through
thousands of years.
Britannia! the sea is thine. But the sea has not water enough to wash
away the shame with which the death of that mighty one has covered
thee. Not thy windy Sir Hudson--no, thou thyself wert the Sicilian
bravo with whom perjured kings bargained that they might revenge on the
man of the people what he had once inflicted on one of themselves. And
he was thy guest, and had seated himself by thy hearth.
Strange! A terrible destiny has already overtaken the three greatest
enemies of the Emperor. Londonderry has cut his throat, Louis XVIII.
has rotted away on his throne, and Professor Saalfeld is still
professor in Göttingen.
_Heinrich Heine._
_VERSES FROM HEINE._
IT makes a man happy, no doubt,
But it maketh him weary, i’fegs,
To have three lovely women about him,
And only a couple of legs.
With one I must walk of a morning;
At eve with another I rove;
And a third comes at noontide, and drags me
Right out of my quarters, by Jove!
Farewell, irresistible sirens!
I have but two legs of my own;
Henceforth in some rural seclusion
I’ll worship Dame Nature--alone.
* * * * *
THESE fine ladies, understanding
Honour must to poets be,
Bade me to a lordly luncheon--
My great Genius and me.
There was soup, ah! it was stunning;
There was wine no lip would spurn;
There was poultry, simply godlike,
There was hare cooked to a turn.
They talked I remember of poets,
And when I could eat no more,
I rose, and acknowledged the honour,
And bowed till I reached the door.
* * * * *
FRANKLY, this young man I honour,
He exhibits graces rare.
Often he has stood me oysters,
Also Rhine-wine and liqueurs.
And his clothes exactly fit him,
And his tie proclaims the swell;
And he turns up every morning,
And he hopes I’m pretty well,
Talks about my reputation,
And my wit, and grace of style;
And he’d do, if I would let him,
Oh, a thousand things the while!
And at nights, in rooms surrounded
By the fairest of the fair,
He declaims my ‘Heavenly’ poems
With a soft abstracted air.
Truly, is not this refreshing?
Such young men as him I praise
Are not common; they are growing
Rare and rarer nowadays.
A YOUNG man loves a maiden
Who other hopes has fed,
And her love loves another love,
And to his choice is wed.
The maiden marries straightway
The handiest man to be had,
And this is simple cussedness,
And her young man is mad.
It is an ancient drama,
But any time ’twill fit--
Don’t play “first gentleman” unless
You want your heart to split.
* * * * *
LAID on thy snow-white shoulder
My head is at rest;
And I listen--and know the unquiet
Desire of thy breast.
The gorgeous hussars have stormed it,
And entered without strife!
And, to-morrow, a woman will leave me
That I love as my life.
What tho’ in the morning she leave me,
To-night she is mine--
My head is at rest on her shoulder,
And her snow-white arms entwine.
_Translated by Ernest Radford._
[Illustration: “BUT THOU WENT’ST ON WITH EVEN-STEPPING FEET.”]
THOU wert a blonde-hair’d maid without a stain,
So neat, so prim, so cool! I stay’d in vain
To see thy bosom’s guarded gates unroll,
And Inspiration breathe upon thy soul.
A zeal and ardour for those lofty themes,
By chilly Reason scorn’d for airy dreams,
But wringing from the noble and the good
The toil of hand and heart, and brain and blood.
On hills with vineyards’ clambering leafage gay,
Glass’d in the Rhine we roamed one summer day;
Bright was the sun, and from the shining cup
Of every flower a giddy scent flew up.
A kiss of fire, a deep voluptuous blush,
Burn’d on each pink and every rosy bush,
Ideal flames in dandelions glow’d
And lit each sorriest weed that edged our road.
But thou went’st on with even-stepping feet,
Clad in white satin, elegant and neat;
No child of Netcher’s brush more trim and nice,
And in thy stays a little heart of ice.
_Translated by Richard Garnett._
_ABOUT MONEY._
THE world is divided into two kinds of human beings--those that have
money and those that have none. But the latter are not human beings at
all--they are either devils, viz., poor devils; or angels, viz., angels
of patience and renunciation.
Without money, without teeth, and without a wife we come into this
world; and without money, without teeth, and without a wife we go out
of this world. What then have we accomplished in the world? We have
made money, cut teeth, and taken unto ourselves wives! A glorious
destiny! There are fevers, pains, convulsions, and sufferings of all
kinds attendant upon the getting of teeth and wives, and when one has
them they hurt the whole year round, and often the best one can do is
to have them extracted. Teeth and wives come to you without your doing,
and unless most carefully treated they are liable to decay. But money
does not come without your doing, and often a man leaves this world
without having had money. It would be interesting to hear the reply of
such a person when asked on the other side, “What did you do in the
world?”
Who has money? The rich people! That is a misfortune! If the poor
people only had money then we should see what poor devils these rich
fellows are! It is no art to be rich when one has much money, and it is
no merit to be poor when one has none.
What is money? Money is a goodly lump which the Lord God attaches to
insignificant people, so as not to lose sight of them in his creation,
as a good housekeeper puts a big label on a little key.
What is money? Money is a figure which gains in importance as there is
a cipher attached to it.
What is money? Money is a metal heel under the boots of little people
to make them appear as tall as others.
What is money? Money is an indemnity which God gives to a certain
number of persons on condition that they will not make bold to acquire
any such goods as Intellect or Genius.
What is money? Money is the _accent grave_ upon a letter which would
else be silent.
What is money? Money is the mysterious essence of a being which defines
its _ego_ in the following words:--“If I were not what I have, I should
not have what I am.”
But what is no money? No money? No money?
No money is a thing of which all empty pockets are full.
No money is the _alibi_ of a being which should testify to our presence
in this world.
No money is a disease aggravated by the continuous obstruction of
Fortune.
No money is a gentle invitation of nature to incur debts, and a
peremptory command not to pay them.
No money is an irresistible inclination to melancholy on the part of
our purse caused by hopeless love to an unattainable object.
No money is an _ex_position of no money at all, a _pro_position in
abstract philosophy, a fit position for a minister of finance, and a
happy _dis_position for platonic love.
No money is a vulgar ballad which common people sing aloud on the
streets, but the more refined only hum between their lips within doors.
No money is the watchword of extreme radicalism and the art of making
oneself popular at a low price.
Alas, what is man without money? A twice-told anecdote, a song without
a tune, a lost poodle-dog without an honest finder, last year’s
calendar, etc., etc.