Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Hyperion
A Romance
Look not mournfully into the Past It comes not back again Wisely
improve the Present It is thine Go forth to meet the shadowy
Future without fear and with a manly heart
Book the First
Chapter I
The Hero
In John Lylys »Endymion« Sir Topas is made to say »Dost thou know what a poet
is Why fool a poet is as much as one should say a poet« And thou reader
dost thou know what a hero is Why a hero is as much as one should say a
hero Some romancewriters however say much more than this Nay the old
Lombard Matteo Maria Bojardo set all the churchbells in Scandiano ringing
merely because he had found a name for one of his heroes Here also shall
churchbells be rung but more solemnly
The setting of a great hope is like the setting of the sun The brightness
of our life is gone Shadows of evening fall around us and the world seems but
a dim reflection itself a broader shadow We look forward into the coming
lonely night The soul withdraws into itself Then stars arise and the night is
holy
Paul Flemming had experienced this though still young The friend of his
youth was dead The bough had broken under the burden of the unripe fruit And
when after a season he looked up again from the blindness of his sorrow all
things seemed unreal Like the man whose sight had been restored by miracle he
beheld men as trees walking His household gods were broken He had no home
His sympathies cried aloud from his desolate soul and there came no answer from
the busy turbulent world around him He did not willingly give way to grief He
struggled to be cheerful to be strong But he could no longer look into the
familiar faces of his friends He could no longer live alone where he had lived
with her He went abroad that the sea might be between him and the grave Alas
between him and his sorrow there could be no sea but that of time
He had already passed many months in lonely wandering and was now pursuing
his way along the Rhine to the South of Germany He had journeyed the same way
before in brighter days and a brighter season of the year in the May of life
and in the month of May He knew the beautiful river all by heart every rock
and ruin every echo every legend The ancient castles grim and hoar that had
taken root as it were on the cliffs they were all his for his thoughts dwelt
in them and the wind told him tales
He had passed a sleepless night at Rolandseck and had risen before
daybreak He opened the window of the balcony to hear the rushing of the Rhine
It was a damp December morning and clouds were passing over the sky thin
vapory clouds whose snowwhite skirts were often spotted with golden tears
which men call stars The day dawned slowly and in the mingling of daylight
and starlight the island and cloister of Nonnenwerth made together but one
broad dark shadow on the silver breast of the river Beyond rose the summits
of the Siebengebirg Solemn and dark like a monk stood the Drachenfels in his
hood of mist and rearward extended the curtain of mountains back to the
Wolkenburg the Castle of Clouds
But Flemming thought not of the scene before him Sorrow unspeakable was
upon his spirit in that lonely hour and hiding his face in his hands he
exclaimed aloud
»Spirit of the past look not so mournfully at me with thy great tearful
eyes Touch me not with thy cold hand Breathe not upon me with the icy breath
of the grave Chant no more that dirge of sorrow through the long and silent
watches of the night«
Mournful voices from afar seemed to answer »Treuenfels« and he remembered
how others had suffered and his heart grew still
Slowly the landscape brightened Down the rushing stream came a boat with
its white wings spread and darted like a swallow through the narrow pass of
GodsHelp The boatmen were singing but not the song of Roland the Brave
which was heard of old by the weeping Hildegund as she sat within the walls of
that cloister which now looked forth in the pale morning from amid the leafless
lindentrees The dim traditions of those gray old times rose in the travellers
memory for the ruined tower of Rolandseck was still looking down upon the
Kloster Nonnenwerth as if the sound of the funeral bell had changed the
faithful paladin to stone and he were watching still to see the form of his
beloved one come forth not from her cloister but from her grave Thus the
brazen clasps of the book of legends were opened and on the page illuminated
by the misty rays of the rising sun he read again the tales of Liba and the
mournful bride of Argenfels and Siegfried the mighty slayer of the dragon
Meanwhile the mists had risen from the Rhine and the whole air was filled with
golden vapor through which he beheld the sun hanging in heaven like a drop of
blood Even thus shone the sun within him amid the wintry vapors uprising from
the valley of the shadow of death through which flowed the stream of his life
sighing sighing
Chapter II
The Christ of Andernach
Paul Flemming resumed his solitary journey The morning was still misty but not
cold Across the Rhine the sun came wading through the reddish vapors and soft
and silverwhite outspread the broad river without a ripple upon its surface or
visible motion of the evermoving current A little vessel with one loose sail
was riding at anchor keel to keel with another that lay beneath it its own
apparition and all was silent and calm and beautiful
The road was for the most part solitary for there are but few travellers
upon the Rhine in winter Peasantwomen were at work in the vineyards climbing
up the slippery hillsides like beasts of burden with large baskets upon their
backs And once during the morning a band of apprentices with knapsacks passed
by singing »The Rhine the Rhine a blessing on the Rhine«
Oh the pride of the German heart in this noble river And right it is for
of all the rivers of this beautiful earth there is none so beautiful as this
There is hardly a league of its whole course from its cradle in the snowy Alps
to its grave in the sands of Holland which boasts not its peculiar charms By
heavens If I were a German I would be proud of it too and of the clustering
grapes that hang about its temples as it reels onward through vineyards in a
triumphal march like Bacchus crowned and drunken
But I will not attempt to describe the Rhine it would make this chapter
much too long And to do it well one should write like a god and his language
flow onward royally with breaks and dashes like the waters of that royal river
and antique quaint and Gothic times be reflected in it Alas this evening
mine flows not at all Flow then into this smokecolored goblet thou blood of
the Rhine out of thy prisonhouse out of thy longnecked tapering flask in
shape not unlike a churchspire among thy native hills and from the crystal
belfry loud ring the merry tinkling bells while I drink a health to my hero in
whose heart is sadness and in whose ears the bells of Andernach are ringing
noon
He is threading his way along through a narrow alley and now up a flight of
stone steps and along the city wall towards that old round tower built by the
Archbishop Frederick of Cologne in the twelfth century It has a romantic
interest in his eyes for he has still in his mind and heart that beautiful
sketch of Carové in which is described a day on the tower of Andernach He
finds the old keeper and his wife still there and the old keeper closes the
door behind him slowly as of yore lest he should jam too hard the poor souls
in purgatory whose fate it is to suffer in the cracks of doors and hinges But
alas alas the daughter the maiden with long dark eyelashes she is asleep in
her little grave under the lindentrees of Feldkirche with rosemary in her
folded hands
Flemming returned to the hotel disappointed As he passed along the narrow
streets he was dreaming of many things but mostly of the keepers daughter
asleep in the churchyard of Feldkirche Suddenly on turning the corner of an
ancient gloomy church his attention was arrested by a little chapel in an
angle of the wall It was only a small thatched roof like a birds nest under
which stood a rude wooden image of the Saviour on the cross A real crown of
thorns was upon his head which was bowed downward as if in the death agony
and drops of blood were falling down his cheeks and from his hands and feet and
side The face was haggard and ghastly beyond expression and wore a look of
unutterable bodily anguish The rude sculptor had given it this but his art
could go no further The sublimity of death in a dying Saviour the expiring
Godlikeness of Jesus of Nazareth was not there The artist had caught no
heavenly inspiration from his theme All was coarse harsh and revolting to a
sensitive mind and Flemming turned away with a shudder as he saw this fearful
image gazing at him with its fixed and halfshut eyes
He soon reached the hotel but that face of agony still haunted him He
could not retrain from speaking of it to a very old woman who sat knitting by
the window of the diningroom in a highbacked oldfashioned armchair I
believe she was the innkeepers grandmother At all events she was old enough
to be so She took off her owleyed spectacles and as she wiped the glasses
with her handkerchief said
»Thou dear Heaven Is it possible Did you never hear of the Christ of
Andernach«
Flemming answered in the negative
»Thou dear Heaven« continued the old woman »It is a very wonderful story
and a true one as every good Christian in Andernach will tell you And it all
happened before the death of my blessed man four years ago let me see yes
four years ago come Christmas«
Here the old woman stopped speaking but went on with her knitting Other
thoughts seemed to occupy her mind She was thinking no doubt of her blessed
man as German widows call their dead husbands But Flemming having expressed an
ardent wish to hear the wonderful story she told it in nearly the following
words
»There was once a poor old woman in Andernach whose name was Frau Martha
and she lived all alone in a house by herself and loved all the Saints and the
Blessed Virgin and was as good as an angel and sold tarts down by the
Rheinkrahn But her house was very old and the rooftiles were broken and she
was too poor to get new ones and the rain kept coming in and no Christian soul
in Andernach would help her But the Frau Martha was a good woman and never did
anybody any harm but went to mass every morning and sold tarts down by the
Rheinkrahn Now one dark windy night when all the good Christians in Andernach
were asleep in the feathers Frau Martha who lay under the roof heard a great
noise over her head and in her chamber drip drip drip as if the rain were
dropping down through the broken tiles Dear soul and sure enough it was And
then there was a pounding and hammering overhead as if somebody were at work on
the roof and she thought it was PelzNickel tearing the tiles off because she
had not been to confession often enough So she began to pray and the faster
she said her Paternoster and her Ave Maria the faster PelzNickel pounded and
pulled and drip drip drip it went all round her in the dark chamber till
the poor woman was frightened out of her wits and ran to the window to call for
help Then in a moment all was still deathstill But she saw a light
streaming through the mist and rain and a great shadow on the house opposite
And then somebody came down from the top of her house by a ladder and had a
lantern in his hand and he took the ladder on his shoulder and passed down the
street But she could not see clearly because the window was streaked with
rain And in the morning the old broken tiles were found scattered about the
street and there were new ones on the roof and the old house has never leaked
to this blessed day
As soon as mass was over Frau Martha told the priest what had happened and
he said it was not PelzNickel but without doubt St Castor or St Florian
Then she went to the market and told Frau Bridget all about it and Frau Bridget
said that two nights before Hans Claus the cooper had heard a great
pounding in his shop and in the morning found new hoops on all his hogsheads
and that a man with a lantern and a ladder had been seen riding out of town at
midnight on a donkey and that the same night the old windmill at Kloster St
Thomas had been mended and the old gate of the churchyard at Feldkirche made
as good as new though nobody knew how the man got across the river Then Frau
Martha went down to the Rheinkrahn and told all these stories over again and
the old ferryman of Fahr said he could tell something about it for the very
night that the churchyardgate was mended he way lying awake in his bed
because he could not sleep and he heard a loud knocking at the door and
somebody calling to him to get up and set him over the river And when he got
up he saw a man down by the river with a lantern and a ladder but as he was
going down to him the man blew out the light and it was so dark he could not
see who he was and his boat was old and leaky and he was afraid to set him
over in the dark but the man said he must be in Andernach that night and so he
set him over And after they had crossed the river he watched the man till he
came to an image of the Holy Virgin and saw him put the ladder against the
wall and go up and light his lamp and then walk along the street And in the
morning he found his old boat all calked and tight and painted red and he
could not for his blessed life tell who did it unless it were the man with the
lantern Dear soul how strange it was
And so it went on for some time and whenever the man with the lantern had
been seen walking through the street at night so sure as the morning came some
work had been done for the sake of some good soul and everybody knew he did it
and yet nobody could find out who he was nor where he lived for whenever
anybody came near him he blew out his light turned down another street and
suddenly disappeared nobody could tell how And some said it was Rübezahl and
some PelzNickel and some St AnthonyontheHeath
Now one stormy night a poor sinful creature was wandering about the
streets with her babe in her arms and she was hungry and cold and no soul in
Andernach would take her in And when she came to the church where the great
crucifix stands she saw no light in the little chapel at the corner but she
sat down on a stone at the foot of the cross and began to pray and prayed till
she fell asleep with her poor little babe on her bosom But she did not sleep
long for a bright light shone full in her face and when she opened her eyes
she saw a pale man with a lantern standing right before her He was almost
naked and there was blood upon his hands and body and great tears in his
beautiful eyes and his face was like the face of the Saviour on the cross Not
a single word did he say to the poor woman but looked at her compassionately
and gave her a loaf of bread and took the little babe in his arms and kissed
it Then the mother looked up to the great crucifix but there was no image
there and she shrieked and fell down as if she were dead And there she was
found with her child and a few days after they both died and were buried
together in one grave And nobody would have believed her story if a woman who
lived at the corner had not gone to the window when she heard the scream and
seen the figure hang the lantern up in its place and then set the ladder
against the wall and go up and nail itself to the cross Since that night it
has never moved again Ach Herr Je«
Such was the legend of the Christ of Andernach as the old woman in
spectacles told it to Flemming It made a painful impression on his sick and
morbid soul and he felt now for the first time how great is the power of
popular superstition
The postchaise being already at the door Flemming was soon on the road to
Coblentz a town which stands upon the Rhine at the mouth of the Mosel
opposite Ehrenbreitstein It is by no means a long drive from Andernach to
Coblentz and the only incident which occurred to enliven the way was the
appearance of a fat redfaced man on horseback trotting slowly towards
Andernach As they met the mad little postilion gave him a friendly cut with
his whip and broke out into an exclamation which showed he was from Münster
»Jesmariosp my friend How is the Man in the Kaufhaus«
Now to any candid mind this would seem a fair question enough but not so
thought the redfaced man on horseback for he waxed exceedingly angry and
replied as the chaise whirled by
»The devil take you and your Westphalian ham and pumpernickel«
Flemming called to his servant and the servant to the postilion for an
explanation of this short dialogue and the explanation was that on the belfry
of the Kaufhaus in Coblentz is a huge head with a brazen helmet and a beard and
whenever the clock strikes at each stroke of the hammer this giants head
opens its great jaws and smites its teeth together as if like the brazen head
of Friar Bacon it would say »Time was Time is Time is past« This figure is
known through all the country round about as »The Man in the Kaufhaus« and when
a friend in the country meets a friend from Coblentz instead of saying »How
are all the good people in Coblentz« he says »How is the Man in the
Kaufhaus« Thus the giant has a great part to play in the town And thus ended
the first day of Flemmings Rhinejourney and the only good deed he had done
was to give an alms to a poor beggar woman who lifted up her trembling hands
and exclaimed
»Thou blessed babe«
Chapter III
Homunculus
After all a journey up the Rhine in the mists and solitude of December is not
so unpleasant as the reader may imagine You have the whole road and river to
yourself Nobody is on the wing hardly a single traveller The ruins are the
same and the river and the outlines of the hills and there are few living
figures in the landscape to wake you from your musings distract your thoughts
and cover you with dust
Thus likewise thought our traveller as he continued his journey on the
morrow The day is overcast and the clouds threaten rain or snow Why does he
stop at the little village of Capellen Because right above him on the high
cliff the glorious ruin of Stolzenfels is looking at him with its hollow eyes
and beckoning to him with its gigantic finger as if to say »Come up hither
and I will tell thee an old tale« Therefore he alights and goes up the narrow
village lane and up the stone steps and up the steep pathway and throws
himself into the arms of that ancient ruin and holds his breath to hear the
quick footsteps of the falling snow like the footsteps of angels descending
upon earth And that ancient ruin speaks to him with its hollow voice and says
»Beware of dreams Beware of the illusions of fancy Beware of the solemn
deceivings of thy vast desires Beneath me flows the Rhine and like the stream
of Time it flows amid the ruins of the Past I see myself therein and I know
that I am old Thou too shalt be old Be wise in season Like the stream of
thy life runs the stream beneath us Down from the distant Alps out into the
wide world it bursts away like a youth from the house of his fathers
Broadbreasted and strong and with earnest endeavors like manhood it makes
itself a way through these difficult mountainpasses And at length in its old
age it falters and its steps are weary and slow and it sinks into the sand
and through its grave passes into the great ocean which is its eternity Thus
shall it be with thee
In ancient times there dwelt within these halls a follower of Jesus of
Jerusalem an Archbishop in the Church of Christ He gave himself up to
dreams to the illusions of fancy to the vast desires of the human soul He
sought after the impossible He sought after the Elixir of Life the
Philosophers Stone The wealth that should have fed the poor was melted in his
crucibles Within these walls the Eagle of the clouds sucked the blood of the
Red Lion and received the spiritual love of the Green Dragon but alas was
childless In solitude and utter silence did the disciple of the Hermetic
Philosophy toil from day to day from night to night From the place where thou
standest he gazed at evening upon hills and vales and waters spread beneath
him and saw how the setting sun had changed them all to gold by an alchemy
more cunning than his own He saw the world beneath his feet and said in his
heart that he alone was wise Alas he read more willingly in the book of
Paracelsus than in the book of Nature and believing that where reason hath
experience faith hath no mind would fain have made unto himself a child as
the Philosopher taught a poor homunculus in a glass bottle And he died poor
and childless«
Whether it were worth while to climb the Stolzenfels to hear such a homily
as this some persons may perhaps doubt But Paul Flemming doubted not He laid
the lesson to heart and it would have saved him many an hour of sorrow if he
had learned that lesson better and remembered it longer
In ancient times there stood in the citadel of Athens three statues of
Minerva The first was of olivewood and according to popular tradition had
fallen from heaven The second was of bronze commemorating the victory of
Marathon and the third of gold and ivory a great miracle of art in the age
of Pericles And thus in the citadel of Time stands Man himself In childhood
shaped of soft and delicate wood just fallen from heaven in manhood a statue
of bronze commemorating struggle and victory and lastly in the maturity of
age perfectly shaped in gold and ivory a miracle of art
Flemming had already lived through the olive age He was passing into the
age of bronze into his early manhood and in his hands the flowers of Paradise
were changing to the sword and shield
And this reminds me that I have not yet described my hero I will do it now
as he stands looking down on the glorious landscape but in few words Both in
person and character he resembled Harold the FairHair of Norway who is
described in the old Icelandic DeathSong of Regner HairyBreeches as »the
young chief so proud of his flowing locks he who spent his mornings among the
young maidens he who loved to converse with the handsome widows« This was an
amiable weakness and it sometimes led him into mischief Imagination was the
ruling power of his mind His thoughts were twinborn the thought itself and
its figurative semblance in the outer world Thus through the quiet still
waters of his soul each image floated double swan and shadow
These traits of character a good heart and a poetic imagination made his
life joyous and the world beautiful till at length Death cut down the sweet
blue flower that bloomed beside him and wounded him with that sharp sickle so
that he bowed his head and would fain have been bound up in the same sheaf with
the sweet blue flower Then the world seemed to him less beautiful and life
became earnest It would have been well if he could have forgotten the past
that he might not so mournfully have lived in it but might have enjoyed and
improved the present But this his heart refused to do and ever as he floated
upon the great sea of life he looked down through the transparent waters
checkered with sunshine and shade into the vast chambers of the mighty deep in
which his happier days had sunk and wherein they were lying still visible like
golden sands and precious stones and pearls and half in despair half in
hope he grasped downward after them again and drew back his hand filled only
with seaweed and dripping with briny tears And between him and those golden
sands a radiant image floated like the spirit in Dantes Paradise singing
»Ave Maria« and while it sang downsinking and slowly vanishing away
In all things he acted more from impulse than from fixed principle as is
the case with most young men Indeed his principles hardly had time to take
root for he pulled them all up every now and then as children do the flowers
they have planted to see if they are growing Yet there was much in him which
was good for underneath the flowers and greensward of poetry and the good
principles which would have taken root had he given them time there lay a
strong and healthy soil of common sense freshened by living springs of
feeling and enriched by many faded hopes that had fallen upon it like dead
leaves
Chapter IV
The Landladys Daughter
»Allez Fuchs allez lustig« cried the impatient postilion to his horses in
accents which like the wild echo of the Lurley Felsen came first from one side
of the river and then from the other that is to say in words alternately
French and German The truth is he was tired of waiting and when Flemming had
at length resumed his seat in the postchaise the poor horses had to make up
the time he had lost in dreams on the mountain This is far oftener the case
than most people imagine One half of the world must sweat and groan that the
other half may dream It would have been a difficult task for the traveller or
his postilion to persuade the horses that these dreams were all for their good
The next stoppingplace was the little tavern of the Star an outoftheway
corner in the town of Salzig It stands on the banks of the Rhine and directly
in front of it sheer from the waters edge rise the mountains of Liebenstein
and Sternenfels each with its ruined castle These are the Brothers of the old
tradition still gazing at each other face to face and beneath them in the
valley stands a cloister meet emblem of that orphan child they both so
passionately loved
In a small flatbottomed boat did the landladys daughter row Flemming over
the Rhinestream rapid and roaring wide She was a beautiful girl of sixteen
with black hair and dark lovely eyes and a face that had a story to tell How
different faces are in this particular Some of them speak not They are books
in which not a line is written save perhaps a date Others are great Family
Bibles with both the Old and the New Testament written in them Others are
Mother Goose and nursery tales others bad tragedies or pickleherring farces
and others like that of the landladys daughter at the Star sweet
loveanthologies and songs of the affections It was on that account that
Flemming said to her as they glided out into the swift stream »My dear child
do you know the story of the Liebenstein«
»The story of the Liebenstein« she answered »I knew by heart when I was a
little child«
And here her large dark passionate eyes looked into Flemmings and he
doubted not that she had learned the story far too soon and far too well That
story he longed to hear as if it were unknown to him for he knew that the
girl who had got it by heart when a child would tell it as it should be told
So he begged her to repeat the story which she was but too glad to do for she
loved and believed it as if it had all been written in the Bible But before
she began she rested a moment on her oars and taking the crucifix which hung
suspended from her neck kissed it and then let it sink down into her bosom as
if it were an anchor she was dropping into her heart Meanwhile her moist dark
eyes were turned to heaven Perhaps her soul was walking with the souls of
Cunizza and Rahab and Mary Magdalen Or perhaps she was thinking of that nun
of whom St Gregory says in his Dialogues that having greedily eaten a
lettuce in a garden without making the sign of the cross she found herself soon
after possessed with a devil
The probability however is that she was looking at the ruined castles
only and not to heaven for she soon began her story and told Flemming how »a
great great many years ago an old man lived in the Liebenstein with his two
sons and how both the young men loved the Lady Geraldine an orphan under
their fathers care and how the elder brother went away in despair and the
younger was betrothed to the Lady Geraldine and how they were as happy as
Aschenputtel and the Prince And then the holy St Bernard came and carried away
all the young men to the war just as Napoleon did afterwards and the young
lord went to the Holy Land and the Lady Geraldine sat in her tower and wept
and waited for her lovers return while the old father built the Sternenfels
for them to live in when they were married And when it was finished the old
man died and the elder brother came back and lived in the Liebenstein and took
care of the gentle lady Erelong there came news from the Holy Land that the war
was over and the heart of the gentle lady beat with joy till she heard that
her faithless lover was coming back with a Greek wife the wicked man and
then she went into a convent and became a holy nun So the young lord of
Sternenfels came home and lived in his castle in great splendor with the Greek
woman who was a wicked woman and did what she ought not to do But the elder
brother was angry for the wrong done the gentle lady and challenged the lord of
Sternenfels to single combat And while they were fighting with their great
swords in the valley of Bornhofen behind the castle the convent bells began to
ring and the Lady Geraldine came forth with a train of nuns all dressed in
white and made the brothers friends again and told them she was the bride of
Heaven and happier in her convent than she could have been in the Liebenstein
or the Sternenfels And when the brothers returned they found that the false
Greek wife had gone away with another knight So they lived together in peace
and were never married And when they died«
»Lisbeth Lisbeth« cried a sharp voice from the shore »Lisbeth where are
you taking the gentleman«
This recalled the poor girl to her senses and she saw how fast they were
floating down stream For in telling the story she had forgotten everything
else and the swift current had swept them down to the tall walnuttrees of
Kamp They landed in front of the Capuchin monastery Lisbeth led the way
through the little village and turning to the right pointed up the romantic
lonely valley which leads to the Liebenstein and even offered to go with him
But Flemming patted her cheek and shook his head He went up the valley alone
Chapter V
Jean Paul the OnlyOne
It was already night when Flemming crossed the Roman bridge over the Nahe and
entered the town of Bingen He stopped at the White Horse and before going to
bed looked out into the dim starlight from his window towards the Rhine and
his heart leaped within him to behold the bold outline of the neighboring hills
crested with Gothic ruins which in the morning proved to be only a high
slated roof with fantastic chimneys
The morning was bright and frosty and the river tinged with gay colors by
the rising sun A soft thin vapor floated in the air In the sunbeams flashed
the hoarfrost like silver stars and through a long avenue of trees whose
dripping branches bent and scattered pearls before him Paul Flemming journeyed
on in triumph
The man in the play who wished for »some forty pounds of lovely beef placed
in a Mediterranean Sea of brewis« might have seen his ample desires almost
realized at the table dhôte of the Rheinischen Hof in Mayence where Flemming
dined that day At the head of the table sat a gentleman with a smooth broad
forehead and large intelligent eyes He was from Baireuth in Franconia and
talked about poetry and Jean Paul to a pale romanticlooking lady on his right
There was music all dinnertime at the other end of the hall a harp and a
horn and a voice so that a great part of the fat gentlemans conversation
with the pale lady was lost to Flemming who sat opposite to her and could look
right into her large melancholy eyes But what he heard so much interested him
indeed the very name of the beloved Jean Paul would have been enough for
this that he ventured to join in the conversation and asked the German if he
had known the poet personally
»Yes I knew him well« replied the stranger »I am a native of Baireuth
where he passed the best years of his life In my mind the man and the author
are closely united I never read a page of his writings without hearing his
voice and seeing his form before me There he sits with his majestic
mountainous forehead his mild blue eyes and finely cut nose and mouth his
massive frame clad loosely and carelessly in an old green frock from the
pockets of which the corners of books project and perhaps the end of a loaf of
bread and the nose of a bottle a straw hat lined with green lying near him a
huge walkingstick in his hand and at his feet a white poodle with pink eyes
and a string round his neck You would sooner have taken him for a
mastercarpenter than for a poet Is he a favorite author of yours« Flemming
answered in the affirmative
»But a foreigner must find it exceedingly difficult to understand him« said
the gentleman »It is by no means an easy task for us Germans«
»I have always observed« replied Flemming »that the true understanding and
appreciation of a poet depend more upon individual than upon national character
If there be a sympathy between the minds of writer and reader the bounds and
barriers of a foreign tongue are soon overleaped If you once understand an
authors character the comprehension of his writings becomes easy«
»Very true« replied the German »and the character of Richter is too marked
to be easily misunderstood Its prominent traits are tenderness and manliness
qualities which are seldom found united in so high a degree as in him Over all
he sees over all he writes are spread the sunbeams of a cheerful spirit the
light of inexhaustible human love Every sound of human joy and of human sorrow
finds a deepresounding echo in his bosom In every man he loves his humanity
only not his superiority The avowed object of all his literary labors was to
raise up again the downsunken faith in God Virtue and Immortality and in an
egotistical revolutionary age to warm again our human sympathies which have
now grown cold And not less boundless is his love for Nature for this
outward beautiful world He embraces it all in his arms«
»Yes« answered Flemming almost taking the words out of the strangers
mouth »for in his mind all things become idealized He seems to describe
himself when he describes the hero of his Titan as a child rocking in a high
wind upon the branches of a fullblossomed appletree and as its summit blown
abroad by the wind now sunk him in deep green and now tossed him aloft in deep
blue and glancing sunshine in his imagination stood that tree gigantic it
grew alone in the universe as if it were the tree of eternal life its roots
struck down into the abyss the white and red clouds hung as blossoms upon it
the moon as fruit the little stars sparkled like dew and Albano reposed in its
measureless summit and a storm swayed the summit out of Day into Night and out
of Night into Day«
»Yet the spirit of love« interrupted the Franconian »was not weakness but
strength It was united in him with great manliness The sword of his spirit had
been forged and beaten by poverty Its temper had been tried by a thirty years
war It was not broken not even blunted but rather strengthened and sharpened
by the blows it gave and received And possessing this noble spirit of
humanity endurance and selfdenial he made literature his profession as if
he had been divinely commissioned to write He seems to have cared for nothing
else to have thought of nothing else, than living quietly and making books He
says that he felt it his duty not to enjoy nor to acquire but to write and
boasted that he had made as many books as he had lived years«
»And what do you Germans consider the prominent characteristics of his
genius«
»Most undoubtedly his wild imagination and his playfulness He throws over
all things a strange and magic coloring You are startled at the boldness and
beauty of his figures and illustrations which are scattered everywhere with a
reckless prodigality multitudinous like the blossoms of early summer and as
fragrant and beautiful With a thousand extravagances are mingled ten thousand
beauties of thought and expression which kindle the readers imagination and
lead it onward in a bold flight through the glow of sunrise and sunset and the
dewy coldness and starlight of summer nights He is difficult to understand
intricate strange drawing his illustrations from every bycorner of science
art and nature a comet among the bright stars of German literature When you
read his works it is as if you were climbing a high mountain in merry company
to see the sun rise At times you are enveloped in mist the morning wind sweeps
by you with a shout you hear the faroff muttering thunders Wide beneath you
spreads the landscape field meadow town and winding river The ringing of
distant churchbells or the sound of solemn village clock reaches you then
arises the sweet and manifold fragrance of flowers the birds begin to sing the
vapors roll away up comes the glorious sun you revel like a lark in the
sunshine and bright blue heaven and all is a delirious dream of soul and sense
when suddenly a friend at your elbow laughs aloud and offers you a piece of
Bologna sausage As in real life so in his writings the serious and the comic
the sublime and the grotesque the pathetic and the ludicrous are mingled
together At times he is sententious energetic simple then again obscure
and diffuse His thoughts are like mummies embalmed in spices and wrapped about
with curious envelopments but within these the thoughts themselves are kings
At times glad beautiful images airy forms move by you graceful harmonious
at times the glaring wildlooking fancies chained together by hyphens
brackets and dashes brave and base high and low all in their motley dresses
go sweeping down the dusty page like the galleyslaves that sweep the streets
of Rome where you may chance to see the nobleman and the peasant manacled
together«
Flemming smiled at the Germans warmth to which the presence of the lady
and the Laubenheimer wine seemed each to have contributed something and then
said
»Better an outlaw than not free These are his own words And thus he
changes at his will Like the God Thor of the old Northern mythology he now
holds forth the seven stars in the bright heaven above us and now hides himself
in clouds and pounds away with his great hammer«
»And yet this is not affectation in him« rejoined the German »It is his
nature it is Jean Paul And the figures and ornaments of his style wild
fantastic and ofttimes startling like those in Gothic cathedrals are not
merely what they seem but massive coignes and buttresses which support the
fabric Remove them and the roof and walls fall in And through these
gargoyles these wild faces these images of beasts and men carved upon spouts
and gutters flow out like gathered rain the bright abundant thoughts that
have fallen from heaven And all he does is done with a kind of serious
playfulness He is a seamonster disporting himself on the broad ocean his
very sport is earnest there is something majestic and serious about it In
everything there is strength a rough goodnature all sunshine overhead and
underneath the heavy moaning of the sea Well may he be called Jean Paul the
OnlyOne«
With such discourse the hour of dinner passed and after dinner Flemming
went to the cathedral They were singing vespers A beadle dressed in blue
with a cocked hat and a crimson sash and collar was strutting like a turkey
along the aisles This important gentleman conducted Flemming through the
church and showed him the choir with its heavysculptured stalls of oak and
the beautiful figures in brown stone over the bishops tombs He then led him
by a sidedoor into the old and ruined cloisters of St Willigis Through the
low Gothic arches the sunshine streamed upon the pavement of tombstones whose
images and inscriptions are mostly effaced by the footsteps of many generations
There stands the tomb of Frauenlob the Minnesinger His face is sculptured on
an entablature in the wall a fine stronglymarked and serious countenance
Below it is a basrelief representing the poets funeral He is carried to his
grave by ladies whose praise he sang and thereby won the name of Frauenlob
»This then« said Flemming »is the grave not of PraiseGod Barebones
but of PraisetheLadies Meissen who wrote songs somewhat of lust and somewhat
of love But where sleeps the dust of his rival and foe sweet Master
Bartholomew Rainbow«
He meant this for an aside but the turkeycock picked it up and answered
»I do not know He did not belong to this parish«
I will not prolong this journey for I am weary and wayworn and would fain
be at Heidelberg with my readers and my hero It was already night when he
reached the Manheim gate and drove down the long Hauptstrasse so slowly that
it seemed to him endless The shops were lighted on each side of the street and
he saw faces at the windows here and there and figures passing in the
lamplight visible for a moment and then swallowed up in the darkness The
thoughts that filled his mind were strange as are always the thoughts of a
traveller who enters for the first time a strange city This little world had
been going on for centuries before he came and would go on for centuries after
he was gone Of all the thousands who inhabited it he knew nothing and what
knew they or thought of the stranger who in that close postchaise weary
with travel and chilled by the evening wind was slowly rumbling over the paved
street Truly this world can go on without us if we would but think so If it
had been a hearse instead of a postchaise it would have been all the same to
the people of Heidelberg though by no means the same to Paul Flemming
But at the farther end of the city near the Castle and the CarlsThor one
warm heart was waiting to receive him and this was the German heart of his
friend the Baron of Hohenfels with whom he was to pass the winter in
Heidelberg No sooner had the carriage stopped at the irongrated gate and the
postilion blown his horn to announce the arrival of a traveller than the Baron
was seen among the servants at the door and a few moments afterwards the two
longabsent friends were in each others arms and Flemming received a kiss upon
each cheek and another on the mouth as a pledge and seal of the Germans
friendship They held each other long by the hand and looked into each others
face and saw themselves in each others eyes both literally and figuratively
literally inasmuch as the images were there and figuratively inasmuch as each
was imagining what the other thought of him after the lapse of some years In
friendly hopes and questionings and answers the evening glided away at the
suppertable where many more things were discussed than the roasted hare and
the Johannisberger and they sat late into the night conversing of the thoughts
and feelings and delights which fill the hearts of young men who have already
enjoyed and suffered and hoped and been disappointed
Chapter VI
Heidelberg and the Baron
High and hoar on the forehead of the Jettenbühl stands the Castle of Heidelberg
Behind it rise the oakcrested hills of the Geissberg and the Kaiserstuhl and
in front from the wide terrace of masonry you can almost throw a stone upon
the roofs of the town so close do they lie beneath Above this terrace rises
the broad front of the chapel of Saint Udalrich On the left stands the slender
octagon tower of the horologe and on the right a huge round tower battered
and shattered by the mace of war shores up with its broad shoulders the
beautiful palace and gardenterrace of Elizabeth wife of the Count Palatine
Frederick In the rear are older palaces and towers forming a vast irregular
quadrangle Rodolphs ancient castle with its Gothic gloriette and fantastic
gables the Giants Tower guarding the drawbridge over the moat the Rent
Tower with the lindentrees growing on its summit and the magnificent
Rittersaal of OthoHenry Count Palatine of the Rhine and Grand Seneschal of the
Holy Roman Empire From the gardens behind the castle you pass under the
archway of the Giants Tower into the great courtyard The diverse architecture
of different ages strikes the eye and curious sculptures In niches on the wall
of Saint Udalrichs chapel stand rows of knights in armor broken and
dismembered and on the front of Othos Rittersaal the heroes of Jewish history
and classic fable You enter the open and desolate chambers of the ruin and on
every side are medallions and family arms the Globe of the Empire and the
Golden Fleece or the Eagle of the Cæsars resting on the escutcheons of Bavaria
and the Palatinate Over the windows and doorways and chimneypieces are
sculptures and mouldings of exquisite workmanship and the eye is bewildered by
the profusion of caryatides and arabesques and rosettes and fanlike
flutings and garlands of fruits and flowers and acorns and bullocks heads
with draperies of foliage and muzzles of lions holding rings in their teeth
The cunning hand of Art was busy for six centuries in raising and adorning these
walls the mailed hands of Time and War have defaced and overthrown them in less
than two Next to the Alhambra of Granada the Castle of Heidelberg is the most
magnificent ruin of the Middle Ages
In the valley below flows the rushing stream of the Neckar Close from its
margin on the opposite side rises the Mountain of AllSaints crowned with the
ruins of a convent and up the valley stretches the mountaincurtain of the
Odenwald So close and many are the hills which eastward shut the valley in
that the river seems a lake But westward it opens upon the broad plain of the
Rhine like the mouth of a trumpet and like the blast of a trumpet is at times
the wintry wind through this narrow mountainpass The blue Alsatian hills rise
beyond and on a platform or strip of level land between the Neckar and the
mountains right under the castle stands the town of Heidelberg as the old
song says »a pleasant town when it has done raining«
Something of this did Paul Flemming behold when he rose the next morning
and looked from his window It was a warm vapory morning and a struggle was
going on between the mist and the rising sun The sun had taken the hilltops
but the mist still kept possession of the valley and the town The steeple of
the great church rose through a dense mass of snowwhite clouds and on the
hills the dim vapors were rolling across the windows of the ruined castle like
the fiery smoke of a fierce conflagration It seemed to him an image of the
rising of the sun of Truth on a benighted world its light streamed through the
ruins of centuries and down in the Valley of Time the cross on the Christian
church caught its rays though the priests were singing in mist and darkness
below
In the warm breakfastroom he found the Baron waiting for him He was lying
upon a sofa in morning gown and purplevelvet slippers both with flowers upon
them He had a guitar in his hand and a pipe in his mouth at the same time
smoking playing and humming his favorite song from Goethe
The water rushed the water swelled
A fisher sat thereby
Flemming could hardly refrain from laughing at the sight of his friend and told
him it reminded him of a streetmusician he once saw in AixlaChapelle who was
playing upon six instruments at once having a helmet with bells on his head a
Pansreed in his cravat a violin in his hand a triangle on his knee cymbals
on his heels and on his back a bassdrum which he played with his elbows To
tell the truth the Baron of Hohenfels was rather a miscellaneous youth rather a
universal genius He pursued all things with eagerness but for a short time
only music poetry painting pleasure even the study of the Pandects His
feelings were keenly alive to the enjoyment of life His great defect was that
he was too much in love with human nature But by the power of imagination in
him the bearded goat was changed to a bright Capricornus no longer an animal
on earth but a constellation in heaven An easy and indolent disposition made
him gentle and childlike in his manners and in short the beauty of his
character like that of the precious opal was owing to a defect in its
organization His person was tall and slightly built his hair light and his
eyes blue and as beautiful as those of a girl In the tones of his voice there
was something indescribably gentle and winning and he spoke the German language
with the soft musical accent of his native province of Kurland In his manners
if he had not Antinous easy sway he had at least an easy sway of his own
Such in few words was the friend of Flemming
»And what do you think of Heidelberg and the old castle« said he as they
seated themselves at the breakfasttable
»Last night the town seemed very long to me« replied Flemming »and as to
the castle I have as yet had but a glimpse of it through the mist They tell me
there is nothing finer in its way than this magnificent ruin and I have no
doubt I shall find it so Only I wish the stone were gray and not red But red
or gray I foresee that I shall waste many a long hour in its desolate halls
Pray does anybody live there nowadays«
»Nobody« answered the Baron »but the man who shows the Heidelberg Tun and
a Frenchman who has been there sketching ever since the year eighteen hundred
and ten He has moreover written a supermagnificent description of the ruin
in which he says that during the day only birds of prey disturb it with their
piercing cries and at night screech owls and other fallow deer You must buy
his book and his sketches«
»Yes the quotation and the tone of your voice will certainly persuade me so
to do«
»Take his or none my friend for you will find no others And seriously
his sketches are very good There is one on the wall there which is beautiful
save and except that straddlebug figure among the bushes in the corner«
»But is there no ghost no haunted chamber in the old castle« asked
Flemming after casting a hasty glance at the picture
»Oh certainly« replied the Baron »there are two There is the ghost of
the Virgin Mary in Ruprechts Tower and the Devil in the Dungeon«
»Ha that is grand« exclaimed Flemming with evident delight »Tell me the
whole story quickly I am as curious as a child«
»It is a tale of the times of Louis le Débonnaire« said the Baron with a
smile »a mouldy tradition of a credulous age His brother Frederick lived here
in the castle with him and had a flirtation with Leonore von Luzelstein a lady
of the court whom he afterwards despised and was consequently most cordially
hated by her From political motives he was equally hateful to certain petty
German tyrants who in order to effect his ruin accused him of heresy But his
brother Louis would not deliver him up to their fury and they resolved to
effect by stratagem what they could not by intrigue Accordingly Leonore von
Luzelstein disguised as the Virgin Mary and the father confessor of the
Elector in the costume of Satan made their appearance in the Electors
bedchamber at midnight and frightened him so horribly that he consented to
deliver up his brother into the hands of two Black Knights who pretended to be
ambassadors from the VehmGericht They proceeded together to Fredericks
chamber where luckily old Gemmingen a brave soldier kept guard behind the
arras The monk went foremost in his Satanic garb but no sooner had he set foot
in the princes bedchamber than the brave Gemmingen drew his sword and said
quaintly Die wretch and so he died The rest took to their heels and were
heard of no more And now the souls of Leonore and the monk haunt the scene of
their midnight crime You will find the story in the Frenchmans book worked up
with a kind of redmorocco and burntcork sublimity and great melodramatic
clanking of chains and hooting of owls and other fallow deer«
»After breakfast« said Flemming »we will go up to the castle I must get
acquainted with this mirror of owls this modern Till Eulenspiegel See what a
glorious morning we have It is truly a wondrous winter what summer sunshine
what soft Venetian fogs How the wanton treacherous air coquets with the old
graybeard trees Such weather makes the grass and our beards grow apace But we
have an old saying in English that winter never rots in the sky So he will
come down at last in his oldfashioned mealy coat We shall have snow in spring
and the blossoms will be all snowflakes And afterwards a summer which will be
no summer but as Jean Paul says only a winter painted green Is it not so«
»Unless I am much deceived in the climate of Heidelberg« replied the Baron
»we shall not have to wait long for snow We have sudden changes here and I
should not marvel much if it snowed before night«
»The greater reason for making good use of the morning sunshine then Let
us hasten to the castle after which my heart yearns«
Chapter VII
Lives of Scholars
The forebodings of the Baron proved true In the afternoon the weather changed
The western wind began to blow and drew a cloudveil over the face of Heaven
as a breath does over the human face in a mirror Soon the snow began to fall
Athwart the distant landscape it swept like a white mist The stormwind came
from the Alsatian hills and struck the dense clouds aslant through the air And
ever faster fell the snow a roaring torrent from those mountainous clouds The
setting sun glared wildly from the summit of the hills and sank like a burning
ship at sea wrecked in the tempest Thus the evening set in and winter stood
at the gate wagging his white and shaggy beard like an old harper chanting an
old rhyme »How cold it is how cold it is«
»I like such a storm as this« said Flemming who stood at the window
looking out into the tempest and the gathering darkness »The silent falling of
snow is to me one of the most solemn things in nature The fall of autumnal
leaves does not so much affect me But the driving storm is grand It startles
me it awakens me It is wild and woful like my own soul I cannot help
thinking of the sea how the waves run and toss their arms about and the wind
plays on those great sonorous harps the shrouds and masts of ships Winter is
here in earnest How the old churl whistles and threshes the snow Sleet and
rain are falling too Already the trees are bearded with icicles and the two
broad branches of yonder pine look like the white mustache of some old German
baron«
»And tomorrow it will look more wintry still« said his friend »We shall
wake up and find that the frostspirit has been at work all night building
Gothic cathedrals on our windows just as the Devil built the Cathedral of
Cologne So draw the curtains and come sit here by the warm fire«
»And now« said Flemming having done as his friend desired »tell me
something of Heidelberg and its University I suppose we shall lead about as
solitary and studious a life here as we did of yore in little Göttingen with
nothing to amuse us save our own daydreams«
»Pretty much so« replied the Baron »which cannot fail to please you since
you are in pursuit of tranquillity As to the University it is as you know
one of the oldest in Germany It was founded in the fourteenth century by the
Count Palatine Ruprecht and had in the first year more than five hundred
students all busily committing to memory after the old scholastic wise the
rules of grammar versified by Alexander de Villa Dei and the extracts made by
Peter the Spaniard from Michel Pselluss Synopsis of Aristotles Organon and
the Categories with Porphyrys Commentaries Truly I do not much wonder that
Erigena Scotus should have been put to death by his scholars with their
penknives They must have been pushed to the very verge of despair«
»What a strange picture a university presents to the imagination The lives
of scholars in their cloistered stillness literary men of retired habits and
professors who study sixteen hours a day and never see the world but on a
Sunday Nature has no doubt for some wise purpose placed in their hearts this
love of literary labor and seclusion Otherwise who would feed the undying lamp
of thought But for such men as these a blast of wind through the chinks and
crannies of this old world or the flapping of a conquerors banner would blow
it out forever The light of the soul is easily extinguished And whenever I
reflect upon these things I become aware of the great importance in a nations
history of the individual fame of scholars and literary men I fear that it is
far greater than the world is willing to acknowledge or perhaps I should say
than the world has thought of acknowledging Blot out from Englands history the
names of Chaucer Shakespeare Spenser and Milton only and how much of her
glory would you blot out with them Take from Italy such names as Dante
Petrarch Boccaccio Michel Angelo and Raphael and how much would be wanting
to the completeness of her glory How would the history of Spain look if the
leaves were torn out on which are written the names of Cervantes Lope de Vega
and Calderon What would be the fame of Portugal without her Camoens of
France without her Racine and Rabelais and Voltaire or of Germany without
her Martin Luther her Goethe and her Schiller Nay what were the nations of
old without their philosophers poets and historians Tell me do not these
men in all ages and in all places emblazon with bright colors the armorial
bearings of their country Yes and far more than this for in all ages and in
all places they give humanity assurance of its greatness and say Call not this
time or people wholly barbarous for thus much even then and there could the
human mind achieve But the boisterous world has hardly thought of acknowledging
all this Therein it has shown itself somewhat ungrateful Else whence the
great reproach the general scorn the loud derision with which to take a
familiar example the monks of the Middle Ages are regarded That they slept
their lives away is most untrue For in an age when books were few so few so
precious that they were often chained to their oaken shelves with iron chains
like galleyslaves to their benches these men with their laborious hands
copied upon parchment all the lore and wisdom of the past and transmitted it to
us Perhaps it is not too much to say that but for these monks not one line
of the classics would have reached our day Surely then we can pardon
something to those superstitious ages perhaps even the mysticism of the
scholastic philosophy since after all we can find no harm in it only the
mistaking of the possible for the real and the high aspirings of the human mind
after a longsought and unknown somewhat I think the name of Martin Luther the
monk of Wittenberg alone sufficient to redeem all monkhood from the reproach of
laziness If this will not perhaps the vast folios of Thomas Aquinas will or
the countless manuscripts still treasured in old libraries whose yellow and
wrinkled pages remind one of the hands that wrote them and the faces that once
bent over them«
»An eloquent homily« said the Baron laughing »a most touching appeal in
behalf of suffering humanity For my part I am no friend of this entire
seclusion from the world It has a very injurious effect on the mind of a
scholar The Chinese proverb is true a single conversation across the table
with a wise man is better than ten years mere study of books I have known some
of these literary men who thus shut themselves up from the world Their minds
never come in contact with those of their fellowmen They read little They
think much They are mere dreamers They know not what is new nor what is old
They often strike upon trains of thought which stand written in good authors
some century or so back and are even current in the mouths of men around them
But they know it not and imagine they are bringing forward something very
original when they publish their thoughts«
»It reminds me« replied Flemming »of what Dr Johnson said of Goldsmith
when he proposed to travel abroad in order to bring home improvements He will
bring home a wheelbarrow and call that an improvement It is unfortunately the
same with some of these scholars«
»And the worst of it is« said the Baron »that in solitude some fixed
idea will often take root in the mind, and grow till it overshadow all ones
thoughts To this must all opinions come no thought can enter there which
shall not be wedded to the fixed idea There it remains and grows It is like
the watchmans wife in the Tower of Waiblingen who grew to such a size that
she could not get down the narrow staircase and when her husband died his
successor was forced to marry the fat widow in the Tower«
»I remember an old English comedy« said Flemming laughing »in which a
scholar is described as a creature that can strike fire in the morning at his
tinderbox put on a pair of lined slippers sit ruminating till dinner and
then go to his meat when the bell rings one that hath a peculiar gift in a
cough and a license to spit or if you will have him defined by negatives
he is one that cannot make a good leg one that cannot eat a mess of broth
cleanly What think you of that«
»That is just as people are always represented in English comedy« said the
Baron »The portrait is overcharged caricatured«
»And yet« continued Flemming »no longer ago than yesterday in the preface
of a work by a Professor of Philosophy in the University of Halle I read this
passage«
He opened a book and read
»Here in Halle where we have no public garden and no Tivoli no London
Exchange no Paris Chamber of Deputies no Berlin nor Vienna theatres no
Strasburg Minster nor Salzburg Alps no Grecian ruins nor fantastic Catholicism
in fine nothing which after ones daily task is finished can divert and
refresh him without his knowing or caring how I consider the sight of a
proofsheet quite as delightful as a walk in the Prater of Vienna I fill my
pipe very quietly take out my inkstand and pens seat myself in the corner of
my sofa read correct and now for the first time really set about thinking
what I have written To see this origin of a book this metamorphosis of
manuscript into print is a delight to which I give myself up entirely Look
you this melancholy pleasure which would have furnished the departed Voss
with worthy matter for more than one blessed Idyl the more so as on such
occasions I am generally arrayed in a morning gown though I am sorry to say
not a calamanco one with great flowers this melancholy pleasure has already
grown here in Halle to a sweet pedantic habit Since I began my hermits life
here I have been printing and so long as I remain here I shall keep on
printing In all probability I shall die with a proofsheet in my hand«
»This« said Flemming closing the book »is no caricature by a writer of
comedy but a portrait by a mans own hand We can see by it how easily under
certain circumstances one may glide into habits of seclusion and in a kind of
undress slipshod hardihood with a pipe and a proofsheet defy the world Into
this state scholars have too often fallen thus giving some ground for the
prevalent opinion that scholarship and rusticity are inseparable To me I
confess it is painful to see the scholar and the world assume so often a
hostile attitude and set each other at defiance Surely it is a characteristic
trait of a great and liberal mind that it recognizes humanity in all its forms
and conditions I am a student and always when I sit alone at night I
recognize the divinity of the student as she reveals herself to me in the flame
of the midnight lamp But because solitude and books are not unpleasant to me
nay wished for sought after shall I say to my brother Thou fool Shall I
take the world by the beard and say Thou art old and mad Shall I look
society in the face and say Thou art heartless Heartless Beware of that
word The good Jean Paul says very wisely that Life in every shape should be
precious to us for the same reason that the Turks carefully collect every scrap
of paper that comes in their way because the name of God may be written upon
it Nothing is more true than this yet nothing more neglected«
»If it be painful to see this misunderstanding between scholars and the
world« said the Baron »I think it is still more painful to see the private
sufferings of authors by profession How many have languished in poverty how
many died brokenhearted how many gone mad with overexcitement and
disappointed hopes How instructive and painfully interesting are their lives
with so many weaknesses so much to pardon so much to pity so much to admire
I think he was not so far out of the way who said that next to the Newgate
Calendar the Biography of Authors is the most sickening chapter in the history
of man«
»It is indeed enough to make ones heart ache« interrupted Flemming »Only
think of Johnson and Savage rambling about the streets of London at midnight
without a place to sleep in Otway starved to death Collins mad and howling
like a dog through the aisles of Chichester Cathedral at the sound of church
music and Goldsmith strutting up Fleet Street in his peachblossom coat to
knock a bookseller over the pate with one of his own volumes and then in his
poverty about to marry his landlady in Green Arbor Court«
»A life of sorrow and privation a hard life indeed do these poor devil
authors have of it« replied the Baron »and then at last must get them to the
workhouse or creep away into some hospital to die«
»After all« said Flemming with a sigh »poverty is not a crime«
»But something worse« interrupted the Baron »as Dufresny said when he
married his laundress because he could not pay her bill He was the author as
you know of the opera of Lot at whose representation the great pun was made
I say the great pun as we say the great Tun of Heidelberg As one of the
performers was singing the line Lamour a vaincu Loth vingt culottes a voice
from the pit cried out Quil en donne une à lauteur«
Flemming laughed at the unseasonable jest and then after a short pause
continued
»And yet if you look closely at the causes of these calamities of authors
you will find that many of them spring from false and exaggerated ideas of
poetry and the poetic character and from disdain of common sense upon which
all character worth having is founded This comes from keeping aloof from the
world apart from our fellowmen disdainful of society as frivolous By too
much sitting still the body becomes unhealthy and soon the mind This is
Natures law She will never see her children wronged If the mind which rules
the body ever forgets itself so far as to trample upon its slave the slave is
never generous enough to forgive the injury but will rise and smite its
oppressor Thus has many a monarch mind been dethroned«
»After all« said the Baron »we must pardon much to men of genius A
delicate organization renders them keenly susceptible to pain and pleasure And
then they idealize everything and in the moonlight of fancy even the
deformity of vice seems beautiful«
»And this you think should be forgiven«
»At all events it is forgiven The world loves a spice of wickedness Talk
as you will about principle impulse is more attractive even when it goes too
far The passions of youth like unhooded hawks fly high with musical bells
upon their jesses and we forget the cruelty of the sport in the dauntless
bearing of the gallant bird«
»And thus do the world and society corrupt the scholar« exclaimed Flemming
Here the Baron rang and ordered a bottle of Prince Metternich He then very
slowly filled his pipe and began to smoke Flemming was lost in a daydream
Chapter VIII
Literary Fame
Time has a DoomsdayBook upon whose pages he is continually recording
illustrious names But as often as a new name is written there an old one
disappears Only a few stand in illuminated characters never to be effaced
These are the high nobility of Nature Lords of the Public Domain of Thought
Posterity shall never question their titles But those whose fame lives only in
the indiscreet opinion of unwise men must soon be as well forgotten as if they
had never been To this great oblivion must most men come It is better
therefore that they should soon make up their minds to this well knowing
that as their bodies must erelong be resolved into dust again and their graves
tell no tales of them so must their names likewise be utterly forgotten and
their most cherished thoughts purposes and opinions have no longer an
individual being among men but be resolved and incorporated into the universe
of thought If then the imagination can trace the noble dust of heroes till
we find it stopping a beerbarrel and know that
Imperial Cæsar dead and turned to clay
May stop a hole to keep the wind away
not less can it trace the noble thoughts of great men till it finds them
mouldered into the common dust of conversation and used to stop mens mouths
and patch up theories to keep out the flaws of opinion Such for example are
all popular adages and wise proverbs which are now resolved into the common
mass of thought their authors forgotten and having no more an individual being
among men
It is better therefore that men should soon make up their minds to be
forgotten and look about them or within them for some higher motive in what
they do than the approbation of men which is Fame namely their duty that
they should be constantly and quietly at work each in his sphere regardless of
effects and leaving their fame to take care of itself Difficult must this
indeed be in our imperfection impossible perhaps to achieve it wholly Yet
the resolute the indomitable will of man can achieve much at times even
this victory over himself being persuaded that fame comes only when deserved
and then is as inevitable as destiny for it is destiny
It has become a common saying that men of genius are always in advance of
their age which is true There is something equally true yet not so common
namely that of these men of genius the best and bravest are in advance not
only of their own age but of every age As the German prosepoet says every
possible future is behind them We cannot suppose that a period of time will
ever arrive when the world or any considerable portion of it shall have come
up abreast with these great minds so as fully to comprehend them
And oh how majestically they walk in history some like the sun with all
his travelling glories round him others wrapped in gloom yet glorious as a
night with stars Through the else silent darkness of the past the spirit hears
their slow and solemn footsteps Onward they pass like those hoary elders seen
in the vision of an earthly paradise attendant angels bearing golden lights
before them and above and behind the whole air painted with seven listed
colors as from the trail of pennons
And yet on earth these men were not happy not all happy in the outward
circumstance of their lives They were in want and in pain and familiar with
prison bars and the damp weeping walls of dungeons Oh I have looked with
wonder upon those who in sorrow and privation and bodily discomfort and
sickness which is the shadow of death have worked right on to the
accomplishment of their great purposes toiling much enduring much fulfilling
much and then with shattered nerves and sinews all unstrung have laid
themselves down in the grave and slept the sleep of death and the world
talks of them while they sleep
It would seem indeed as if all their sufferings had but sanctified them
as if the deathangel in passing had touched them with the hem of his garment
and made them holy as if the hand of disease had been stretched out over them
only to make the sign of the cross upon their souls And as in the suns eclipse
we can behold the great stars shining in the heavens so in this lifeeclipse
have these men beheld the lights of the great eternity burning solemnly and
forever
This was Flemmings reverie It was broken by the voice of the Baron
suddenly exclaiming
»An angel is flying over the house Here in this goblet fragrant as the
honey of Hymettus fragrant as the wildflowers in the Angels Meadow I drink
to the divinity of thy dreams«
»This is all sunshine« said Flemming as he drank »The wine of the Prince
and the Prince of wines By the way did you ever read that brilliant Italian
dithyrambic Redis Bacchus in Tuscany an ode which seems to have been poured
out of the authors soul as from a golden pitcher
Filled with the wine
Of the vine
Benign
That flames so red in Sansovine
He calls the Montepulciano the king of all wines«
»Prince Metternich« said the Baron »is greater than any king in Italy and
I wonder that this precious wine has never inspired a German poet to write a
Bacchus on the Rhine Many little songs we have on this theme but none very
extraordinary The best are Max Schenkendorfs Song of the Rhine and the Song
of RhineWine by Claudius a poet who never drank Rhenish without sugar We
will drink for him a blessing on the Rhine«
And again the crystal lips of the goblets kissed each other with a musical
chime as of evening bells at vintagetime from the villages on the Rhine Of a
truth I do not much wonder that the German poet Schiller loved to write by
candlelight with a bottle of Rhinewine upon the table Nor do I wonder at the
worthy schoolmaster Roger Ascham when he says in one of his letters from
Germany to Mr John Raven of Johns College »Tell Mr Maden I will drink with
him now a carouse of wine and would to God he had a vessel of Rhenish wine and
perchance when I come to Cambridge I will so provide here that every year I
will have a little piece of Rhenish wine« Nor in fine do I wonder at the
German emperor of whom he speaks in another letter to the same John Raven and
says »The emperor drank the best that I ever saw he had his head in the glass
five times as long as any of us and never drank less than a good quart at once
of Rhenish wine«
»But to resume our old theme of scholars and their whereabout« said the
Baron with an unusual glow caught no doubt from the golden sunshine
imprisoned like the student Anselmus in the glass bottle »where should the
scholar live In solitude or in society in the green stillness of the country
where he can hear the heart of Nature beat or in the dark gray town where he
can hear and feel the throbbing heart of man I will make answer for him and
say in the dark gray town Oh they do greatly err who think that the stars
are all the poetry which cities have and therefore that the poets only
dwelling should be in sylvan solitudes under the green roof of trees
Beautiful no doubt are all the forms of Nature when transfigured by the
miraculous power of poetry hamlets and harvestfields and nutbrown waters
flowing ever under the forest vast and shadowy with all the sights and sounds
of rural life But after all what are these but the decorations and painted
scenery in the great theatre of human life What are they but the coarse
materials of the poets song Glorious indeed is the world of God around us but
more glorious the world of God within us There lies the Land of Song there
lies the poets native land The river of life that flows through streets
tumultuous bearing along so many gallant hearts so many wrecks of humanity
the many homes and households each a little world in itself revolving round
its fireside as a central sun all forms of human joy and suffering brought
into that narrow compass and to be in this and be a part of this acting
thinking rejoicing sorrowing with his fellowmen such such should be the
poets life If he would describe the world he should live in the world The
mind of the scholar if you would have it large and liberal should come in
contact with other minds It is better that his armor should be somewhat bruised
by rude encounters even than hang forever rusting on the wall Nor will his
themes be few or trivial because apparently shut in between the walls of
houses and having merely the decorations of street scenery A ruined character
is as picturesque as a ruined castle There are dark abysses and yawning gulfs
in the human heart which can be rendered passable only by bridging them over
with iron nerves and sinews as Challey bridged the Sarine in Switzerland and
Telford the sea between Anglesea and England with chain bridges These are the
great themes of human thought not green grass and flowers and moonlight
Besides the mere external forms of Nature we make our own and carry with us
everywhere by the power of memory«
»I fear however« interrupted Flemming »that in towns the soul of man
grows proud He needs at times to be sent forth like the Assyrian monarch into
green fields a wondrous wretch and weedless to eat green herbs and be wakened
and chastised by the rain shower and winters bitter weather Moreover in
cities there is danger of the souls becoming wed to pleasure and forgetful of
its high vocation There have been souls dedicated to heaven from childhood and
guarded by good angels as sweet seclusions for holy thoughts and prayers and
all good purposes wherein pious wishes dwelt like nuns and every image was a
saint and yet in lifes vicissitudes by the treachery of occasion by the
thronging passions of great cities have become soiled and sinful They resemble
those convents on the river Rhine which have been changed to taverns from
whose chambers the pious inmates have long departed and in whose cloisters the
footsteps of travellers have effaced the images of buried saints and whose
walls are written over with ribaldry and the names of strangers and resound no
more with holy hymns but with revelry and loud voices«
»Both town and country have their dangers« said the Baron »and therefore
wherever the scholar lives he must never forget his high vocation Other
artists give themselves up wholly to the study of their art It becomes with
them almost religion For the most part and in their youth at least they dwell
in lands where the whole atmosphere of the soul is beauty laden with it as the
air may be with vapor till their very nature is saturated with the genius of
their art Such for example is the artists life in Italy«
»I agree with you« exclaimed Flemming »and such should be the poets
everywhere for he has his Rome his Florence his whole glowing Italy within
the four walls of his library He has in his books the ruins of an antique
world and the glories of a modern one his Apollo and Transfiguration He
must neither forget nor undervalue his vocation but thank God that he is a
poet and everywhere be true to himself and to the vision and the faculty
divine he recognizes within him«
»But at any rate a town life is most eventful« continued the Baron »The
men who make or take the lives of poets and scholars always complain that
these lives are barren of incidents Hardly a literary biography begins without
some such apology unwisely made I confess however that it is not made
without some show of truth if by incidents we mean only those startling events
which suddenly turn aside the stream of time and change the worlds history in
an hour There is certainly a uniformity pleasing or unpleasing in literary
life which for the most part makes today seem twinborn with yesterday But if
by incidents you mean events in the history of the human mind and why not
noiseless events that do not scar the forehead of the world as battles do yet
change it not the less then surely the lives of literary men are most eventful
The complaint and the apology are both foolish I do not see why a successful
book is not as great an event as a successful campaign only different in kind
and not easily compared«
»Indeed« interrupted Flemming »in no sense is the complaint strictly true
though at times apparently so Events enough there are were they all set down
A life that is worth writing at all is worth writing minutely Besides all
literary men have not lived in silence and solitude not all in stillness not
all in shadow For many have lived in troubled times in the rude and adverse
fortunes of the state and age and could say with Wallenstein
Our life was but a battle and a march
And like the winds blast never resting homeless
We stormed across the warconvulsed earth
Many such examples has history recorded Dante Cervantes Byron and others
men of iron men who have dared to breast the strong breath of public opinion
and like spectreships come sailing right against the wind Others have been
puffed out by the first adverse wind that blew disgraced and sorrowful because
they could not please others Had they been men they would have made these
disappointments their best friends and learned from them the needful lesson of
selfreliance«
»To confess the truth« added the Baron »the lives of literary men with
their hopes and disappointments and quarrels and calamities present a
melancholy picture of mans strength and weakness On that very account the
scholar can make them profitable for encouragement consolation warning«
»And after all« continued Flemming »perhaps the greatest lesson which the
lives of literary men teach us is told in a single word Wait Every man must
patiently bide his time He must wait More particularly in lands like my native
land where the pulse of life beats with such feverish and impatient throbs is
the lesson needful Our national character wants the dignity of repose We seem
to live in the midst of a battle there is such a din such a hurrying to and
fro In the streets of a crowded city it is difficult to walk slowly You feel
the rushing of the crowd and rush with it onward In the press of our life it
is difficult to be calm In this stress of wind and tide all professions seem
to drag their anchors and are swept out into the main The voices of the
Present say Come But the voices of the Past say Wait With calm and solemn
footsteps the rising tide bears against the rushing torrent up stream and
pushes back the hurrying waters With no less calm and solemn footsteps nor
less certainty does a great mind bear up against public opinion and push back
its hurrying stream Therefore should every man wait should bide his time
Not in listless idleness not in useless pastime not in querulous dejection
but in constant steady cheerful endeavors always willing and fulfilling and
accomplishing his task that when the occasion comes he may be equal to the
occasion And if it never comes what matters it What matters it to the world
whether I or you or another man did such a deed or wrote such a book so be
it the deed and book were well done It is the part of an indiscreet and
troublesome ambition to care too much about fame about what the world says of
us to be always looking into the faces of others for approval to be always
anxious for the effect of what we do and say to be always shouting to hear the
echo of our own voices If you look about you you will see men who are wearing
life away in feverish anxiety of fame and the last we shall ever hear of them
will be the funeral bell that tolls them to their early graves Unhappy men and
unsuccessful because their purpose is not to accomplish well their task but
to clutch the fantasy and trick of fame and they go to their graves with
purposes unaccomplished and wishes unfulfilled Better for them and for the
world in their example had they known how to wait Believe me the talent of
success is nothing more than doing what you can do well and doing well whatever
you do without a thought of fame If it come at all it will come because it
is deserved not because it is sought after And moreover there will be no
misgivings no disappointment no hasty feverish exhausting excitement«
Thus endeth the First Book of Hyperion I make no record of the winter Paul
Flemming buried himself in books in old dusty books He worked his way
diligently through the ancient poetic lore of Germany from Frankish Legends of
Saint George and Saxon RhymeChronicles and NibelungenLieds and
HeldenBuchs and Songs of the Minnesingers and Meistersingers and Ships of
Fools and Reynard the Foxes and DeathDances and Lamentations of Damned
Souls into the bright sunny land of harvests where amid the golden grain and
the blue cornflowers walk the modern bards and sing
Book the Second
Something the heart must have to cherish
Must love and joy and sorrow learn
Something with passion clasp or perish
And in itself to ashes burn
Chapter I
Spring
It was a sweet carol which the Rhodian children sang of old in Spring bearing
in their hands from door to door a swallow as herald of the season
The Swallow is come
The Swallow is come
Oh fair are the seasons and light
Are the days that she brings
With her dusky wings
And her bosom snowy white
A pretty carol too is that which the Hungarian boys on the islands of the
Danube sing to the returning stork in Spring
Stork Stork poor Stork
Why is thy foot so bloody
A Turkish boy hath torn it
Hungarian boy will heal it
With fiddle fife and drum
But what child has a heart to sing in this capricious clime of ours where
Spring comes sailing in from the sea with wet and heavy cloudsails and the
misty pennon of the eastwind nailed to the mast Yet even here and in the
stormy month of March even there are bright warm mornings when we open our
windows to inhale the balmy air The pigeons fly to and fro and we hear the
whirring sound of wings Old flies crawl out of the cracks to sun themselves
and think it is Summer They die in their conceit and so do our hearts within
us when the cold seabreath comes from the eastern sea and again
The driving hail
Upon the window beats with icy flail
The redflowering maple is first in blossom its beautiful purple flowers
unfolding a fortnight before the leaves The moosewood follows with
rosecolored buds and leaves and the dogwood robed in the white of its own
pure blossoms Then comes the sudden rainstorm and the birds fly to and fro
and shriek Where do they hide themselves in such storms at what firesides dry
their feathery cloaks At the fireside of the great hospitable sun
tomorrow not before they must sit in wet garments until then
In all climates Spring is beautiful In the South it is intoxicating and
sets a poet beside himself The birds begin to sing they utter a few rapturous
notes and then wait for an answer in the silent woods Those greencoated
musicians the frogs make holiday in the neighboring marshes They too belong
to the orchestra of Nature whose vast theatre is again opened though the doors
have been so long bolted with icicles and the scenery hung with snow and frost
like cobwebs This is the prelude which announces the opening of the scene
Already the grass shoots forth The waters leap with thrilling pulse through the
veins of the earth the sap through the veins of the plants and trees and the
blood through the veins of man What a thrill of delight in Springtime What a
joy in being and moving Men are at work in gardens and in the air there is an
odor of the fresh earth The leafbuds begin to swell and blush The white
blossoms of the cherry hang upon the boughs like snowflakes and erelong our
nextdoor neighbors will be completely hidden from us by the dense green
foliage The Mayflowers open their soft blue eyes Children are let loose in
the fields and gardens They hold buttercups under each others chins to see if
they love butter And the little girls adorn themselves with chains and curls of
dandelions pull out the yellow leaves to see if the schoolboy loves them and
blow the down from the leafless stalk to find out if their mothers want them at
home
And at night so cloudless and so still Not a voice of living thing not a
whisper of leaf or waving bough not a breath of wind not a sound upon the
earth nor in the air And overhead bends the blue sky dewy and soft and
radiant with innumerable stars like the inverted bell of some blue flower
sprinkled with golden dust and breathing fragrance Or if the heavens are
overcast it is no wild storm of wind and rain but clouds that melt and fall in
showers One does not wish to sleep but lies awake to hear the pleasant sound
of the dropping rain
It was thus the Spring began in Heidelberg
Chapter II
A Colloquy
»And what think you of Tiedges Urania« said the Baron smiling as Paul
Flemming closed the book and laid it upon the table
»I think« said Flemming »that it is very much like Jean Pauls
grandfather in the highest degree poor and pious«
»Bravo« exclaimed the Baron »That is the best criticism I have heard upon
the book For my part I dislike it as much as Goethe did It was once very
popular and lay about in every parlor and bedroom This annoyed the old
gentleman exceedingly and I do not wonder at it He complains that at one time
nothing was sung or said but this Urania He believed in Immortality but wished
to cherish his belief in quietness He once told a friend of his that he had
however learned one thing from all this talk about Tiedge and his Urania which
was that the saints as well as the nobility constitute an aristocracy He
said he found stupid women who were proud because they believed in Immortality
with Tiedge and had to submit himself to not a few mysterious catechizings and
teatable lectures on this point and that he cut them short by saying that he
had no objection whatever to enter into another state of existence hereafter
but prayed only that he might be spared the honor of meeting there any of those
who had believed in it here for if he did they would flock around him on
all sides exclaiming Were we not in the right Did we not tell you so Has it
not all turned out just as we said«
»How shocked the good old ladies must have been« said Flemming
»No doubt their nerves suffered a little but the young women loved him all
the better for being witty and wicked and thought if they could only marry
him how they would reform him«
»Bettina Brentano for instance«
»Oh no That happened long afterwards Goethe was then an old man of sixty
She had never seen him and knew him only by his writings a romantic girl of
seventeen«
»And yet much in love with the sexagenarian And surely a more wild
fantastic passion never sprang up in womans breast She was a flower that
worshipped the sun«
»She afterwards married Achim von Arnim and is now a widow And not the
least singular part of the affair is that having grown older and I hope
colder she should herself publish the letters which passed between her and
Goethe«
»Particularly the letter in which she describes her first visit to Weimar
and her interview with the hitherto invisible divinity of her dreams The old
gentleman took her upon his knees and she fell asleep with her head upon his
shoulder Oberon must have touched her eyes with the juice of Loveinidleness
However this book of Goethes Correspondence with a Child is a very singular
and valuable revelation of the feelings which he excited in female hearts You
say she afterwards married Achim von Arnim«
»Yes and he and her brother Clemens Brentano published that wondrous
book the Boys WonderHorn«
»The Boys WonderHorn« said Flemming after a short pause for the name
seemed to have thrown him into a reverie »I know the book almost by heart Of
all your German books it is the one which produces upon my imagination the most
wild and magic influence I have a passion for ballads«
»And who has not« said the Baron with a smile »They are the
gypsychildren of song born under green hedgerows in the leafy lanes and
bypaths of literature in the genial Summertime«
»Why do you say Summertime and not Summer« inquired Flemming »The
expression reminds me of your old Minnesingers of Heinrich von Ofterdingen
and Walther von der Vogelweide and Count Kraft von Toggenburg and your own
ancestor I dare say Burkhart von Hohenfels They were always singing of the
gentle Summertime They seemed to have lived poetry as well as sung it like
the birds who make their marriagebeds in the voluptuous trees«
»Is that from Shakespeare«
»No from Lope de Vega«
»You are deeply read in the lore of antiquity and the Aubades and
WatchSongs of the old Minnesingers What do you think of the shoemaker poets
that came after them with their guilds and singingschools It makes me laugh
to think how the great streams of your German Helicon shrunk to small rivulets
go bubbling and gurgling over the pebbly names of Zwinger Wurgendrussel
Buchenlin Hellfire Old Stoll Young Stoll Strong Bopp Dang Brotscheim Batt
Spiegel Peter Pfort and Martin Gumpel And then the Corporation of the Twelve
Wise Masters with their stumpfereime and klingendereime and their Hans
Tindeisens rosemaryweise and Joseph Schmierers floweryparadiseweise and
Frauenlobs yellowweise and blueweise and frogweise and
lookingglassweise«
»Oh I entreat you« exclaimed Flemming laughing »do not call those men
poets You transport me to quaint old Nuremberg and I see Hans Sachs making
shoes and Hans Folz shaving the burgomaster«
»By the way« interrupted the Baron »did you ever read Hoffmanns beautiful
story of Master Martin the Cooper of Nuremberg I will read it to you this very
night It is the most delightful picture of that age which you can conceive But
look the sun has already set behind the Alsatian hills Let us go up to the
castle and look for the ghost in Prince Ruprechts tower Oh what a glorious
sunset«
Flemming looked at the evening sky and a shade of sadness stole over his
countenance He told not to his friend the sorrow with which his heart was
heavy but kept it for himself alone He knew that the time which comes to all
men the time to suffer and be silent had come to him likewise and he
spake no word Oh well has it been said that there is no grief like the grief
which does not speak
Chapter III
OwlTowers
»There sits the old Frau Himmelauen perched up in her owltower« said the
Baron to Flemming as they passed along the Hauptstrasse »She looks down
through her roundeyed spectacles from her nest there and watches every one
that goes by I wonder what mischief she is hatching now Do you know she has
nearly ruined your character in town She says you have a rakish look because
you carry a cane and your hair curls Your gloves also are a shade too light
for a strictly virtuous man«
»It is very kind in her to take such good care of my character particularly
as I am a stranger in town She is doubtless learned in the ClothesPhilosophy«
»And ignorant of everything else She asked a friend of mine the other day
whether Christ was a Catholic or a Protestant«
»That is really too absurd«
»Not too absurd to be true And ignorant as she is she contrives to do a
good deal of mischief in the course of the year Why the women already call you
Wilhelm Meister«
»They are at liberty to call me what they please But you who know me
better know that I am something more than they would imply by the name«
»She says moreover that the American women sit with their feet out of the
window and have no pockethandkerchiefs«
»Excellent«
They crossed the marketplace and went up beneath the grand terrace into
the courtyard of the castle
»Let us go and sit under the great lindentrees that grow on the summit of
the Rent Tower« said Flemming »From that point as from a watchtower we can
look down into the garden and see the crowd below us«
»And amuse ourselves as old Frau Himmelauen does at her window in the
Hauptstrasse« added the Baron
The keepers daughter unlocked for them the door of the tower and climbing
the steep staircase they seated themselves on a wooden bench under the
lindentrees
»How beautifully these trees overgrow the old tower And see what a solid
mass of masonry lies in the great fosse down there toppled from its base by the
explosion of a mine It is like a rusty helmet cleft in twain but still crested
with towering plumes«
»And what a motley crowd in the garden Philisters and Sons of the Muses
And there goes the venerable Thibaut taking his evening stroll Do you see him
there with his silver hair flowing over his shoulders and that friendly face
which has for so many years pored over the Pandects I assure you he inspires
me with awe And yet he is a merry old man and loves his joke particularly at
the expense of Moses and other ancient lawgivers«
Here their attention was diverted by a wildlooking person who passed with
long strides under the archway in the fosse right beneath them and disappeared
among the bushes He was illdressed his hair flying in the wind his movements
hurried and nervous and the expression of his broad countenance wild strange
and earnest
»Who can that be« asked Flemming »He strides away indignantly like one of
Ossians ghosts«
»A great philosopher whose name I have forgotten Truly a strange owl«
»He looks like a lion with a hat on«
»He is a mystic who reads Schuberts History of the Soul and lives for
the most part in the clouds of the Middle Ages To him the spiritworld is
still open He believes in the transmigration of souls and I dare say is now
following the spirit of some departed friend who has taken the form of yonder
pigeon«
»What a strange hallucination He lives I suppose in the land of
cloudshadows And as St Thomas Aquinas was said to be lifted up from the
ground by the fervor of his prayers so no doubt is he by the fervor of his
visions«
»He certainly appears to neglect all sublunary things and to judge from
certain appearances since you seem fond of holy similitudes one would say
that like St Serapion the Sindonite he had but one shirt Yet what cares he
he lives in that poetic dreamland of his thoughts and clothes himself in
poetry«
»He is a poet then as well as a philosopher«
»Yes but a poet who never writes There is nothing in nature to which his
imagination does not give a poetic hue But the power to make others see these
objects in the same poetic light is wanting Still he is a man of fine powers
and feelings for next to being a great poet is the power of understanding one
of finding ones self in him as we Germans say«
Three figures dressed in black now came from one of the green alleys and
stopped on the brink of a fountain that was playing among the gay flowers in the
garden The eldest of the three was a woman in that season of life when the
early autumn gives to the summer leaves a warmer glow yet fades them not
Though the mother of many children she was still beautiful resembling those
trees which blossom in October when the leaves are changing and whose fruit
and blossom are on the branch at once At her side was a girl of some sixteen
years who seemed to lean upon her arm for support Her figure was slight her
countenance beautiful though deadly white and her meek eyes like the flower of
the nightshade pale and blue but sending forth golden rays They were attended
by a tall youth of foreign aspect who seemed a young Antinous with a mustache
and a nose à la Kosciusko In other respects a perfect hero of romance
»Unless mine eyes deceive me« said the Baron »there is the Frau von
Ilmenau with her pale daughter Emma and that eternal Polish count He is
always hovering about them playing the unhappy exile merely to excite that
poor girls sympathies and as wretched as genius and wantonness can make him«
»Why he is already married you know« replied Flemming »And his wife is
young and beautiful«
»That does not prevent him from being in love with some one else That
question was decided in the Courts of Love in the Middle Ages Accordingly he
has sent his fair wife to Warsaw But how pale the poor child looks«
»She has just recovered from severe illness In the winter you know it was
thought she would not live from hour to hour«
»And she has hardly recovered from that disease before she seems threatened
with a worse one namely a hopeless passion However people do not die of love
nowadays«
»Seldom perhaps« said Flemming »And yet it is folly to pretend that one
ever wholly recovers from a disappointed passion Such wounds always leave a
scar There are faces I can never look upon without emotion There are names I
can never hear spoken without almost starting«
»But whom have we here«
»That is the French poet Quinet with his fair German wife one of the most
interesting women I ever knew He is the author of a very wild Mystery or
dramatic prosepoem in which the Ocean Mont Blanc and the Cathedral of
Strasburg have parts to play and the saints on the stained windows of the
minster speak and the statues and dead kings enact the Dance of Death It is
entitled Ahasuerus or the Wandering Jew«
»Or as the Danes would translate it the Shoemaker of Jerusalem That would
be a still more fantastic title for his fantastic book You know I am no great
admirer of the modern French school of writers The tales of Paul de Kock seem
to me like obscene stories told at dinnertables It has been truly said of him
that he is not only populaire but populacier and rather harshly of George Sand
and Victor Hugo that their works stand like fortifications well built and well
supplied with warlike munitions but ineffectual against the Grand Army of God
which marches onward as if nothing had happened In surveying a national
literature the point you must start from is national character That lets you
into many a secret The most prominent trait in the French character is love of
amusement and excitement and«
»I should say rather the fear of ennui« interrupted Flemming »Some one
has said with a great deal of truth that the gentry of France rush into Paris
to escape from ennui as in the noble days of chivalry the defenceless
inhabitants of the champaign fled into the castles at the approach of some
plundering knight or lawless baron forsaking the inspired twilight of their
native groves for the luxurious shades of the royal gardens What do you think
of that«
The Baron replied with a smile
»There is only one Paris and out of Paris there is no salvation for decent
people«
Thus conversing of many things sat the two friends under the lindentrees on
the Rent Tower till gradually the crowd disappeared from the garden and the
objects around them grew indistinct in the fading twilight Between them and
the ambercolored western sky the dense foliage of the trees looked heavy and
hard as if cast in bronze and already the evening stars hung like silver lamps
in the towering branches of that Tree of Life brought more than two centuries
ago from its primeval paradise in America to beautify the gardens of the
Palatinate
»I take a mournful pleasure in gazing at that tree« said Flemming as they
rose to depart »It stands there so straight and tall with iron bands around
its noble trunk and limbs in silent majesty or whispering only in its native
tongue and freighting the homeward wind with sighs It reminds me of some
captive monarch of a savage tribe brought over the vast ocean for a show and
chained in the public marketplace of the city disdainfully silent or
breathing only in melancholy accents a prayer for his native forest a longing
to be free«
»Magnificent« cried the Baron »I always experience something of the same
feeling when I walk through a conservatory The luxuriant plants of the tropics
those illustrious exotics with their gorgeous flamingocolored blossoms and
great flapping leaves like elephants ears have a singular working upon my
imagination and remind me of a menagerie and wild beasts kept in cages But
your illustration is finer indeed a grand figure Put it down for an epic
poem«
Chapter IV
A BeerScandal
On their way homeward Flemming and the Baron passed through a narrow lane in
which was a wellknown StudentenKneipe At the door stood a young man whom the
Baron at once recognized as his friend Von Kleist He was a student and
universally acknowledged among his young acquaintance as a devilish handsome
fellow notwithstanding a tremendous scar on his cheek and a creamcolored
mustache as soft as the silk of Indian corn In short he was a renowner and a
duellist
»What are you doing here Von Kleist«
»Ah my dear Baron Is it you Come in come in You shall see some sport A
FoxCommerce is on foot and a regular BeerScandal«
»Shall we go in Flemming«
»Certainly I should like to see how these things are managed in Heidelberg
You are a baron and I am a stranger It is of no consequence what you and I do
as the kings fool Angeli said to the poet Bautra urging him to put on his hat
at the royal dinnertable«
William Lilly the Astrologer says in his Autobiography that when he was
committed to the guard in Whitehall he thought himself in hell for »some were
sleeping others swearing others smoking tobacco and in the chimney of the
room there were two bushels of broken tobaccopipes and almost half a load of
ashes« What he would have thought if he had peeped into this Heidelberg
StudentenKneipe I know not He certainly would not have thought himself in
heaven unless it were a Scandinavian heaven The windows were open and yet so
dense was the atmosphere with the smoke of tobacco and the fumes of beer that
the tallow candles burned but dimly A crowd of students were sitting at three
long tables in the large hall a medley of fellows known at German
universities under the cant names of OldOnes MossyHeads Princes of Twilight
and PomatumStallions They were smoking drinking singing screaming and
discussing the great Laws of the BroadStone and the Gutter They had a great
deal to say likewise about Besens and Zobels and Poussades and if they had
been charged for the noise they made as travellers used to be in the old Dutch
taverns they would have a longer bill to pay for that than for their beer
In a large armchair upon the middle table sat one of those distinguished
individuals known among German students as a Senior or Leader of a
Landsmannschaft He was booted and spurred and wore a very small crimson cap
and a very tight blue jacket and very long hair and a very dirty shirt He was
President of the night and as Flemming entered the hall with the Baron and his
friend striking upon the table with a mighty broadsword he cried in a loud
voice
»Silentium«
At the same moment a door at the end of the hall was thrown open and a
procession of newcomers or NastyFoxes as they are called in the college
dialect entered two by two looking wild and green and foolish As they came
forward they were obliged to pass under a pair of naked swords held crosswise
by two OldOnes who with pieces of burnt cork made an enormous pair of
mustaches on the smooth rosy cheeks of each as he passed beneath this arch of
triumph While the procession was entering the hall the President lifted up his
voice again and began to sing the wellknown Foxsong in the chorus of which
all present joined lustily
What comes there from the hill
What comes there from the hill
What comes there from the leathery hill
Sa Sa
Leathery hill
What comes there from the hill
It is a postilion
It is a postilion
It is a leathery postilion
Sa Sa
Postilion
It is a postilion
What brings the postilion
What brings the postilion
What brings the leathery postilion
Sa Sa
Postilion
What brings the postilion
He bringeth us a Fox
He bringeth us a Fox
He bringeth us a leathery Fox
Sa Sa
Leathery Fox
He bringeth us a Fox
Your servant Masters mine
Your servant Masters mine
Your servant muchhonored Masters mine
Sa Sa
Muchhonored Masters mine
Your servant Masters mine
How does the Herr Papa
How does the Herr Papa
How does the leathery Herr Papa
Sa Sa
Herr Papa
How does the Herr Papa
He reads in Cicero
He reads in Cicero
He reads in leathery Cicero
Sa Sa
Cicero
He reads in Cicero
How does the Frau Mamma
How does the Frau Mamma
How does the leathery Frau Mamma
Sa Sa
Frau Mamma
How does the Frau Mamma
She makes the Papa tea
She makes the Papa tea
She makes the Papa leathery tea
Sa Sa
Leathery tea
She makes the Papa tea
How does the Mamsell Soeur
How does the Mamsell Soeur
How does the leathery Mamsell Soeur
Sa Sa
Mamsell Soeur
How does the Mamsell Soeur
She knits the Papa socks
She knits the Papa socks
She knits the Papa leathery socks
Sa Sa
Leathery socks
She knits the Papa socks
How does the Herr Rector
How does the Herr Rector
How does the leathery Herr Rector
Sa Sa
Herr Rector
How does the Herr Rector
He calls the scholar Boy
He calls the scholar Boy
He calls the scholar leathery Boy
Sa Sa
Leathery Boy
He calls the scholar Boy
And smokes the Fox tobacco
And smokes the Fox tobacco
And smokes the leathery Fox tobacco
Sa Sa
Fox tobacco
And smokes the Fox tobacco
A little Masters mine
A little Masters mine
A little muchhonored Masters mine
Sa Sa
Muchhonored Masters mine
A little masters mine
Then let him fill a pipe
Then let him fill a pipe
Then let him fill a leathery pipe
Sa Sa
Leathery pipe
Then let him fill a pipe
O Lord it makes me sick
O Lord it makes me sick
O Lord it makes me leathery sick
Sa Sa
Leathery sick
O Lord it makes me sick
Then let him throw it off
Then let him throw it off
Then let him throw it leathery off
Sa Sa
Leathery off
Then let him throw it off
Now I again am well
Now I again am well
Now I again am leathery well
Sa Sa
Leathery well
Now I again am well
So grows the Fox a Bursch
So grows the Fox a Bursch
So grows the leathery Fox a Bursch
Sa Sa
Fox a Bursch
So grows the Fox a Bursch
At length the song was finished Meanwhile large tufts and strips of paper had
been twisted into the hair of the Branders as those are called who have been
already one term at the University and then at a given signal were set on fire
and the Branders rode round the table on chairs amid roars of laughter When
this ceremony was completed the President rose and in a solemn voice pronounced
a long discourse in which old college jokes were mingled with much parental
advice to young men on entering life and the whole was profusely garnished with
select passages from the Old Testament Then they all seated themselves at the
table and the heavy beerdrinking set in as among the Gods and Heroes of the
old Northern mythology
»Brander Brander« screamed a youth whose face was hot and flushed with
supper and with beer »Brander I say Thou art a Doctor No a Pope thou
art a Pope by «
These words were addressed to a pale quietlooking person who sat
opposite and was busy in making a wretched shaved poodle sit on his hind legs
in a chair by his masters side and hold a short clay pipe in his mouth a
performance to which the poodle seemed nowise inclined
»Thou art challenged« replied the pale student turning from his dog who
dropped the pipe from his mouth and leaped under the table
Seconds were chosen on the spot and the arms ordered namely six mighty
goblets or Bassgläser filled to the brim with foaming beer Three were placed
before each duellist
»Take your weapons« cried one of the seconds and each of the combatants
seized a goblet in his hand
»Strike«
And the glasses rang with a salutation like the crossing of swords
»Set to«
Each set the goblet to his lips
»Out«
And each poured the contents down his throat as if he were pouring them
through a tunnel into a beerbarrel The other two glasses followed in quick
succession hardly a long breath drawn between The pale student was victorious
He was first to drain the third goblet He held it for a moment inverted to let
the last drops fall out and then placing it quietly on the table looked his
antagonist in the face and said
»Hit«
Then with the greatest coolness looking under the table he whistled for
his dog His antagonist stopped midway in his third glass Every vein in his
forehead seemed bursting his eyes were wild and bloodshot his hand gradually
loosened its hold upon the table and he sank and rolled together like a sheet
of lead He was drunk
At this moment a majestic figure came stalking down the table ghostlike
through the dim smoky atmosphere His coat was off his neck bare his hair
wild his eyes wide open and looking straight before him as if he saw some
beckoning hand in the air that others could not see His left hand was upon his
hip and in his right he held a drawn sword extended and pointing downward
Regardless of every one erect and with a martial stride he marched directly
along the centre of the table crushing glasses and overthrowing bottles at
every step The students shrank back at his approach till at length one more
intoxicated or more courageous than the rest dashed a glass full of beer into
his face A general tumult ensued and the student with the sword leaped to the
floor It was Von Kleist He was renowning it In the midst of the uproar could
be distinguished the offensive words
»Arrogant Absurd Impertinent Dummer Junge«
Von Kleist went home that night with no less than six duels on his hands He
fought them all out in as many days and came off with only a gash through his
upper lip and another through his right eyelid from a dexterous Suabian
Schläger
Chapter V
The White Ladys Slipper and the PassionFlower
That night Emma of Ilmenau went to her chamber with a heavy heart and her dusky
eyes were troubled with tears She was one of those gentle beings who seem
created only to love and to be loved A shade of melancholy softened her
character She shunned the glare of daylight and of society and wished to be
alone Like the evening primrose her heart opened only after sunset but
bloomed through the dark night with sweet fragrance Her mother on the
contrary flaunted in the garish light of society There was no sympathy between
them Their souls never approached never understood each other and words were
often spoken which wounded deeply And therefore Emma of Ilmenau went to her
chamber that night with tears in her eyes
She was followed by her French chambermaid Madeleine a native of
Strasburg who had grown old in the family In her youth she had been poor
and virtuous because she had never been tempted and now that she had grown
old and seen no immediate reward for her virtue as is usual with weak minds
she despaired of Providence and regretted she had never been tempted Whilst
this unfortunate personage was lighting the wax tapers on the toilet and
drawing the bedcurtains and tattling about the room Emma threw herself into
an armchair and crossing her hands in her lap and letting her head fall upon
her bosom seemed lost in a dream
»Why have these gentle feelings been given me« said she in her heart »Why
have I been born with all these warm affections these ardent longings after
what is good if they lead only to sorrow and disappointment I would love some
one love him once and for ever devote myself to him alone live for him
die for him exist alone in him But alas in all this wide world there is
none to love me as I would be loved none whom I may love as I am capable of
loving How empty how desolate seems the world about me Why has Heaven given
me these affections only to fall and fade«
Alas poor child thou too must learn like others that the sublime mystery
of Providence goes on in silence and gives no explanation of itself no
answer to our impatient questionings
»Bless me child what ails you« exclaimed Madeleine perceiving that Emma
paid no attention to her idle gossip »When I was of your age«
»Do not talk to me now good Madeleine Leave me I wish to be alone«
»Well here is something« continued the maid taking a billet from her
bosom »which I hope will enliven you When I was of your age«
»Hush hush« said Emma taking the billet from the hard hand of Madeleine
»Once more I beg you leave me I wish to be alone«
Madeleine took the lamp and retired slowly wishing her young mistress many
good nights and rosy dreams Emma broke the seal of the note As she read her
face became deadly pale and then quick as thought a crimson blush gleamed on
her cheek and her hands trembled Tenderness pity love offended pride the
weakness and dignity of woman were all mingled in her look changing and
passing over her fine countenance like cloudshadows She sunk back in her
chair covering her face with her hands as if she would hide it from herself
and Heaven
»He loves me« said she to herself »loves me and is married to another
whom he loves not and dares to tell me this Oh never never never And
yet he is so friendless and alone in this unsympathizing world and an exile
and homeless I can but pity him yet I hate him and will see him no more«
This short reverie of love and hate was broken by the sound of a clear
mellow voice which in the universal stillness of the hour seemed almost like
the voice of a spirit It was a voice without the accompaniment of any
instrument singing those beautiful lines which Goethe wrote on the wall of a
summerhouse at Ilmenau
Oer all the hilltops is quiet now
In all the woodlands hearest thou
Hardly a sound
The little birds are asleep in the trees
Wait wait and soon like these
Sleepest thou
Emma knew the voice and started She rushed to the window to close it It was a
beautiful night and the stars were shining peacefully over the mountain of
AllSaints The sound of the Neckar was soft and low nightingales were singing
among the brown shadows of the woods the large red moon shone like a ruby in
the horizons ample ring and golden threads of light seemed braided together
with the rippling current of the river Tall and spectral stood the white
statues on the bridge The outlines of the hills the castle the arches of the
bridge and the spires and roofs of the town were as strongly marked as if cut
out of pasteboard Amid this fairy scene a little boat was floating silently
down the stream Emma closed the window hastily and drew the curtains close
»I hate him and yet I will pray for him« said she as she laid her weary
head upon that pillow from which but a few months before she thought she
should never raise it again »Oh that I had died then I dare not love him but
I will pray for him«
Sweet child If the face of the deceiver comes so often between thee and
Heaven I tremble for thy fate The plant that sprang from Helens tears
destroyed serpents would that from thine might spring up heartsease some
plant at least to destroy the serpents in thy bosom Believe me upon the
margin of celestial streams alone those simples grow which cure the heartache
And this the silent stars beheld looking down from heaven and told it not
again This likewise the Frau Himmelauen beheld looking from her
chamberwindow and was not so discreet as the silent stars
Chapter VI
Glimpses into CloudLand
»There are many things which having no corporeal evidence can be perceived and
comprehended only by the discursive energies of reason Hence the ambiguous
nature of matter can be comprehended only by adulterated opinion Matter is the
principle of all bodies and is stamped with the impression of forms Fire air
and water derive their origin and principle from the scalene triangle But the
earth was created from rightangled triangles of which two of the sides are
equal The sphere and the pyramid contain in themselves the figure of fire but
the octahedron was destined to be the figure of air and the icosahedron of
water The rightangled isosceles triangle produces from itself a square and
the square generates from itself the cube which is the figure peculiar to
earth But the figure of a beautiful and perfect sphere was imparted to the most
beautiful and perfect world that it might be indigent of nothing but contain
all things embracing and comprehending them in itself and thus might be
excellent and admirable similar to and in concord with itself ever moving
musically and melodiously If I use a novel language excuse me As Apuleius
says pardon must be granted to novelty of words when it serves to illustrate
the obscurity of things«
These words came from the lips of the lionlike philosopher who has been
noticed before in these pages He was sitting with Flemming smoking a long
pipe As the Baron said he was indeed a strange owl for the owl is a grave
bird a monk who chants midnight mass in the great temple of Nature an
anchorite a pillar saint the very Simeon Stylites of his neighborhood Such
likewise was the philosophical Professor Solitary but with a mighty current
flowed the river of his life like the Nile without a tributary stream and
making fertile only a single strip in the vast desert His temperament had been
in youth a joyous one and now amid all his sorrows and privations for he
had many he looked upon the world as a glad bright glorious world On the
many joys of life he gazed still with the eyes of childhood from the fargone
Past upward trusting hoping and upon its sorrows with the eyes of age from
the distant Future downward triumphant not despairing He loved solitude and
silence and candlelight and the deep midnight »For« said he »if the
morning hours are the wings of the day I only fold them about me to sleep more
sweetly knowing that at its other extremity the day like the fowls of the
air has an epicurean morsel a parsons nose and on this oily midnight my
spirit revels and is glad«
Such was the Professor who had been talking in a halfintelligible strain
for two hours or more The Baron had fallen fast asleep in his chair but
Flemming sat listening with excited imagination and the Professor continued in
the following words which to the best of his listeners memory seemed gleaned
here and there from Fichtes Destiny of Man and Schuberts History of the Soul
»Life is one and universal its forms many and individual Throughout this
beautiful and wonderful creation there is neverceasing motion without rest by
night or day ever weaving to and fro Swifter than a weavers shuttle it flies
from Birth to Death from Death to Birth from the beginning seeks the end and
finds it not for the seeming end is only a dim beginning of a new outgoing and
endeavor after the end As the ice upon the mountain when the warm breath of
the summer sun breathes upon it melts and divides into drops each of which
reflects an image of the sun so life in the smile of Gods love divides
itself into separate forms each bearing in it and reflecting an image of Gods
love Of all these forms the highest and most perfect in its Godlikeness is the
human soul The vast cathedral of Nature is full of holy scriptures and shapes
of deep mysterious meaning but all is solitary and silent there no bending
knee no uplifted eye no lip adoring praying Into this vast cathedral comes
the human soul seeking its Creator and the universal silence is changed to
sound and the sound is harmonious and has a meaning and is comprehended and
felt It was an ancient saying of the Persians that the waters rush from the
mountains and hurry forth into all the lands to find the Lord of the Earth and
the flame of the fire when it awakes gazes no more upon the ground but mounts
heavenward to seek the Lord of Heaven and here and there the Earth has built
the great watchtowers of the mountains and they lift their heads far up into
the sky and gaze ever upward and around to see if the Judge of the World comes
not Thus in Nature herself without man there lies a waiting and hoping a
looking and yearning after an unknown somewhat Yes when above there where
the mountain lifts its head over all others that it may be alone with the
clouds and storms of heaven the lonely eagle looks forth into the gray dawn to
see if the day comes not when by the mountain torrent the brooding raven
listens to hear if the chamois is returning from his nightly pasture in the
valley and when the soon uprising sun calls out the spicy odors of the thousand
flowers the Alpine flowers with heavens deep blue and the blush of sunset on
their leaves then there awake in Nature and the soul of man can see and
comprehend them an expectation and a longing for a future revelation of Gods
majesty They awake also when in the fulness of life field and forest rest
at noon and through the stillness are heard only the song of the grasshopper
and the hum of the bee and when at evening the singing lark up from the
sweetsmelling vineyards rises or in the later hours of night Orion puts on his
shining armor to walk forth into the fields of heaven But in the soul of man
alone is this longing changed to certainty and fulfilled For lo the light of
the sun and the stars shines through the air and is nowhere visible and seen
the planets hasten with more than the speed of the storm through infinite space
and their footsteps are not heard but where the sunlight strikes the firm
surface of the planets where the stormwind smites the wall of the mountain
cliff there is the one seen and the other heard Thus is the glory of God made
visible and may be seen where in the soul of man it meets its likeness
changeless and steadfast Thus then stands Man a mountain on the boundary
between two worlds its foot in one its summit farrising into the other
From this summit the manifold landscape of life is visible the way of the Past
and Perishable which we have left behind us and as we evermore ascend bright
glimpses of the daybreak of Eternity beyond us«
Flemming would fain have interrupted this discourse at times to answer and
inquire but the Professor went on warming and glowing more and more At length
there was a short pause and Flemming said
»All these indefinite longings these yearnings after an unknown somewhat I
have felt and still feel within me but not yet their fulfilment«
»That is because you have not faith« answered the Professor »The Present
is an age of doubt and disbelief and darkness out of which shall arise a
clear and bright Hereafter In the second part of Goethes Faust there is a
grand and striking scene where in the classical Walpurgis Night on the
Pharsalian Plains the mocking Mephistopheles sits down between the solemn
antique Sphinxes and boldly questions them and reads their riddles The red
light of innumerable watchfires glares round about and shines upon the
terrible face of the archscoffer while on either side severe majestic
solemnly serene we behold the gigantic forms of the children of Chimæra half
buried in the sand their mild eyes gazing fixedly as if they heard through the
midnight the swiftrushing wings of the Stymphalides striving to outstrip the
speed of Alcides arrows Angry Griffins are near them and not far are Sirens
singing their wondrous songs from the rocking branches of the willowtrees Even
thus does a scoffing and unbelieving Present sit down between an unknown Future
and a too believing Past and question and challenge the gigantic forms of
Faith half buried in the sands of Time and gazing forward steadfastly into the
night whilst sounds of anger and voices of delight alternate vex and soothe the
ear of man But the time will come when the soul of man shall return again
childlike and trustful to its faith in God and look God in the face and die
for it is an old saying full of deep mysterious meaning that he must die who
hath looked upon a God And this is the fate of the soul that it should die
continually No sooner here on earth does it awake to its peculiar being than
it struggles to behold and comprehend the Spirit of Life In the first dim
twilight of its existence it beholds this spirit is pervaded by its energies
is quick and creative like the spirit itself and yet slumbers away into death
after having seen it But the image it has seen remains in the eternal
procreation as a homogeneal existence is again renewed and the seeming death
from moment to moment becomes the source of kind after kind of existences in
everascending series The soul aspires ever onward to love and to behold It
sees the image more perfect in the brightening twilight of the dawn in the ever
higherrising sun It sleeps again dying in the clearer vision but the image
seen remains as a permanent kind and the slumberer awakes anew and ever higher
after its own image till at length in the full blaze of noonday a being comes
forth which like the eagle can behold the sun and die not Then both live on
even when this bodily element the mist and vapor through which the young eagle
gazed dissolves and falls to earth«
»I am not sure that I understand you« said Flemming »but if I do you mean
to say that as the body continually changes and takes unto itself new
properties and is not the same today as yesterday so likewise the soul lays
aside its idiosyncrasies and is changed by acquiring new powers and thus may
be said to die And hence properly speaking the soul lives always in the
Present and has and can have no Future for the Future becomes the Present
and the soul that then lives in me is a higher and more perfect soul and so
onward for evermore«
»I mean what I say« continued the Professor »and can find no more
appropriate language to express my meaning than that which I have used But as
I said before pardon must be granted to the novelty of words when it serves to
illustrate the obscurity of things And I think you will see clearly from what I
have said that this earthly life when seen hereafter from heaven will seem
like an hour passed long ago and dimly remembered that long laborious full
of joys and sorrows as it is it will then have dwindled down to a mere point
hardly visible to the farreaching ken of the disembodied spirit But the spirit
itself soars onward And thus death is neither an end nor a beginning It is a
transition not from one existence to another but from one state of existence
to another No link is broken in the chain of being any more than in passing
from infancy to manhood from manhood to old age There are seasons of reverie
and deep abstraction which seem to me analogous to death The soul gradually
loses its consciousness of what is passing around it and takes no longer
cognizance of objects which are near It seems for the moment to have dissolved
its connection with the body It has passed as it were into another state of
being It lives in another world It has flown over lands and seas and holds
communion with those it loves in distant regions of the earth and the more
distant heaven It sees familiar faces and hears beloved voices which to the
bodily senses are no longer visible and audible And this likewise is death
save that when we die the soul returns no more to the dwelling it has left«
»You seem to take it for granted« interrupted Flemming »that in our
reveries the soul really goes out of the body into distant places instead of
summoning up their semblance within itself by the power of memory and
imagination«
»Something I must take for granted« replied the Professor »We will not
discuss that point now I speak not without forethought Just observe what a
glorious thing human life is when seen in this light and how glorious mans
destiny I am thou art he is seems but a schoolboys conjugation But
therein lies a mysterious meaning We behold all round about us one vast union
in which no man can labor for himself without laboring at the same time for all
others a glimpse of truth which by the universal harmony of things becomes
an inward benediction and lifts the soul mightily upward Still more so when a
man regards himself as a necessary member of this union The feeling of our
dignity and our power grows strong when we say to ourselves My being is not
objectless and in vain I am a necessary link in the great chain which from
the full development of consciousness in the first man reaches forward into
eternity All the great and wise and good among mankind all the benefactors of
the human race whose names I read in the worlds history and the still greater
number of those whose good deeds have outlived their names all those have
labored for me I have entered into their harvest I walk the green earth which
they inhabited I tread in their footsteps from which blessings grow I can
undertake the sublime task which they once undertook the task of making oar
common brotherhood wiser and happier I can build forward where they were
forced to leave off and bring nearer to perfection the great edifice which they
left uncompleted And at length I too must leave it and go hence Oh this is
the sublimest thought of all I can never finish the noble task therefore so
sure as this task is my destiny I can never cease to work and consequently
never cease to be What men call death cannot break off this task which is
neverending consequently no period is set to my being and I am eternal I
lift my head boldly to the threatening mountainpeaks and to the roaring
cataract and to the stormclouds swimming in the firesea overhead and say
I am eternal and defy your power Break break over me and thou Earth and thou
Heaven mingle in the wild tumult and ye Elements foam and rage and destroy
this atom of dust this body which I call mine My will alone with its fixed
purpose shall hover brave and triumphant over the ruins of the universe for I
have comprehended my destiny and it is more durable than ye It is eternal and
I who recognize it I likewise am eternal Tell me my friend have you no
faith in this«
»I have« answered Flemming and there was another pause He then said
»I have listened to you patiently and without interruption Now listen to
me You complain of the scepticism of the age This is one form in which the
philosophic spirit of the age presents itself Let me tell you that another form
which it assumes is that of poetic reverie Plato of old had dreams like these
and the Mystics of the Middle Ages and still their disciples walk in the
cloudland and dreamland of this poetic philosophy Pleasant and cool upon
their souls lie the shadows of the trees under which Plato taught From their
whispering leaves comes wafted across the noise of populous centuries a solemn
and mysterious sound which to them is the voice of the Soul of the World All
nature has become spiritualized and transfigured and wrapped in beautiful
vague dreams of the real and the ideal they live in this green world like the
little child in the German tale who sits by the margin of a woodland lake and
hears the blue heaven and the branches overhead dispute with their reflection in
the water which is the reality and which the image I willingly confess that
such daydreams as these appeal strongly to my imagination Visitants and
attendants are they of those lofty souls which soaring ever higher and higher
build themselves nests under the very eaves of the stars forgetful that they
cannot live on air but must descend to earth for food Yet I recognize them as
daydreams only as shadows not substantial things What I mainly dislike in
the New Philosophy is the cool impertinence with which an old idea folded in a
new garment looks you in the face and pretends not to know you though you have
been familiar friends from childhood I remember an English author who in
speaking of your German philosophies says very wisely Often a proposition of
inscrutable and dread aspect when resolutely grappled with and torn from its
shady den and its bristling intrenchments of uncouth terminology and dragged
forth into the open light of day to be seen by the natural eye and tried by
merely human understanding proves to be a very harmless truth familiar to us
from old sometimes so familiar as to be a truism Too frequently the anxious
novice is reminded of Dryden in the Battle of the Books there is a helmet of
rusty iron dark grim gigantic and within it at the farthest corner is a
head no bigger than a walnut Can you believe that these words ever came from
the pen of Thomas Carlyle He has himself taken up the uncouth terminology of
late and many pure simple minds are much offended at it They seem to take it
as a personal insult They are angry and deny the just meed of praise It is
however hardly worth while to lose our presence of mind Let us rather profit
as we may even from this spectacle and recognize the monarch in his
masquerade For hooded and wrapped about with that strange and antique garb
there walks a kingly a most royal soul even as the Emperor Charles walked amid
solemn cloisters under a monks cowl a monarch still in soul Such things are
not new in the history of the world Ever and anon they sweep over the earth
and blow themselves out soon and then there is quiet for a season and the
atmosphere of Truth seems more serene Why would you preach to the wind Why
reason with thunderstorms Better sit quiet and see them pass over like a
pageant cloudy superb and vast«
The Professor smiled selfcomplacently but said not a word Flemming
continued
»I will add no more than this there are many speculations in literature
philosophy and religion which though pleasant to walk in and lying under the
shadow of great names yet lead to no important result They resemble rather
those roads in the Western forests of my native land which though broad and
pleasant at first and lying beneath the shadow of great branches finally
dwindle to a squirrel track and run up a tree«
The Professor hardly knew whether he should laugh or be offended at this
sally and laying his hand upon Flemmings arm he said seriously
»Believe me my young friend the time will come when you will think more
wisely on these things And with you I trust that time will soon come since
it moves more speedily with some than with others For what is Time The shadow
on the dial the striking of the clock the running of the sand day and night
summer and winter months years centuries these are but arbitrary and
outward signs the measure of Time not Time itself Time is the Life of the
soul If not this then tell me what is Time«
The high and animated tone of voice in which the Professor uttered these
words aroused the Baron from his sleep and not distinctly comprehending what
was said but thinking the Professor asked what time it was he innocently
exclaimed
»I should think it must be near midnight«
This somewhat disconcerted the Professor who took his leave soon afterward
When he was gone the Baron said
»Excuse me for treating your guest so cavalierly His philosophy annoyed me
not a little and I took refuge in sleep One would think to judge by the
language of this sect that they alone saw any beauty in Nature and when I hear
one of them discourse I am instantly reminded of Goethes Baccalaureus when he
exclaims The world was not before I created it I brought the sun up out of
the sea with me began the changeful course of the moon the day decked itself
on my account the earth grew green and blossomed to meet me at my nod in that
first night the pomp of all the stars developed itself who but I set you free
from all the bonds of Philisterlike contracting thoughts I however
emancipated as my mind assures me I am gladly pursue my inward light advance
boldly in a transport peculiarly my own the bright before me and the dark
behind Do you not see a resemblance Oh they might be modest enough to
confess that one straggling ray of light may by some accident reach the blind
eyes of even us poor benighted heathen«
»Alas how little veneration we have« said Flemming »I could not help
closing the discussion with a jest An illtimed levity often takes me by
surprise On all such occasions I think of a scene at the University where in
the midst of a grave discussion on the possibility of Absolute Motion a scholar
said he had seen a rock split open from which sprang a toad who could not be
supposed to have any knowledge of the external world and consequently his
motion must have been absolute The learned Professor who presided on that
occasion was hardly more startled and astonished than was our learned Professor
five minutes ago But come wind up your watch and let us go to bed«
»By the way« said the Baron »did you mind what a curious head he has
There are two crowns upon it«
»That is a sign« replied Flemming »that he will eat his bread in two
kingdoms«
»I think the poor man would be very thankful« said the Baron with a smile
»if he were always sure of eating it in one He is what the Transcendentalists
call a Godintoxicated man and I advise him as Santeul advised Bossuet to go
to Patmos and write a new Apocalypse«
Chapter VII
MillWheels and other Wheels
A few days after this the Baron received letters from his sister telling him
that her physicians had prescribed a few weeks at the Baths of Ems and urging
him to meet her there before the fashionable season
»Come« said he to Flemming »make this short journey with me We will pass
a few pleasant days at Ems and visit the other wateringplaces of Nassau It
will drive away the melancholy daydreams that haunt you Perhaps some future
bride is even now waiting for you with dim presentiments and undefined
longings at the Serpents Bath«
»Or some widow of Ems with a cork leg« said Flemming smiling and then
added in a tone of voice half jest half earnest »Certainly let us go in
pursuit of her
Whoeer she be
That not impossible she
That shall command my heart and me
Whereer she lie
Hidden from mortal eye
In shady leaves of destiny«
They started in the afternoon for Frankfort pursuing their way slowly along the
lovely Bergstrasse famed throughout Germany for its beauty They passed the
ruined house where Martin Luther lay concealed after the Diet of Worms and
through the village of Handschuhsheimer as old as the days of King Pepin the
Short a hamlet lying under the hills half buried in blossoms and green
leaves Close on the right rose the mountains of the mysterious Odenwald and on
the left lay the Neckar like a steel bow in the meadow Farther westward a
thin smoky vapor betrayed the course of the Rhine beyond which like a
troubled sea ran the blue billowy Alsatian hills Song of birds and sound of
evening bells and fragrance of sweet blossoms filled the air and silent and
slow sank the broad red sun half hidden amid folding clouds
»We shall not pass the night at Weinheim« said the Baron to the postilion
who had dismounted to walk up the hill leading to the town »You may drive to
the mill in the valley of Birkenau«
The postilion seized one of his fat horses by the tail and swung himself up
to his seat again They rattled over the paved streets of Weinheim and took no
heed of the host of the Golden Eagle who stood so invitingly at the door of his
own inn and the ruins of Burg Windeck above there on its mountain throne
frowned at them for hurrying by without staying to do him homage
»The old ruin looks well from the valley« said the Baron »but let us
beware of climbing that steep hill Most travellers are like children they must
needs touch whatever they behold They climb up to every old broken tooth of a
castle which they find on their way get a toilsome ascent and hot sunshine for
their pains and come down wearied and disappointed I trust we are wiser«
They crossed the bridge and turned up the stream passing under an arch of
stone which serves as a gateway to this enchanted valley of Birkenau A cool and
lovely valley shut in by high hills shaded by aldertrees and tall poplars
under which rushes the Wechsnitz a noisy mountainbrook that ever and anon
puts its broad shoulder to the wheel of a mill and shows that it can labor as
well as laugh At one of these mills they stopped for the night
A mill forms as characteristic a feature in the romantic German landscape as
in the romantic German tale It is not only a mill but likewise an alehouse and
rural inn so that the associations it suggests are not of labor only but also
of pleasure It stands in the narrow defile with its picturesque thatched roof
thither throng the peasants of a holiday and there are rustic dances under the
trees
In the twilight of the fastapproaching summer night the Baron and Flemming
walked forth along the borders of the stream As they heard it rushing and
gushing among the stones and tangled roots and the great wheel turning in the
current with its neverceasing plash plash it brought to their minds that
exquisite simple song of Goethe the Youth and the Millbrook It was for the
moment a nymph which sang to them in the voice of the waters
»I am persuaded« said Flemming »that in order fully to understand and
feel the popular poetry of Germany one must be familiar with the German
landscape Many sweet little poems are the outbreaks of momentary feelings
words to which the song of birds the rustling of leaves and the gurgle of cool
waters form the appropriate music Or perhaps I should say they are words which
man has composed to the music of nature Can you not even now hear this
brooklet telling you how it is on its way to the mill where at daybreak the
millers daughter opens her window and comes down to bathe her face in its
stream and her bosom is so full and white that it kindles the glow of love in
the cool waters«
»A most delightful ballad truly« said the Baron »But like many others of
our little songs it requires a poet to feel and understand it Sing them in the
valley and woodland shadows and under the leafy roofs of garden walks and at
night and alone as they were written Sing them not in the loud world for
the loud world laughs such things to scorn It is Müller who says in that
little song where the maiden bids the moon good evening
This song was made to be sung at night
And he who reads it in broad daylight
Will never read the mystery right
And yet it is childlike easy
He has written a great many pretty songs in which the momentary indefinite
longings and impulses of the soul of man find an expression He calls them the
Songs of a Wandering Hornplayer There is one among them much to our present
purpose He expresses in it the feeling of unrest and desire of motion which
the sight and sound of running waters often produce in us It is entitled
Whither and is worth repeating to you
I heard a brooklet gushing
From its rocky fountain near
Down into the valley rushing
So fresh and wondrous clear
I know not what came oer me
Nor who the counsel gave
But I must hasten downward
All with my pilgrimstave
Downward and ever farther
And ever the brook beside
And ever fresher murmured
And ever clearer the tide
Is this the way I was going
Whither O brooklet say
Thou hast with thy soft murmur
Murmured my senses away
What do I say of a murmur
That can no murmur be
T is the waternymphs that are singing
Their roundelays under me
Let them sing my friend let them murmur
And wander merrily near
The wheels of a mill are going
In every brooklet clear«
»There you have the poetic reverie« said Flemming »and the dull prose
commentary and explanation in matter of fact The song is pretty and was
probably suggested by some such scene as this which we are now beholding
Doubtless all your old national traditions sprang up in the popular mind as
this song in the poets«
»Your opinion is certainly correct« answered the Baron »and yet all this
play of poetic fancy does not prevent me from feeling the chill nightair and
the pangs of hunger Let us go back to the mill and see what our landlady has
for supper Did you observe what a loud sharp voice she has«
»People always have who live in mills and near waterfalls«
On the following morning they emerged unwillingly from the green dark
valley and journeyed along the level highway to Frankfort where in the evening
they heard the glorious Don Giovanni of Mozart Of all operas this was
Flemmings favorite What rapturous flights of sound what thrilling pathetic
chimes what wild joyous revelry of passion what a delirium of sense what an
expression of agony and woe all the feelings of suffering and rejoicing
humanity sympathized with and finding a voice in those tones Flemming and the
Baron listened with ever increasing delight
»How wonderful this is« exclaimed Flemming transported by his feelings
»How the chorus swells and dies like the wind of summer How those passages of
mysterious import seem to wave to and fro like the swaying branches of trees
from which anon some solitary sweet voice darts off like a bird and floats away
and revels in the bright warm sunshine and then mark how amid the chorus of
a hundred voices and a hundred instruments of flutes and drums and trumpets
this universal shout and whirlwind of the vexed air you can so clearly
distinguish the melancholy vibration of a single string touched by the finger
a mournful sobbing sound Ah this is indeed human life where in the
rushing noisy crowd and amid sounds of gladness and a thousand mingling
emotions distinctly audible to the ear of thought are the pulsations of some
melancholy string of the heart touched by an invisible hand«
Then came in the midst of these excited feelings the ballet drawing its
magic net about the soul And soon from the tangled yet harmonious mazes of the
dance came forth a sylphlike form her scarf floating behind her as if she
were fanning the air with gauzelike wings Noiseless as a feather or a
snowflake falls did her feet touch the earth She seemed to float in the air
and the floor to bend and wave under her as a branch when a bird alights upon
it and takes wing again Loud and rapturous applause followed each wonderful
step each voluptuous movement and with a flushed cheek and burning eye and
bosom panting to be free stood the gracefully majestic figure for a moment
still and then the winged feet of the swift dancinggirls glanced round her
and she was lost again in the throng
»How truly exquisite this is« exclaimed the Baron after joining loudly in
the applause
»What a noble figure What grace what attitudes How much soul in every
motion how much expression in every gesture I assure you it produces upon me
the same effect as a beautiful poem It is a poem Every step is a word and the
whole together a poem«
The Baron and Flemming were delighted with the scene and at the same time
exceedingly amused with the countenance of an old prude in the next box who
seemed to look upon the whole magic show with such feelings as Michal Sauls
daughter experienced when she looked from her window and saw King David
dancing and leaping with his scanty garments
»After all« said Flemming »the old French priest was not so far out of the
way when he said in his coarse dialect The dance is the Devils procession
and paint and ornaments the whetting of the Devils sword and the ring that is
made in dancing the Devils grindstone whereon he sharpens his sword and
finally a ballet is the pomp and mass of the Devil and whosoever entereth
therein entereth into his pomp and mass for the woman who singeth is the
prioress of the Devil and they that answer are clerks and they that look on
are parishioners and the cymbals and flutes are the bells and the musicians
that play are the ministers of the Devil«
»No doubt this good lady near us thinks so likewise« answered the Baron
laughing »but she likes it for all that«
When the play was over the Baron begged Flemming to sit still till the
crowd had gone
»I have a strange fancy« said he »whenever I come to the theatre to see
the end of all things When the crowd is gone and the curtain raised again to
air the house and the lamps are all out save here and there one behind the
scenes the contrast with what has gone before is most impressive Everything
wears a dreamlike aspect The empty boxes and stalls the silence the smoky
twilight and the magic scene dismantled produce in me a strange mysterious
feeling It is like a dim reflection of a theatre in water or in a dusty mirror
and reminds me of some of Hoffmanns wild tales It is a practical moral lesson
a commentary on the play and makes the show complete«
It was truly as he said only tenfold more desolate solemn and impressive
and produced upon the mind the effect we experience when slumber is suddenly
broken and dreams and realities mingle and we know not yet whether we sleep or
wake As they at length passed out through the dimly lighted passage they heard
a vulgarlooking fellow with a sensual face and shaggy whiskers say to some
persons who were standing near him and seemed to be hangerson of the
playhouse
»I shall run her six nights at Munich and then take her on to Vienna«
Flemming thought he was speaking of some favorite horse He was speaking of
his beautiful wife the balletdancer
Chapter VIII
Goethe
What most interested our travellers in the ancient city of Frankfort was neither
the opera nor the Ariadne of Dannecker but the house in which Goethe was born
and the scenes he frequented in his childhood and remembered in his old age
Such for example are the walks around the city outside the moat the bridge
over the Main with the golden cock on the cross which the poet beheld and
marvelled at when a boy the cloister of the Barefooted Friars through which he
stole with mysterious awe to sit by the oilclothcovered table of old Rector
Albrecht and the garden in which his grandfather walked up and down among
fruittrees and rosebushes in long morninggown black velvet cap and the
antique leather gloves which he annually received as Mayor on PipersDoomsday
representing a kind of middle personage between Alcinous and Laertes Thus O
Genius are thy footprints hallowed and the star shines forever over the place
of thy nativity
»Your English critics may rail as they list« said the Baron while he and
Flemming were returning from a stroll in the leafy gardens outside the moat
»but after all Goethe was a magnificent old fellow Only think of his life
his youth of passion alternately aspiring and desponding stormy impetuous
headlong his romantic manhood in which passion assumes the form of strength
assiduous careful toiling without haste without rest and his sublime old
age the age of serene and classic repose where he stands like Atlas as
Claudian has painted him in the Battle of the Giants holding the world aloft
upon his head the oceanstreams hard frozen in his hoary locks«
»A good illustration of what the world calls his indifferentism«
»And do you know I rather like this indifferentism Did you never have the
misfortune to live in a community where a difficulty in the parish seemed to
announce the end of the world or to know one of the benefactors of the human
race in the very storm and pressure period of his indiscreet enthusiasm If you
have I think you will see something beautiful in the calm and dignified
attitude which the old philosopher assumes«
»It is a pity that his admirers had not a little of this philosophic
coolness It amuses me to read the various epithets which they apply to him
The Dear dear Man The Lifeenjoying Man The Allsided One The Representative
of Poetry upon Earth The Manysided MasterMind of Germany His enemies rush
into the other extreme and hurl at him the fierce names of Old Humbug and Old
Heathen which hit like pistolbullets«
»I confess he was no saint«
»No his philosophy is the old ethnic philosophy You will find it all in a
convenient and concentrated portable form in Horaces beautiful Ode to
Thaliarcus What I most object to in the old gentleman is his sensuality«
»Oh nonsense Nothing can be purer than the Iphigenia it is as cold and
passionless as a marble statue«
»Very true but you cannot say the same of some of the Roman Elegies and of
that strange book the Elective Affinities«
»Ah my friend Goethe is an artist and looks upon all things as objects of
art merely Why should he not be allowed to copy in words what painters and
sculptors copy in colors and in marble«
»The artist shows his character in the choice of his subject Goethe never
sculptured an Apollo nor painted a Madonna He gives us only sinful Magdalens
and rampant Fauns He does not so much idealize as realize«
»He only copies nature«
»So did the artists who made the bronze lamps of Pompeii Would you hang one
of those in your hall To say that a man is an artist and copies nature is not
enough There are two great schools of art the imitative and the imaginative
The latter is the most noble and the most enduring and Goethe belonged rather
to the former Have you read Menzels attack upon him«
»It is truly ferocious The Silesian hews into him lustily I hope you do
not take sides with him«
»By no means He goes too far He blames the poet for not being a
politician He might as well blame him for not being a missionary to the
Sandwich Islands«
»And what do you think of Eckermann«
»I think he is a kind of German Boswell Goethe knew he was drawing his
portrait and sat for it accordingly He works very hard to make a Saint Peter
out of an old Jupiter as the Catholics did at Rome«
»Well call him Old Humbug or Old Heathen or what you please I maintain
that with all his errors and shortcomings he was a glorious specimen of a
man«
»He certainly was Did it ever occur to you that he was in some points like
Ben Franklin a kind of rhymed Ben Franklin The practical tendency of his
mind was the same his love of science was the same his benignant philosophic
spirit was the same and a vast number of his little poetic maxims and
soothsayings seem nothing more than the worldly wisdom of Poor Richard
versified«
»What most offends me is that now every German jackass must have a kick at
the dead lion«
»And every one who passes through Weimar must throw a book upon his grave
as travellers did of old a stone upon the grave of Manfredi at Benevento But
of all that has been said or sung what most pleases me is Heines Apologetic
if I may so call it in which he says that the minor poets who flourished
under the imperial reign of Goethe resemble a young forest where the trees
first show their own magnitude after the oak of a hundred years whose branches
had towered above and overshadowed them has fallen There was not wanting an
opposition that strove against Goethe this majestic tree Men of the most
warring opinions united themselves for the contest The adherents of the old
faith the orthodox were vexed that in the trunk of the vast tree no niche with
its holy image was to be found nay that even the naked Dryads of paganism were
permitted to play their witchery there and gladly with consecrated axe would
they have imitated the holy Boniface and levelled the enchanted oak to the
ground The followers of the new faith the apostles of Liberalism were vexed
on the other hand that the tree could not serve as a Liberty Tree or at any
rate as a barricade In fact the tree was too high no one could plant the red
cap upon its summit or dance the Carmagnole beneath its branches The
multitude however venerated this tree for the very reason that it reared
itself with such independent grandeur and so graciously filled the world with
its odor while its branches streaming magnificently toward heaven made it
appear as if the stars were only the golden fruit of its wondrous limbs Do you
not think that beautiful«
»Yes very beautiful And I am glad to see that you can find something to
admire in my favorite author notwithstanding his frailties or to use an old
German saying that you can drive the hens out of the garden without trampling
down the beds«
»Here is the old gentleman himself« exclaimed Flemming
»Where« cried the Baron as if for the moment he expected to see the living
figure of the poet walking before them
»Here at the window that fulllength cast Excellent is it not He is
dressed as usual in his long yellow nankeen surtout with a white cravat
crossed in front What a magnificent head and what a posture He stands like a
tower of strength And by Heavens he was nearly eighty years old when that was
made«
»How do you know«
»You can see by the date on the pedestal«
»You are right And yet how erect he stands with his square shoulders braced
back and his hands behind him He looks as if he were standing before the fire
I feel tempted to put a live coal into his hand it lies so invitingly
halfopen Gleims description of him soon after he went to Weimar is very
different from this Do you recollect it«
»No I do not«
»It is a story which good old father Gleim used to tell with great delight
He was one evening reading the Göttingen MusenAlmanach in a select society at
Weimar when a young man came in dressed in a short green shootingjacket
booted and spurred and having a pair of brilliant black Italian eyes He in
turn offered to read but finding probably the poetry of the MusenAlmanach
of that year rather too insipid for him he soon began to improvise the wildest
and most fantastic poems imaginable and in all possible forms and measures
pretending all the while to read from the book That is either Goethe or the
Devil said good old father Gleim to Wieland who sat near him To which the
Great I of Osmannstadt replied It is both for he has the Devil in him
tonight and at such times he is like a wanton colt that flings out before and
behind and you will do well not to go too near him«
»Very good«
»And now that noble figure is but mould Only a few months ago those
majestic eyes looked for the last time on the light of a pleasant spring
morning Calm like a god the old man sat and with a smile seemed to bid
farewell to the light of day on which he had gazed for more than eighty years
Books were near him and the pen which had just dropped as it were from his
dying fingers Open the shutters and let in more light were the last words
that came from those lips Slowly stretching forth his hand he seemed to write
in the air and as it sank down again and was motionless the spirit of the old
man departed«
»And yet the world goes on It is strange how soon when a great man dies
his place is filled and so completely that he seems no longer wanted But let
us step in here I wish to buy that cast«
Chapter IX
The Daylight of the Dwarfs and the Falling Star
After lingering a day or two in Frankfort the two friends struck across through
Hochheim to the Rhine and up among the hills of the Rheingau to Schlangenbad
where they tarried only to bathe and to dine and then pursued their way to
Langenschwalbach The town lies in a valley with gently sloping hills around
it and long avenues of poplars leading forth into the fields One interminable
street cuts the town in twain and there are old houses with curious faces
carved upon their fronts and dates of the olden time
Our travellers soon sallied forth from their hotel impatient to drink the
strengthgiving waters of the fountains They continued their walk far up the
valley under the poplars The new grain was waving in the fields the birds
singing in the trees and in the air and everything seemed glad save a poor old
man who came tottering out of the woods with a heavy bundle of sticks on his
shoulders
Returning upon their steps they passed down the valley and through the long
street to the tumbledown old Lutheran church A flight of stone steps leads
from the street to the green terrace or platform on which the church stands and
which in ancient times was the churchyard or as the Germans more devoutly
say Godsacre where generations are scattered like seeds and that which is
sown in corruption shall be raised hereafter in incorruption On the steps stood
an old man a very old man holding a little girl by the hand He took off
his greasy cap as they passed and wished them good day His teeth were gone he
could hardly articulate a syllable The Baron asked him how old the church was
He gave no answer but when the question was repeated came close up to them
and taking off his cap again turned his ear attentively and said
»I am hard of hearing«
»Poor old man« said Flemming »he is as much a ruin as the church we are
entering It will not be long before he too shall be sown as seed in this
Godsacre«
The little girl ran into a house close at hand and brought out the great
key The churchdoor swung open and descending a few steps they passed
through a lowroofed passage into the church All was in ruin The gravestones
in the pavement were started from their places the vaults beneath yawned the
roof above was falling piecemeal there were rents in the old tower and
mysterious passages and side doors with crazy flights of wooden steps leading
down into the churchyard Amid all this ruin one thing only stood erect it was
a statue of a knight in armor standing in a niche under the pulpit
»Who is this« said Flemming to the old sexton »who is this that stands
here so solemnly in marble and seems to be keeping guard over the dead men
below«
»I do not know« replied the old man »but I have heard my grandfather say
it was the statue of a great warrior«
»There is history for you« exclaimed the Baron »There is fame To have a
statue of marble and yet have your name forgotten by the sexton of your parish
who can remember only that he once heard his grandfather say that you were a
great warrior«
Flemming made no reply for he was thinking of the days when from that old
pulpit some bold reformer thundered down the first tidings of a new doctrine
and the roof echoed with the grand old hymn of Martin Luther
When he communicated his thoughts to the Baron the only answer he received
was
»After all what is the use of so much preaching Do you think the fishes
that heard the sermon of St Anthony were any better than those who did not I
commend to your favorable notice the fishsermon of this saint as recorded by
Abraham à Sancta Clara You will find it in your favorite WonderHorn«
Thus passed the day at Langenschwalbach and the evening at the AlléeSaal
was quite solitary for as yet no company had arrived to fill its chambers or
sit under the trees before the door The next morning even Flemming and the
Baron were gone for the Germans heart was beating with strong desire to
embrace his sister and the heart of his friend cared little whither he went
sobeit he were not too much alone
After a few hours drive they were looking down from the summit of a hill
directly upon the housetops of Ems There it lay deep sunk in the hollow
beneath them as if some inhabitant of Sirius like him spoken of in Voltaires
tale of Micromegas held it in the hollow of his hand High and peaked rise the
hills that throw their shadows into this romantic valley and at their base
winds the river Lahn Our travellers drove through the one long street composed
entirely of hotels and lodginghouses Sick people looked out of the windows as
they passed Others were walking leisurely up and down beneath the few
decapitated trees which represent a public promenade and a boy with a blue
frock and crimson cap was driving three donkeys down the street In short they
were in a fashionable wateringplace as yet sprinkled only by a few pattering
drops of the summer rain of strangers which generally follows the first hot
days
On alighting at the London Hotel the Baron found not his sister but only
a letter from her saying she had changed her mind and gone to the Baths of
Franconia This was a disappointment which the Baron pocketed with the letter
and said not a word more about either It was his way his philosophy in small
things and great In the evening they went to an æsthetic tea at the house of
the Frau Kranich the wife of a rich banker of Frankfort
»I must tell you about this Frau Kranich« said the Baron to Flemming on
the way »She is a woman of talent and beauty and just in the prime of life
but unfortunately very ambitious Her mania is to make a figure in the
fashionable world and to this end she married a rich banker of Frankfort old
enough to be her father not to say her grandfather hoping doubtless that he
would soon die for if ever a woman wished to be a widow she is that woman
But the old fellow is tough and wont die Moreover he is deaf and crabbed
and penurious and half the time bedridden The wife is a model of virtue
notwithstanding her weakness She nurses the old gentleman as if he were a
child And to crown all he hates society and will not hear of his wifes
receiving or going into company«
»How then can she give æsthetic teas« asked Flemming
»I was just going to tell you« continued the Baron »The gay lady has no
taste for long evenings with the old gentleman in the back chamber for being
thus chained like a criminal under Mezentius face to face with a dead body So
she puts him to bed first and«
»Gives him opium«
»Yes I dare say and then gives herself a teaparty without his knowing
anything about it This course of deception is truly hateful in itself and must
be particularly so to her for she is not a low or an immoral woman but one of
those who not having strength enough to complete the sacrifice they have had
strength enough to commence are betrayed into a life of duplicity and
falsehood«
They had now reached the house and were ushered into a room gayly lighted
and filled with guests The hostess came forward to receive them dressed in
white and sailing down the room like a swan When the customary salutations had
passed and Flemming had been duly presented the Baron said not without a
certain degree of malice
»And my dear Frau Kranich how is your good husband tonight«
This question was about as discreet as a cannonball But the lady replied
in the simplicity of her heart and not in the least disconcerted
»The same as ever my dear Baron It is astonishing how he holds out But
let us not talk of these things now I must introduce your friend to his
countryman the Grand Duke of Mississippi alike remarkable for his wealth his
modesty and the extreme simplicity of his manners He drives only six horses
Besides he is known as a man of learning and piety has his private chapel
and private clergyman who always preaches against the vanity of worldly riches
He has also a private secretary whose sole duty is to smoke to him that he may
enjoy the aroma of Spanish cigars without the trouble of smoking«
»Decidedly a man of genius«
Here Flemming was introduced to his illustrious countryman a person who
seemed to consist chiefly of linen such a display did he make of collar bosom
and wristbands
»Pray Mr Flemming what do you think of that Rembrandt« said he pointing
to a picture on the wall »Exquisite picture The grandeur of sentiment and
splendor of chiaroscuro are of the first order Just observe the liquidity of
the water and the silveriness of the clouds Great power There is a bravura of
handling in that picture Sir which it requires the eye of a connoisseur to
appreciate«
»Yes a most undoubted copy«
And here their conversation ended for at that moment the little Moldavian
Prince Jerkin made his way through the crowd with his snuffbox as usual in his
hand and hurried up to Flemming whom he had known in Heidelberg He was eager
to let every one know that he spoke English and in his haste began by making a
mistake
»Goodby Goodby Mr Flemming« said he instead of good evening »I am
ravished to see you in Ems Nice place all that there is of most nice I
drink my water and am good Do you not think the Frau Kranich has a very
beautiful leather«
He meant skin Flemming laughed outright but it was not perceived by the
Prince because at that moment he was pushed aside in the rush of a gallopade
and Flemming beheld his face no more At the same moment the Baron introduced a
friend of his who also spoke English and said
»You will sup with me tonight I have some Rhinewine which will be a
seduction to you«
Soon after the Baron stood with an impassioned romantic lady leaning on
his arm examining a copy of Raphaels Fornarina
»Ach I wish I had been the Fornarina« sighed the impassioned romantic
lady
»Then my dear madam« replied the Baron »I wish I had been Raphael«
And so likewise said to himself a very tall man with fiery red hair and
fancy whiskers who was waltzing round and round in one spot and in a most
extraordinary waistcoat thus representing a fiery floatinglight to warn men
of the hidden rocks on which the breath of vanity drives them shipwreck At
length his partner tired of spinning sank upon a sofa like a childs top
when it reels and falls
»You do not like the waltz« said an elderly French gentleman remarking the
expression of Flemmings countenance
»Oh yes among the figurantes of the opera But I confess it sometimes
makes me shudder to see a young rake clasp his arms round the waist of a pure
and innocent girl What would you say were you to see him sitting on a sofa
with his arms round your wife«
»Mere prejudice of education« replied the French gentleman »I know that
situation I have read all about it in the Bibliothèque de Romans Choisis«
And merrily went the dance and bright eyes and flushed cheeks were not
wanting among the dancers
And they waxed red and waxed warm
And rested panting arm in arm
and the Strausswaltzes sounded pleasantly in the ears of Flemming who though
he never danced yet like Henry of Ofterdingen in the romance of Novalis
thought to music The wheeling waltz set the wheels of his fancy going And thus
the moments glided on and the footsteps of Time were not heard amid the sound
of music and voices
But suddenly this scene of gayety was interrupted The door opened wide and
the short figure of a grayhaired old man presented itself with a flushed
countenance and wild eyes He was but half dressed and in his hand held a
silver candlestick without a light A sheet was wound round his head like a
turban and he tottered forward with a vacant bewildered look exclaiming
»I am Mahomet the king of the Jews«
At the same moment he fell in a swoon and was borne out of the room by the
servants Flemming looked at the lady of the festival and she was deadly pale
For a moment all was confusion and the dance and the music stopped The
impression produced on the company was at once ludicrous and awful They tried
in vain to rally The whole society was like a dead body from which the spirit
has departed Erelong the guests had all dispersed and left the lady of the
mansion to her mournful expiring lamps and still more mournful reflections
»Truly« said Flemming to the Baron as they wended their way homeward
»this seems not like reality but like one of the sharp contrasts we find in
novels Who shall say after this that there is not more romance in real life
than we find written in books«
»Not more romance« said the Baron »but a different romance«
A still more tragic scene had been that evening enacted in Heidelberg Just
as the sun set two female figures walked along the romantic woodland pathway
leading to the Angels Meadow a little green opening on the brow of one of the
high hills which see themselves in the Neckar and hear the solemn bells of
KlosterNeuburg The evening shadows were falling broad and long and the cuckoo
began to sing
»Cuckoo cuckoo« said the eldest of the two figures repeating an old
German popular rhyme
»Cuckoo cuckoo
Tell me true
Tell me fair and fine
How long must I unmarried pine«
It was the voice of an evil spirit that spoke in the person of Madeleine and
the pale and shrinking figure that walked by her side and listened to those
words was Emma of Ilmenau A young man joined them where the path turns into
the thick woodlands and they disappeared among the shadowy branches It was the
Polish Count
The forgetmenots looked up to heaven with their meek blue eyes from their
home in Angels Meadow Calmly stood the mountain of AllSaints in its
majestic holy stillness the river flowed so far below that the murmur of its
waters was not heard there was not a sigh of the evening wind among the leaves
not a sound upon the earth nor in the air and yet that night there fell a
star from heaven
Chapter X
The Parting
It was now that season of the year which an old English writer calls the amiable
month of June and at that hour of the day when face to face the rising moon
beholds the setting sun As yet the stars were few in heaven But after the
heat of the day the coolness and the twilight descended like a benediction upon
the earth by all those gentle sounds attended which are the meek companions of
the night
Flemming and the Baron had passed the afternoon at the Castle They had
rambled once more together and for the last time over the magnificent ruin On
the morrow they were to part perhaps for ever The Baron was going to Berlin
to join his sister and Flemming driven forward by the restless spirit within
him longed once more for a change of scene and was to start for the Tyrol and
Switzerland Alas he never said to the passing hour »Stay for thou art fair«
but reached forward into the dark future with unsatisfied longings and aimless
desires that were never still
As the day was closing they sat down on the terrace of Elizabeths Garden
The sun had set beyond the blue Alsatian hills and on the valley of the Rhine
fell the purple mist like the mantle of the departing prophet from his fiery
chariot Over the castle walls and the trees of the garden rose the large moon
and between the contending daylight and moonlight there were as yet no shadows
But at length the shadows came transparent and faint outlines that deepened
into form In the valley below only the river gleamed like steel and here and
there the lamps were lighted in the town Solemnly stood the leafy lindentrees
in the garden near them their trunks in darkness and their summits bronzed with
moonlight and in his niche in the great round tower overhung with ivy like a
majestic phantom stood the gray statue of Louis with his venerable beard and
shirt of mail and flowing mantle and the mild majestic countenance looked
forth into the silent night as the countenance of a seer who reads the stars
At intervals the wind of the summer night passed through the ruined castle and
the trees and they sent forth a sound as if Nature were sighing in her dreams
and for a moment overhead the broad leaves gently clashed together like
brazen cymbals with a tinkling sound and then all was still save the sweet
passionate song of nightingales that nowhere sing more sweetly than in the
gardens of Heidelberg Castle
The hour the scene and the nearapproaching separation of the two young
friends had filled their hearts with a pleasant though at the same time not
painless excitement They had been conversing about the magnificent old ruin
and the ages in which it had been built and the vicissitudes of time and war
that had battered down its walls and left it tenantless save to the crannying
wind
»How sorrowful and sublime is the face of that statue yonder« said
Flemming »It reminds me of the old Danish hero Beowulf for careful sorrowing
he seeth in his sons bower the winehall deserted the resort of the wind
noiseless the knight sleepeth the warrior lieth in darkness there is no noise
of the harp no joy in the dwellings as there was before«
»Even as you say« replied the Baron »but it often astonishes me that
coming from that fresh green world of yours beyond the sea you should feel so
much interest in these old things nay at times seem so to have drunk in their
spirit as really to live in the times of old For my part I do not see what
charm there is in the pale and wrinkled countenance of the Past so to entice
the soul of a young man It seems to me like falling in love with ones
grandmother Give me the Present warm glowing palpitating with life She is
my mistress and the Future stands waiting like my wife that is to be for
whom to tell the truth I care very little just now Indeed my friend I wish
you would take more heed of this philosophy of mine and not waste the golden
hours of youth in vain regrets for the past and indefinite dim longings for
the future Youth comes but once in a lifetime«
»Therefore« said Flemming »let us so enjoy it as to be still young when we
are old For my part I grow happier as I grow older When I compare my
sensations and enjoyments now with what they were ten years ago the comparison
is vastly in favor of the present Much of the fever and fretfulness of life is
over The world and I look each other more calmly in the face My mind is more
selfpossessed It has done me good to be somewhat parched by the heat and
drenched by the rain of life«
»Now you speak like an old philosopher« answered the Baron laughing »But
you deceive yourself I never knew a more restless feverish spirit than yours
Do not think you have gained the mastery yet You are only riding at anchor here
in an eddy of the stream you will soon be swept away again in the mighty
current and whirl of accident Do not trust this momentary calm I know you
better than you know yourself There is something Faustlike in you you would
fain grasp the highest and the deepest and reel from desire to enjoyment and
in enjoyment languish for desire When a momentary change of feeling comes over
you you think the change permanent and thus live in constant selfdeception«
»I confess« said Flemming »there may be some truth in what you say There
are times when my soul is restless and a voice sounds within me like the trump
of the archangel and thoughts that were buried long ago come out of their
graves At such times my favorite occupations and pursuits no longer charm me
The quiet face of Nature seems to mock me«
»There certainly are seasons« replied the Baron »when Nature seems not to
sympathize with her beloved children She sits there so eternally calm and
selfpossessed so very motherly and serene and cares so little whether the
heart of her child breaks or not that at times I almost lose my patience About
that too she cares so little that out of sheer obstinacy I become
goodhumored again and then she smiles«
»I think we must confess however« continued Flemming »that all this
springs from our own imperfection not from hers How beautiful is this green
world which we inhabit See yonder how the moonlight mingles with the mist
What a glorious night is this Truly every man has a Paradise around him until
he sins and the angel of an accusing conscience drives him from his Eden And
even then there are holy hours when this angel sleeps and man comes back and
with the innocent eyes of a child looks into his lost Paradise again into
the broad gates and rural solitudes of Nature I feel this often We have much
to enjoy in the quiet and retirement of our own thoughts Boisterous mirth and
loud laughter are not my mood I love that tranquillity of soul in which we
feel the blessing of existence and which in itself is a prayer and a
thanksgiving I find however that as I grow older I love the country less
and the town more«
»Yes« interrupted the Baron »and presently you will love the town less and
the country more Say at once that you have an undefined longing for both and
prefer town or country according to the mood you are in I think a man must be
of a very quiet and happy nature who can long endure the country and moreover
very well contented with his own insignificant person very selfcomplacent to
be continually occupied with himself and his own thoughts To say the least a
town life makes one more tolerant and liberal in ones judgment of others One
is not eternally wrapped up in selfcontemplation which after all is only a
more holy kind of vanity«
In conversation like this the hours glided away till at length from the
Giants Tower the castle clock struck twelve with a sound that seemed to come
from the Middle Ages Like watchmen from their belfries the city clocks
answered it one by one Then distant and muffled sounds were heard
Inarticulate words seemed to blot the foggy air as if written on wet paper
These were the bells of Handschuhsheimer and of other villages on the broad
plain of the Rhine and among the hills of the Odenwald mysterious sounds that
seemed not of this world
Beneath them in the shadow of the hills lay the valley fathomless
black impenetrable Above were the cloistered stars that nunlike walk the
holy aisles of heaven The city was asleep in the valley below all asleep and
silent save the clocks that had just struck twelve and the veering golden
weathercocks that were swimming in the moonlight like golden fishes in a glass
vase And again the wind of the summer night passed through the old castle and
the trees and the nightingales recorded under the dark shadowy leaves and the
heart of Flemming was full
When he had retired to his chamber a feeling of utter loneliness came over
him The night before one begins a journey is always a dismal night for as
Byron says
In leaving even the most unpleasant people
And places one keeps looking at the steeple
and how much more so when the place and people are pleasant as was the case
with those that Flemming was now leaving No wonder he was sad and sleepless
Thoughts came and went and bright and gloomy fancies and dreams and visions
and sweet faces looked under his closed eyelids and vanished away and came
again and again departed He heard the clock strike from hour to hour and
said »Another hour is gone« At length the birds began to sing and ever and
anon the cock crew He arose and looked forth into the gray dawn and before
him lay the city he was so soon to leave all white and ghastly like a city
that had arisen from its grave
»All things must change« said he to the Baron as he embraced him and held
him by the hand »Friends must be torn asunder and swept along in the current
of events to see each other seldom and perchance no more For ever and ever in
the eddies of time and accident we whirl away Besides which some of us have a
perpetual motion in our wooden heads as Wodenblock had in his wooden leg and
like him we travel on without rest or sleep and have hardly time to take a
friend by the hand in passing and at length are seen hurrying through some
distant land worn to a skeleton and all unknown«
Book the Third
Take away the lights too
The moon lends me too much to find my fears
And those devotions I am now to pay
Are written in my heart not in thy book
And I shall read them there without a taper
Beaumont and Fletcher
Chapter I
SummerTime
They were right those old German Minnesingers to sing the pleasant
summertime What a time it is How June stands illuminated in the calendar The
windows are all wide open only the Venetian blinds closed Here and there a
long streak of sunshine streams in through a crevice We hear the low sound of
the wind among the trees and as it swells and freshens the distant doors clap
to with a sudden sound The trees are heavy with leaves and the gardens full
of blossoms red and white The whole atmosphere is laden with perfume and
sunshine The birds sing The cock struts about and crows loftily Insects
chirp in the grass Yellow buttercups stud the green carpet like golden buttons
and the red blossoms of the clover like rubies The elmtrees reach their long
pendulous branches almost to the ground White clouds sail aloft and vapors
fret the blue sky with silver threads The white village gleams afar against the
dark hills Through the meadow winds the river careless indolent It seems
to love the country and is in no haste to reach the sea The bee only is at
work the hot and angry bee All things else are at play he never plays and
is vexed that any one should
People drive out from town to breathe and to be happy Most of them have
flowers in their hands bunches of appleblossoms and still oftener lilacs Ye
denizens of the crowded city how pleasant to you is the change from the sultry
streets to the open field fragrant with cloverblossoms how pleasant the
fresh breezy country air dashed with brine from the meadows how pleasant
above all the flowers the manifold beautiful flowers
It is no longer day Through the trees rises the red moon and the stars are
scarcely seen In the vast shadow of night the coolness and the dews descend I
sit at the open window to enjoy them and hear only the voice of the summer
wind Like black hulks the shadows of the great trees ride at anchor on the
billowy sea of grass I cannot see the red and blue flowers but I know that
they are there Far away in the meadow gleams the silver Charles The tramp of
horses hoofs sounds from the wooden bridge Then all is still save the
continuous wind of the summer night Sometimes I know not if it be the wind or
the sound of the neighboring sea The village clock strikes and I feel that I
am not alone
How different is it in the city It is late and the crowd is gone You step
out upon the balcony and lie in the very bosom of the cool dewy Night as if
you folded her garments about you Beneath lies the public walk with trees like
a fathomless black gulf into whose silent darkness the spirit plunges and
floats away with some beloved spirit clasped in its embrace The lamps are
still burning up and down the long street People go by with grotesque shadows
now foreshortened and now lengthening away into the darkness and vanishing
while a new one springs up behind the walker and seems to pass him revolving
like the sail of a windmill The iron gates of the park shut with a jangling
clang There are footsteps and loud voices a tumult a drunken brawl an
alarm of fire then silence again And now at length the city is asleep and
we can see the night The belated moon looks over the roofs and finds no one to
welcome her The moonlight is broken It lies here and there in the squares and
the openings of streets angular like blocks of white marble
Under such a green triumphal arch O Reader with the odor of flowers about
thee and the song of birds shalt thou pass onward into the enchanted land as
through the Ivory Gate of dreams And as a prelude and majestic march one sweet
human voice coming from the bosom of the Alps sings this sublime ode which
the Alpine echoes repeat afar
Come golden Evening in the west
Enthrone the stormdispelling sun
And let the triple rainbow rest
Oer all the mountaintops T is done
The tempest ceases bold and bright
The rainbow shoots from hill to hill
Down sinks the sun on presses night
Mont Blanc is lovely still
There take thy stand my spirit spread
The world of shadows at thy feet
And mark how calmly overhead
The stars like saints in glory meet
While hid in solitude sublime
Methinks I muse on Natures tomb
And hear the passing foot of Time
Step through the silent gloom
All in a moment crash on crash
From precipice to precipice
An avalanches ruins dash
Down to the nethermost abyss
Invisible the ear alone
Pursues the uproar till it dies
Echo to echo groan for groan
From deep to deep replies
Silence again the darkness seals
Darkness that may be felt but soon
The silverclouded east reveals
The midnight spectre of the moon
In halfeclipse she lifts her horn
Yet oer the host of heaven supreme
Brings the faint semblance of a morn
With her awakening beam
Ah at her touch these Alpine heights
Unreal mockeries appear
With blacker shadows ghastlier lights
Emerging as she climbs the sphere
A crowd of apparitions pale
I hold my breath in chill suspense
They seem so exquisitely frail
Lest they should vanish hence
I breathe again I freely breathe
Thee Lemans Lake once more I trace
Like Dians crescent far beneath
As beautiful as Dians face
Pride of the land that gave me birth
All that thy waves reflect I love
Where heaven itself brought down to earth
Looks fairer than above
Safe on thy banks again I stray
The trance of poesy is oer
And I am here at dawn of day
Gazing on mountains as before
Where all the strange mutations wrought
Were magic feats of my own mind
For in that fairy land of thought
Whateer I seek I find1
Chapter II
FootTravelling
Tell me my soul why art thou restless Why dost thou look forward to the
future with such strong desire The present is thine and the past and the
future shall be Oh that thou didst look forward to the great hereafter with
half the longing wherewith thou longest for an earthly future which a few
days at most will bring thee to the meeting of the dead as to the meeting of
the absent Thou glorious spirit land Oh that I could behold thee as thou art
the region of life and light and love and the dwellingplace of those beloved
ones whose being has flowed onward like a silverclear stream into the
solemnsounding main into the ocean of Eternity
Such were the thoughts that passed through the soul of Flemming as he lay
in utter solitude and silence on the rounded summit of one of the mountains of
the Furca Pass and gazed with tears in his eyes and ardent longing in his
heart into the blue swimming heaven overhead and at the glaciers and snowy
mountainpeaks around him Highest and whitest of all stood the peak of the
Jungfrau which seemed near him though it rose afar off from the bosom of the
Lauterbrunner Thal There it stood holy and high and pure the bride of heaven
veiled and clothed in white and lifting the thoughts of the beholder
heavenward Oh he little thought then as he gazed at it with longing and
delight how soon a form was to arise in his own soul as holy and high and pure
as this and like this point heavenward
Thus lay the traveller on the mountain summit reposing his weary limbs on
the short brown grass which more resembled moss than grass He had sent his
guide forward that he might be alone His soul within him was wild with a
fierce and painful delight The mountain air excited him the mountain solitudes
enticed yet maddened him Every peak every sharp jagged iceberg seemed to
pierce him The silence was awful and sublime It was like that in the soul of a
dying man when he hears no more the sounds of earth He seemed to be laying
aside his earthly garments The heavens were near unto him but between him and
heaven every evil deed he had done arose gigantic like those mountainpeaks
and breathed an icy breath upon him Oh let not the soul that suffers dare to
look Nature in the face where she sits majestically aloft in the solitude of
the mountains for her face is hard and stern and turns not in compassion upon
her weak and erring child It is the countenance of an accusing archangel who
summons us to judgment In the valley she wears the countenance of a Virgin
Mother looking at us with tearful eyes and a face of pity and love
But yesterday Flemming had come up the valley of the Saint Gothard Pass
through Amsteg where the Kerstelenbach comes dashing down the Maderaner Thal
from its snowy cradle overhead The road is steep and runs on zigzag terraces
The sides of the mountains are barren cliffs and from their cloudcapt summits
unheard amid the roar of the great torrent below come streams of snowwhite
foam leaping from rock to rock like the mountain chamois As you advance the
scene grows wilder and more desolate There is not a tree in sight not a
human habitation Clouds black as midnight lower upon you from the ravines
above and the mountain torrent beneath is but a sheet of foam and sends up an
incessant roar A sudden turn in the road brings you in sight of a lofty bridge
stepping from cliff to cliff with a single stride A mighty cataract howls
beneath it like an evil spirit and fills the air with mist and the mountain
wind claps its hands and shrieks through the narrow pass Ha ha This is the
Devils Bridge It leads the traveller across the fearful chasm and through a
mountain gallery into the broad green silent meadow of Andermath
Even the sunny morning which followed this gloomy day had not chased the
desolate impression from the soul of Flemming His excitement increased as he
lost himself more and more among the mountains and now as he lay alone on the
summit of the sunny hill with only glaciers and snowy peaks about him his
soul as I have said was wild with a fierce and painful delight
A human voice broke his reverie He looked and beheld at a short distance
from him the athletic form of a mountain herdsman who was approaching the spot
where he lay He was a young man clothed in a rustic garb and holding a long
staff in his hand When Flemming rose he stood still and gazed at him as if
he loved the face of man even of a stranger and longed to hear a human voice
though it might speak in an unknown tongue He answered Flemmings salutation in
a rude mountain dialect and in reply to his questions said
»I with two others have charge of two hundred head of cattle on these
mountains Through the two summer months we remain here night and day for
which we receive each a napoleon«
Flemming gave him half his summer wages He was glad to do a good deed in
secret and yet so near heaven The man received it as his due like a
tollkeeper and soon after departed leaving the traveller alone And the
traveller went his way down the mountain as one distraught He stopped only to
pluck one bright blue flower which bloomed alone in the vast desert and looked
up at him as if to say »Oh take me with you leave me not here
companionless«
Erelong he reached the magnificent glacier of the Rhone a frozen cataract
more than two thousand feet in height and many miles broad at its base It
fills the whole valley between two mountains running back to their summits At
the base it is arched like a dome and above jagged and rough and resembles a
mass of gigantic crystals of a pale emerald tint mingled with white A snowy
crust covers its surface but at every rent and crevice the pale green ice
shines clear in the sun Its shape is that of a glove lying with the palm
downwards and the fingers crooked and close together It is a gauntlet of ice
which centuries ago Winter the king of these mountains threw down in
defiance to the Sun and year by year the Sun strives in vain to lift it from
the ground on the point of his glittering spear A feeling of wonder and delight
came over the soul of Flemming when he beheld it and he shouted and cried
aloud
»How wonderful how glorious«
After lingering a few hours in the cold desolate valley he climbed in the
afternoon the steep MayenWand on the Grimsel passed the Lake of the Dead
with its inkblack waters and through the melting snow and over slippery
steppingstones in the beds of numberless shallow brooks descended to the
Grimsel Hospital where he passed the night and thought it the most lone and
desolate spot that man ever slept in
On the morrow he rose with the day and the rising sun found him already
standing on the rustic bridge which hangs over the verge of the Falls of the Aar
at Handeck where the river pitches down a precipice into a narrow and fearful
abyss shut in by perpendicular cliffs At right angles with it comes the
beautiful Aerlenbach and halfway down the double cascade mingles into one
Thus he pursued his way down the Hasli Thal into the Bernese Oberland
restless impatient he knew not why stopping seldom and never long and
then rushing forward again like the rushing river whose steps he followed and
in whose icecold waters ever and anon he bathed his wrists to cool the fever
in his blood for the noonday sun was hot
His heart dilated in the dilating valley that grew broader and greener at
every step The sight of human faces and human dwellings soothed him and
through the fields of summer grain in the broad meadows of Imgrund he walked
with a heart that ached no more but trembled only as our eyelids when we have
done weeping As he climbed the opposite hill which hems in this romantic
valley and like a heavy yoke chafes the neck of the Aar he believed the
ancient tradition which says that once the valley was a lake From the summit
of the hill he looked southward upon a beautiful landscape of gardens and
fields of grain and woodlands and meadows and the ancient castle of Resti
looking down upon Meyringen And now all around him were the singing of birds
and grateful shadows of the leafy trees and sheeted waterfalls dropping from
the woodland cliffs seen only but unheard the fluted columns breaking into
mist and fretted with frequent spires and ornaments of foam and not unlike the
towers of a Gothic church inverted There in one white sheet of foam the
Reichenbach pours down into its deep beaker into which the sun never shines
Face to face it beholds the Alpbach falling from the opposite hill like a
downward smoke When Flemming saw the innumerable runnels sliding down the
mountainside and leaping all life and gladness he would fain have clasped
them in his arms and been their playmate and revelled with them in their
freedom and delight Yet he was weary with the days journey and entered the
village of Meyringen embowered in cherrytrees which were then laden with
fruit more like a wayworn traveller than an enthusiastic poet As he went up
the tavernsteps he said in his heart with the Italian Aretino »He who has
not been at a tavern knows not what a paradise it is O holy tavern O
miraculous tavern holy because no carking cares are there nor weariness
nor pain and miraculous because of the spits which of themselves turn round
and round Of a truth all courtesy and good manners come from taverns so full
of bows and Signor sì and Signor no«
But even in the tavern he could not rest long The same evening at sunset he
was floating on the lake of Brienz in an open boat close under the cascade of
the Giessbach hearing the peasants sing the Ranz des Vaches He slept that
night at the other extremity of the lake in a large house which like Saint
Peters at Joppa stood by the waters side The next day he wasted in writing
letters musing in this green nest and paddling about the lake again and in
the evening went across the beautiful meadows to Interlachen where many things
happened to him and detained him long
Chapter III
Interlachen
Interlachen How peacefully by the margin of the swiftrushing Aar thou liest
on the broad lap of those romantic meadows all overshadowed by the wide arms of
giant trees Only the quaint towers of thine ancient cloister rise above their
summits the quaint towers themselves but a childs playthings under the great
churchtowers of the mountains Close beside thee are lakes which the flowing
band of the river ties together Before thee opens the magnificent valley of
Lauterbrunnen where the cloudhooded Monk and the pale Virgin stand like Saint
Francis and his Bride of Snow and around thee are fields and orchards and
hamlets green from which the churchbells answer each other at evening The
evening sun was setting when I first beheld thee The sun of life will set ere I
forget thee Surely it was a scene like this that inspired the soul of the Swiss
poet in his Song of the Bell
Bell thou soundest merrily
When the bridal party
To the church doth hie
Bell thou soundest solemnly
When on Sabbath morning
Fields deserted lie
Bell thou soundest merrily
Tellest thou at evening
Bedtime draweth nigh
Bell thou soundest mournfully
Tellest thou the bitter
Parting hath gone by
Say how canst thou mourn
How canst thou rejoice
Art but metal dull
And yet all our sorrowings
And all our rejoicings
Thou dost feel them all
God hath wonders many
Which we cannot fathom
Placed within thy form
When the heart is sinking
Thou alone canst raise it
Trembling in the storm
Paul Flemming alighted at one of the principal hotels The landlord came out to
meet him He had great eyes and a green coat and reminded Flemming of the
innkeeper mentioned in the Golden Ass who had been changed by magic into a
frog and croaked to his customers from the lees of a winecask His house he
said was full and so was every house in Interlachen but if the gentleman
would walk in he would find a chamber for him in the neighborhood
On the sofa sat a gentleman reading a stout gentleman of perhaps
fortyfive round ruddy and with a head which being a little bald on the top
looked not unlike a crows nest with one egg in it A goodhumored face turned
from the book as Flemming entered and a goodhumored voice exclaimed
»Ha Mr Flemming Is it you or your apparition I told you we should meet
again though you were for taking an eternal farewell of your fellowtraveller«
Saying these words the stout gentleman rose and shook Flemming heartily by
the hand And Flemming returned the shake as heartily recognizing in this ruddy
personage a former travellingcompanion Mr Berkley whom he had left a week
or two previous toiling up the Righi Mr Berkley was an Englishman of fortune
a goodhumored humane old bachelor remarkable alike for his common sense and
his eccentricity That is to say the basis of his character was good sound
common sense trodden down and smoothed by education but this level groundwork
his strange and whimsical fancy used as a dancingfloor whereon to exhibit her
eccentric tricks His ruling passion was coldbathing and he usually ate his
breakfast sitting in a tub of cold water and reading a newspaper He kissed
every child he met and to every old man said in passing »God bless you« with
such an expression of voice and countenance that no one could doubt his
sincerity He reminded one of Roger Bontemps or the Little Man in Gray though
with a difference
»The last time I had the pleasure of seeing you Mr Berkley« said
Flemming »was at Goldau just as you were going up the Righi I hope you were
gratified with a fine sunrise on the mountaintop«
»No I was not« replied Mr Berkley »It is all a humbug a confounded
humbug They made such a noise about their sunrise that I determined I would
not see it So I lay snug in bed and only peeped through the windowcurtain
That was enough Just above the house on the top of the hill stood some fifty
halfdressed romantic individuals shivering in the wet grass and a short
distance from them a miserable wretch blowing a long wooden horn Thats your
sunrise on the Righi is it said I and went to sleep again The best thing I
saw at the Culm was the advertisement on the bedroom doors saying that if the
women would wear the quilts and blankets for shawls when they went out to see
the sunrise they must pay for the washing Take my word for it the Righi is a
great humbug«
»Where have you been since«
»At Zürich and Schaffhausen If you go to Zürich beware how you stop at the
Raven They will cheat you They cheated me but I had my revenge for when we
reached Schaffhausen I wrote in the Travellers Book
Beware of the Raven of Zurich
T is a bird of omen ill
With a noisy and an unclean nest
And a very very long bill
If you go to the Golden Falken you will find it there I am the author of those
lines«
»Bitter as Juvenal« exclaimed Flemming
»Not in the least bitter« said Mr Berkley »It is all true Go to the
Raven and see But this Interlachen this Interlachen It is the loveliest spot
on the face of the earth« he continued stretching out both arms as if to
embrace the object of his affection »There only look out there«
Here he pointed to the window Flemming looked and beheld a scene of
transcendent beauty The plain was covered already by the brown shade of the
summer twilight From the cottage roofs in Unterseen rose here and there a thin
column of smoke over the tops of the trees and mingled with the evening
shadows The valley of Lauterbrunnen was filled with a blue haze Far above in
the clear cloudless heaven the white forehead of the Jungfrau blushed at the
last kiss of the departing sun It was a glorious transfiguration of Nature And
when the village bells began to ring and a single voice at a great distance was
heard yodling forth a ballad it rather broke than increased the enchantment of
a scene where silence was more musical than sound
For a long time they gazed at the gloaming landscape and spake not At
length people came in and laid aside their shawls and hats and exchanged a
word or two with Berkley To Flemming they were all unknown The conversation
turned upon the various excursions of the day Some had been at the Staubbach
others at the Grindelwald others at the lake of Thun and nobody before had
ever experienced half the rapture which they had experienced that day And thus
they sat in the twilight as people love to do at the close of a summer day As
yet the lamps had not been lighted and one could not distinguish faces but
voices only and forms like shadows
Presently a female figure clothed in black entered the room and sat down
by the window She rather listened to the conversation than joined in it but
the few words she said were spoken in a voice so musical and full of soul that
it moved the soul of Flemming like a whisper from heaven
Oh how wonderful is the human voice It is indeed the organ of the soul
The intellect of man sits enthroned visibly upon his forehead and in his eye
and the heart of man is written upon his countenance But the soul reveals
itself in the voice only as God revealed himself to the prophet of old in the
still small voice and in the voice from the burning bush The soul of man is
audible not visible A sound alone betrays the flowing of the eternal fountain
invisible to man
Flemming would fain have sat and listened for hours to the sound of that
unknown voice He felt sure in his secret heart that the being from whom it
came was beautiful His imagination filled up the faint outline which the eye
beheld in the fading twilight and the figure stood already in his mind like
Raphaels beautiful Madonna in the Dresden gallery He was never more mistaken
in his life The voice belonged to a beautiful being it is true but her beauty
was different from that of any Madonna which Raphael ever painted as he would
have seen had he waited till the lamps were lighted But in the midst of his
reverie and saintpainting the landlord came in and told him he had found a
room which he begged him to go and look at
Flemming took his leave and departed Berkley went with him to see he
said what kind of a nest his young friend was to sleep in
»The room is not what I could wish« said the landlord as he led them
across the street »It is in the old cloister But tomorrow or next day you
can no doubt have a room at the house«
The name of the cloister struck Flemmings imagination pleasantly He was
owl enough to like ruins and old chambers where nuns or friars had slept And
he said to Berkley
»So you perceive my nest is to be in a cloister It already makes me think
of a birds nest I once saw on an old tower of Heidelberg Castle built in the
jaws of a lion which formerly served as a spout But pray tell me who was that
young lady with the soft voice«
»What young lady with the soft voice«
»The young lady in black who sat by the window«
»Oh she is the daughter of an English officer who died not long ago at
Naples She is passing the summer here with her mother«
»What is her name«
»Ashburton«
»Is she beautiful«
»Not beautiful but very intellectual A woman of genius I should say«
And now they had reached the walls of the cloister and passed under an
arched gateway and close beneath the quaint towers which Flemming had already
seen rising with their coneshaped roofs above the trees like tall tapers
with extinguishers upon them
»It is not so bad as it looks« said the landlord knocking at a small door
in the main building »The bailiff lives in one part of it«
A servant girl with a candle in her hand opened the door and conducted
Flemming and Berkley to the chamber which had been engaged It was a large room
on the lower floor wainscoted with pine and unpainted Three lofty and narrow
windows with leaden lattices and small panes looked southward towards the
valley of Lauterbrunnen and the mountains In one corner was a large square bed
with a tester and checked curtains In another a huge stove of painted tiles
reaching almost to the ceiling An old sofa a few highbacked antique chairs
and a table completed the furniture of the room
Thus Flemming took possession of his monkish cell and dormitory He ordered
tea and began to feel at home Berkley passed the evening with him On going
away he said
»Goodnight I leave you to the care of the Virgin and all the Saints If
the ghost of any old monk comes back after his prayerbook my compliments to
him If I were a younger man you certainly should see a ghost Goodnight«
When he had departed Flemming opened the lattice of one of the windows The
moon had risen and silvered the dark outline of the nearest hills while afar
off the snowy summits of the Jungfrau and the SilverHorn shone like a white
cloud in the sky Close beneath the windows was a flowergarden and the breath
of the summer night came to him with dewy fragrance There was a grateful
seclusion about the place He blessed the happy accident which gave him such a
lodging and fell asleep that night thinking of the nuns who once had slept in
the same quiet cells but neither wimpled nun nor cowled monk appeared to him in
his dreams not even the face of Mary Ashburton nor did he hear her voice
Chapter IV
The Evening and the Morning Star
Old Froissart tells us in his Chronicles that when King Edward beheld the
Countess of Salisbury at her castlegate he thought he had never seen before so
noble nor so fair a lady he was stricken thereupon to the heart with a sparkle
of fine love that endured long after he thought no lady in the world so worthy
to be beloved as she And so likewise thought Paul Flemming when he beheld the
English lady in the fair light of a summer morning I will not disguise the
truth She is my heroine and I mean to describe her with great truth and
beauty so that all shall be in love with her and I most of all
Mary Ashburton was in her twentieth summer Like the fair maiden Amoret she
was sitting in the lap of womanhood They did her wrong who said she was not
beautiful and yet
She was not fair
Nor beautiful those words express her not
But oh her looks had something excellent
That wants a name
Her face had a wonderful fascination in it It was such a calm quiet face with
the light of the rising soul shining so peacefully through it At times it wore
an expression of seriousness of sorrow even and then seemed to make the very
air bright with what the Italian poets so beautifully call the lampeggiar dell
angelico riso the lightning of the angelic smile
And oh those eyes those deep unutterable eyes with downfalling
eyelids full of dreams and slumber and within them a cold living light as in
mountain lakes at evening or in the river of Paradise forever gliding
With a brown brown current
Under the shade perpetual that never
Ray of the sun lets in nor of the moon
I dislike an eye that twinkles like a star Those only are beautiful which like
the planets have a steady light are luminous but not sparkling Such eyes
the Greek poets give to the Immortals
The ladys figure was striking Every step every attitude was graceful
and yet lofty as if inspired by the soul within Angels in the old poetic
philosophy have such forms it was the soul itself imprinted on the air And
what a soul was hers A temple dedicated to Heaven and like the Pantheon at
Rome lighted only from above And earthly passions in the form of gods were no
longer there but the sweet and thoughtful faces of Christ and the Virgin Mary
and the Saints Thus there was not one discordant thing in her but a perfect
harmony of figure and face and soul in a word of the whole being And he
who had a soul to comprehend hers must of necessity love her and having once
loved her could love no other woman forevermore
No wonder then that Flemming felt his heart drawn towards her as in her
morning walk she passed him sitting alone under the great walnuttrees near
the cloister and thinking of heaven not of her She too was alone Her cheek
was no longer pale but glowing and bright with the inspiration of the summer
air Flemming gazed after her till she disappeared even as a vision of his
dreams he knew not whither He was not yet in love but very near it for he
thanked God that he had made such beautiful beings to walk the earth
Last night he had heard a voice to which his soul responded and he might
have gone on his way and taken no further heed But he would have heard that
voice afterwards whenever at evening he thought of this evening at Interlachen
Today he had seen more clearly the vision and his restless soul grew calm The
place seemed pleasant to him and he could not go He did not ask himself whence
came this calm He felt it and was happy in the feeling and blessed the
landscape and the summer morning as if they possessed the wonderworking power
»A pleasant morningdream to you« said a friendly voice and at the same
moment some one laid his hand upon Flemmings shoulder It was Berkley He had
approached unseen and unheard
»I see by the smile on your countenance« he continued »that it is no
dayincubus«
»You are right« replied Flemming »It was a pleasant dream which you have
put to flight«
»And I am glad to see that you have also put to flight the gloomy thoughts
which used to haunt you I like to see people cheerful and happy Why give way
to sadness in this beautiful world«
»Ah this beautiful world« said Flemming with a smile »Indeed I know not
what to think of it Sometimes it is all gladness and sunshine and heaven
itself lies not far off And then it changes suddenly and is dark and
sorrowful and clouds shut out the sky In the lives of the saddest of us there
are bright days like this when we feel as if we could take the great world in
our arms Then come the gloomy hours when the fire will neither burn on our
hearths nor in our hearts and all without and within is dismal cold and dark
Believe me every heart has its secret sorrows which the world knows not and
oftentimes we call a man cold when he is only sad«
»And who says we do not?« interrupted Berkley »Come come Let us go to
breakfast The morning air has given me a rude appetite I long to say grace
over a fresh egg and eat salt with my worst enemies namely the Cockneys at
the hotel After breakfast you must give yourself up wholly to me I shall take
you to the Grindelwald«
»Today then you do not breakfast like Diogenes but consent to leave your
tub«
»Yes for the pleasure of your company I shall also blow out the light in
my lantern having found you«
»Thank you«
The breakfast passed without any unusual occurrence Flemming watched the
entrance of every guest but she came not the guest he most desired to see
»And now for the Grindelwald« said Berkley
»Why such haste We have the whole day before us There is time enough«
»Not a moment to lose I assure you The carriage is at the door«
They drove up the valley of Lauterbrunnen and turned eastward among the
mountains of Grindelwald There they passed the day halffrozen by the icy
breath of the Great Glacier upon whose surface stand pyramids and blocks of
ice like the tombstones of a cemetery It was a weary day to Flemming He
wished himself at Interlachen and was glad when towards evening he saw once
more the coneroofed towers of the cloister rising above the walnuttrees
That evening is written in red letters in his history It gave him another
revelation of the beauty and excellence of womans character and intellect not
wholly new to him yet now renewed and fortified It was from the lips of Mary
Ashburton that the revelation came Her form arose like a tremulous
eveningstar in the firmament of his soul He conversed with her and with her
alone and knew not when to go All others were to him as if they were not
there He saw their forms but saw them as the forms of inanimate things At
length her mother came and Flemming beheld in her but another Mary Ashburton
with beauty more mature the same forehead and eyes the same majestic figure
and as yet no trace of age He gazed upon her with a feeling of delight not
unmingled with holy awe She was to him the rich and glowing Evening from whose
bosom the tremulous star was born
Berkley took no active part in the conversation but did what was much more
to the purpose that is to say arranged a drive for the next day with the
Ashburtons and of course invited Flemming who went home that night with a halo
round his head and wondering much at a dandy who stood at the door of the
hotel and said to his companion as Flemming passed
»What do you call this place I have been here two hours already and find
it devilish dull«
Chapter V
A Rainy Day
When Flemming awoke the next morning he saw the sky dark and lowering From the
mountaintops hung a curtain of mist whose heavy folds waved to and fro in the
valley below Over all the landscape the soft summer rain was falling No
admiring eyes would look up that day at the Staubbach
A rainy day in Switzerland puts a sudden stop to many diversions The
coachman may drive to the inn and then back to the stable but no farther The
sunburnt guide may sit at the alehouse door and welcome and the boatman
whistle and curse the clouds at his own sweet will but no foot stirs abroad
for all that no traveller moves if he has time to stay The rainy day gives
him time for reflection He has leisure now to take cognizance of his
impressions and make up his account with the mountains He remembers too that
he has friends at home and writes up the journal neglected for a week or more
and letters neglected longer or finishes the rough pencilsketch begun
yesterday in the open air On the whole he is not sorry it rains though
disappointed
Flemming was both sorry and disappointed but he did not on that account
fail to go over to the Ashburtons at the appointed hour He found them sitting
in the parlor The mother was reading and the daughter retouching a sketch of
the Lake of Thun After the usual salutations Flemming seated himself near the
daughter and said
»We shall have no Staubbach today I presume only this Giessbach from the
clouds«
»Nothing more I suppose So we must be content to stay indoors and listen
to the sound of the eavesdropping rain It gives me time to finish some of
these rough sketches«
»It is a pleasant pastime« said Flemming »and I perceive you are very
skilful I am delighted to see that you can draw a straight line I never before
saw a ladys sketchbook in which all the towers did not resemble the Leaning
Tower of Pisa I always tremble for the little men under them«
»How absurd« exclaimed Mary Ashburton with a smile that passed through the
misty air of Flemmings thoughts like a sunbeam »For one I succeed much better
in straight lines than in any others Here I have been trying a halfhour to
make this waterwheel round and round it never will be«
»Then let it remain as it is It looks uncommonly picturesque and may pass
for a new invention«
The lady continued to sketch and Flemming to gaze at her beautiful face
often repeating to himself those lines in Marlows Faust
Oh thou art fairer than the evening air
Clad in the beauty of a thousand stars
He certainly would have betrayed himself to the maternal eye of Mrs Ashburton
had she not been wholly absorbed in the follies of a fashionable novel Erelong
the fair sketcher had paused for a moment and Flemming had taken her
sketchbook in his hands and was looking it through from the beginning with
everincreasing delight half of which he dared not express though he favored
her with some comments and bursts of admiration
»This is truly a very beautiful sketch of Murten and the battlefield How
quietly the landscape sleeps there by the lake after the battle Did you ever
read the ballad of Veit Weber the shoe maker on this subject He says the
routed Burgundians jumped into the lake and the Swiss Leaguers shot them down
like wild ducks among the reeds He fought in the battle and wrote the ballad
afterwards
He had himself laid hand on sword
He who this rhyme did write
Till evening mowed he with the sword
And sang the song at night«
»You must give me the whole ballad« said Miss Ashburton »it will serve to
illustrate the sketch«
»And the sketch to illustrate the ballad And now we suddenly slide down the
Alps into Italy and are even in Rome if I mistake not This is surely a head
of Homer«
»Yes« replied the lady with a little enthusiasm »Do you not remember the
marble bust at Rome When I first beheld that bust it absolutely inspired me
with awe It is not the face of a man but of a god«
»And you have done it no injustice in your copy« said Flemming catching a
new enthusiasm from hers »With what a classic grace the fillet passing round
the majestic forehead confines his flowing locks which mingle with his beard
The countenance too is calm majestic godlike Even the fixed and sightless
eyeballs do not mar the image of the seer Such were the sightless eyes of the
blind old man of Chios They seem to look with mournful solemnity into the
mysterious future and the marble lips to repeat that prophetic passage in the
Hymn to Apollo Let me also hope to be remembered in ages to come And when any
one born of the tribes of men comes hither a weary traveller and inquires
who is the sweetest of the singingmen that resort to your feasts and whom you
most delight to hear do you make answer for me It is the Blind Man who dwells
in Chios his songs excel all that can ever be sung But do you really believe
that this is a portrait of Homer«
»Certainly not It is only an artists dream It was thus that Homer
appeared to him in his visions of the antique world Every one you know forms
an image in his fancy of persons and things he has never seen and the artist
reproduces them in marble or on canvas«
»And what is the image in your fancy Is it like this«
»No not entirely I have drawn my impressions from another source Whenever
I think of Homer which is not often he walks before me solemn and serene as
in the vision of the great Italian in countenance neither sorrowful nor glad
followed by other bards and holding in his right hand a sword«
»That is a finer conception than this« said Flemming »And I perceive from
your words as well as from this book that you have a true feeling for Art and
understand what it is You have had bright glimpses into the enchanted land«
»I trust« replied the lady modestly »that I am not wholly without this
feeling Certainly I have as strong and passionate a love of Art as of Nature«
»But does it not often offend you to hear people speaking of Art and Nature
as opposite and discordant things Surely nothing can be more false Nature is a
revelation of God Art a revelation of man Indeed Art signifies no more than
this Art is Power That is the original meaning of the word It is the creative
power by which the soul of man makes itself known through some external
manifestation or outward sign As we can always hear the voice of God walking
in the garden in the cool of the day or under the starlight where to quote
one of this poets verses high prospects and the brows of all steep hills and
pinnacles thrust up themselves for shows so under the twilight and the
starlight of past ages do we hear the voice of man walking amid the works of
his hands and city walls and towers and the spires of churches thrust up
themselves for shows«
The lady smiled at his warmth and he continued
»This however is but a similitude and Art and Nature are more nearly
allied than by similitudes only Art is the revelation of man and not merely
that but likewise the revelation of Nature speaking through man Art preëxists
in Nature and Nature is reproduced in Art As vapors from the ocean floating
landward and dissolved in rain are carried back in rivers to the ocean so
thoughts and the semblances of things that fall upon the soul of man in showers
flow out again in living streams of Art and lose themselves in the great ocean
which is Nature Art and Nature are not then discordant but ever harmoniously
working in each other«
Enthusiasm begets enthusiasm Flemming spake with such evident interest in
the subject that Miss Ashburton did not fail to manifest some interest in what
he said and encouraged by this he proceeded
»Thus in this wondrous world wherein we live which is the World of Nature
man has made unto himself another world hardly less wondrous which is the World
of Art And it lies infolded and compassed about by the other
And the clear region where t was born
Round in itself encloses
Taking this view of Art I think we understand more easily the skill of the
artist and the difference between him and the mere amateur What we call
miracles and wonders of Art are not so to him who created them for they were
created by the natural movements of his own great soul Statues paintings
churches poems are but shadows of himself shadows in marble colors stone
words He feels and recognizes their beauty but he thought these thoughts and
produced these things as easily as inferior minds do thoughts and things
inferior perhaps more easily Vague images and shapes of beauty floating
through the soul the semblances of things as yet indefinite or illdefined and
perfect only when put in Art this Possible Intellect as the Scholastic
Philosophers have termed it the artist shares in common with us all The
lovers of Art are many But the Active Intellect the creative power the
power to put these shapes and images in Art to embody the indefinite and
render perfect is his alone He shares the gift with few He knows not even
whence nor how this is He knows only that it is that God has given him the
power which has been denied to others«
»I should have known you were just from Germany« said the lady with a
smile »even if you had not told me so You are an enthusiast for the Germans
For my part I cannot endure their harsh language«
»You would like it better if you knew it better« answered Flemming »It is
not harsh to me but homelike hearty and full of feeling like the sound of
happy voices at a fireside of a winters night when the wind blows and the
fire crackles and hisses and snaps I do indeed love the Germans the men are
so hale and hearty and the Fräuleins so tender and true«
»I always think of men with pipes and beer and women with knittingwork«
»Oh those are English prejudices« exclaimed Flemming »Nothing can be
more«
»And their very literature presents itself to my imagination under the same
forms«
»I see you have read only English criticisms and have an idea that all
German books smell as one of your English critics says of groceries of brown
papers filled with greasy cakes and slices of bacon and of fryings in frouzy
backparlors and this shuts you out from a glorious world of poetry romance
and dreams«
Mary Ashburton smiled and Flemming continued to turn over the leaves of the
sketchbook with an occasional criticism and witticism At length he came to a
leaf which was written in pencil People of a lively imagination are generally
curious and always so when a little in love
»Here is a pencilsketch« said he with an entreating look »which I would
fain examine with the rest«
»You may do so if you wish but you will find it the poorest sketch in the
book I was trying one day to draw the picture of an artists life in Rome as
it presented itself to my imagination and this is the result Perhaps it may
awaken some pleasant recollection in your mind«
Flemming waited no longer but read with the eyes of a lover not of a
critic the following description which inspired him with a new enthusiasm for
Art and for Mary Ashburton
»I often reflect with delight upon the young artists life in Rome A
stranger from the cold and gloomy North he has crossed the Alps and with the
devotion of a pilgrim journeyed to the Eternal City He dwells perhaps upon
the Pincian Hill and hardly a house there which is not inhabited by artists
from foreign lands The very room he lives in has been their abode time out of
mind Their names are written all over the walls perhaps some further record of
them is left in a rough sketch upon the windowshutter with an inscription and
a date These things consecrate the place in his imagination Even these names
though unknown to him are not without associations in his mind
In that warm latitude he rises with the day The nightvapors are already
rolling away over the Campagna seaward As he looks from his window above and
beyond their white folds he recognizes the tremulous blue sea at Ostia The
rising sun salutes Soracte his own beloved mountain though no longer
worshipped there as of old Before him the antique house of Claude Lorraine
casts its long brown shadow down into the heart of modern Rome The city lies
still asleep and silent But above its dark roofs more than two hundred
steeples catch the sunshine on their gilded weathercocks Presently the bells
begin to ring and as the artist listens to their pleasant chimes he knows
that in each of those churches over the high altar hangs a painting by some
great masters hand whose beauty comes between him and heaven so that he
cannot pray but wonder only
Among these works of art he passes the day but oftenest in St Peters and
the Vatican Up the vast marble staircase through the Corridor Chiaramonti
through vestibules galleries chambers he passes as in a dream All are filled
with busts and statues or painted in daring frescos What forms of strength and
beauty what glorious creations of the human mind and in that last chamber of
all standing alone upon his pedestal the Apollo found at Antium in such a
majestic attitude with such a noble countenance lifelike godlike
Or perhaps he passes into the chambers of the painters but goes no farther
than the second For in the middle of that chamber a large painting stands upon
the heavy easel as if unfinished though more than three hundred years ago the
great artist completed it and then laid his pencil away forever leaving this
last benediction to the world It is the Transfiguration of Christ by Raphael
A child looks not at the stars with greater wonder than the artist at this
painting He knows how many studious years are in that picture He knows the
difficult path that leads to perfection having himself taken some of the first
steps Thus he recalls the hour when that broad canvas was first stretched upon
its frame and Raphael stood before it and laid the first colors upon it and
beheld the figures one by one born into life and looked upon the work of his
own hands with a smile that it should have succeeded so well He recalls too
the hour when the task accomplished the pencil dropped from the masters dying
hand and his eyes closed to open on a more glorious transfiguration and at
length the dead Raphael lay in his own studio before this wonderful painting
more glorious than any conqueror under the banners and armorial hatchments of
his funeral
Think you that such sights and thoughts as these do not move the heart of a
young man and an artist And when he goes forth into the open air the sun is
going down and the gray ruins of an antique world receive him From the Palace
of the Cæsars he looks down into the Forum or towards the Coliseum or westward
sees the last sunshine strike the Bronze Archangel which stands upon the Tomb of
Adrian He walks amid a world of Art in ruins The very streetlamps that light
him homeward burn before some painted or sculptured image of the Madonna What
wonder is it if dreams visit him in his sleep nay if his whole life seem to
him a dream What wonder if with a feverish heart and quick hand he strive to
reproduce those dreams in marble or on canvas«
Foolish Paul Flemming who both admired and praised this little sketch and
yet was too blind to see that it was written from the heart and not from the
imagination Foolish Paul Flemming who thought that a girl of twenty could
write thus without a reason Close upon this followed another pencil sketch
which he likewise read with her permission It was this
»The whole period of the Middle Ages seems very strange to me At times I
cannot persuade myself that such things could have been as history tells us
that such a strange world was a part of our world that such a strange life
was a part of the life which seems to us who are living it now so passionless
and commonplace It is only when I stand amid ruined castles that look at me so
mournfully and behold the heavy armor of old knights hanging upon the wainscot
of Gothic chambers or when I walk amid the aisles of some dusky minster whose
walls are narrative of hoar antiquity and whose very bells have been baptized
and see the carved oaken stalls in the choir where so many generations of monks
have sat and sung and the tombs where now they sleep in silence to awake no
more to their midnight psalms it is only at such times that the history of
the Middle Ages is a reality to me and not a passage in romance
Likewise the illuminated manuscripts of those ages have something of this
power of making the dead Past a living Present in my mind What curious figures
are emblazoned on the creaking parchment making its yellow leaves laugh with
gay colors You seem to come upon them unawares Their faces have an expression
of wonder They seem all to be just startled from their sleep by the sound you
made when you unloosed the brazen clasps and opened the curiously carved oaken
covers that turn on hinges like the great gates of a city To the building of
that city some diligent monk gave the whole of a long life With what strange
denizens he peopled it Adam and Eve standing under a tree with apples in their
hands the patriarch Abraham with a tree growing out of his body and his
descendants sitting like owls upon its branches ladies with flowing locks of
gold knights in armor with most fantastic longtoed shoes jousts and
tournaments and Minnesingers and lovers whose heads reach to the towers where
their ladies sit and all so angular so naïve so childlike all in such simple
attitudes with such great eyes and holding up such long lank fingers These
things are characteristic of the Middle Ages and persuade me of the truth of
history«
At this moment Berkley entered with a Swiss cottage which he had bought as
a present for somebodys child in England and a cane with a chamoishorn on the
end of it which he had bought as a present for himself This was the first time
that Flemming had been sorry to see the goodnatured man whose presence now
interrupted the delightful conversation he was carrying on under four eyes with
Mary Ashburton He really thought him tedious and wondered it had never
occurred to him before Mrs Ashburton too must needs lay down her book and
the conversation became general Strange to say the Swiss dinnerhour of one
oclock did not come a moment too soon for Flemming It did not even occur to
him that it was early for he was seated beside Mary Ashburton and at dinner
one can say so much without being overheard
Chapter VI
After Dinner and after the Manner of the Best Critics
When the learned Thomas Diafoirus wooed the fair Angélique he drew from his
pocket a medical thesis and presented it to her as the firstfruits of his
genius and at the same time invited her with her fathers permission to
attend the dissection of a woman upon whom he was to lecture Paul Flemming did
nearly the same thing and so often that it had become a habit He was
continually drawing from his pocket or his memory some scrap of song or story
and inviting some fair Angélique either with her fathers permission or
without to attend the dissection of an author upon whom he was to lecture He
soon gave proofs of this to Mary Ashburton
»What books have we here for afternoon reading« said Flemming taking a
volume from the table when they had returned from the diningroom »Oh it is
Uhlands Poems Have you read anything of his He and Tieck are generally
considered the best living poets of Germany They dispute the palm of
superiority Let me give you a lesson in German this afternoon Miss Ashburton
so that no one may accuse you of omitting the sweet benefit of time to clothe
your age with angellike perfection I have opened at random upon the ballad of
the Black Knight Do you repeat the German after me and I will translate to
you Pfingsten war das Fest der Freude«
»I should never persuade my unwilling lips to pronounce such sounds So I
beg you not to perplex me with your German but read me the ballad in English«
»Well then listen I will improvise a translation for your own particular
benefit
T was Pentecost the Feast of Gladness
When woods and fields put off all sadness
Thus began the king and spake
So from the halls
Of ancient Hofburgs walls
A luxuriant spring shall break
Drums and trumpets echo loudly
Wave the crimson banners proudly
From balcony the king looked on
In the play of spears
Fell all the cavaliers
Before the monarchs stalwart son
To the barrier of the fight
Rode at last a sable knight
Sir Knight your name and scutcheon say
Should I speak it here
Ye would stand aghast with fear
I am a prince of mighty sway
When he rode into the lists
The arch of heaven grew black with mists
And the castle gan to rock
At the first blow
Fell the youth from saddlebow
Hardly rises from the shock
Pipe and viol call the dances
Torchlight through the high halls glances
Waves a mighty shadow in
With manner bland
Doth ask the maidens hand
Doth with her the dance begin
Danced in sable iron sark
Danced a measure weird and dark
Coldly clasped her limbs around
From breast and hair
Down fell from her the fair
Flowerets faded to the ground
To the sumptuous banquet came
Every knight and every dame
Twixt son and daughter all distraught
With mournful mind
The ancient king reclined
Gazed at them in silent thought
Pale the children both did look
But the guest a beaker took
Golden wine will make you whole
The children drank
Gave many a courteous thank
Oh that draught was very cool
Each the fathers breast embraces
Son and daughter and their faces
Colorless grow utterly
Whichever way
Looks the fearstruck father gray
He beholds his children die
Woe the blessed children both
Takest thou in the joy of youth
Take me too the joyless father
Spake the grim guest
From his hollow cavernous breast
Roses in the spring I gather«
»That is indeed a striking ballad« said Miss Ashburton »but rather too grim
and ghostly for this dull afternoon«
»It begins joyously enough with the feast of Pentecost and the crimson
banners at the old castle Then the contrast is well managed The knight in
black mail and the waving in of the mighty shadow in the dance and the
dropping of the faded flowers are all strikingly presented to the imagination
However it tells its own story and needs no explanation Here is something in
a different vein though still melancholy The Castle by the Sea Shall I read
it«
»Yes if you like«
Flemming read
»Hast thou seen that lordly castle
That castle by the sea
Golden and red above it
The clouds float gorgeously
And fain it would stoop downward
To the mirrored wave below
And fain it would soar upward
In the evenings crimson glow
Well have I seen that castle
That castle by the sea
And the moon above it standing
And the mist rise solemnly
The winds and the waves of ocean
Had they a merry chime
Didst thou hear from those lofty chambers
The harp and the minstrels rhyme
The winds and the waves of ocean
They rested quietly
But I heard on the gale a sound of wail
And tears came to mine eye
And sawest thou on the turrets
The king and his royal bride
And the wave of their crimson mantles
And the golden crown of pride
Led they not forth in rapture
A beauteous maiden there
Resplendent as the morning sun
Beaming with golden hair
Well saw I the ancient parents
Without the crown of pride
They were moving slow in weeds of woe
No maiden was by their side«
»How do you like that«
»It is very graceful and pretty But Uhland seems to leave a great deal to
his readers imagination All his readers should be poets themselves or they
will hardly comprehend him I confess I hardly understand the passage where he
speaks of the castles stooping downward to the mirrored wave below and then
soaring upward into the gleaming sky I suppose however he wishes to express
the momentary illusion we experience when beholding a perfect reflection of an
old tower in the sea We look at it as if it were not a mere shadow in the
water and yet the real tower rises far above and seems to float in the crimson
evening clouds Is that the meaning«
»I should think it was To me it is all a beautiful cloud landscape which I
comprehend and feel and yet should find some difficulty perhaps in explaining«
»And why need one always explain Some feelings are quite untranslatable No
language has yet been found for them They gleam upon us beautifully through the
dim twilight of fancy and yet when we bring them close to us and hold them up
to the light of reason lose their beauty all at once as glowworms which
glimmer with such a spiritual light in the shadows of evening when brought in
where the candles are lighted are found to be only worms like so many others«
»Very true We ought sometimes to be content with feeling Here now is an
exquisite piece which soothes one like the fall of evening shadows like the
dewy coolness of twilight after a sultry day I shall not give you a bald
translation of my own because I have laid up in my memory another which
though not very literal equals the original in beauty Observe how finely it
commences
Many a year is in its grave
Since I crossed this restless wave
And the evening fair as ever
Shines on ruin rock and river
Then in this same boat beside
Sat two comrades old and tried
One with all a fathers truth
One with all the fire of youth
One on earth in silence wrought
And his grave in silence sought
But the younger brighter form
Passed in battle and in storm
So wheneer I turn my eye
Back upon the days gone by
Saddening thoughts of friends come oer me
Friends who closed their course before me
Yet what binds us friend to friend
But that soul with soul can blend
Soullike were those hours of yore
Let us walk in soul once more
Take O boatman thrice thy fee
Take I give it willingly
For invisible to thee
Spirits twain have crossed with me«
»Oh that is beautiful beautiful exceedingly Who translated it«
»I do not know I wish I could find out It is certainly admirably well
done though in the measure of the original there is something like the rocking
motion of a boat which is not preserved in the translation«
»And is Uhland always so soothing and spiritual«
»Yes he generally looks into the spiritworld I am now trying to find here
a little poem on the Death of a Country Clergyman in which he introduces a
striking picture But I cannot turn to it No matter He describes the spirit of
the good old man returning to earth on a bright summer morning and standing
amid the golden corn and the red and blue flowers and mildly greeting the
reapers as of old But there is nothing morbid in Uhlands mind He is always
fresh and invigorating like a breezy morning In this he differs entirely from
such writers as Salis and Matthisson«
»And who are they«
»Two melancholy gentlemen to whom life was only a Dismal Swamp upon whose
margin they walked with cambric handkerchiefs in their hands sobbing and
sighing and making signals to Death to come and ferry them over the lake And
now their spirits stand in the green fields of German song like two
weepingwillows bending over a grave To read their poems is like wandering
through a village churchyard on a summer evening reading the inscriptions upon
the gravestones and recalling sweet images of the departed while above you
Hark in the holy grove of palms
Where the stream of life runs free
Echoes in the angels psalms
Sister spirit hail to thee«
»How musically those lines flow Are they Matthissons«
»Yes and they do indeed flow musically I wish I had his poems here I
should like to read to you his Elegy on the Ruins of an Ancient Castle It is an
imitation of Grays Elegy You have been at BadenBaden«
»Yes last summer«
»And have not forgotten«
»The old castle Of course not What a magnificent ruin it is«
»That is the scene of Matthissons poem and seems to have filled the
melancholy bard with more than wonted inspiration«
»I should very much like to see the poem I remember that old ruin with so
much delight«
»I am sorry I have not a translation of it for you Instead of it I will
give you a sweet and mournful poem from Salis It is called The Song of the
Silent Land
Into the Silent Land
Ah who shall lead us thither
Clouds in the evening sky more darkly gather
And shattered wrecks lie thicker on the strand
Who leads us with a gentle hand
Thither oh thither
Into the Silent Land
Into the Silent Land
To you ye boundless regions
Of all perfection Tender morningvisions
Of beauteous souls The Futures pledge and band
Who in Lifes battle firm doth stand
Shall bear Hopes tender blossoms
Into the Silent Land
O Land O Land
For all the brokenhearted
The mildest herald by our fate allotted
Beckons and with inverted torch doth stand
To lead us with a gentle hand
Into the land of the great departed
Into the Silent Land
Is not that a beautiful poem«
Mary Ashburton made no answer She had turned away to hide her tears
Flemming wondered that Berkley could say she was not beautiful Still he was
rather pleased than offended at it He felt at that moment how sweet a thing it
would be to possess one who should seem beautiful to him alone and yet to him
be more beautiful than all the world beside How bright the world became to him
at that thought It was like one of those paintings in which all the light
streams from the face of the Virgin Oh there is nothing holier in this life
of ours than the first consciousness of love the first fluttering of its
silken wings the first rising sound and breath of wind which is so soon to
sweep through the soul to purify or to destroy
Old histories tell us that the great Emperor Charlemagne stamped his edicts
with the hilt of his sword The greater Emperor Death stamps with the blade
and they are signed and executed with the same stroke Flemming received that
night a letter from Heidelberg which told him that Emma of Ilmenau was dead
The fate of this poor girl affected him deeply and he said in his heart
»Father in heaven Why was the lot of this weak and erring child so hard
What had she done to be so tempted in her weakness and perish Why didst thou
suffer her gentle affections to lead her thus astray«
And through the silence of the awful midnight the voice of an avalanche
answered from the distant mountains and seemed to say
»Peace peace Why dost thou question Gods providence«
Chapter VII
Take Care
Fair is the valley of Lauterbrunnen with its green meadows and overhanging
cliffs The ruined castle of Unspunnen stands like an armed warder at the gate
of the enchanted land In calm serenity the snowy mountains rise beyond Fairer
than the Rock of Balmarusa yon frowning precipice looks down upon us and from
the topmost cliff the white pennon of the Brook of Dust shimmers and waves in
the sunny air
It was a bright beautiful morning after nightrain Every dewdrop and
raindrop had a whole heaven within it and so had the heart of Paul Flemming
as with Mrs Ashburton and her darkeyed daughter he drove up the Valley of
Lauterbrunnen the Valley of FountainsOnly
»How beautiful the Jungfrau looks this morning« exclaimed he looking at
Mary Ashburton
She thought he meant the mountain and assented But he meant her likewise
»And the mountains beyond« he continued »the Monk and the Silverhorn the
Wetterhorn the Schreckhorn and the Schwarzhorn all those sublime
apostles of Nature whose sermons are avalanches Did you ever behold anything
more grand«
»Oh yes Mont Blanc is more grand when you behold it from the hills
opposite It was there that I was most moved by the magnificence of Swiss
scenery It was a morning like this and the clouds that were hovering about on
their huge shadowy wings made the scene only the more magnificent Before me
lay the whole panorama of the Alps pine forests standing dark and solemn at the
base of the mountains and halfway up a veil of mist above which rose the
snowy summits and sharp needles of rock which seemed to float in the air like
a fairy world Then the glaciers stood on either side winding down through the
mountain ravines and high above all rose the white domelike summit of Mont
Blanc And ever and anon from the shroud of mist came the awful sound of an
avalanche and a continual roar as of the wind through a forest of pines
filled the air It was the roar of the Arve and Aveiron breaking from their icy
fountains Then the mists began to pass away and it seemed as if the whole
firmament were rolling together It recalled to my mind that sublime passage in
the Apocalypse I saw a great white throne and him that sat thereon before
whose face the heavens and the earth fled away and found no place I cannot
believe that upon this earth there is a more magnificent scene«
»It must be grand indeed« replied Flemming »And those mighty glaciers
huge monsters with bristling crests creeping down into the valley for it is
said they really move«
»Yes it filled me with a strange sensation of awe to think of this They
seemed to me like the dragons of Northern Romance which come down from the
mountains and devour whole villages A little hamlet in Chamouni was once
abandoned by its inhabitants terrified at the approach of the icy dragon But
is it possible you have never been at Chamouni«
»Never The great marvel still remains unseen by me«
»Then how can you linger here so long Were I in your place I would not
lose an hour«
These words passed over the opening blossoms of hope in the soul of Flemming
like a cold wind over the flowers in springtime He bore it as best he could
and changed the subject
I do not mean to describe the valley of Lauterbrunnen nor the bright day
passed there I know that my gentle reader is blessed with the divine gift of a
poetic fancy and can see already how the mountains rise and the torrents fall
and the beautiful valley lies between and how along the dusty road the
herdsman blows his horn and travellers come and go in charabancs like Punch
and Judy in a showbox He knows already how romantic ladies sketch romantic
scenes and how cold meat tastes under the shadow of trees and how time flies
when we are in love and the beloved one near One little incident I must
however mention lest his fancy should not suggest it
Flemming was still sitting with the ladies on the green slope near the
Staubbach or Brook of Dust when a young man clad in green came down the
valley It was a German mechanic with flaxen ringlets hanging over his
shoulders and a guitar in his hand His step was free and elastic and his
countenance wore the joyous expression of youth and health He approached the
company with a courteous salutation and after the manner of travelling
apprentices asked charity with the confident air of one unaccustomed to
refusal Nor was he refused in this instance The presence of those we love
makes us compassionate and generous Flemming gave him a piece of gold and
after a short conversation he seated himself at a little distance on the grass
and began to play and sing Wonderful and many were the soft accords and
plaintive sounds that came from that little instrument touched by the clever
hand Every feeling of the human heart seemed to find an expression there and
awaken a kindred feeling in the hearts of those who heard him He sang strange
German songs so full of longing and of pleasing sadness and hope and fear
and passionate desire and soulsubduing sorrow that the tears came into Mary
Ashburtons eyes though she understood not the words he sang Then his
countenance glowed with triumph and he beat the strings like a drum and sang
Oh how the drum beats so loud
Close beside me in the fight
My dying brother says Good Night
And the cannons awful breath
Screams the loud halloo of Death
And the drum
And the drum
Beats so loud
Many were the words of praise when the young musician ended and as he rose to
depart they still entreated for one song more Whereupon he played a lively
prelude and looking full into Flemmings face sang with a pleasant smile and
still in German this little song
I know a maiden fair to see
Take care
She can both false and friendly be
Beware Beware
Trust her not
She is fooling thee
She has two eyes so soft and brown
Take care
She gives a sideglance and looks down
Beware Beware
Trust her not
She is fooling thee
And she has hair of a golden hue
Take care
And what she says it is not true
Beware Beware
Trust her not
She is fooling thee
She has a bosom as white as snow
Take care
She knows how much it is best to show
Beware Beware
Trust her not
She is fooling thee
She gives thee a garland woven fair
Take care
It is a foolscap for thee to wear
Beware Beware
Trust her not
She is fooling thee
The last stanza he sung in a laughing triumphant tone which resounded above
the loud clang of his guitar like the jeering laugh of Till Eulenspiegel Then
slinging his guitar over his shoulder he took off his green cap and made a leg
to the ladies in the style of Gil Blas waved his hand in the air and walked
quickly down the valley singing »Adé Adé Adé«
Chapter VIII
The Fountain of Oblivion
The power of magic in the Middle Ages created monsters who followed the unhappy
magician everywhere The power of love in all ages creates angels who likewise
follow the happy or unhappy lover everywhere even in his dreams By such an
angel was Paul Flemming now haunted both when he waked and when he slept He
walked as in a dream and was hardly conscious of the presence of those around
him A sweet face looked at him from every page of every book he read and it
was the face of Mary Ashburton a sweet voice spake to him in every sound he
heard and it was the voice of Mary Ashburton Day and night succeeded each
other with pleasant interchange of light and darkness but to him the passing
of time was only as a dream When he arose in the morning he thought only of
her and wondered if she were yet awake and when he lay down at night he
thought only of her and how like the Lady Christabel
Her gentle limbs she did undress
And lay down in her loveliness
And the livelong day he was with her either in reality or in daydreams hardly
less real for in each delirious vision of his waking hours her beauteous form
passed like the form of Beatrice through Dantes heaven and as he lay in the
summer afternoon and heard at times the sound of the wind in the trees and the
sound of Sabbath bells ascending up to heaven holy wishes and prayers ascended
with them from his inmost soul beseeching that he might not love in vain And
whenever in silence and alone he looked into the silent lonely countenance of
Night he recalled the impassioned lines of Plato
Lookest thou at the stars If I were heaven
With all the eyes of heaven would I look down on thee
Oh how beautiful it is to love Even thou that sneerest at this page and
laughest in cold indifference or scorn if others are near thee thou too must
acknowledge its truth when thou art alone and confess that a foolish world is
prone to laugh in public at what in private it reveres as one of the highest
impulses of our nature namely Love
One by one the objects of our affection depart from us But our affections
remain and like vines stretch forth their broken wounded tendrils for support
The bleeding heart needs a balm to heal it and there is none but the love of
its kind none but the affection of a human heart Thus the wounded broken
affections of Flemming began to lift themselves from the dust and cling around
this new object Days and weeks passed and like the student Crisostomo he
ceased to love because he began to adore And with this adoration mingled the
prayer that in that hour when the world is still and the voices that praise
are mute and reflection cometh like twilight and the maiden in her
daydreams counted the number of her friends some voice in the sacred silence
of her thoughts might whisper his name
They were sitting together one morning on the green flowery meadow under
the ruins of Burg Unspunnen She was sketching the ruins The birds were
singing one and all as if there were no aching hearts no sin nor sorrow in
the world So motionless was the bright air that the shadow of the trees lay
engraven on the grass The distant snowpeaks sparkled in the sun and nothing
frowned save the square tower of the old ruin above them
»What a pity it is« said the lady as she stopped to rest her weary
fingers »what a pity it is that there is no old tradition connected with this
ruin«
»I will make you one if you wish« said Flemming
»Can you make old traditions«
»Oh yes I made three the other day about the Rhine and one very old one
about the Black Forest A lady with dishevelled hair a robber with a horrible
slouched hat and a night storm among the roaring pines«
»Delightful Do make one for me«
»With the greatest pleasure Where will you have the scene Here or in the
Black Forest«
»In the Black Forest by all means Begin«
»I will unite this ruin and the forest together But first promise not to
interrupt me If you snap the golden threads of thought they will float away on
the air like the film of the gossamer and I shall never be able to recover
them«
»I promise«
»Listen then to the tradition of THE FOUNTAIN OF OBLIVION«
»Begin«
Flemming was reclining on the flowery turf at the ladys feet looking up
with dreamy eyes into her sweet face and then into the leaves of the
lindentrees overhead
»Gentle lady Dost thou remember the lindentrees of Bülach those tall
and stately trees with velvet down upon their shining leaves and rustic
benches underneath their overhanging eaves A leafy dwelling fit to be the home
of elf or fairy where first I told my love to thee thou cold and stately
Hermione A little peasantgirl stood near and listened all the while with
eyes of wonder and delight and an unconscious smile to hear the stranger still
speak on in accents deep yet mild none else was with us in that hour save
God and that little child«
»Why it is in rhyme«
»No no the rhyme is only in your imagination You promised not to
interrupt me and you have already snapped asunder the gossamer threads of as
sweet a dream as was ever spun from a poets brain«
»It certainly did rhyme«
»This was the reverie of the student Hieronymus as he sat at midnight in a
chamber of this old tower with his hands clasped together and resting upon an
open volume which he should have been reading His pale face was raised and
the pupils of his eyes dilated as if the spiritworld were open before him and
some beauteous vision were standing there and drawing the students soul
through his eyes up into heaven as the evening sun through parting
summerclouds seems to draw into its bosom the vapors of the earth Oh it was
a lovely vision I can see it before me now
Near the student stood an antique bronze lamp with strange figures carved
upon it It was a magic lamp which once belonged to the Arabian astrologer El
Geber in Spain Its light was beautiful as the light of stars and night after
night as the lonely wight sat alone and read in this lofty tower through the
mist and murk and dropping rain it streamed out into the darkness and was seen
by many wakeful eyes To the poor student Hieronymus it was a wonderful
Aladdins Lamp for in its flame a Divinity revealed herself unto him and
showed him treasures Whenever he opened a ponderous antiquated tome it seemed
as if some angel opened for him the gates of Paradise and already he was known
in the land as Hieronymus the Learned
But alas he could read no more The charm was broken Hour after hour he
passed with his hands clasped before him and his fair eyes gazing at vacancy
What could so disturb the studies of this melancholy wight Lady he was in
love Have you ever been in love He had seen the face of the beautiful
Hermione and as when we have thoughtlessly looked at the sun our dazzled
eyes though closed behold it still so he beheld by day and by night the
radiant image of her upon whom he had too rashly gazed Alas he was unhappy
for the proud Hermione disdained the love of a poor student whose only wealth
was a magic lamp In marble halls and amid the gay crowd that worshipped her
she had almost forgotten that such a being lived as the student Hieronymus The
adoration of his heart had been to her only as the perfume of a wildflower
which she had carelessly crushed with her foot in passing But he had lost all
for he had lost the quiet of his thoughts and his agitated soul reflected only
broken and distorted images of things The world laughed at the poor student
who in his threadbare cassock dared to lift his eyes to the Lady Hermione
while he sat alone in his desolate chamber and suffered in silence He
remembered many things which he would fain have forgotten but which if he had
forgotten them he would have wished again to remember Such were the
lindentrees of Bülach under whose pleasant shades he had told his love to
Hermione This was the scene which he wished most to forget yet loved most to
remember and of this he was now dreaming with his hands clasped upon his book
and that music in his thoughts which you lady mistook for rhyme
Suddenly with a melancholy clang the convent clock struck twelve It
roused the student Hieronymus from his dream and rang in his ears like the
iron hoofs of the steeds of Time The magic hour had come when the Divinity of
the lamp most willingly revealed herself to her votary The bronze figures
seemed alive a white cloud rose from the flame and spread itself through the
chamber the four walls dilated into magnificent cloudvistas a fragrance as
of wildflowers filled the air and a dreamy music like distant sweetchiming
bells announced the approach of the midnight Divinity Through his streaming
tears the heartbroken student beheld her once more descending a pass in the
snowy cloudmountains as at evening the dewy Hesperus comes from the bosom of
the mist and assumes his station in the sky At her approach his spirit grew
more calm for her presence was to his feverish heart like a tropical night
beautiful and soothing and invigorating At length she stood before him
revealed in all her beauty and he comprehended the visible language of her
sweet but silent lips which seemed to say What would the student Hieronymus
tonight Peace he answered raising his clasped hands and smiling through
his tears The student Hieronymus imploreth peace Then go said the spirit
go to the Fountain of Oblivion in the deepest solitude of the Black Forest and
cast this scroll into its waters and thou shalt be at peace once more
Hieronymus opened his arms to embrace the Divinity for her countenance assumed
the features of Hermione but she vanished away the music ceased the gorgeous
cloudland sank and fell asunder and the student was alone within the four bare
walls of his chamber As he bowed his head downward his eye fell upon a
parchment scroll which was lying beside the lamp Upon it was written only the
name of Hermione
The next morning Hieronymus put the scroll into his bosom and went his way
in search of the Fountain of Oblivion A few days brought him to the skirts of
the Black Forest He entered not without a feeling of dread that land of
shadows and passed onward under melancholy pines and cedars whose branches
grew abroad and mingled together and as they swayed up and down filled the
air with solemn twilight and a sound of sorrow As he advanced into the forest
the waving moss hung like curtains from the branches overhead and more and
more shut out the light of heaven and he knew that the Fountain of Oblivion was
not far off Even then the sound of falling waters was mingling with the roar of
the pines above him and erelong he came to a river moving in solemn majesty
through the forest and falling with a dull leaden sound into a motionless and
stagnant lake above which the branches of the forest met and mingled forming
perpetual night This was the Fountain of Oblivion
Upon its brink the student paused and gazed into the dark waters with a
steadfast look They were limpid waters dark with shadows only And as he
gazed he beheld far down in their silent depths dim and illdefined outlines
wavering to and fro like the folds of a white garment in the twilight Then
more distinct and permanent shapes arose shapes familiar to his mind yet
forgotten and remembered again as the fragments of a dream till at length
far far below him he beheld the great City of the Past with silent marble
streets and mossgrown walls and spires uprising with a wavelike flickering
motion
And amid the crowd that thronged those streets he beheld faces once
familiar and dear to him and heard sorrowful sweet voices singing Oh forget
us not forget us not and then the distant mournful sound of funeral bells
that were tolling below in the City of the Past But in the gardens of that
city there were children playing and among them one who wore his features as
they had been in childhood He was leading a little girl by the hand and
caressed her often and adorned her with flowers Then like a dream the scene
changed and the boy had grown older and stood alone gazing into the sky and
as he gazed his countenance changed again and Hieronymus beheld him as if it
had been his own image in the clear water and before him stood a beauteous
maiden whose face was like the face of Hermione and he feared lest the scroll
had fallen into the water as he bent over it
Starting as from a dream he put his hand into his bosom and breathed
freely again when he found the scroll still there He drew it forth and read
the blessed name of Hermione and the city beneath him vanished away and the
air grew fragrant as with the breath of Mayflowers and a light streamed
through the shadowy forest and gleamed upon the lake and the student
Hieronymus pressed the dear name to his lips and exclaimed with streaming
eyes Oh scorn me as thou wilt still still will I love thee and thy name
shall irradiate the gloom of my life and make the waters of Oblivion smile And
the name was no longer Hermione but was changed to Mary and the student
Hieronymus is lying at your feet O gentle Lady
I did hear you talk
Far above singing after you were gone
I grew acquainted with my heart and searched
What stirred it so Alas I found it love«
Chapter IX
A Talk on the Stairs
No I will not describe that scene nor how pale the stately lady sat on the
border of the green sunny meadow The hearts of some women tremble like leaves
at every breath of love which reaches them and then are still again Others
like the ocean are moved only by the breath of a storm and not so easily
lulled to rest And such was the proud heart of Mary Ashburton It had remained
unmoved by the presence of this stranger and the sound of his footsteps and his
voice excited in it no emotion He had deceived himself Silently they walked
homeward through the green meadow The very sunshine was sad and the rising
wind through the old ruin above them sounded in his ears like a hollow laugh
Flemming went straight to his chamber On the way he passed the
walnuttrees under which he had first seen the face of Mary Ashburton
Involuntarily he closed his eyes They were full of tears Oh there are places
in this fair world which we never wish to see again however dear they may be to
us The towers of the old Franciscan convent never looked so gloomily as then
though the bright summer sun was shining full upon them
In his chamber he found Berkley He was looking out of the window
whistling
»This evening I leave Interlachen forever« said Flemming rather abruptly
Berkley stared
»Indeed Pray what is the matter You look as pale as a ghost«
»And have good reason to look pale« replied Flemming bitterly »Hoffmann
says in one of his notebooks that on the eleventh of March at half past
eight oclock precisely he was an ass That is what I was this morning at
half past ten oclock precisely and am now and I suppose always shall be«
He tried to laugh but could not He then related to Berkley the whole
story from beginning to end
»This is a miserable piece of business« exclaimed Berkley when he had
finished »Strange enough And yet I have long ceased to marvel at the caprices
of women Did not Pan captivate the chaste Diana Did not Titania love Nick
Bottom with his asss head Do you think that maidens eyes are no longer
touched with the juice of loveinidleness Take my word for it she is in love
with somebody else There must be some reason for this No women never have any
reasons except their will But never mind Keep a stout heart Care killed a
cat After all what is she Who is she Only a«
»Hush hush« exclaimed Flemming in great excitement »Not one word more I
beseech you Do not think to console me by depreciating her She is very dear to
me still a beautiful highminded noble woman«
»Yes« answered Berkley »that is the way with you all you young men You
see a sweet face or a something you know not what and flickering reason says
Good night amen to common sense The imagination invests the beloved object
with a thousand superlative charms adorns her with all the purple and fine
linen all the rich apparel and furniture of human nature I did the same when
I was young I was once as desperately in love as you are now and went through
all the
Delicious deaths soft exhalations
Of soul dear and divine annihilations
A thousand unknown rites
Of joys and rarefied delights
I adored and was rejected You are in love with certain attributes said the
lady Damn your attributes Madam said I I know nothing about attributes
Sir said she with dignity you have been drinking So we parted She was
married afterwards to another who knew something about attributes I suppose I
have seen her once since and only once She had a baby in a yellow gown I hate
a baby in a yellow gown How glad I am she did not marry me One of these days
you will be glad you have been rejected Take my word for it«
»All that does not prevent my lot from being a very melancholy one« said
Flemming sadly
»Oh never mind the lot« cried Berkley laughing »so long as you dont get
Lots wife If the cucumber is bitter throw it away as the philosopher Marcus
Antoninus says in his Meditations Forget her and all will be as if you had
not known her«
»I shall never forget her« replied Flemming rather solemnly »Not my
pride but my affections are wounded and the wound is too deep ever to heal I
shall carry it with me always I enter no more into the world but will dwell
only in the world of my own thoughts All great and unusual occurrences whether
of joy or sorrow lift us above this earth and we should do well always to
preserve this elevation Hitherto I have not done so But now I will no more
descend I will sit apart and above the world with my mournful yet holy
thoughts«
»Whew You had better go into society the whirl and delirium will cure you
in a week If you find a lady who pleases you very much and you wish to marry
her and she will not listen to such a horrid thing I see but one remedy which
is to find another who pleases you more and who will listen to it«
»No my friend you do not understand my character« said Flemming shaking
his head »I love this woman with a deep and lasting affection I shall never
cease to love her This may be madness in me but so it is Alas and alas
Paracelsus of old wasted life in trying to discover its elixir which after
all turned out to be alcohol and instead of being made immortal upon earth he
died drunk on the floor of a tavern The like happens to many of us We waste
our best years in distilling the sweetest flowers of life into lovepotions
which after all do not immortalize but only intoxicate us By Heaven we are
all of us mad«
»But are you sure the case is utterly hopeless«
»Utterly utterly«
»And yet I perceive you have not laid aside all hope You still flatter
yourself that the ladys heart may change The great secret of happiness
consists not in enjoying but in renouncing But it is hard very hard Hope has
as many lives as a cat or a king I dare say you have heard the old proverb The
king never dies But perhaps you have never heard that at the court of Naples
when the dead body of a monarch lies in state his dinner is carried up to him
as usual and the court physician tastes it to see that it be not poisoned and
then the servants bear it out again saying The king does not dine today Hope
in our souls is king and we also say The king never dies Even when in reality
he lies dead within us in solemn mockery we offer him his accustomed food but
are constrained to say The king does not dine today It must be an evil day
indeed when a king of Naples has no heart for his dinner but you yourself are
a proof that the king never dies You are feeding your king although you say he
is dead«
»To show you that I do not wish to cherish hope« replied Flemming »I shall
leave Interlachen tomorrow morning I am going to the Tyrol«
»You are right« said Berkley »there is nothing so good for sorrow as rapid
motion in the open air I shall go with you though probably your conversation
will not be very various nothing but Edward and Kunigunde«
»What do you mean by that«
»Go to Berlin and you will find out However jesting apart I will do all
I can to cheer you and make you forget the Dark Ladie and this untoward
accident«
»Accident« said Flemming »This is no accident but Gods providence which
brought us together to punish me for my sins«
»Oh my friend« interrupted Berkley »if you see the finger of Providence
so distinctly in every act of your life you will end by thinking yourself an
Apostle and Envoy Extraordinary I see nothing so very uncommon in what has
happened to you«
»What not when our souls are so akin to each other when we seemed so
formed to be together to be one«
»I have often observed« replied Berkley coldly »that those who are of
kindred souls rarely wed together almost as rarely as those who are akin by
blood Therefore mad lover do not think to persuade thyself and thy scornful
lady that you have kindred souls but rather the contrary that you are much
unlike and each wanting in those qualities which most mark and distinguish the
other Trust me thy courtship will then be more prosperous But good morning I
must prepare for this sudden journey«
On the following morning Flemming and Berkley started on their way to
Innsbruck like Huon of Bordeaux and Scherasmin on their way to Babylon
Berkleys selfassumed duty was to console his companion a duty which he
performed like an ancient Spanish Despenadora whose business was to attend the
sick and put her elbow into the stomach of the dying to shorten their agony
Book the Fourth
Mortal they softly say
Peace to thy heart
We too yes mortal
Have been as thou art
Hopelifted doubtdepressed
Seeing in part
Tried troubled tempted
Sustained as thou art
Caroline Southey
Chapter I
A Miserere
In the Orlando Innamorato Malagigi the necromancer puts all the company to
sleep by reading to them from a book Some books have this power of themselves
and need no necromancer Fearing Gentle Reader that mine may be of this kind
I have provided these introductory chapters from time to time like stalls or
Misereres in a church with flowery canopies and poppyheads over them where
thou mayest sit down and sleep
No the figure is not a bad one This book does somewhat resemble a
minster in the Romanesque style with pinnacles and flying buttresses and
roofs
Gargoyled with greyhounds and with many lions
Made of fine gold with divers sundry dragons
You step into its shade and coolness out of the hot streets of life a
mysterious light streams through the painted glass of the marigold windows
staining the cusps and crumpled leaves of the windowshafts and the cherubs and
holywaterstoups below Here and there is an image of the Virgin Mary and
other images in divers vestures called weepers stand in housings made about
the tomb and above all swells the vast dome of heaven with its starmouldings
and the flaming constellations like the mosaics in the dome of St Peters
Have you not heard funeral psalms from the chantry Have you not heard the sound
of churchbells as I promised mysterious sounds from the Past and Future as
from the belfries outside the cathedral even such a mournful mellow watery
peal of bells as is heard sometimes at sea from cities afar off below the
horizon
I know not how this Romanesque and at times flamboyant style of
architecture may please the critics They may wish perhaps that I had omitted
some of my many ornaments my arabesques and roses and fantastic spouts and
HolyRoods and Galileesteeples But would it then have been Romanesque
But perhaps Gentle Reader thou art one of those who think the days of
romance gone forever Believe it not Oh believe it not Thou hast at this
moment in thy heart as sweet a romance as was ever written Thou art not less a
woman because thou dost not sit aloft in a tower with a tasselgentle on thy
wrist Thou art not less a man because thou wearest no hauberk nor mailsark
and goest not on horseback after foolish adventures Every one has a romance in
his own heart All that has blessed or awed the world lies there and
The oracle within him that which lives
He must invoke and question not dead books
Not ordinances not mouldrotted papers
Sooner or later some passages of every ones romance must be written either in
words or actions They will proclaim the truth for Truth is thought which has
assumed its appropriate garments either of words or actions while Falsehood is
thought which disguised in words or actions not its own comes before the blind
old world as Jacob came before the patriarch Isaac clothed in the goodly
raiment of his brother Esau And the world like the patriarch is often
deceived for though the voice is Jacobs voice yet the hands are the hands of
Esau and the False takes away the birthright and the blessing from the True
Hence it is that the world so often lifts up its voice and weeps
That very pleasing and fanciful Chinese romance the Shadow in the Water
ends with the heros marrying both the heroines I hope my gentle reader feels
curious to know the end of this romance which is a shadow upon the earth and
see whether there be any marriage at all in it
That is the very point I am now thinking of as I sit here at my pleasant
chamberwindow and enjoy the balmy air of a bright summer morning and watch
the motions of the golden robin that sits on its swinging nest on the outermost
pendulous branch of yonder elm The broad meadows and the steelblue river
remind me of the meadows of Unterseen and the river Aar and beyond them rise
magnificent snowwhite clouds piled up like Alps Thus the shades of Washington
and William Tell seem to walk together on these Elysian Fields for it was here
that in days long gone our great patriot dwelt and yonder clouds so much
resemble the snowy Alps that they remind me irresistibly of the Swiss Noble
examples of a high purpose and a fixed will Do they not move Hyperionlike on
high Were they not likewise sons of Heaven and Earth
Nothing can be more lovely than these summer mornings nor than the southern
window at which I sit and write in this old mansion which is like an Italian
villa But oh this lassitude this weariness when all around me is so
bright I have this morning a singular longing for flowers a wish to stroll
among the roses and carnations and inhale their breath as if it would revive
me I wish I knew the man who called flowers the fugitive poetry of Nature From
this distance from these scholastic shades from this leafy blossoming and
beautiful Cambridge I stretch forth my hand to grasp his as the hand of a
poet Yes this morning I would rather stroll with him among the gay flowers
than sit here and write I feel so weary
Old men with their staves says the Spanish poet are ever knocking at the
door of the grave But I am not old The Spanish poet might have included the
young also No matter Courage and forward The romance must be finished and
finished soon
O thou poor authorling Reach a little deeper into the human heart Touch
those strings touch those deeper strings and more boldly or the notes will
die away like whispers and no ear shall hear them save thine own And to
cheer thy solitary labor remember that the secret studies of an author are the
sunken piers upon which is to rest the bridge of his fame spanning the dark
waters of Oblivion They are out of sight but without them no superstructure
can stand secure
And now Reader since the sermon is over and we are still sitting here in
this Miserere let us read aloud a page from the old parchment manuscript on the
lettern before us let us sing it through these dusky aisles like a Gregorian
chant and startle the sleeping congregation
»I have read of the great river Euripus which ebbeth and floweth seven
times a day and with such violence that it carrieth ships upon it with full
sail directly against the wind Seven times in an hour ebbeth and floweth rash
opinion in the torrent of indiscreet and troublesome apprehensions carrying
critic calumny and squinteyed detraction mainly against the wind of wisdom and
judgment«
In secula seculorum Amen
Chapter II
Curfew Bells
Welcome Disappointment Thy hand is cold and hard but it is the hand of a
friend Thy voice is stern and harsh but it is the voice of a friend Oh there
is something sublime in calm endurance something sublime in the resolute fixed
purpose of suffering without complaining which makes disappointment oftentimes
better than success
The Emperor Isaac Angelus made a treaty with Saladin and tried to purchase
the Holy Sepulchre with gold Richard Lionheart scorned such alliance and
sought to recover it by battle Thus do weak minds make treaties with the
passions they cannot overcome and try to purchase happiness at the expense of
principle But the resolute will of a strong man scorns such means and
struggles nobly with his foe to achieve great deeds Therefore whosoever thou
art that sufferest try not to dissipate thy sorrow by the breath of the world
nor drown its voice in thoughtless merriment It is a treacherous peace that is
purchased by indulgence Rather take this sorrow to thy heart and make it a
part of thee and it shall nourish thee till thou art strong again
The shadows of the mind are like those of the body In the morning of life
they all lie behind us at noon we trample them under foot and in the evening
they stretch long broad and deepening before us Are not then the sorrows of
childhood as dark as those of age Are not the morning shadows of life as deep
and broad as those of its evening Yes but morning shadows soon fade away
while those of evening reach forward into the night and mingle with the coming
darkness Man is begotten in delight and born in pain and in these are the
rapture and labor of his life foreshadowed from the beginning But the life of
man upon this fair earth is made up for the most part of little pains and
little pleasures The great wonderflowers bloom but once in a lifetime
A week had already elapsed since the events recorded in the last chapter
Paul Flemming went his way a melancholy man drinking the sweet wormwood of his
sorrow He did not rail at Providence and call it fate but suffered and was
silent It is a beautiful trait in the lovers character that he thinks no evil
of the object loved What he suffered was no swift storm of feeling that passes
away with a noise and leaves the heart clearer but a dark phantom had risen up
in the clear night and like that of Adamastor hid the stars and if it ever
vanished away for a season still the deep sound of the moaning main would be
heard afar through many a dark and lonely hour And thus he journeyed on
wrapped in desponding gloom and mainly heedless of all things around him His
mind was distempered That one face was always before him that one voice was
forever saying
»You are not the Magician«
Painful indeed it is to be misunderstood and undervalued by those we love
But this too in our life must we learn to bear without a murmur for it is a
tale often repeated
There are persons in this world to whom all local associations are naught
The genius of the place speaks not to them Even on battlefields where the
voice of this genius is loudest they hear only the sound of their own voices
they meet there only their own dull and pedantic thoughts as the old grammarian
Brunetto Latini met on the plain of Roncesvalles a poor student riding on a bay
mule This was not always the case with Paul Flemming but it had become so now
He felt no interest in the scenery around him He hardly looked at it Even the
difficult mountainpasses where from his rocky eyrie the eagleeyed Tyrolese
peasant had watched his foe and the roaring turbid torrent underneath which
had swallowed up the bloody corse that fell from the rocks like a crushed worm
awakened no lively emotion in his breast All around him seemed dreamy and
vague all within dim as in a suns eclipse As the moon whether visible or
invisible has power over the tides of the ocean so the face of that lady
whether present or absent had power over the tides of his soul both by day and
night both waking and sleeping In every pale face and dark eye he saw a
resemblance to her and what the day denied him in reality the night gave him in
dreams
»This is a strange fantastic world« said Berkley after a very long
silence during which the two travellers had been sitting each in his corner of
the travellingcarriage wrapped in his own reflections »A very strange
fantastic world where each one pursues his own golden bubble and laughs at his
neighbor for doing the same I have been thinking how a moral Linnæus would
classify our race I think he would divide it not as Lord Byron did into two
great classes the bores and those who are bored but into three namely
Happy Men Lucky Dogs and Miserable Wretches This is more true and
philosophical though perhaps not quite so comprehensive He is the Happy Man
who blessed with modest ease a wife and children sits enthroned in the hearts
of his family and knows no other ambition than that of making those around him
happy But the Lucky Dog is he who free from all domestic cares saunters up
and down his room in morning gown and slippers drums on the window of a rainy
day and as he stirs his evening fire snaps his fingers at the world and
says I have no wife nor children good or bad to provide for I had a friend
who is now no more He was taken away in the bloom of life by a very rapid
widow He was by birth and by profession a beau born with a quizzingglass
and a cane Cock of the walk he flapped his wings and crowed among the
feathered tribe But alas a fair white partlet has torn his crest out and he
shall crow no more In the evening he rocks the cradle and gets up in the night
when the child cries Like a Goth of the Dark Ages he consults his wife on all
mighty matters and looks upon her as a being of more than human goodness and
wisdom In short the women all say he is a very domestic man and makes a good
husband which under the rose is only a more polite way of saying he is
henpecked He is a Happy Man I have another dear friend who is a sexagenary
bachelor He has one of those welloiled dispositions which turn upon the hinges
of the world without creaking The heyday of life is over with him but his old
age is sunny and chirping and a merry heart still nestles in his tottering
frame like a swallow that builds in a tumbledown chimney He is a professed
Squire of Dames The rustle of a silk gown is music to his ears and his
imagination is continually lanternled by some willwithawisp in the shape of
a ladys stomacher In his devotion to the fair sex the muslin as he calls it
he is the gentle flower of chivalry It is amusing to see how quick he strikes
into the scent of a ladys handkerchief When once fairly in pursuit there is
no such thing as throwing him off His heart looks out at his eye and his
inward delight tingles down to the tail of his coat He loves to bask in the
sunshine of a smile when he can breathe the sweet atmosphere of kid gloves and
cambric handkerchiefs his soul is in its element and his supreme delight is to
pass the morning to use his own quaint language in making dodging calls and
wriggling round among the ladies He is a Lucky Dog«
»And as a specimen of the class of Miserable Wretches I suppose you will
take me« said Flemming making an effort to enter into his friends humor
»Certainly I am wretched enough You may make me the stuffed bear the
specimen of this class«
»By no means« replied Berkley »you are not reduced so low He only is
utterly wretched who is the slave of his own passions or those of others This
I trust will never be your condition Why so wan and pale fond lover Do you
remember Sir John Sucklings song
Why so wan and pale fond lover
Prythee why so pale
Will if looking well cant move her
Looking ill prevail
Prythee why so pale
Why so dull and mute young sinner
Prythee why so mute
Will if speaking well cant win her
Saying nothing do t
Prythee why so mute
Quit quit for shame this cannot move
This cannot take her
If of herself she do not love
Nothing will make her
The devil take her
How do you like that«
»To you I say quit quit for shame« replied Flemming »Why quote the songs
of that witty and licentious age Have you no better consolation to offer me
How many many times must I tell you that I bear the lady no illwill I do not
blame her for not loving me I desire her happiness even at the sacrifice of my
own«
»That is generous in you and deserves a better fate But you are so
figurative in all you say that a stranger would think you had no real feeling
and only fancied yourself in love«
»Expression of feeling is different with different minds It is not always
simple Some minds when excited naturally speak in figures and similitudes
They do not on that account feel less deeply This is obvious in our most common
modes of speech It depends upon the individual«
»Kyrie Eleyson«
»Well abuse my figures of speech as much as you please What I insist upon
is that you shall not abuse the lady When did you ever hear me breathe a
whisper against her«
»Oho Now you speak like Launce to his dog«
Their conversation which had begun so merrily was here suddenly
interrupted by a rattling peal of thunder that announced a nearapproaching
storm It was late in the afternoon and the whole heaven black with low
trailing clouds Still blacker the storm came sailing up majestically from the
southwest with almost unbroken volleys of distant thunder The wind seemed to
be storming a cloudredoubt and marched onward with dust and the green banners
of the trees flapping in the air and heavy cannonading and occasionally an
explosion like the blowing up of a powderwagon Mingled with this was the
sound of thunderbells from a village not far off They were all ringing
dolefully to ward off the thunderbolt At the entrance of the village stood a
large wooden crucifix around which was a crowd of priests and peasants
kneeling in the wet grass by the roadside with their hands and eyes lifted to
heaven and praying for rain Their prayer was soon answered
The travellers drove on with the driving wind and rain They had come from
Landeck and hoped to reach Innsbruck before midnight Night closed in and
Flemming fell asleep with the loud storm overhead and at his feet the roaring
Inn a mountain torrent leaping onward as wild and restless as when it first
sprang from its cradle in the solitudes of Engaddin meet emblem of himself
thus rushing through the night His slumber was long but broken and at length
he awoke in terror for he heard a voice pronounce in his ear distinctly these
words
»They have brought the dead body«
They were driving by a churchyard at the entrance of a town and among the
tombs a dim lamp was burning before an image of the Virgin It had a most
unearthly appearance Flemming almost feared to see the congregation of the dead
go into the church and sing their midnight mass He spoke to Berkley but
received no answer he was in a deep sleep
»Then it was only a dream« said he to himself »yet how distinct the voice
was Oh if we had spiritual organs to see and hear things now invisible and
inaudible to us we should behold the whole air filled with the departing souls
of that vast multitude which every moment dies should behold them streaming
up like thin vapors heavenward and hear the startling blast of the archangels
trump sounding incessant through the universe and proclaiming the awful
judgmentday Truly the soul departs not alone on its last journey but spirits
of its kind attend it when not ministering angels and they go in families to
the unknown land Neither in life nor in death are we alone«
He slept again at intervals and at length though long after midnight
reached Innsbruck between sleeping and waking his mind filled with dim
recollections of the unspeakably dismal night journey the climbing of hills
and plunging into dark ravines the momentary rattling of the wheels over paved
streets of towns and the succeeding hollow rolling and tramping on the wet
earth the blackness of the night the thunder and lightning and rain the roar
of waters leaping through deep chasms by the roadside and the wind through the
mountainpasses sounding loud and long like the inextinguishable laughter of
the gods
The travellers on the morrow lingered not long in Innsbruck They did not
fail however to visit the tomb of Maximilian in the Franciscan Church of the
Holy Cross and gaze with some admiration upon the twentyeight gigantic bronze
statues of Godfrey of Bouillon and King Arthur and Ernest the Ironman and
Frederick of the Empty Pockets kings and heroes and others which stand
leaning on their swords between the columns of the church as if guarding the
tomb of the dead These statues reminded Flemming of the bronze giants which
strike the hours on the belfry of San Basso in Venice and of the flailarmed
monsters that guarded the gateway of Angulaffers castle in Oberon After gazing
awhile at these motionless sentinels they went forth and strolled through the
public gardens with the jagged mountains right over their heads and all around
them tall melancholy pines like Tyrolese peasants with shaggy hair and at
their feet the mad torrent of the Inn sweeping with turbid waves through the
midst of the town In the afternoon they drove on towards Salzburg through the
magnificent mountainpasses of Waidering and Unken
Chapter III
Shadows on the Wall
On the following morning Flemming awoke in a chamber of the Golden Ship at
Salzburg just as the clock in the cathedral opposite was striking ten The
windowshutters were closed and the room was nearly dark He was lying with his
hands crossed upon his breast and his eyes looking up at the white curtains
overhead He thought them the white marble canopy of a tomb and himself the
marble statue lying beneath When the clock ceased striking the
eightandtwenty gigantic bronze statues from the Church of Holy Rood in
Innsbruck stalked into the chamber and arranged themselves along the walls
which spread into dimly lighted aisles and arches On the painted windows he saw
Interlachen with its Franciscan cloister and the Square Tower of the ruins In
a pendant overhead stood the German mechanic as Saint Vitus and on a
lavatory below sat a cherub with the form and features of Berkley Then the
organpipes began to blow and he heard the voices of an invisible choir
chanting And anon the gilded gates in the bronze screen before the chancel
opened and a bridal procession passed through The bride was clothed in the
garb of the Middle Ages and held a book in her hand with velvet covers and
golden clasps It was Mary Ashburton She looked at him as she passed Her face
was pale and there were tears in her sweet eyes Then the gates closed again
and one of the oaken poppyheads over a carved stall in the shape of an owl
flapped its broad wings and hooted »Towhit towho« Then the whole scene
changed and he thought himself a monkshead on a gutterspout and it rained
dismally and Berkley was standing underneath with an umbrella laughing
In other words, Flemming was in a raging fever and delirious He remained
in this state for a week The first thing he was conscious of was hearing the
doctor say to Berkley
»The crisis is passed I now consider him out of danger«
He then fell into a sweet sleep the wild fever had swept away like an
angry red cloud and the refreshing summer rain began to fall like dew upon the
parched earth Still another week and Flemming was sitting clothed and in his
right mind Berkley had been reading to him and still held the book in his
hand with his forefinger between the leaves It was a volume of Hoffmanns
writings
»How very strange it is« said he »that you can hardly open the biography
of any German author but you will find it begin with an account of his
grandfather It will tell you how the venerable old man walked up and down the
garden among the gay flowers wrapped in his morning gown which is likewise
covered with flowers and perhaps wearing on his head a little velvet cap Or
you will find him sitting by the chimneycorner in the great chair smoking his
ancestral pipe with shaggy eyebrows and eyes like birdsnests under the eaves
of a house and a mouth like a Nuremberg nutcrackers The future poet climbs
upon the old mans knees His genius is not recognized yet He is thought for
the most part a dull boy His father is an austere man or perhaps dead But the
mother is still there a sickly saintlike woman with knittingwork and an
elder sister who has already been in love and wears rings on her fingers
Deaths heads and such mementoes
Her grandmother and wormeaten aunts left to her
To tell her what her beauty must arrive at«
»But this is not the case with the life of Hoffmann if I recollect right«
»No not precisely Instead of the grandfather we have the grandmother a
stately dame who has long since shaken hands with the vanities of life The
mother separated from her husband is sick in mind and body and flits to and
fro like a shadow Then there is an affectionate maiden aunt and an uncle a
retired judge the terror of little boys the Giant Despair of this Doubting
Castle in Königsberg and occasionally the benign countenance of a venerable
granduncle whom La Motte Fouqué called a hero of the olden time in morning
gown and slippers looks in at the door and smiles In the upper story of the
same house lived a poor boy with his mother who was so far crazed as to believe
herself to be the Virgin Mary and her son the Saviour of the world Wild
fancies likewise were to sweep through the brain of that child He was to meet
Hoffmann elsewhere and be his friend in after years though as yet they knew
nothing of each other This was Werner who has made some noise in German
literature as the author of many wild DestinyDramas«
»Hoffmann died I believe in Berlin«
»Yes He left Königsberg at twenty years of age and passed the next eight
years of his life in the PrussianPolish provinces where he held some petty
office under government and took to himself many bad habits and a Polish wife
After this he was MusicDirector at various German theatres and led a
wandering wretched life for ten years He then went to Berlin as Clerk of the
Exchange and there remained till his death which took place some seven or
eight years afterward«
»Did you ever see him«
»I was in Berlin during his lifetime and saw him frequently I shall never
forget the first time It was at one of the Æsthetic Teas given by a literary
lady unter den Linden where the lions were fed with convenient food from tea
and bread and butter up to oysters and Rhinewine During the evening my
attention was arrested by the entrance of a strange little figure with a wild
head of brown hair His eyes were bright gray and his thin lips closely pressed
together with an expression of not unpleasing irony This strangelooking
personage began to bow his way through the crowd with quick nervous
hingelike motions much resembling those of a marionnette He had a hoarse
voice and such a rapid utterance that although I understand German well enough
for ordinary purposes I could not make out one half he said Erelong he had
seated himself at the pianoforte and was improvising such wild sweet fancies
that the music of ones dreams is not more sweet and wild Then suddenly some
painful thought seemed to pass over his mind as if he imagined that he was
there to amuse the company He rose from the pianoforte and seated himself in
another part of the room where he began to make grimaces and talk loud while
others were singing Finally he disappeared like a hobgoblin laughing Ho ho
ho I asked a person beside me who this strange being was That is Hoffmann was
the answer The Devil said I Yes continued my informant and if you should
follow him now you would see him plunge into an obscure and unfrequented
winecellar and there amid boon companions with wine and tobaccosmoke and
quirks and quibbles and quaint witty sayings turn the dim night into glorious
day«
»What a strange being«
»I once saw him at one of his nightcarouses He was sitting in his glory
at the head of the table not stupidly drunk but warmed with wine which made
him madly eloquent as the Devils Elixir did the monk Medardus There in the
full tide of witty discourse or if silent his gray hawkeye flashing from
beneath his matted hair and taking note of all that was grotesque in the
company round him sat this unfortunate genius till the day began to dawn Then
he found his way homeward having like the souls of the envious in Purgatory
his eyelids sewed together with iron wire though his was from champagne
bottles At such hours he wrote his wild fantastic tales To his excited fancy
everything assumed a spectral look The shadows of familiar things about him
stalked like ghosts through the haunted chambers of his soul and the old
portraits on the walls winked at him and seemed stepping down from their
frames till aghast at the spectral throng about him he would call his wife
from her bed to sit by him while he wrote«
»No wonder he died in the prime of life«
»No The only wonder is that he could have followed this course of life for
six years I am astonished that it did not kill him sooner«
»But death came at last in an appalling shape«
»Yes his fortysixth birthday found him sitting at home in his armchair
with his friends around him But the rare old wine he always drank the best
touched not the sick mans lips that night His wonted humor was gone Of all
his jibes his gambols his songs his flashes of merriment that were wont to
set the table on a roar not one now to mock his own grinning quite
chapfallen The conversation was of death and the grave And when one of his
friends said that life was not the highest good Hoffmann interrupted him
exclaiming with a startling earnestness No no Life life only life on any
condition whatsoever Five months after this he had ceased to suffer because he
had ceased to live He died piecemeal His feet and hands his legs and arms
gradually and in succession became motionless dead But his spirit was not
dead nor motionless and through the solitary day or sleepless night lying in
his bed he dictated to an amanuensis his last stories Strange stories indeed
were they for a dying man to write Yet such delight did he take in dictating
them that he said to his friend Hitzig that upon the whole he was willing to
give up forever the use of his hands if he could but preserve the power of
writing by dictation Such was his love of life of what he called the sweet
habitude of being«
»Was it not he who in his last hours expressed such a longing to behold the
green fields once more and exclaimed Heaven it is already summer and I have
not yet seen a single green tree«
»Yes that was Hoffmann Soon afterwards he died The closing scene was
striking He gradually lost all sensation though his mind remained vigorous
Feeling no more pain he said to his physician It will soon be over now I feel
no more pain He thought himself well again but the physician knew that he was
dying and said Yes it will soon be over The next morning he called his wife
to his bedside and begged her to fold his motionless hands together Then as
he raised his eyes to heaven she heard him say We must then think of God
also More sorrowful words than these have seldom fallen from the lips of man
Shortly afterwards the flame of life glared up within him he said he was well
again that in the evening he should go on with the story he was writing and
wished that the last sentence might be read over to him Shortly after this they
turned his face to the wall and he died«
»And thus passed to its account a human soul after much selfinflicted
suffering Let us tread lightly upon the poets ashes For my part I confess
that I have not the heart to take him from the general crowd of erring sinful
men and judge him harshly The little I have seen of the world and know of the
history of mankind teaches me to look upon the errors of others in sorrow not
in anger When I take the history of one poor heart that has sinned and
suffered and represent to myself the struggles and temptations it has passed
the brief pulsations of joy the feverish inquietude of hope and fear the tears
of regret the feebleness of purpose the pressure of want the desertion of
friends the scorn of a world that has little charity the desolation of the
souls sanctuary and threatening voices within health gone happiness gone
even hope that stays longest with us gone I have little heart for aught
else than thankfulness that it is not so with me and would fain leave the
erring soul of my fellowman with Him from whose hands it came
Even as a little girl
Weeping and laughing in her childish sport«
»You are right And it is worth a students while to observe calmly how tobacco
wine and midnight did their work like fiends upon the delicate frame of
Hoffmann and no less thoroughly upon his delicate mind He who drinks beer
thinks beer and he who drinks wine thinks wine and he who drinks midnight
thinks midnight He was a man of rare intellect He was endowed with racy humor
and sarcastic wit and a glorious imagination But the fire of his genius burned
not peacefully and with a steady flame upon the hearth of his home It was a
glaring and irregular flame for the branches that he fed it with were not
branches from the Tree of Life but from another tree that grew in Paradise and
they were wet with the unhealthy dews of night and more unhealthy wine and
thus amid smoke and ashes the fire burned fitfully and went out with a glare
which leaves the beholder blind«
»This fire within him was a Meleagers firebrand and when it burned out he
died And as you say marks of all this are clearly visible in Hoffmanns
writings Indeed when I read his strange fancies it is with me as when in the
summer night I hear the rising wind among the trees and the branches bow and
beckon with their long fingers and voices go gibbering and mocking through the
air A feeling of awe and mysterious dread comes over me I wish to hear the
sound of living voice or footstep near me to see a friendly and familiar
face In truth if it be late at night the reader as well as the writer of
these unearthly fancies would fain have a patient meekeyed wife with her
knittingwork at his elbow«
Berkley smiled but Flemming continued without noticing the smile though he
knew what was passing in the mind of his friend
»The life and writings of this singular being interest me in a high degree
Sometimes we may learn more from a mans errors than from his virtues Moreover
from the common sympathies of our nature souls that have struggled and suffered
are dear to me Willingly do I recognize their brotherhood Scars upon their
foreheads do not so deform them that they cease to interest They are always
signs of struggle though alas too often likewise of defeat Seasons of
unhealthy dreamy vague delight are followed by seasons of weariness and
darkness Where are then the bright fancies that amid the great stillness of
the night arise like stars in the firmament of our souls The morning dawns
the light of common day shines in upon us and the heavens are without a star
From the lives of such men we learn that mere pleasant sensations are not
happiness that sensual pleasures are to be drunk sparingly and as it were
from the palm of the hand and that those who bow down upon their knees to drink
of these bright streams that water life are not chosen of God either to
overthrow or overcome«
»I think you are very lenient in your judgment This is not the usual defect
of critics Like Shakespeares samphiregatherer they have a dreadful trade
and to make the simile complete they ought to hang for it«
»Methinks it would be hard to hang a man for the sake of a simile But now
go on with the PhantasyPieces in Callots manner«
»By the way who was this Callot«
»He was a Lorraine painter of the seventeenth century celebrated for his
wild and grotesque conceptions These sketches of Hoffmann are imitations of his
style«
»And which of them shall I read to you next The Ritter Glück or the
Musical Sufferings of John Kreisler or that exquisite story of the Golden Jar
wherein is depicted the life of Poesy in this commonplace world of ours«
»Read the shortest Read Kreisler That will amuse me It is a picture of
his own sufferings at the Æsthetic Teas in Berlin supposed to be written in
pencil on the blank leaves of a musicbook«
Thereupon Berkley leaned back in his easychair and read as follows
Chapter IV
Musical Sufferings of John Kreisler
»They are all gone I might have known it by the whispering shuffling
coughing humming through all the notes of the gamut It was a true swarm of
bees leaving the old hive Gottlieb has lighted fresh candles for me and
placed a bottle of Burgundy on the pianoforte I can play no more I am
perfectly exhausted My glorious old friend here on the musicstand is to blame
for that Again he has borne me away through the air as Mephistopheles did
Faust and so high that I took not the slightest notice of the little men under
me though I dare say they made noise enough A rascally worthless wasted
evening But now I am well and merry However while I was playing I took out
my pencil and on page sixtythree under the last staff noted down a couple of
good flourishes in cipher with my right hand while the left was struggling away
in the torrent of sweet sounds Upon the blank page at the end I go on writing
I leave all ciphers and sweet sounds and with true delight like a sick man
restored to health who can never stop relating what he has suffered I note
down here circumstantially the dire agonies of this evenings teaparty And not
for myself alone but likewise for all those who from time to time may amuse and
edify themselves with my copy of John Sebastian Bachs Variations for the
Pianoforte published by Nägeli in Zürich and who find my marks at the end of
the thirtieth variation and led on by the great Latin Verte I will write it
down the moment I get through this doleful statement of grievances turn over
the leaf and read
They will at once see the connection They know that the Geheimerath
Rödeleins house is a charming house to visit in and that he has two daughters
of whom the whole fashionable world proclaims with enthusiasm that they dance
like goddesses speak French like angels and play and sing and draw like the
Muses The Geheimerath Rödelein is a rich man At his quarterly dinners he sends
up the most delicious wines and richest dishes All is established on a footing
of the greatest elegance and whoever at his teaparties does not amuse himself
heavenly has no ton no esprit and particularly no taste for the fine arts It
is with an eye to these that with the tea punch wine ices etc a little
music is always served up which like the other refreshments is very quietly
swallowed by the fashionable world
The arrangements are as follows After every guest has had time enough to
drink as many cups of tea as he may wish and punch and ices have been handed
round twice the servants wheel out the cardtables for the elder and more solid
part of the company who had rather play cards than any musical instrument and
in fact this kind of playing does not make such a useless noise as the other
and you hear only the clink of money
This is a hint for the younger part of the company to pounce upon the Misses
Rödelein A great tumult ensues in the midst of which you can distinguish these
words
Schönes Fräulein do not refuse us the gratification of your heavenly
talent Oh sing something thats a good dear impossible bad cold the
last ball have not practised anything Oh do do we beg of you etc
Meanwhile Grottlieb has opened the pianoforte and placed the wellknown
musicbook on the stand and from the cardtable cries the respectable mamma
Chantez donc mes enfants
That is the cue of my part I place myself at the pianoforte and the
Rödeleins are led up to the instrument in triumph
And now another difficulty arises Neither wishes to sing first
You know dear Nanette how dreadfully hoarse I am
Why my dear Marie I am as hoarse as you are
I sing so badly
Oh my dear child do begin
My suggestion I always make the same that they should both begin
together with a duet is loudly applauded the musicbook is thumbed over and
the leaf carefully folded down is at length found and away we go with Dolce
dell anima etc
To tell the truth the talent of the Misses Rödelein is not the smallest I
have been an instructor here only five years and little short of two years in
the Rödelein family In this short time Fräulein Nanette has made such
progress that a tune which she has heard at the theatre only ten times and
has played on the pianoforte at farthest ten times more she will sing right
off so that you know in a moment what it is Fräulein Marie catches it at the
eighth time and if she is sometimes a quarter of a note lower than the
pianoforte after all it is very tolerable considering her pretty little
dollface and very passable rosy lips
After the duet a universal chorus of applause And now ariettas and
duettinos succeed each other and right merrily I hammer away at the
thousandtimesrepeated accompaniments During the singing the Finanzräthin
Eberstein by coughing and humming has given us to understand that she also
sings Fräulein Nanette says
But my dear Finanzräthin now you must let us hear your exquisite voice
A new tumult arises She has a bad cold in her head she does not know
anything by heart Gottlieb brings straightway two armfuls of musicbooks and
the leaves are turned over again and again First she thinks she will sing Der
Hölle Rache etc then Hebe sich etc then Ach Ich liebte etc In this
embarrassment I propose Ein Veilchen auf der Wiese etc But she is for the
heroic style she wants to make a display and finally selects Constanze
Oh scream squeak mew gurgle groan agonize quiver quaver just as
much as you please Madam I have my foot on the fortissimo pedal and thunder
myself deaf O Satan Satan which of thy goblins damned has got into this
throat pinching and kicking and cuffing the tones about so Four strings have
snapped already and one hammer is lamed for life My ears ring again my head
hums my nerves tremble Have all the harsh notes from the cracked trumpet of
a mountebank been imprisoned in this little throat But this excites me I
must drink a glass of Burgundy
The applause was unbounded and some one observed that the Finanzräthin and
Mozart had put me quite into a blaze I smiled with downcast eyes very
stupidly I could but acknowledge it And now all talents which hitherto had
bloomed unseen were in motion wildly flitting to and fro They were bent upon
a surfeit of music tuttis finales choruses must be performed The Canonicus
Kratzer sings you know a heavenly bass as was observed by the gentleman
yonder with the head of Titus Andronicus who modestly remarked also that he
himself was properly only a secondrate tenor but though he said it who should
not say it he was nevertheless member of several academies of music Forthwith
preparations are made for the first chorus in the opera of Titus It went off
gloriously The Canonicus standing close behind me thundered out the bass over
my head as if he were singing with bassdrums and trumpet obligato in a
cathedral He struck the notes gloriously but in his hurry he got the tempo
about twice too slow However he was true to himself at least in this that
through the whole piece he dragged along just half a beat behind the rest The
others showed a most decided penchant for the ancient Greek music which as is
well known having nothing to do with harmony ran on in unison or monotone
They all sang treble with slight variations caused by accidental rising or
falling of the voice say some quarter of a note
This somewhat noisy affair produced a universal tragic state of feeling
namely a kind of terror even at the cardtables which for the moment could no
longer as before chime in melodramatically by weaving into the music sundry
exclamations as for instance
Oh I loved eight and forty was so happy I pass then I knew not
whist pangs of love follow suit etc It has a very pretty effect I
fill my glass
That was the highest point of the musical exhibition this evening Now it is
all over thought I to myself I shut the book and got up from the pianoforte
But the Baron my ancient tenor came up to me and said
My dear Herr Capellmeister they say you play the most exquisite
voluntaries Now do play us one only a short one I entreat you
I answered very dryly that today my fantasies had all gone a
woolgathering and while we are talking about it a devil in the shape of a
dandy with two waistcoats had smelt out Bachs Variations which were lying
under my hat in the next room He thinks they are merely little variations such
as Nel cor mio non più sento or Ah vous diraije maman etc and insists upon
it that I shall play them I try to excuse myself but they all attack me So
then Listen and burst with ennui think I to myself and begin to work away
When I had got to variation number three several ladies departed followed
by the gentleman with the TitusAndronicus head The Rödeleins as their teacher
was playing stood it out though not without difficulty to number twelve
Number fifteen made the man with two waistcoats take to his heels Out of most
excessive politeness the Baron stayed till number thirty and drank up all the
punch which Gottlieb placed on the pianoforte for me
I should have brought all to a happy conclusion but alas this number
thirty the theme tore me irresistibly away Suddenly the quarto leaves
spread out to a gigantic folio on which a thousand imitations and developments
of the theme stood written and I could not choose but play them The notes
became alive and glimmered and hopped all round about me an electric fire
streamed through the tips of my fingers into the keys the spirit from which
it gushed forth spread his broad wings over my soul the whole room was filled
with a thick mist in which the candles burned dim and through which peered
forth now a nose and anon a pair of eyes and then suddenly vanished away
again And thus it came to pass that I was left alone with my Sebastian Bach by
Gottlieb attended as by a familiar spirit Your good health Sir
Is an honest musician to be tormented with music as I have been today and
am so often tormented Verily no art is so damnably abused as this same
glorious holy Musica who in her delicate being is so easily desecrated Have
you real talent real feeling for art Then study music do something worthy
of the art and dedicate your whole soul to the beloved saint If without this
you have a fancy for quavers and demisemiquavers practise for yourself and by
yourself and torment not therewith the Capellmeister Kreisler and others
Well now I might go home and put the finishing touch to my sonata for the
pianoforte but it is not yet eleven oclock and withal a beautiful summer
night I will lay any wager that at my neighbors the Oberjägermeister the
young ladies are sitting at the window screaming down into the street for the
twentieth time with harsh sharp piercing voices When thine eye is beaming
love but only the first stanza over and over again Obliquely across the
way some one is murdering the flute and has moreover lungs like Rameaus
nephew and in notes of linked sweetness long drawn out his neighbor is trying
acoustic experiments on the French horn The numerous dogs of the neighborhood
are growing unquiet and my landlords cat inspired by that sweet duet is
making by my window for of course my musicopoetic laboratory is an attic
certain tender confessions upward through the whole chromatic scale soft
complaining to the neighbors tabby with whom he has been in love since March
last Till this is all fairly over I think I will sit quietly here Besides
there is still blank paper and Burgundy left of which I forthwith take a sip
There is as I have heard an ancient law forbidding those who follow any
noisy handicraft from living near literary men Should not then musical
composers poor and hard beset and who moreover are forced to coin their
inspiration into gold to spin out the thread of life withal be allowed to
apply this law to themselves and banish out of the neighborhood all
balladsingers and bagpipers What would a painter say while transferring to
his canvas a form of ideal beauty if you should hold up before him all manner
of wild faces and ugly masks He might shut his eyes and in this way at least
quietly follow out the images of fancy Cotton in ones ears is of no use one
still hears the dreadful massacre And then the idea the bare idea Now they
are going to sing now the horn strikes up is enough to send ones
sublimest thoughts to the very Devil«
Chapter V
Saint Gilgen
It was a bright Sunday morning when Flemming and Berkley left behind them the
cloudcapped hills of Salzburg and journeyed eastward towards the lakes The
landscape around them was one to attune their souls to holy musings Field
forest hill and vale fresh air and the perfume of cloverfields and newmown
hay birds singing and the sound of village bells and the moving breeze among
the branches no laborers in the fields but peasants on their way to church
coming across the green pastures with roses in their hats the beauty and
quiet of the holy day of rest all all in earth and air breathed upon the
soul like a benediction
They stopped to change horses at Hof a handful of houses on the brow of a
breezy hill the church and inn standing opposite to each other and nothing
between them but the dusty road and the churchyard with its iron crosses and
the fluttering tinsel of the funeral garlands In the churchyard and at the
inndoor were groups of peasants waiting for divine service to begin They
were clothed in their holiday dresses The men wore breeches and long boots and
frockcoats with large metal buttons the women straw hats and gay calico gowns
with short waists and scant folds They were adorned with a profusion of great
trumpery ornaments and reminded Flemming of the Indians in the frontier
villages of America Near the churchyardgate was a booth filled with flaunting
calicoes and opposite sat an old woman behind a table which was loaded with
gingerbread She had a roulette at her elbow where the peasants risked a
kreutzer for a cake On other tables cases of knives scythes reapinghooks
and other implements of husbandry were offered for sale
The travellers continued their journey without stopping to hear mass In
the course of the forenoon they came suddenly in sight of the beautiful lake of
Saint Wolfgang lying deep beneath them in the valley On its shore under them
sat the white village of Saint Gilgen like a swan upon its reedy nest They
seemed to have taken it unawares and as it were clapped their hands upon it
in its sleep and almost expected to see it spread its broad snowwhite wings
and fly away The whole scene was one of surpassing beauty
They drove leisurely down the steep hill and stopped at the village inn
Before the door was a magnificent broadarmed tree with benches and tables
beneath its shadow On the front of the house was written in large letters
PostTavern by Franz Schöndorfer and over this was a large sundial and a
halfeffaced painting of a bearhunt covering the whole side of the house and
mostly red As they drove up a procession of priests with banners and peasants
with their hats in their hands passed by towards the church They were singing
a solemn psalm At the same moment a smart servantgirl with a black straw hat
set coquettishly on her flaxen hair and a large silver spoon in her girdle
came out of the inn and asked Flemming what he would please to order for
breakfast
Breakfast was soon ready and was served at the head of the stairs on an
oldfashioned oaken table in the great hall into which the chambers opened
Berkley ordered at the same time a tub of cold water in which he seated
himself with his coat on and a bedquilt thrown round his knees Thus he sat
for an hour ate his breakfast and smoked a pipe and laughed a good deal He
then went to bed and slept till dinnertime Meanwhile Flemming sat in his
chamber and read It was a large room in the front of the house looking upon
the village and the lake The windows were latticed with small panes and the
windowsills filled with fragrant flowers
At length the heat of noon was over Day like a weary pilgrim had reached
the western gate of heaven and Evening stooped down to unloose the latchets of
his sandalshoon Flemming and Berkley sallied forth to ramble by the borders of
the lake Down the cool green glades and alleys beneath the illuminated leaves
of the forest over the rising grounds in the glimmering fretwork of sunshine
and leafshadow an exhilarating walk The cool evening air by the lake was
like a bath They drank the freshness of the hour in thirsty draughts and their
breasts heaved rejoicing and revived after the feverish long confinement of
the sultry summer day And there too lay the lake so beautiful and still Did
it not recall think ye the lake of Thun
On their return homeward they passed near the village churchyard
»Let us go in and see how the dead rest« said Flemming as they passed
beneath the belfry of the church and they went in and lingered among the tombs
and the evening shadows
How peaceful is the dwellingplace of those who inhabit the green hamlets
and populous cities of the dead They need no antidote for care no armor
against fate No morning sun shines in at the closed windows and awakens them
nor shall until the last great day At most a straggling sunbeam creeps in
through the crumbling wall of an old neglected tomb a strange visitor that
stays not long And there they all sleep the holy ones with their arms crossed
upon their breasts or lying motionless by their sides not carved in marble
by the hand of man but formed in dust by the hand of God Gods peace be with
them No one comes to them now to hold them by the hand and with delicate
fingers to smooth their hair They heed no more the blandishments of earthly
friendship They need us not however much we may need them And yet they
silently await our coming
Beautiful is that season of life when we can say in the language of
Scripture »Thou hast the dew of thy youth« But of these flowers Death gathers
many He places them upon his bosom and he is transformed into something less
terrific than before We learn to gaze and shudder not for he carries in his
arms the sweet blossoms of our earthly hopes We shall see them all again
blooming in a happier land
Yes Death brings us again to our friends They are waiting for us and we
shall not long delay They have gone before us and are like the angels in
heaven They stand upon the borders of the grave to welcome us with the
countenance of affection which they wore on earth yet more lovely more
radiant more spiritual He spake well who said that graves are the footprints
of angels
Death has taken thee too and thou hast the dew of thy youth He has placed
thee upon his bosom and his stern countenance wears a smile The far country
toward which we journey seems nearer to us and the way less dark for thou
hast gone before passing so quietly to thy rest that day itself dies not more
calmly
It was in an hour of blessed communion with the souls of the departed that
the sweet poet Henry Vaughan wrote those few lines which have made death lovely
They are all gone into a world of light
And I alone sit lingering here
Their very memory is fair and bright
And my sad thoughts doth clear
It glows and glitters in my cloudy breast
Like stars upon some gloomy grove
Or those faint beams in which the hill is dressed
After the suns remove
I see them walking in an air of glory
Whose light doth trample on my days
My days which are at best but dull and hoary
Mere glimmerings and decays
O holy hope and high humility
High as the heavens above
These are your walks and ye have showed them me
To kindle my cold love
Dear beauteous Death the jewel of the just
Shining nowhere but in the dark
What mysteries do lie beyond thy dust
Could man outlook that mark
He that hath found some fledged birds nest may know
At first sight if the bird be flown
But what fair field or grove he sings in now
That is to him unknown
And yet as angels in some brighter dreams
Call to the soul when man doth sleep
So some strange thoughts transcend our wonted themes
And into glory peep
If a star were confined into a tomb
Her captive flame must needs burn there
But when the hand that locked her up gave room
She d shine through all the sphere
O Father of eternal life and all
Created glories under thee
Resume thy spirit from this world of thrall
Into true liberty
Either disperse these mists which blot and fill
My perspective still as they pass
Or else remove me hence unto that hill
Where I shall need no glass
Such were Flemmings thoughts as he stood among the tombs at evening in the
churchyard of Saint Gilgen A holy calm stole over him The fever of his heart
was allayed He had a moments rest from pain and went back to his chamber in
peace Whence came this holy calm this longdesired tranquillity He knew not
yet the place seemed consecrated He resolved to linger there beside the lake
which was a Pool of Bethesda for him and let Berkley go on alone to the baths
of Ischel He would wait for him there in the solitude of Saint Gilgen Long
after they had parted for the night he sat in his chamber and thought of what
he had suffered and enjoyed the silence within and without Hour after hour
slipped by unheeded as he sat lost in his reverie At length his candle sank
in its socket gave one flickering gleam and expired with a sob This aroused
him
He went to the window and peered out into the dark night It was very late
Twice already since midnight had the great pulpitorator Time like a preacher
in the days of the Puritans turned the hourglass on his high pulpit the
churchbelfry and still went on with his sermon thundering downward to the
congregation in the churchyard and in the village But they heard him not They
were all asleep in their narrow pews namely in their beds and in their graves
Soon afterward the cock crew and the cloudy heaven like the Apostle who denied
his Lord wept bitterly
Chapter VI
Saint Wolfgang
The morning is lovely beyond expression The heat of the sun is great but a
gentle wind cools the air Birds never sang more loud and clear The flowers
too on the windowsill and on the table rose geranium and the delicate
crimson cactus are all so beautiful that we think the German poet right when
he calls the flowers »stars in the firmament of the earth« Out of doors all is
quiet Opposite the window stands the village schoolhouse There are two
parasite trees with their outspread branches nailed against the white walls
like the wings of culprit kites There the rods grow Under them on a bench at
the door sit schoolgirls and barefoot urchins in breeches are spelling out
their lessons The clock strikes twelve and one by one they disappear and go
into the hive like bees at the sound of a brass pan At the door of the next
house sits a poor woman knitting in the shade and in front of her is an
aqueduct pouring its cool clear water into a rough wooden trough A
travellingcarriage without horses stands at the inndoor and a postilion in
red jacket is talking with a blacksmith who wears blue woollen stockings and a
leather apron Beyond is a stable and still farther a cluster of houses and the
village church They are repairing the belfry and the bulbous steeple A little
farther over the roofs of the houses you can see Saint Wolfgangs lake Water
so bright and beautiful hardly flows elsewhere Green and blue and silverwhite
run into each other with almost imperceptible change And above are the
pinnacles of the mountains some bald and rocky and coneshaped and others
bold and broad and dark with pines
Such was the scene which Paul Flemming beheld from his window a few mornings
after Berkleys departure The quiet of the place had soothed him He had become
more calm His heart complained less loudly in the holy village silence as we
are wont to lower our voices when those around us speak in whispers He began to
feel at times an interest in the lowly things about him The face of the
landscape pleased him but more than this the face of the poor woman who sat
knitting in the shade It was a pale meek countenance with more delicacy in
its features than is usual among peasantry It wore also an expression of
patient suffering As he was looking at her a deformed child came out of the
door and hung upon her knees She caressed it affectionately It was her child
in whom she beheld her own fair features distorted and hardly to be recognized
as one sometimes sees ones face reflected from the bowl of a spoon
The childs deformity and the mothers tenderness interested the feelings of
Flemming The landlady told him something of the poor womans history She was
the widow of a blacksmith who had died soon after their marriage But she
survived to become a mother as in oaks immediately after fecundation the
male flower fades and falls while the female continues and ripens into perfect
fruit Alas her child was deformed Yet she looked upon him with eyes of
maternal fondness and pity loving him still more for his deformity And in her
heart she said as the Mexicans say to their newborn offspring »Child thou
art come into the world to suffer Endure and hold thy peace« Though poor she
was not entirely destitute for her husband had left her besides the deformed
child a life estate in a tomb in the churchyard of Saint Gilgen During the
week she labored for other people and on Sundays for herself by going to
church and reading the Bible On one of the blank leaves she had recorded the
day of her birth and that of her childs likewise her marriage and her
husbands death Thus she lived poor patient and resigned Her heart was a
passionflower bearing within it the crown of thorns and the cross of Christ
Her ideas of heaven were few and simple She rejected the doctrine that it was a
place of constant activity and not of repose and believed that when she at
length reached it she should work no more but sit always in a clean white
apron and sing psalms
As Flemming sat meditating on these things he paid new homage in his heart
to the beauty and excellence of the female character He thought of the absent
and the dead and said with tears in his eyes
»Shall I thank God for the green summer and the mild air and the flowers
and the stars and all that makes this world so beautiful and not for the good
and beautiful beings I have known in it Has not their presence been sweeter to
me than flowers Are they not higher and holier than the stars Are they not
more to me than all things else«
Thus the morning passed away in musings and in the afternoon when Flemming
was preparing to go down to the lake as his custom was a carriage drew up
before the door and to his great astonishment out jumped Berkley The first
thing he did was to give the postmaster who stood near the door a smart cut
with his whip The sufferer gently expostulated saying
»Pray Sir dont I am lame«
Whereupon Berkley desisted and began instead to shake the postmasters wife
by the shoulders and order his dinner in English But all this was done so
goodnaturedly and with such a rosy laughing face that no offence was taken
»So you have returned much sooner than you intended« said Flemming after
the first friendly salutations
»Yes« replied Berkley »I became tired of Ischel very tired I did not
find there the friends I expected Now I am going back to Salzburg and then to
Gastein There I shall certainly find them You must go with me«
Flemming declined the invitation and proposed to Berkley that he should
join him in his excursion on the lake
»You shall hear the grand echo of the Falkenstein« said he »and behold the
scene of the Bridal Tragedy and then we will go on as far as the village of
Saint Wolfgang which you have not yet seen except across the lake«
»Well this afternoon I devote to you for tomorrow we part once more and
who knows when we shall meet again«
They went down to the waters side without further delay and taking a boat
with two oars struck across an elbow of the lake towards a barren rock by the
eastern shore from which a small white monument shone in the sun
»That monument« said one of the boatmen a stout young lad in leather
breeches »was built by a butcher to the glory of Saint Wolfgang who saved him
from drowning He was one day riding an ox to market along the opposite bank
when the animal taking fright sprang into the water and swam over to this
place with the butcher on his back«
»And do you think he could have done this« asked Berkley »if Saint
Wolfgang had not helped him«
»Of course not« answered leatherbreeches and the Englishman laughed
From this point they rowed along under the shore to a low promontory upon
which stood another monument commemorating a more tragical event
»This is the place I was speaking of« said Flemming as the boatmen rested
on their oars »The melancholy and singular event it commemorates happened more
than two centuries ago There was a bridal party here upon the ice one winter
and in the midst of the dance the ice broke and the whole merry company were
drowned together except the fiddlers who were sitting on the shore«
They looked in silence at the monument and at the blue quiet water under
which the bones of the dancers lay buried hand in hand The monument is of
stone painted white with an overhanging roof to shelter it from storms In a
niche in front is a small image of the Saviour in a sitting posture and an
inscription upon a marble tablet below says that it was placed there by Longinus
Walther and his wife Barbara Juliana von Hainberg themselves long since
peacefully crumbled to dust side by side in some churchyard
»That was breaking the ice with a vengeance« said Berkley as they pushed
out into the lake again and erelong they were floating beneath the mighty
precipice of Falkenstein a steep wall of rock crowned with a chapel and a
hermitage where in days of old lived the holy Saint Wolfgang It is now haunted
only by an echo so distinct and loud that one might imagine the ghost of the
departed saint to be sitting there and repeating the voices from below not
word by word but sentence by sentence as if he were passing them up to the
recording angel
»Ho ho ho« shouted Berkley and the sound seemed to strike the wall of
stone like the flapping of steel plates »Ho ho ho How are you today
Saint Wolfgang You infernal old rascal How is the Frau von Wolfgang God
save great George our king Damn your eyes Hold your tongue Ho ho ha ha
hi«
And the words were recorded above and a voice repeated them with awful
distinctness in the blue depths overhead and Flemming felt in his inmost soul
the contrast between the holy heavens and the mockery of laughter and the idle
words which fall back from the sky above us and soil not its purity
In half an hour they were at the village of Saint Wolfgang threading a
narrow street above which the roofs of quaint picturesque old houses almost
met It led them to a Gothic church a magnificent one for a village in front
of which was a small court shut in by Italianlooking houses with balconies
and flowers at the windows Here a bronze fountain of elaborate workmanship was
playing in the shade On its summit stood an image of the patron saint of the
village and running round the under lip of the waterbasin below they read
this inscription in old German rhymes
»I am in the honor of Saint Wolfgang raised Abbot Wolfgang Habel of
Emensee he hath made me for the use and delight of poor pilgrim wight Neither
gold nor wine hath he at this water shall he merry be In the year of the Lord
fifteen hundred and fifteen hath the work completed been God be praised«
As they were deciphering the rude characters of this pious inscription a
village priest came down a high flight of steps from the parsonage near the
church and courteously saluted the strangers After returning the salutation
the mad Englishman without preface asked him how many natural children were
annually born in the parish The question seemed to astonish the good father
but he answered it civilly as he did several other questions which Flemming
thought rather indiscreet to say the least
»You will excuse our curiosity« said he to the priest by way of apology
»We are strangers from distant countries My friend is an Englishman and I an
American«
Berkley however was not so easily silenced After a few moments
conversation he broke out into most audacious Latin in which the only words
clearly intelligible were
»Plurimum reverende in Christo religiosissime ac clarissime Domine necnon
et amice observandissime Petrus sic est locutus Nec argentum mihi nec aurum
est sed quod habeo hoc tibi do surge et ambula«
He seemed to be speaking of the fountain The priest answered meekly
»Non intellexi Domine«
But Berkley continued with great volubility to speak of his being a stranger
in the land and all men being strangers upon earth and hoping to meet the good
priest hereafter in the kingdom of heaven The priest seemed confounded and
abashed Through the mist of a strange pronunciation he could recognize only
here and there a familiar word He took out his snuffbox and tried to quote a
passage from Saint Paul
»Ut dixit Sanctus Paulus Qui bene facit«
Here his memory failed him or as the French say he was at the end of his
Latin and stretching forth his long forefinger he concluded in German
»Yes I dont so clearly remember what he did say«
The Englishman helped him through with a moral phrase and then pulling off
his hat exclaimed very solemnly
»Vale Domine doctissime et reverendissime«
And the Dominie as if pursued by a demon made a sudden and precipitate
retreat down a flight of steps into the street
»There« said Berkley laughing »I beat him at his own weapons What do you
say of my Latin«
»I say of it« replied Flemming »what Holofernes said of Sir Nathaniels
Priscian a little scratched t will serve I think I have heard better But
what a whim I thought I should have laughed aloud«
They were still sitting by the bronze fountain when the priest returned
accompanied by a short man with large feet and a long blue surtout so greasy
that it reminded one of Polillas in the Spanish play which was lined with
slices of pork His countenance was broad and placid but his blue eyes gleamed
with a wild mysterious sorrowful expression Flemming thought the Latin
contest was to be renewed with more powder and heavier guns He was mistaken
The stranger saluted him in German and said that having heard he was from
America he had come to question him about that distant country for which he
was on the point of embarking There was nothing peculiar in his manner nor in
the questions he asked nor the remarks he made They were the usual questions
and remarks about cities and climate and sailing the sea At length Flemming
asked him the object of his journey to America The stranger came close to him
and lowering his voice said very solemnly
»That holy man Frederick Baraga missionary among the Indians at Lacroix
on Lake Superior has returned to his fatherland Krain and I am chosen by
Heaven to go forth as Minister Extraordinary of Christ to unite all nations and
people in one church«
Flemming almost started at the singular earnestness with which he uttered
these words and looked at him attentively thinking to see the face of a
madman But the modest unassuming look of that placid countenance was
unchanged only in the eyes burned a mysterious light as if candles had been
lighted in the brain to magnify the daylight there
»It is truly a high vocation« said he in reply »But are you sure that
this is no hallucination Are you certain that you have been chosen by Heaven
for this great work«
»I am certain« replied the German in a tone of great calmness and
sincerity »and if Saint Peter and Saint Paul should come down from heaven to
assure me of it my faith would be no stronger than it now is It has been
declared to me by many signs and wonders I can no longer doubt nor hesitate I
have already heard the voice of the Spirit speaking to me at night and I know
that I am an Apostle and chosen for this work«
Such was the calm enthusiasm with which he spoke that Flemming could not
choose but listen He felt interested in this strange being There was something
aweinspiring in the spirit that possessed him After a short pause he
continued
»If you wish to know who I am I can tell you in few words I think you will
not find the story without interest«
He then went on to relate the circumstances recorded in the following
chapter
Chapter VII
The Story of Brother Bernardus
»I was born in the city of Stein in the land of Krain My pious mother
Gertrude sang me psalms and spiritual songs in childhood and often when I
awoke in the night I saw her still sitting patiently at her work by the stove
and heard her singing those hymns of heaven or praying in the midnight darkness
when her work was done It was for me she prayed Thus from my earliest
childhood I breathed the breath of pious aspirations Afterwards I went to
Laybach as a student of theology and after the usual course of study was
ordained a priest I went forth to the care of souls my own soul filled with
the faith that erelong all people would be united in one church Yet at times my
heart was heavy to behold how many nations there are who have not heard of
Christ and how those who are called Christians are divided into numberless
sects and how among these are many who are Christians in name only I
determined to devote myself to the great work of the one Church Universal and
for this purpose to give myself wholly up to the study of the Evangelists and
the Fathers I retired to the Benedictine cloister of Saint Paul in the valley
of Lavant The fatherconfessor in the nunnery of Laak where I then lived
strengthened me in this resolve I had long walked with this angel of God in a
human form and his parting benediction sank deep into my soul The PrinceAbbot
Berthold of blessed memory was then head of the Benedictine convent He
received me kindly and led me to the library where I gazed with secret rapture
on the vast folios of the Christian Fathers from which as from an arsenal I
was to draw the weapons of holy warfare In the study of these the year of my
novitiate passed I became a Franciscan friar and took the name of Brother
Bernardus Yet my course of life remained unchanged I seldom left the cloister
but sat in my cell and pored over those tomes of holy wisdom About this time
the aged confessor in Laak departed this life His death was made known to me in
a dream It must have been after midnight when I thought that I came into the
church which was brilliantly lighted up The dead body of the venerable saint
was brought in attended by a great crowd It seemed to me that I must go up
into the pulpit and pronounce his funeral oration and as I ascended the stairs
the words of my text came into my mind Blessed in the sight of the Lord is
the death of his saints My funeral sermon ended in a strain of exultation and
I awoke with Amen upon my lips A few days afterwards I heard that on that
night the old man died After this event I became restless and melancholy I
strove in vain to drive away my gloomy thoughts I could no longer study I was
no longer contented in the cloister I even thought of leaving it
One night I had gone to bed early according to my custom and had fallen
asleep Suddenly I was awakened by a bright and wonderful light which shone all
about me and filled me with heavenly rapture Shortly after I heard a voice
which pronounced distinctly these words in the Sclavonian tongue Remain in
the cloister It was the voice of my departed mother I was fully awake yet saw
nothing but the bright light which disappeared when the words had been spoken
Still it was broad daylight in my chamber I thought I had slept beyond my usual
hour I looked at my watch It was just one oclock after midnight Suddenly the
daylight vanished and it was dark In the morning I arose as if newborn
through the wonderful light and the words of my mothers voice It was no dream
I knew it was the will of God that I should stay and I could again give myself
up to quiet study I read the whole Bible through once more in the original
text and went on with the Fathers in chronological order Often after the
apparition of the light I awoke at the same hour and though I heard no voice
and saw no light yet was refreshed with heavenly consolation
Not long after this an important event happened in the cloister In the
absence of the deacon of the abbey I was to preach the Thanksgiving sermon of
Harvesthome During the week the PrinceAbbot Berthold gave up the ghost and
my sermon became at once a thanksgiving and funeral sermon Perhaps it may not
be unworthy of notice that I was thus called to pronounce the burial discourse
over the body of the last reigning spiritual PrinceAbbot in Germany He was a
man of God and worthy of this honor
One year after this event I was appointed Professor of Biblical
Hermeneutics in Klagenfurt and left the abbey forever In Klagenfurt I remained
ten years dwelling in the same house and eating at the same table with
seventeen other Professors Their conversation naturally suggested new topics of
study and brought to my notice books which I had never before seen One day I
heard at table that Maurus Cappellari a monk of Camaldoli had been elected
Pope under the name of Gregory Sixteenth He was spoken of as a very learned
man who had written many books At this time I was a firm believer in the
Popes infallibility and when I heard these books mentioned there arose in me
an irresistible longing to read them I inquired for them but they were nowhere
to be had At length I heard that his most important work The Triumph of the
Holy See and of the Church had been translated into German and published in
Augsburg Erelong the precious volume was in my hands I began to read it with
the profoundest awe The farther I read the more my wonder grew The subject
was of the deepest interest to me I could not lay the book out of my hand till
I had read it through with the closest attention Now at length my eyes were
opened I saw before me a monk who had been educated in an Italian cloister who
indeed had read much and yet only what was calculated to strengthen him in the
prejudices of his childhood and who had entirely neglected those studies upon
which a bishop should most rely in order to work out the salvation of man I
perceived at the same time that this was the strongest instrument for
battering down the walls which separate Christian from Christian I saw though
as yet dimly the way in which the union of Christians in the one true Church
was to be accomplished I knew not whether to be most astonished at my own
blindness that in all my previous studies I had not perceived what the
reading of this single book made manifest to me or at the blindness of the
Pope who had undertaken to justify such follies without perceiving that at the
same moment he was himself lying in fatal error But since I have learned more
thoroughly the ways of the Lord I am now no more astonished at this but pray
only to Divine Providence who so mysteriously prepares all people to be united
in one true Church I no longer believed in the Popes infallibility nay I
believed even that to the great injury of humanity he lay in fatal error I
felt moreover that now the time had fully come when I should publicly show
myself and found in America a parish and a school and become the spiritual
guide of men and the schoolmaster of children
It was then and on that account that I wrote in the Latin tongue my great
work on Biblical Hermeneutics But in Germany it cannot be published The
Austrian censor of the press cannot find time to read it though I think that
if I have spent so many laborious days and sleepless nights in writing it this
man ought likewise to find time enough not only to read it but to examine all
the grounds of my reasoning and point out to me my errors if he can find any
Notwithstanding the Spirit gave me no repose but urged me ever mightily on to
the perfection of my great work
One morning I sat writing under peculiar influences of the Spirit upon the
Confusion of Tongues the Division of the People and the importance of the
study of Comparative Philology in reference to their union in one Church So
wrapped was I in the thought that I came late into my lecture and after lecture
returned to my chamber where I wrote till the clock struck twelve At dinner
one of the Professors asked if any one had seen the star about which so much was
said The Professor of Physics said that the student Johannes Schminke had come
to him in the greatest haste and besought him to go out and see the wonderful
star but being incredulous about it he made no haste and when they came into
the street the star had disappeared When I heard the star spoken of my soul
was filled with rapture and a voice within me seemed to say The great time is
approaching labor unweariedly in thy work I sought out the student and like
Herod inquired diligently at what time the star appeared He informed me that
just as the clock was striking eight in the morning he went out of his house to
go to the college and saw on the square a crowd looking at a bright star It
was the very hour when I was writing alone in my chamber on the importance of
Comparative Philology in bringing about the union of all nations I felt that my
hour had come Strangely moved I walked up and down my chamber The evening
twilight came on I lighted my lamp and drew the green curtains before the
windows and sat down to read But hardly had I taken the book into my hand
when the Spirit began to move me and urge me then to make my last decision and
resolve I made a secret vow that I would undertake the voyage to America
Suddenly my troubled thoughts were still An unwonted rapture filled my heart I
sat and read till the supperbell rang They were speaking at table of a red
glaring meteor which had just been seen in the air southeast from Klagenfurt
and had suddenly disappeared with a dull hollow sound It was the very moment
at which I had taken my final resolution to leave my native land Every great
purpose and event of my life seemed heralded and attended by divine messengers
the voices of the dead the bright morning star shining in the clear sunshine
and the red meteor in the evening twilight
I now began seriously to prepare for my departure The chamber I occupied
had once been the library of a Franciscan convent Only a thick wall separated
it from the church In this wall was a niche with heavy foldingdoors which
had served the Franciscans as a repository for prohibited books Here also I
kept my papers and my great work on Biblical Hermeneutics The inside of the
doors was covered with horrible caricatures of Luther Melancthon Calvin and
other great men I used often to look at them with the deepest melancholy when
I thought that these great men likewise had labored upon earth and fought with
Satan in the Church But they were persecuted denounced condemned to die So
perhaps will it be with me I thought of this often and armed myself against
the fear of death I was in constant apprehension lest the police should search
my chamber during my absence and by examining my papers discover my doctrine
and designs But the Spirit said to me Be of good cheer I will so blind the
eyes of thy enemies that it shall not once occur to them to think of thy
writings
At length after many difficulties and temptations of the Devil I am on my
way to America Yesterday I took leave of my dearest friend Gregory Kuscher in
Hallstadt He seemed filled with the Spirit of God and has wonderfully
strengthened me in my purpose All the hosts of heaven looked on and were glad
The old man kissed me at parting and I ascended the mountain as if angels bore
me up in their arms Near the summit lay a newly fallen avalanche over which
as yet no footsteps had passed This was my last temptation Ha cried I aloud
Satan has prepared a snare for me but I will conquer him with godly weapons I
sprang over the treacherous snow with greater faith than St Peter walked the
waters of the Lake of Galilee and came down the valley while the mountain
peaks yet shone in the setting sun God smiles upon me I go forth full of
hopeful courage On Christmas next I shall excommunicate the Pope«
Saying these words he slowly and solemnly took his leave like one
conscious of the great events which awaited him and withdrew with the other
priest into the church Flemming could not smile as Berkley did for in the
solitary singular enthusiast who had just left them he saw only another
melancholy victim to solitude and overlabor of the brain and felt how painful a
thing it is thus to become unconsciously the almsman of other mens sympathies
a kind of blind beggar for the charity of a good wish or a prayer
The sun was now setting Silently they floated back to Saint Gilgen amid
the cool evening shadows The village clock struck nine as they landed and as
Berkley was to depart early in the morning he went to bed betimes On bidding
Flemming good night he said
»I shall not see you in the morning so good by and God bless you Remember
my parting words Never mind trifles In this world a man must either be anvil
or hammer Care killed a cat«
»I have heard you say that so often« replied Flemming laughing »that I
begin to believe it But I wonder if Care shaved his left eyebrow after doing
the deed as the ancient Egyptians used to do«
»Aha now you are sweeping cobwebs from the sky Good night Good night«
A sorrowful event happened in the neighborhood that night The widows child
died suddenly »Woe is me« thus mourns the childless mother in one of the
funeral songs of Greenland »Woe is me that I should gaze upon thy place and
find it vacant In vain for thee thy mother dries the seadrenched garments«
Not in these words but in thoughts like these did the poor mother bewail the
death of her child thinking mostly of the vacant place and the daily cares and
solicitudes of maternal love Flemming saw a light in her chamber and shadows
moving to and fro as he stood by the window gazing into the starry silent
sky But he little thought of the awful domestic tragedy which was even then
enacted behind those thin curtains
Chapter VIII
Footprints of Angels
It was Sunday morning and the church bells were all ringing together From the
neighboring villages came the solemn joyful sounds floating through the sunny
air mellow and faint and low all mingling into one harmonious chime like
the sound of some distant organ in heaven Anon they ceased and the woods and
the clouds and the whole village and the very air itself seemed to pray so
silent was it everywhere
Two venerable old men highpriests and patriarchs were they in the land
went up the pulpit stairs as Moses and Aaron went up Mount Hor in the sight of
all the congregation for the pulpit stairs were in front and very high
Paul Flemming will never forget the sermon he heard that day no not even
if he should live to be as old as he who preached it The text was »I know that
my Redeemer liveth« It was meant to console the pious poor widow who sat
right below him at the foot of the pulpit stairs all in black and her heart
breaking He said nothing of the terrors of death nor of the gloom of the
narrow house but looking beyond these things as mere circumstances to which
the imagination mainly gives importance he told his hearers of the innocence of
childhood upon earth and the holiness of childhood in heaven and how the
beautiful Lord Jesus was once a little child and now in heaven the spirits of
little children walked with him and gathered flowers in the fields of Paradise
Good old man In behalf of humanity I thank thee for these benignant words And
still more than I the bereaved mother thanked thee and from that hour though
she wept in secret for her child yet
She knew he was with Jesus
And she asked him not again
After the sermon Paul Flemming walked forth alone into the churchyard There
was no one there save a little boy who was fishing with a pin hook in a grave
half full of water But a few moments afterward through the arched gateway
under the belfry came a funeral procession At its head walked a priest in white
surplice chanting Peasants old and young followed him with burning tapers
in their hands A young girl carried in her arms a dead child wrapped in its
little windingsheet The grave was close under the wall by the churchdoor A
vase of holy water stood beside it The sexton took the child from the girls
arms and put it into a coffin and as he placed it in the grave the girl held
over it a cross wreathed with roses and the priest and peasants sang a funeral
hymn When this was over the priest sprinkled the grave and the crowd with holy
water and then they all went into the church each one stopping as he passed
the grave to throw a handful of earth into it and sprinkle it with the hyssop
A few moments afterwards the voice of the priest was heard saying mass in
the church and Flemming saw the toothless old sexton treading with his clouted
shoes the fresh earth into the grave of the little child He approached him
and asked the age of the deceased The sexton leaned a moment on his spade and
shrugging his shoulders replied
»Only an hour or two It was born in the night and died this morning
early«
»A brief existence« said Flemming »The child seems to have been born only
to be buried and have its name recorded on a wooden tombstone«
The sexton went on with his work and made no reply Flemming still lingered
among the graves gazing with wonder at the strange devices by which man has
rendered death horrible and the grave loathsome
In the temple of Juno at Elis Sleep and his twinbrother Death were
represented as children reposing in the arms of Night On various funeral
monuments of the ancients the Genius of Death is sculptured as a beautiful
youth leaning on an inverted torch in the attitude of repose his wings folded
and his feet crossed In such peaceful and attractive forms did the imagination
of ancient poets and sculptors represent death And these were men in whose
souls the religion of Nature was like the light of stars beautiful but faint
and cold Strange that in later days this angel of God which leads us with a
gentle hand into the land of the great departed into the silent land should
have been transformed into a monstrous and terrific thing Such is the spectral
rider on the white horse such the ghastly skeleton with scythe and
hourglass the Reaper whose name is Death
One of the most popular themes of poetry and painting in the Middle Ages
and continuing down even into modern times was the Dance of Death In almost
all languages is it written the apparition of the grim spectre putting a
sudden stop to all business and leading men away into the remarkable retirement
of the grave It is written in an ancient Spanish poem and painted on a wooden
bridge in Switzerland The designs of Holbein are well known The most striking
among them is that where from a group of children sitting round a cottage
hearth Death has taken one by the hand and is leading it out of the door
Quietly and unresisting goes the little child and in its countenance no grief
but wonder only while the other children are weeping and stretching forth their
hands in vain towards their departing brother It is a beautiful design in all
save the skeleton An angel had been better with folded wings and torch
inverted
And now the sun was growing high and warm A little chapel whose door stood
open seemed to invite Flemming to enter and enjoy the grateful coolness He
went in There was no one there The walls were covered with paintings and
sculpture of the rudest kind and with a few funeral tablets There was nothing
there to move the heart to devotion but in that hour the heart of Flemming was
weak weak as a childs He bowed his stubborn knees and wept And oh how
many disappointed hopes how many bitter recollections how much of wounded
pride and unrequited love were in those tears through which he read on a
marble tablet in the chapel wall opposite this singular inscription
»Look not mournfully into the Past It comes not back again Wisely improve
the Present It is thine Go forth to meet the shadowy Future without fear and
with a manly heart«
It seemed to him as if the unknown tenant of that grave had opened his lips
of dust and spoken to him the words of consolation which his soul needed and
which no friend had yet spoken In a moment the anguish of his thoughts was
still The stone was rolled away from the door of his heart death was no longer
there but an angel clothed in white He stood up and his eyes were no more
bleared with tears and looking into the bright morning heaven he said
»I will be strong«
Men sometimes go down into tombs with painful longings to behold once more
the faces of their departed friends and as they gaze upon them lying there so
peacefully with the semblance that they wore on earth the sweet breath of
heaven touches them and the features crumble and fall together and are but
dust So did his soul then descend for the last time into the great tomb of the
Past with painful longings to behold once more the dear faces of those he had
loved and the sweet breath of heaven touched them and they would not stay but
crumbled away and perished as he gazed They too were dust And thus
farsounding he heard the great gate of the Past shut behind him as the divine
poet did the gate of Paradise when the angel pointed him the way up the Holy
Mountain and to him likewise was it forbidden to look back
In the life of every man there are sudden transitions of feeling which seem
almost miraculous At once as if some magician had touched the heavens and the
earth the dark clouds melt into the air the wind falls and serenity succeeds
the storm The causes which produce these sudden changes may have been long at
work within us but the changes themselves are instantaneous and apparently
without sufficient cause It was so with Flemming and from that hour forth he
resolved that he would no longer veer with every shifting wind of circumstance
no longer be a childs plaything in the hands of Fate which we ourselves do
make or mar He resolved henceforward not to lean on others but to walk
selfconfident and selfpossessed no longer to waste his years in vain regrets
nor wait the fulfilment of boundless hopes and indiscreet desires but to live
in the Present wisely alike forgetful of the Past and careless of what the
mysterious Future might bring And from that moment he was calm and strong he
was reconciled with himself His thoughts turned to his distant home beyond the
sea An indescribable sweet feeling rose within him
»Thither will I turn my wandering footsteps« said he »and be a man among
men and no longer a dreamer among shadows Henceforth be mine a life of action
and reality I will work in my own sphere nor wish it other than it is This
alone is health and happiness This alone is Life
Life that shall send
A challenge to its end
And when it comes say Welcome friend
Why have I not made these sage reflections this wise resolve sooner Can such
a simple result spring only from the long and intricate process of experience
Alas it is not till time with reckless hand has torn out half the leaves from
the Book of Human Life to light the fires of passion with from day to day
that man begins to see that the leaves which remain are few in number and to
remember faintly at first and then more clearly that upon the earlier pages
of that book was written a story of happy innocence which he would fain read
over again Then come listless irresolution and the inevitable inaction of
despair or else the firm resolve to record upon the leaves that still remain a
more noble history than the childs story with which the book began«
Chapter IX
The Last Pang
»Farewell to thee Saint Gilgen« said Flemming as he turned on the brow of the
hill to take his last look at the lake and the village below and felt that
this was one of the few spots on the wide earth to which he could say farewell
with regret »Thy majestic hills have impressed themselves upon my soul as a
seal upon wax The quiet beauty of thy lake shall be to me forever an image of
peace and purity and stillness and that inscription in thy little churchyard a
sentence of wisdom for my after life«
Before the setting of the same sun which then shone on that fair landscape
he was far on his way towards Munich He had left behind him the mountains of
the Tyrol and beheld them for the last time in the soft evening twilight their
bases green with foresttrees and here and there a sharp rocky spire and a
rounded summit capped with snow There they lay their backs like the backs of
camels a mighty caravan reposing at evening in its march across the desert
From Munich he passed through Augsburg and Ulm on his way to Stuttgard At
the entrances of towns and villages he saw large crucifixes and on the fronts
of many houses coarse paintings and images of saints In Gunzburg three priests
in black were slowly passing down the street and women fell on their knees to
receive a blessing There were many beggars too in the streets and an old man
who was making hay in a field by the roadside when he saw the carriage
approaching threw down his rake and came tumbling over the ditch uttering the
most dismal wail with his hat held out in both bands The next day the bright
yellow jackets of the postilions and the two great tassels of their
buglehorns dangling down their backs like cauliflowers told him he was in
Würtermberg and late in the evening he stopped at a hotel in Stuttgard and
from his chamberwindow saw in the bright moonlight the old Gothic cathedral
with its narrow lancet windows and jutting buttresses right in front of him
Erelong he had forgotten all his cares and sorrows in sleep and with them his
hopes and wishes and good resolves
He was still sitting at breakfast in his chamber the next morning when the
great bell of the cathedral opposite began to ring and reminded him that it was
Sunday Erelong the organ answered from within and from its golden lips
breathed forth a psalm The congregation began to assemble and Flemming went up
with them to the house of the Lord In the body of the church he found the pews
all filled or locked they seemed to belong to families He went up into the
gallery and looked over the psalmbook of a peasant while the congregation
sang the sublime old hymn of Martin Luther
Our God he is a tower of strength
A trusty shield and weapon
During the singing a fat clergyman clad in black with a surplice thrown
loosely about him came pacing along one of the aisles from beneath the
organloft and ascended the pulpit After the hymn he read a portion of
Scripture and then said
»Let us unite in silent prayer«
And turning round he knelt in the pulpit while the congregation remained
standing For a while there was a breathless silence in the church which to
Flemming was more solemnly impressive than any audible prayer The clergyman
then arose and began his sermon His theme was the Reformation and he
attempted to prove how much easier it was to enter the kingdom of Heaven through
the gateways of the Reformed Evangelical German Church than by the aisles and
penitential staircases of Saint Peters He then gave a history of the
Reformation and when Flemming thought he was near the end he heard him say
that he should divide his discourse into four heads This reminded him of the
sturdy old Puritan Cotton Mather who after preaching an hour would coolly
turn the hourglass on the pulpit and say »Now my beloved hearers let us
take another glass« He stole out into the silent deserted street and went to
visit the veteran sculptor Dannecker He found him sitting alone with his
psalmbook and the reminiscences of a life of eighty years As Flemming
entered he arose from the sofa and tottered towards him a venerable old man
of low stature dressed in a loose white jacket with a face like Franklins a
pale blue eye and his white hair flowing over his shoulders
»So you are from America« said he »But you have a German name Paul
Flemming was one of our old poets I have never been in America and never shall
go there I am now too old I have been in Paris and in Rome But that was long
ago I am now eightandseventy years old«
Here he took Flemming by the hand and made him sit down by his side on the
sofa And Flemming felt a mysterious awe creep over him on touching the hand of
the good old man who sat so serenely amid the gathering shade of years and
listened to lifes curfewbell telling with eightandseventy solemn strokes
that the hour had come when the fires of all earthly passion must be quenched
within and man must prepare to lie down and rest till the morning
»You see« he continued in a melancholy tone »my hands are cold colder
than yours They were warmer once I am now an old man«
»Yet these are the hands« answered Flemming »that sculptured the beautiful
Ariadne and the Panther The soul never grows old«
»Nor does Nature« said the old man pleased with this allusion to his great
work and pointing to the green trees before his window »This pleasure I have
left to me My sight is still good I can even distinguish objects on the side
of yonder mountain My hearing is also unimpaired For all which I thank God«
Then directing Flemmings attention to a fine engraving which hung on the
opposite wall of the room he continued
»That is an engraving of Canovas Religion I love to sit here and look at
it for hours together It is beautiful He made the statue for his native town
where they had no church until he built them one He placed the statue in it
This engraving he sent me as a present Ah he was a dear good man The name of
his native town I have forgotten My memory fails me I cannot remember names«
Fearful that he had disturbed the old man in his morning devotions Flemming
did not remain long but took his leave with regret There was something
impressive in the scene he had witnessed this beautiful old age of the
artist sitting by the open window in the bright summer morning the labor of
life accomplished the horizon reached where heaven and earth meet thinking
it was angels music when he heard the churchbells ring himself too old to
go As he walked back to his chamber he thought within himself whether he
likewise might not accomplish something which should live after him might not
bring something permanent out of this fastfleeting life and then sit down
like the artist in serene old age and fold his hands in silence He wondered
how a man felt when he grew so old that he could no longer go to church but
must sit at home and read the Bible in large print His heart was full of
indefinite longings mingled with regrets longings to accomplish something
worthy of life regret that as yet he had accomplished nothing but had felt and
dreamed only Thus the warm days in spring bring forth passionflowers and
forgetmenots It is only after midsummer when the days grow shorter and
hotter that fruit begins to appear Then the heat of the day brings forward the
harvest and after the harvest the leaves fall and there is a gray frost Much
meditating upon these things Paul Flemming reached his hotel At that moment a
person clad in green came down the church steps and crossed the street It was
the German mechanic of Interlachen Flemming started as if a green snake had
suddenly crossed his path He took refuge in his chamber
That night as he was sitting alone having made his preparations to depart
the following morning his attention was arrested by the sound of a female voice
in the next room A thin partition with a door separated it from his own He
had not before observed that the room was occupied But in the stillness of the
night the tones of that voice struck his ear He listened It was a lady
reading the prayers of the English Church The tones were familiar and awakened
at once a thousand painfully sweet recollections It was the voice of Mary
Ashburton His heart could not be deceived and all its wounds began to bleed
afresh like those of a murdered man when the murderer approaches His first
impulse was of affection only boundless irrepressible delirious as of old in
the green valley of Interlachen He waited for the voice to cease that he might
go to her and behold her face once more And then his pride rose up within him
and rebuked this weakness He remembered his firm resolve and blushed to find
himself so feeble And the voice ceased and yet he did not go Pride had so far
gained the mastery over affection He lay down upon his bed like a child as he
was All about him was silence and the silence was holy for she was near so
near that he could almost hear the beating of her heart He knew now for the
first time how weak he was and how strong was his passion for that woman His
heart was like the altar of the Israelites of old and though drenched with
tears as with rain it was kindled at once by the holy fire from heaven
Towards morning he fell asleep exhausted with the strong excitement and
in that hour when sleep being nigh unto the soul visions are deemed
prophetic he dreamed O blessed vision of the morning stay thou wast so fair
He stood again on the green sunny meadow beneath the ruined tower and she was
by his side with her pale speaking countenance and holy eyes and he kissed
her fair forehead and she turned her face towards him beaming with affection
and said »I confess it now you are the Magician« and pressed him in a meek
embrace that he might rather feel than see the swelling of her heart And then
she faded away from his arms and her face became transfigured and her voice
like the voice of an angel in heaven and he awoke and was alone
It was broad daylight and he heard the postilion and the stamping of
horses hoofs on the pavement at the door He did not dare to stay But
throwing himself into the carriage he cast one look towards the window of the
Dark Ladie and a moment afterwards had left her forever He had drunk the last
drop of the bitter cup and now laid the golden goblet gently down knowing that
he should behold it no more
No more Oh how majestically mournful are those words They sound like the
roar of the wind through a forest of pines
1 James Montgomery