Da wächst ein deutscher Wein.”
When I had finished, they all came crowding about me to shake my hand,
and Andrew breathed a kiss upon my lips.
“Do they sing that?” cried Bacchus. “Now then, Doctor, I’m mighty glad
to hear that; your race cannot be so very frail if it sings such clear
and cheery songs.”
“Ah, sir,” I said sadly, “there are many sentimentalists who refuse to
give such a song the credit of being poetry, like some pietists who
consider the Lord’s prayer not mystic enough for devotion.”
“There have been fools at all times, sir!” replied Peter. “But talking
about your generation, tell us what has happened on earth during the
last year?”
“If it would interest the ladies and gentlemen,” I replied.
“Go ahead,” cried Roland, and the others joining him, I began--
“As regards German literature----”
“Hold on, _manum de tabula!_” cried Paul. “What do we care about your
miserable scribbling, about your puerile, disgusting quarrels, about
your poetasters and false prophets and----”
I was dumfounded. If our wonderful, magnificent literature had no
interest for these people, what could I tell them? I thought a while,
and then continued: “It is evident that Joco, so far as the theatre is
concerned----”
“Theatre? Go away with you!” interrupted Andrew. “Why should we hear
about your puppet-shows and other follies? Do you suppose it is aught
to us if one of your comedy-writers is hissed? Have you nothing
interesting--no great historical facts to tell us about?”
“Alack-a-day,” I cried, “we are quite out of historical facts; in that
line there is nothing but the Bundestag at Frankfurt.”
The dance the two were performing was according to the mode of two
or three centuries ago. Dame Rose had seized her petticoats in both
hands, and spread them out so that she looked like an immense cask. She
walked trippingly back and forth, bobbing up and down in a succession
of curtseys. Much greater vivacity did her partner display, who
whirled about her like a top, leaping boldly, snapping his fingers, and
shouting ho! and hallo! Odd enough did he look, what with the dainty
apron of Mistress Rose, which Balthasar had tied around him, fluttering
about in the air; how his little legs jerked, and his round face smiled
for heartfelt pleasure and delight!
At last he was tired; he beckoned to Judas and Paul and whispered
something to them. They untied his apron, took it by both ends, and
pulled and pulled, until suddenly it grew as large as a sheet. “Ah,”
thought I, “now they will most likely play a joke on old Balthasar.
If only the vault were not so low as it is; I fear me he’ll break
his skull.” Then came Judas and Bartholomew and caught hold of me;
Balthasar smiled maliciously; I trembled, I resisted, all to no
purpose. My senses threatened to leave me as with shouting and laughter
they laid me upon the cloth. “Not too high, my honoured patrons,” I
cried in great trepidation; but they laughed and shouted the louder.
Now they began to rock the sheet, Balthasar blowing a tune on a tunnel.
Now it began to go up and down, first 3, 4, or 5 feet, then suddenly
they gave a jerk, I flew up, and the ceiling opened like a cloud; up,
up higher I flew through the roof of the rathhaus, higher than the
steeple of the church. “Well,” I thought, “it’s up with me now! When I
fall, I shall break my neck. Farewell, my life and my love!”
I had now reached the highest point of my ascent, and I fell as
rapidly. Crash! Right through the roof of the rathhaus, down through
the ceiling of the cellar; but I did not fall upon the sheet once more.
I lighted on a chair with which I fell over backward upon the floor.
For some time I lay stunned by the fall. A pain in my head and the
coolness of the ground woke me at last. At first I could not think
whether I had fallen out of bed at home, or what was the matter. At
last I remembered, that I had fallen down from some very high region.
With some anxiety I examined my limbs; nothing was broken, only my
head pained me from the fall. I was in a cellar, the daylight shone in
dimly, the light of a candle was dying out upon the table, there were
bottles and glasses about, before every chair a little bottle with a
long label about its neck. Ah, now I remembered everything. I was in
Bremen, in the rathskeller; I had come in here last night, had been
locked in, and then----. Full of horror I looked about me. I ventured
to cast shy glances into the corners of the room; it was empty. Or was
it possible I could have dreamed it all?
Thoughtfully I walked around the table; the little sample-bottles stood
where my strange guests had sat. First Rose, then Judas, James, and
John. “No, a dream cannot be so like reality,” I said to myself. “All
this that I heard and saw did actually occur!” But there was no time
for further reflections. I heard keys rattle in the lock, it was slowly
opened, and the old rathsdiener entered saying: “It has just struck
six.”
_Wilhelm Hauff_ (1802-1827).
_THE DUEL WITH THE DEVIL._
MEANWHILE something occurred which I[4] must not pass over, as it may
serve as a commentary to the customs of this peculiar nation. I had
been for some time an ardent visitor at the anatomy-rooms, for I was
anxious to make the acquaintance of medical students. It happened one
day that I was busying myself about a corpse with several friends,
dissecting the organs of the mind, the brain, and heart in order to
deduce the absurdity of the belief in immortality.
Suddenly I heard a voice behind me, “The devil, how stifling!”
I quickly turned and saw a young student of theology, who had already
excited my wrath in a dogmatic lecture by the ardour and gusto with
which he had taken notes of the ridiculous conjectures of the professor
on the nature of the diabolical. Hearing him make this remark, which at
that moment, and from him, I took as referring wholly to myself, I told
him pretty strongly that I objected to such personal and insinuating
expressions.
According to the ancient sacred law called “Comment,” this was an
insult which could only be obliterated with blood. The theologian, a
famous bravo, sent me his challenge the next day. This was just such a
lark as I had been hoping for. Whoever cared for the good opinion of
his fellow-students was expected to have a duel on record, although
all of my friends admitted the custom to be utterly irrational and
unnatural. I had prevailed upon my opponent to have the affair come
off at a public resort, a couple of miles outside the town, and both
parties put in an appearance at the designated place and time.
Solemnly each arrival was conducted into a room, where his coat was
removed and replaced by the “paukwichs,” a sort of armour in which the
duel was to be fought. This “paukwichs,” or armour, consisted in a hat
with a broad brim sufficiently protecting the face; an enormously broad
bandage made of leather, wadded and decorated with the colours of the
society, to be strapped over the abdomen; an immense cravat standing
stiffly about the neck, and affording protection to the chin, throat,
part of the shoulders, and the upper portion of the chest. The arms
were covered from the hands to the elbows with gloves made of old silk
stockings. It must be confessed a figure in this unique armour looked
funny enough. However, there was great safety in it, for only a part of
the face, the upper half of the arm, and a part of the chest were at
the mercy of the opponent’s rapier.
[Illustration: “A FIGURE IN THIS UNIQUE ARMOUR.”]
A strong impulse to laugh came over me as I examined myself in the
mirror. “The devil, in such attire, and about to enter the lists on
behalf of the odour in the anatomy-room!”
My companions took my hilarity as an expression of courage and valour.
Thinking, therefore, the right moment had now come, they conducted me
into a large hall where the position of the enemy had been marked on
the floor with chalk. A freshman considered it a high honour to be
permitted to carry my rapier, as sword and sceptre were carried before
the ancient emperors. It was a well-made weapon of finest steel, with a
large hilt offering at the same time a protection for the hand.
At last we stood facing each other. The student of theology put on a
fierce expression and looked upon me with an air of disdain, which
strengthened me in my purpose of setting a right handsome mark upon him.
We put ourselves into the traditional posture, the blades were crossed,
the seconds yelled “Ready!” and our rapiers whizzed through the air,
and fell clinking upon the hilts. I confined myself to parrying the
really masterly and artistic cuts of my opponent. I knew that my glory
would be the greater if I merely defended myself at first and then gave
him his deserts in the fourth or fifth round.
Applause followed each pass. Never had there been such bold and
decisive attacks, never such dignified and cold-blooded self-defence.
My skill in fencing was lifted up into the seventh heaven by old
hands, and there was much curiosity and conjecture as to my tactics of
retaliation. No one dared urge me to the onset.
Four rounds had passed without one thrust that had drawn blood. Before
stepping forth for the fifth, I pointed out to my comrades the spot on
my theologian’s right cheek where I intended to hit him. He seemed to
get wind of my purpose, put himself under cover as much as possible,
and carefully abstained from venturing an attack on his part. I began
with a superb feint, which was received with an admiring “Ah!”, made a
couple of regular thrusts, and with a clap my rapier was in his cheek.
The honest theologian was very much taken aback. My second and witness
rushed up to him with a tape-measure, examined the wound, and said in
a solemn voice, “It is more than an inch, and it gaps horribly, so
‘Abfuhr!’” Which is as much as to say, the poor boy having a hole in
his face an inch long, his honour has been vindicated.
Now my friends crowded about me; the elder grasped my hands, the
younger gazed with veneration upon the weapon with which the deed,
surpassing anything in history, had been done. For who could boast of
first having designated the spot he intended to hit, and then hitting
it with such marvellous precision?
With a serious mien my opponent’s second stepped up to me, and in the
name of the former offered me amity. I approached the invalid, whose
wound was just being attended to with needle and thread, and made
friends.
“I am greatly indebted to you,” he said, “for having marked me thus.
I have been forced to study theology against my will. My father is a
country parson, my mother is a pious lady, who would like above all
things to see her son in a surplice. But your decisive stroke has
altered matters; with a scar reaching from my ear to my mouth there is
no church that would have me.”[5]
The companions of the brave theologian looked upon him sympathisingly.
Who could measure his sad regrets at the thought of the old parson’s
grief, the pious mamma’s despair, when the news of this disaster should
reach them? But to me it seemed like a great piece of good luck for
the youth to be given back to the world by so short an operation. I
asked him to what studies he would now devote himself, and he frankly
confessed that the calling of a cuirassier or of an actor had always
seemed chiefly attractive to him.
I felt like embracing him for this happy thought, for it is in these
very professions that I have most of my friends and adherents. I
advised him urgently to follow the bend of nature, and promised to
supply him with the best recommendations to distinguished generals and
to the most notable stages.
As for all the persons in any way connected with this remarkable duel,
I gave them an excellent dinner, in which of course I included my
opponent and his followers. I then privately paid the debts of the
quondam theologian, and when he had recovered I supplied him with money
and letters, which opened a right jolly and brilliant career to him.
Neither the elegant conclusion of the duel nor my unobtrusive charity
remained a secret. I was now looked upon as a being of a higher order,
and I know many a young lady who shed tears over my generous sentiments.
The students of medicine sent a deputation presenting me with a superb
rapier, because, as they thought, I had fought on behalf of the
faultless odour of their anatomy-room.
_Wilhelm Hauff._
_EDITORIAL CO-OPERATION._
“AS our paper must needs be very universal,” I said, “and as there
should be something in the title to express this tendency, how would it
do to call it ‘Literary Provender’?”
“That would not be bad; there might be a vignette representing the
public as a bevy of fowls clustering about the Muse, who is cutting
up food for them; but it will not do. Some might take offence at
Provender; it might seem as if only the leavings from the great
dinner-table of literature were to be served to the public. It won’t
do!”
“Well, then,--‘Evening-Bells.’”
“‘Evening-Bells?’ Ah, indeed. That is an idea! There is something so
soft and soothing about the word. I’ll make a note of the suggestion.
But we should have to have a critical supplement. I have been thinking
we might call it ‘The Distiller.’”
“It is very expressive,” I replied; “it is quite customary in these
times to subject books to a chemical process of review or criticism;
the distillation is carried on until the spirit sought for has
evaporated, or until the learned chemist can announce to the world
what all the different elements were that combined in the decoction
he analysed. But with such a name the paper might appear to smell
of the gin-shop. How would it strike you to call it ‘The Critical
Chimney-Sweep’?”
The publisher gazed at me in silence for a moment, and then embraced me
with emotion. “An idea,” he cried; “a remarkable idea! What a volume
of meaning there is in the word! German literature is the chimney,
our reviewers are the sweepers: they scrape down the literary soot,
to preserve the house from fire. It must be an extremely radical
paper; it must be striking, that is the first thing. ‘The Critical
Chimney-Sweep!’ And we will bring the art critiques under the promising
title, ‘The Artistic Night-Watch.’” Hastily putting down the names,
he continued: “Sir, my guardian-angel has brought you to my door;
when I sit by my table writing my mind seems blocked up, but I have
often noticed that when I once begin to speak, my thoughts flow like a
stream. So when you were speaking of Walter Scott and his influence a
glorious idea arose within me. I will make a German Walter Scott.”
“How so? Are you too going to write a novel?”
“I? Dear me, no; I have something better to do; and _one_? no, twenty!
If I only had my thoughts all ordered. I am going to procure a great
Unknown, and this mysterious personage is to consist of a party of
novel-writers; do you understand?”
“It is not quite clear to me, I confess. How will you----?”
“There is nothing that cannot be accomplished with money; I shall
address myself to, say, six or eight clever men who have already made
their mark in writing novels, invite them here, and offer the proposal
that they should join to produce this Walter Scott. They choose the
historical subjects and characters, discuss the secondary figures to be
introduced, and then----”
“Ah, now I understand your glorious plan; then you will erect a factory
like the one at Scheeran. You will send for cuts of all the most
romantic scenery in Germany; the costumes of old times can be procured
at Berlin; legends and songs can be found in the _Boys’ Wonderhorn_,
and other collections. You engage two or three dozen of aspiring young
men; your sexavirat, the great Unknown, gives the general plot of the
novels, here and there he models and corrects an important character;
the twenty-four or thirty-six others write the dialogue, picture
towns, scenes, buildings, after nature----”
“And,” he interrupted me gleefully, “as the one has more talent for
the delineation of scenery, the other for costumes, the third for
conversation, the fourth or fifth for comedy, others for the tragic----”
“Ah, I see; so the young poets will be divided into painters of
scenery, tailors of costume, leaders of conversation, comedians, and
tragedians, and the novel passes through the hands of each, like the
pictures at Campe’s in Nuremberg, where one draws the sky, the other
the earth, this one roofs, and that one soldiers, where one paints
green, the other blue, the third red, the fourth yellow.”
“And in this way harmony and uniformity would be reached, just as
they are in Walter Scott, where all characters have a striking family
resemblance. And we’ll have a pocket-edition as cheap as possible; we
can count on forty thousand.”
“And the title shall be: ‘The History of Germany, from Hermann the
Cheruskian to 1830, in one hundred historical novels!’”
Herr Salzer shed tears of emotion. Having recovered, he seized my hand.
“Well, am I not as enterprising as anybody?” he said. “Think of the
talk it will make. But to you, most excellent friend, I am indebted for
aid in bringing forth this giant thought. Pick out the handsomest book
in my shop, and in token of my gratitude I name you to be--one of the
twenty-four!”
_Wilhelm Hauff._
[Illustration: “HE PUT THE ORANGE ON THE TABLE BEFORE HIM.”]
_MOZART’S JOURNEY TO PRAGUE._
IT was in the autumn of the year 1787 that Mozart, accompanied by his
wife, undertook the journey to Prague to supervise the performance of
_Don Juan_.
“The waggon drawn by three horses,” writes the Baroness von T. to her
friend, “a stately chaise of reddish yellow, was the property of a
certain old Frau Generalin Volkstett, who was fond of setting her
relations to the Mozart family, and the kindnesses she bestowed upon
the same in the right light.” This hasty description of the vehicle in
question can easily be enlarged upon by any connoisseur of the taste of
those days. The reddish-yellow chaise was decorated on each side with
bouquets of flowers in their natural colours; the edges of the doors
bore narrow gilt mouldings; the whole could not by any means boast the
glassy varnish of to-day’s Vienna mode; the body was not fully rounded,
though drawn in below with a bold, coquettish curve; then there was a
high top with stiff leather curtains, which, for the time being, were
pushed back.
Regarding the attire of the two passengers there is this to be said.
With wise economy Frau Constanze had packed her spouse’s new and
splendid garments of state and chosen modest ones for the occasion;
with an embroidered vest of somewhat faded blue there was his common
brown coat with a row of large buttons, so fashioned that there was a
layer of reddish gold-leaf glimmering through a starry surface, black
silk trousers and stockings, and gilt buckles on his shoes. For the
last half-hour he has abandoned his coat on account of the unusual
heat, and sits gaily talking bare-headed, and in shirt-sleeves. Madam
Mozart wears a comfortable travelling-dress, light green and white
striped; a wealth of light-brown curls, but loosely fastened, fall over
her neck and shoulders; as long as she lived they were never disfigured
by powder; her husband’s thick cue was also more scantily supplied than
usual owing to the ceremonial freedom of travel.
The horses had just walked slowly up a gently sloping hill between ripe
fields that interrupted the long stretches of woodland here and there,
and now they had reached the edge of the woods.
“Through how many miles of woods have we passed to-day and yesterday
and the day before,” said Mozart, “and thought nothing of it, it never
so much as occurring to me to set my foot within them. Let us get down
now, darling mine, and get some of those dainty blue-bells over there
in the shade. Your poor beasts, postillion, will be glad of a rest.”
As they both arose a little mishap came to light, which brought upon
the Meister something of a scolding. Through his carelessness a
flask of fragrant essence had come open, and had poured its contents
unobserved over their garments and over the cushioned interior of
the chaise. “I might have known it,” lamented Frau Constanze; “there
was such a sweet odour all the time! Alack-a-day, a whole flask of
pure _Rosée d’aurore_ quite empty! I was so chary of it.” “Ah, little
miser,” he comforted her, “take thought, and consider that thus, and
thus only, could your divine smelling-whisky do us any good. At first
we sat as in an oven, for all your fanning, and then suddenly there was
a cool and refreshing atmosphere. You attributed it to the drop or two
I poured on my jabot; we were revived, and conversation was once more
animated and gay, whereas before our heads had hung low like those of
sheep on the butcher’s cart; and this benefit will stay with us for all
the rest of the way. But now let us put our Vienna noses into the green
wilderness here.”
[Illustration: “ARM-IN-ARM THEY ENTERED THE DUSKY SHADE OF THE
FIR-TREES.”]
Arm-in-arm they scrambled through the trench by the side of the road
and entered the dusky shade of the fir-trees. The spicy freshness, the
sudden change from the sunny glow without, might have proved disastrous
to the reckless man but for the prudence of his companion. She had some
trouble in urging his discarded garment upon him. “Ah, the glory of
it,” he cried, gazing up the tall trunks; “it is like being in church!
Seems to me I never was in the woods before, and it is only now that
I can see what this means, this assembly of trees! No man’s hands
planted them, they all came of themselves, and stand so only just
because it is jolly to live and labour together. Fancy, when I was
young I passed this way and that through Europe; I saw the Alps and
the ocean, the most beautiful and most sublime things that were ever
created; and now here stands the fool in an ordinary forest of firs
on the boundary-line of Bohemia, astonished and enraptured that such
things should be, that it’s not just _una finzione di poeti_, like the
nymphs and fauns and all that, and no stage-forest; no, it’s a genuine
one, grown out of the earth, nourished by its moisture and by the warm
light of the sun.”
“To hear you talk,” said his wife, “one would think you had never
gone twenty steps into our Vienna _Prater_, which surely can boast of
similar wonders and rarities.”
“The _Prater_? Thunder and lightning! How dare you name the word here!
What with their carriages, and state uniforms, and toilets and fans,
and music, and all horrors under the sun, there’s nothing to be seen
beyond. And even the trees, though they are big enough to be sure, I
don’t know how it is--beech-nuts and acorns lying on the ground can’t
for the life of them help looking like brothers and sisters to the
hosts of worn-out corks among them. For miles it smells of waiters and
sauces.”
“Was there ever such ingratitude!” cried she; “and all this from a man
who is deaf to all other delights when he can dine on baked chickens at
the _Prater_!”
When they were both seated in the chaise once more, and the road,
after running through a flat stretch, began to fall again to where a
laughing landscape unfolded, losing itself in the distant hill-lands,
the Meister began again after a span of silence: “This world is truly
beautiful, and no one is to be blamed for wishing to stay here as long
as possible. Thank God, I feel as strong and hale as ever, and there
are a thousand things I should like to be up to as soon as ever my new
_opus_ is done and on the stage. How much there is out in the world and
how much there is at home,--things remarkable and things beautiful,
that I do not even know of, wonder-works of nature, science, art, and
useful trades! The black collier-boy yonder knows just about as much as
I do about some things, by my soul. I should like for the life of me
to take a look into this, that, and the other thing, that doesn’t come
within the narrow limits of my trade.”
“The other day,” she answered, “I came across an old pocket calendar of
yours; it was of ’85; there are three or four memoranda in it. One of
them, under-scored, is: _Professor Gattner, to visit him_. Who is he?”