general can make war, no painter can paint, no farmer can till the
field; only the bards and poets sing and make verses without money; the
poet is true to his muse even though he has no money; indeed he muses
more than ever--how to get some.
_M. G. Saphir_ (1795-1858).
_A NIGHT IN THE BREMER RATHSKELLER._
IT struck ten o’clock as I descended the broad steps of the
Rathskeller. There was a reasonable hope of finding it empty, for a
storm was howling without, the weather-cocks were making strange music,
and the rain splashed upon the pavement. But the kellerdiener gave me a
questioning look when I told him my desire.
“What, so late, and to-night of all nights?” he exclaimed.
“It’s never too late for me before twelve,” I answered; “and after that
it is early enough in the day.”
“Are you expecting company?” asked the man.
“I am alone.”
“You might have some unasked,” he added, looking about timorously at
the shadows his lamp cast.
“What do you mean?” I asked in surprise.
“Oh, I was only thinking,” answered he, lighting a couple of candles
and setting a large beaker before me. “There are all sorts of odd
rumours about the 1st of September. Indeed I can’t do it, sir! Not
to-day, sir!”
I took this to be one of those common tricks wherewith custodians,
wardens, and the like work upon a stranger’s purse, so I placed a
generous coin in his hand, and took him by the arm to make him come
with me.
“No, that was not my intention, sir,” he said, trying to give it back
to me. “I’ll tell you frankly what my meaning was--there’s nothing in
the world would induce me to enter the Apostles’ cellar this night, for
it’s the 1st of September.”
“Well, and what of that?”
“In God’s name, then, you may think what you please, but it isn’t as it
should be there to-night, and that’s because it is the anniversary day
of the _Rose_.”[3]
I laughed till the walls rang again. “Well, I have heard many a
ghost-story in my life, but never one about a wine-ghost. Aren’t you
ashamed to talk such nonsense, you with your white hair? But I have
the permission of the Senate; I may drink in this cellar to-night,
wherever I please, and as long as I please. Therefore, in the name of
the Senate, I bid you follow me. Unlock the cellar of Bacchus.”
This had the desired effect; unwillingly, but not venturing to
remonstrate, he took the candles and beckoned to me. First we traversed
one roomy vault, then a smaller one, until we reached a long narrow
passage. Our steps reverberated with a hollow sound, and our breath
striking against the wall produced what seemed like distant whispering.
At last we stood before a door, the keys rattled, with a moan it
came yawning open, the light of the candles fell into the cellar,
and opposite to me sat Friend Bacchus upon a mighty cask. Refreshing
sight! They had not pictured him with delicate grace, those old Bremen
artists, not daintily as a Grecian youth; they had not represented him
old and drunk, with a disgusting belly, leering eyes, and protruding
tongue, as the vulgarised myth profanely portrays him now and then.
Outrageous anthropomorphism; blind folly of man! Because some of his
priests, grown old in his worship, walk about thus; because their
belly swells with satisfaction, their nose takes colour from the
burning reflection of the dark-red flood, their eyes turn up in silent
bliss--these things must needs be attributed to the god, while they but
adorn his worshippers.
Otherwise did the men of Bremen. How blithely and cheerily does the
old boy ride his cask! The round blooming face, the merry little
wine-enraptured eyes looking down so knowingly, the broad smiling mouth
that has tasted of many a bumper, the short powerful neck, the whole
little figure teeming with health and good humour! Is one not tempted
to expect that in a gay mood, wine-inspired, he will bend his little
round knees, press his calves up close, and stem his heels against
the old mother-cask, setting her off at a brisk canter, in which all
the Roses, Apostles, and common casks will join with a wild “halloo”
through the cellar?
“Lord of Heaven!” cried the custodian, clinging tightly to my arm;
“don’t you see him roll his eyes and swing his legs?”
“Old fellow, you are crazy!” said I, casting a timid look at the wooden
god; “it is the light of the candles flickering about him.” At the same
time a queer feeling came over me as I followed the old man out of
the Bacchus-cellar. Was it really the light of the candles, was it an
illusion what I saw? Did he not nod to me with his little round pate,
did he not put out one of his chubby legs and shake and writhe with
secret laughter? I ran after the old man and walked close behind him.
“Now to the twelve Apostles,” I said to him. He did not reply; shaking
his head dubiously he walked on. There were two or three steps to
ascend from the large cellar into a small one, into the subterranean
heavens, the seat of the blessed, where abide the twelve Apostles.
What are ye, vaults and sepulchres of royal families, beside these
catacombs! Place coffin by coffin, laud upon black marble the merits
of the man who sleeps below, employ a garrulous keeper in garments of
mourning, let him praise the unspeakable greatness of this dust or of
that, let him relate the marvellous virtues of a prince who fell at
such and such a battle, the exquisite beauty of a princess upon whose
sarcophagus the virgin’s myrtle twines with the bursting rosebud--it
will remind you of mortality, it may cost you a tear; but can it
touch you like this bed-chamber of a century, this resting-place of a
glorious race? There they lie in their dark-brown coffins devoid of
ornament and frippery. No marble boasts of their silent merits, their
inconspicuous virtue, their excellent character; but what man with
a heart for virtue of this sort does not feel himself stirred when
the old custodian, this keeper of the catacombs, this sexton of the
subterranean church, places his candles upon the coffins and lets the
light fall upon the illustrious names of the great dead! Like royal
heads, these too have no long title and surname; in noble simplicity
their names appear upon the brown coffins. There is Andrew, here John,
in yonder corner Judas, in this Peter. Who is not touched when he is
then told that there lies the noble one of Nierenstein, born 1718; here
he of Rüdesheim, born 1726. To the right Paul, to the left James, the
good James!
“Good-night, ye old lords of the Rhine; good-night. And if there is
anything I can do for you, fiery Judas, or you, gentle Andrew, or you,
dear John, come, come to me.”
“Lord of Heaven!” the old man interrupted me, slamming the door and
turning the key. “Are you intoxicated already by the few drops you
had, that you should thus tempt the devil? Don’t you know that the
wine-spirits arise this night, and visit each other, as they always do
on the 1st of September? And should I lose my place thereby, I shall
run off and leave you if you speak such words again. It is not yet
twelve o’clock, but at any moment one of them might come creeping out
of his cask and frighten us to death with a hideous grimace.”
“Stop your foolish prattle, old fellow, and be comforted. I will not
say another word to wake your wine-spirits. But now take me to the
Rose.”
We walked on; we entered a vault, the rose-garden of Bremen. There
she lay, old Rose, bulky, tremendous, with an air of commanding
sovereignty. What an enormous cask! and every bumper worth its weight
in gold! 1615! Where are the hands that planted thee? Where are the
eyes that revelled in thy bloom. Where are the happy folks that exulted
when thou, noble grape, wert cut upon the heights of the Rhinelands,
when thou wert pulled and thy golden flood burst into the tub? They are
gone, like the waves of the river that bathed the foot of thy vineyard.
“There, and now good-night, Frau Rose!” said the old servant
pleasantly. “Now, good-night, and God bless you; here, this way, sir,
not around that corner; this is the way out of the cellar. Here, come,
do not run against those casks; I will hold the candle.”
“No, indeed, old chap,” I said; “the joke is only just beginning.
All this was but a foretaste. Bring me two or three bottles of your
choicest of ’22 in the large room yonder.”
He stood there with eyes wide open, the poor fool. “Sir,” he said
solemnly, “put it out of your mind. I will not stay with you for love
or money.”
“Who told you to stay with me? Put the wine where I tell you, and, in
God’s name, go along with you.”
“But I cannot leave you alone in the cellar,” he replied. “I know,
begging your pardon, that you wouldn’t steal anything, but it is
against my orders.”
“Well, then, lock the door behind me; put a padlock on, as ponderous as
you please, and to-morrow morning at six come and wake me and get your
fee.”
[Illustration: “TWO MEN WITH CEREMONIOUS POLITENESS URGING PRECEDENCE
UPON EACH OTHER.”]
He tried to remonstrate, but it was in vain. At last he put down three
bottles and nine candles before me, wiped out the beaker, and bade me
good-night with a heavy heart as it seemed. He locked the door, and out
of tender solicitude for me, as it would seem, more than for the safety
of his cellar, hung on a padlock. Just then the clock struck twelve. I
heard him mutter a prayer and hasten away. The sound of his steps died
away in the vault, and when he shut the outside door of the cellar it
reverberated like a peal of thunder through the passages.
So I am alone with thee, my soul, far down in the womb of the earth.
Up on the earth they are all asleep and adream, and down here, round
about, they slumber in their coffins, the spirits of wine. Do they
dream, I wonder, of their short childhood, of the distant hills where
they were bred, and of their old father Rhine who murmured a gentle
ditty by their cradle?
* * * * *
Hark! Was not that the sound of a door? Certainly very queer; if I were
not alone down here, if I did not know that men can only walk the earth
above, I should be tempted to think that there are steps resounding
through the vaults. Ha! here they come, there is something fumbling at
the door; it shakes the latch, but the door is locked and bolted; this
night no _mortal_ will disturb me. Ha! What is that? The door opens.
Holy horrors!
Outside the door stood two men with ceremonious politeness urging the
precedence upon each other. The one was tall and lean, adorned with
a great black wig, a dark-red coat, trimmed with gilt cording and
gilt-spun buttons; his legs, of abnormal length and thinness, were
attired in knee-breeches of black velvet with gold buckles. His sword,
with a heft of porcelain, he had stuck through his trousers-pocket;
when bowing he waved a little three-cornered silk hat, while the
flowing locks of his wig brushed his shoulders. The man had a pale,
sorrowful face, deep-set eyes, and a large nose of fiery red. Quite
different was the smaller fellow, who had been specially obsequious
in urging the other to pass him at the door. His hair was pasted to
his head with the white of an egg, and on either side it was fastened
securely in two rolls like the holsters of a pistol; a long pig-tail
hung down his back; he wore a little coat of grey faced with red;
his lower parts were adorned with large jack-boots, his upper with a
richly-embroidered vest of state, which fell over his well-rounded
little belly down to his knees; and he was buckled about with an
enormous sword. There was an expression of exceeding good-nature in his
fleshy face, especially in his little eyes that stood out like those
of a lobster. His gestures were carried out with an enormous felt hat
turned up boldly on either side.
They hung their hats upon the wall, unbuckled their swords, and sat
down silently by the table without looking at me. I was about to take
heart and address them, when there was a new sound outside. Steps
approached, the door was opened, and four other gentlemen, attired in
the same old fashion, entered.
“God greet ye, Lords of the Rhine!” said the tall one of the red coat
in a deep bass voice, getting up and bowing. “God greet ye,” squeaked
the little one; “it’s a long time since last we saw you, James!”
“Hallo and good morning, Matthew,” replied one of the new-comers;
“and good morning to you too, Judas! But what is this? Where are our
bumpers, our pipes and tobacco? Has the old knave not yet waked out of
his sinner’s sleep?”
“The lazy-bones!” cried the little one. “The heavy-eyed rascal! He is
still lying over yonder in the graveyard; but, thunder and lightning,
I’ll wake him up!” With that he seized a large bell that was standing
upon the table, ringing it and laughing in a shrill, cutting voice.
As is the case with genuine old drinkers, so among these guests the
conversation would not flow without wine. Just then a new personage
appeared at the door. It was a little old man, with shaking legs and
grey hair; his head looked like a skull over which a thin hide has been
drawn, and his eyes shone dimly out of deep hollows; he was tugging at
a large basket, and greeted the guests humbly.
“Ah, here’s our old kellermeister, Balthasar,” called out the guests;
“come on, old fellow, put down the beakers and bring our pipes! Why did
you tarry so long? It struck twelve long ago.”
The old man gaped once or twice rather indecently, and on the
whole looked like a person who has overslept. “Came near sleeping
through the 1st of September,” he grunted; “ever since they have
paved the churchyard, I don’t hear as well as I did. Where are the
other gentlemen?” he proceeded, taking beakers of strange shape and
marvellous size out of the basket, and putting them on the table.
“Where are the others? You are only six, and old Rose hasn’t come yet.”
“Put the bottles down first,” exclaimed Judas, “that we may get a drop
of something to drink, and then go over yonder--they are still asleep
in their casks; tap them with your dry bones and tell them to get up.”
But hardly had Judas ended, when there was a rush and boisterous
laughter at the door. “Spinster Rose, her health, hurrah, and her
sweetheart Bacchus!” The door flew open, the ghostly fellows at the
table jumped up and cried: “It is she, it is she, Spinster Rose and
Bacchus and the others! Hurrah! Now we’re in for a jolly good time!”
and with that they touched beakers with a ringing sound and laughed,
and the fat one struck his belly, and the pale kellermeister threw his
cap skilfully between his legs and up to the ceiling, and joined in
with the shouts of the others till my ears rang again. What a sight!
The wooden Bacchus, that I had but just seen astride the cask in
the cellar, had got down, naked as he was; with his broad, smiling
face, with his twinkling eyes, he greeted the group and came walking
skittishly into the room; by his hand he led with much ceremony as his
betrothed an elderly dame of great height and of goodly roundness. I
do not know to this day how it was possible, but then and there it was
clear as daylight to me that this dame was no other than old Rose, the
enormous cask in the Rose-cellar.
And how gorgeously had she got herself up, the old lady from the
Rhine! In her youth she must have been a comely lass, for even now,
although the fresh colours of girlhood had left her cheeks, although
time had painted some little wrinkles about her brow and her mouth,
two centuries could not efface the noble features of her fine face.
Her eyebrows had turned grey, and a couple of unseemly grey hairs had
sprouted upon her pointed chin, but the hair brushed smoothly over her
forehead was brown as nuts, and only intermingled here and there with a
little silvery grey. Upon her head she wore a black velvet cap, fitting
closely above her ears; then she had on a jerkin of finest black
cloth, and the bodice of red velvet showing beneath was fastened with
silver hooks and chains. About her throat she wore a broad necklace of
glittering garnets, fastened to which was a gold medal; an ample skirt
of brown cloth fell about her portly figure, and a little white apron
trimmed with white lace added a coquettish touch. On one side there was
a large pocket of leather, on the other a bunch of tremendous keys--in
short, she was as respectable-looking a dame as ever walked across the
street of Cologne or Mayence in 1618.
And behind Dame Rose came six shouting fellows, swinging their
three-cornered hats, with their wigs on awry, attired in broad-tailed
coats and long embroidered vests.
With ceremonious courtesy did Bacchus lead his lady to the head of
the table, accompanied by the jubilations of his companions. She bowed
with becoming gravity, and sat down. At her side the wooden Bacchus
took a seat, after Balthasar, the kellermeister, had put a big cushion
under him, for he had else seemed pitifully small and low. The others
also sat down, and then I saw that they were the twelve Apostles from
the Rhine, who at other times lie sleeping in the Apostles’ cellar in
Bremen.
“So here we are, altogether once more, we young people of 1700,” said
Peter, after the tumult had somewhat subsided. “Your health, Dame Rose!
You don’t look a day older; you’re as comely and stately as you were
fifty years ago. Your health, and your sweetheart’s, Bacchus.”
“My humble thanks to you, esteemed Apostle,” answered Dame Rose, bowing
her appreciation. “Are you as much of a tease as ever? I don’t know
of no sweetheart, and you mustn’t say such things to put out a modest
lass!” She cast down her eyes as she said it, and emptied a tremendous
bumper.
“Love,” said Bacchus, looking tenderly out of his little eyes, and
taking her hand; “Love, don’t put on airs. You know that my heart has
inclined to you for two thousand autumns, and that I love you to-day
before all others; a fiery kiss upon thy rosy lips shall prove it.”
[Illustration: “HE TOOK HIS TRIBUTE WITH INTEREST.”]
He leaned tenderly towards her. “If only all the young folks were not
about,” she whispered shamefacedly. But under the shouts and laughter
of the twelve the wine-god took his tribute with interest.
“You are a rogue,” he cried, laughing.
“You are a Turk, and make love to many at the same time. Do you suppose
I don’t know how you pay court to the frivolous Frenchwoman, the Lady
of Bordeaux, and to the chalky pale-face of Champagne? Go away; you
have a bad character, and are not made for faithful German love.”
“The devil, you carry your jealousy too far,” he cried snappishly. “I
can’t break off all of my old connections.”
“What is this I see?” said Dame Rose. “You are thirteen at table. Who
is that over there in strange garments? Who brought him here?”
Heavens, how I started! They all looked at me with surprise, and did
not seem at all pleased at my intrusion. But I took heart, and said:
“Your humble servant, gentlemen. I am nothing further than a mortal,
graduated to a Doctor of Philosophy.”
“But how dare you come here at this hour, mortal?” said Peter very
solemnly, shooting lightnings out of his eyes at me.
“Your Excellency,” I replied, “there is good reason for that. I am an
enamoured friend of noble drink, and by the kindness of your right
worthy Senate I have received permission to pay my respects to the
twelve Apostles and to Dame Rose.”
“And so you like to drink Rhine-wine?” said Bacchus. “Well, that is one
good quality, and is the more to be praised at a time when mortals have
grown more or less cold toward this golden fountain. I believe the race
feels that it is no longer worthy of a noble drop, so they brew some
slip-slop stuff of syrup and whisky, call it Chateau-Margaux, Sillery,
St. Julien, and all sorts of pompous names, and when they drink it they
get red rings about their mouth because the stuff is coloured, and
headache the next day because they have had vile gin.”
“Ah, it was a different life we led,” continued John, “when our blood
was young in the years ’19 and ’26. Nay, as late as ’50 there were
high times within these noble vaults. Every evening, no matter whether
the sun would shine in spring or whether it would rain and snow in
winter, every evening these apartments were filled with happy guests.
Here, where we are sitting now, sat in state and dignity the Senate of
Bremen, splendid wigs upon their heads, weapons at their side, courage
in their heart, and a bumper before each.”
“Yes, yes, children,” said old Rose; “it used to be quite different
from now say fifty, or one hundred, or two hundred years ago. Then they
brought their wives and daughters with them to the cellar, and the
handsome Bremen lasses drank Rhine-wine, or of our neighbours’ from
the Moselle, and were noted far and near for their blooming cheeks,
their crimson lips, and for their lovely, sparkling eyes; now they
drink miserable stuff, tea and the like, which grows far away where
the Chinamen live, I am told, and which in my day women drank when
they had a little cough or other trouble. Rhine-wine, genuine honest
Rhine-wine, doesn’t agree with them nowadays; for the land’s sake you
wouldn’t believe it! They put sweet Spanish wine with it to make it
taste better; they say it’s too sour.”
The Apostles burst into a perfect roar of laughter, which I joined
involuntarily, and Bacchus laughed so horribly that old Balthasar had
to hold him.
“Ah, the good old times!” cried fat Bartholomew. “Our burghers used
to drink two measures, and it seemed as if they had drunk water, so
sober were they; but now one goblet throws them down. They are out of
practice.”
There was a terrible bang that made the vault ring again, the door flew
open, and upon the threshold stood a tall white figure. With measured,
ringing steps, a ponderous sword within his hand, in armour but
without a helmet, did this gigantic individual strut into the room. He
was of stone, his face was set and without expression. Nevertheless,
his stony lips parted and he said--
“God greet ye, beloved vines from the Rhine. I needs must come and
visit my fair neighbour on her anniversary-day. God greet you, Dame
Rose. May I sit down to your carousal?”
They all turned in surprise upon the giant statue. Spinster Rose broke
the silence, clapped her hands together with joy, and exclaimed--
“Goodness me! It’s stony Roland, who has stood for many centuries upon
the market-place of our dear Bremen town. Oh, it is kind of you to do
me the honour, sir knight; lay down your shield and sword and make
yourself comfortable; won’t you sit here by my side? Gracious me, how
pleased I am!”
The Apostles had moved up closer and made room for their guest on a
chair by the ancient maiden. He laid his shield and sword in a corner
and sat down rather awkwardly upon the little chair; but alas! this had
been made for respectable mortals but not for a stony giant; with a
crash it broke under him, and he lay full length upon the floor.
“Base generation, which fabricates such stools upon which in my day
no delicate maiden could have sat without breaking through the seat!”
grumbled the hero, slowly getting up. The kellermeister rolled a cask
up to the table, and invited the knight to be seated. A couple of
staves cracked as he sat down, but the cask stood the test.
“How tastes the wine to you?” Bacchus asked the new-comer. “It must be
long since last you drank any.”
“It is good, by my sword! Very good! What growth is it?”
“Red Ingelheimer, august sir!” answered the kellermeister.
The stony eye of the knight took life and fire when he heard this; his
chiselled features were softened by a smile, and contentedly he looked
into his cup.
“Ingelheim! Thou sweet, familiar name!” he said. “Thou noble castle of
my knightly emperor; so thy name has outlasted the centuries, and the
vines that Charlemagne planted in his Ingelheim still blossom? Does
this new world know aught of Roland and of great Carolus, his master?”
“That you must ask the mortal over yonder,” replied Judas; “we have
nothing to do with the earth. He is a doctor and magister, and must be
able to give an account of his generation.”
The giant fixed his eyes inquiringly upon me, and I replied: “Noble
Paladin! Humanity has grown cold and depraved; its shallow skull is
nailed to the present, and looks neither forward nor backward; but we
are not yet so bad that we should forget the glorious heroes that once
walked our earth, and threw their shadows into our times.”
The spirit of song seemed to have come over the company, for no sooner
had Andrew ended than Judas began to sing unasked, and the others
followed him. With a resounding bass voice Roland sang a war-hymn
of the old Franconians, only a few words of which I understood, and
at last, when they had all sung, they looked at me, and Rose nodded
encouragingly. So I began--