I had been hopping about thus for some minutes, not noticing that the others were beginning to be tired and were dropping out of the dance, when I felt some one twitch me by the coat-tail. It was the lady's-maid. "Don't be a fool," she said under her breath; "you are jumping about like a kid! Read your note, and come soon; the beautiful young Countess awaits you." She slipped out of the garden in the twilight and vanished among the vineyards.

My heart beat fast; I longed to follow her. Fortunately, a waiter was just lighting the lantern over the garden gate. I took out my note, which contained a somewhat rudely penciled plan of the gate and the streets leading to it, just as I had been directed by the lady's-maid, and in addition the words "Eleven o'clock, at the little door."

Two long hours to wait! Nevertheless I should have set out immediately, for I could not stay still, had not the painter, who had brought me hither, rushed up. "Did you speak to the girl?" he asked. "I cannot see her now. It was the German Countess's maid." "Hush, hush!" I replied; "the Countess is still in Rome." "So much the better," said the painter; "come then and drink her health." And in spite of all I could say he forced me to return to the garden with him.

It looked quite deserted. The merry company had departed, and were sauntering toward Rome, each lad with his lass upon his arm. We could hear them talking and laughing among the vineyards in the quiet evening, until at last their voices died away in the valley below, lost in the rustling of the trees and the murmur of the stream. I stayed with my painter and Herr Eckbrecht, which was the name of the other young painter who had been quarreling with the maid. The moon shone brilliantly through the tall, dark evergreens; a candle on the table before us flickered in the breeze and gleamed over the wine spilled copiously around it. I had to sit down with my companions, and my painter chatted with me about my native village, my travels, and my plans for the future. Herr Eckbrecht had seated upon his knee the pretty girl who had brought us our wine, and was teaching her the accompaniment of a song on the guitar. Her slender fingers soon picked out the correct chords, and they sang together an Italian song; first he sang a verse, and then the girl sang the next; it sounded deliciously, in the clear, bright evening. When the girl was called away, Herr Eckbrecht, taking no further notice of us, leaned back on his bench with his feet on a low stool and played and sang many an exquisite song. The stars glittered; the landscape turned to silver in the moonlight; I thought of the Lady fair, and of my far-off home, and quite forgot the painter at my side. Herr Eckbrecht had occasionally to tune his instrument; whereat he grew downright angry, and at last he screwed a string so tight that it broke, whereupon he tossed aside the guitar and sprang to his feet, noticing for the first time that my painter had laid his head on his arm upon the table and was fast asleep. He hastily wrapped around him a white cloak which hung on a bough near by, then suddenly paused, glanced keenly at my painter, and then at me several times, then seated himself on the table directly in front of me, cleared his throat, settled his cravat, and instantly began to hold forth to me. "Beloved hearer and fellow-countryman," he said, "since the bottles are nearly empty, and morality is indisputably the first duty of a citizen when the virtues are on the wane, I feel myself moved, out of sympathy for a fellow-countryman, to present for your consideration a few moral axioms. It might be supposed," he went on, "that you are a mere youth, whereas your coat has evidently seen its best years; it might be supposed that you had leaped about like a satyr; nay, some might maintain that you are a vagabond, because you are out here in the country and play the fiddle; but I am influenced by no such superficial considerations; I form my judgment on your delicately chiseled nose; I take you for a strolling genius." His ambiguous phrases irritated me; I was about to retort sharply. But he gave me no chance to speak. "Observe," he said, "how you are puffed up by a modicum of praise. Retire within yourself and ponder upon your perilous vocation. We geniuses—for I am one too—care as little for the world as it cares for us; without any ado, in the seven-league boots which we bring into the world with us, we stride on directly into eternity. A most lamentable, inconvenient straddling position this—one leg in the future, where nothing is to be discerned but the rosy morn and the faces of future children, the other leg still in the middle of Rome, in the Piazza del Popolo, where the entire present century would fain seize the opportunity to advance, and clings to the boot tight enough to pull the leg off! And then all this restlessness, wine-bibbing, and hunger solely for an immortal eternity! And look you at my comrade there on the bench, another genius; his time hangs heavy on his hands here and now, what under heaven is he to do in eternity? Yes, my highly-esteemed comrade, you and I and the sun rose early together this morning, and have pondered and painted all day long, and it was all beautiful—and now the drowsy night passes its furred sleeve over the world and wipes out all the colors." He kept on talking for a long while, his hair all disheveled with dancing and drinking, and his face looking deadly pale in the moonlight.

But I was seized with a horror of him and of his wild talk, and when he turned and addressed the sleeping painter I took advantage of the opportunity and slipped round the table, without being perceived by him, and out of the garden. Thence, alone and glad at heart, I descended through the vine-trellises into the wide moonlit valley.

The clocks in the city were striking ten. Behind me, in the quiet night, I still heard an occasional note of the guitar, and at times the voices of the two painters, going home at last, were audible. I ran on as quickly as possible, that they might not overtake me.

At the city-gate I turned into the street on the right hand, and hurried on with a throbbing heart among the silent houses and gardens. To my amazement, I suddenly found myself in the very Square with the fountain, for which, by daylight, I had vainly searched. There stood the solitary summer-house again in the glorious moonlight, and again the Lady fair was singing the same Italian song as on the evening before. In an ecstasy I tried first the low door, then the house door, and at last the big garden gate, but all were locked. Then first it occurred to me that eleven had not yet struck. I was irritated by the slow flight of time, but good manners forbade my climbing over the garden gate as I had done yesterday. Therefore I paced the lonely Square to and fro for a while, and at last again seated myself upon the basin of the fountain and resigned myself to meditation and calm expectancy.

The stars twinkled in the skies; the Square was quiet and deserted; I listened with delight to the song of the Lady fair, as it mingled with the ripple of the fountain. All at once I perceived a white figure approach from the opposite side of the Square and go directly toward the little garden door. I peered eagerly through the dazzling moonlight—it was the queer painter in his white cloak. He drew forth a key quickly, unlocked the door, and, before I knew it, was within the garden.

I had from the first entertained a special dislike of this painter on account of his nonsensical talk. But now I fell into a rage with him. "The low fellow is certainly intoxicated again," I thought; "he has got the key from the maid, and intends to surprise, and perhaps to assault, the Lady fair." And I rushed precipitately through the low door, which was still open, into the garden.

When I entered, all was quiet and lonely. The folding-doors of the summer-house were open, and a ray of lamplight issuing from it played upon the grass and flowers near. Even from a distance I could see the interior. In a magnificent apartment, hung with green and partially illumined by a lamp with a white shade, the lovely Lady fair with her guitar was reclining on a silken lounge, never dreaming, in her innocence, of the danger without.

I had not much time, however, to look, for I perceived the white figure among the shrubbery, stealthily approaching the summer-house from the opposite side, while the song floating on the air from the house was so melancholy that it went to my very soul. I therefore took no long time for reflection, but broke off a stout bough from a tree, and rushed at the white-cloaked figure, shouting "Murder!" so that the garden rang again.

The painter when he beheld me appear thus unexpectedly took to his heels, screaming frightfully. I screamed louder still. He ran toward the house, and I after him, and I had very nearly caught him, when I became entangled in some plaguy trailing vines, and measured my length upon the ground just before the front door.

"So it is you, is it, you fool!" I heard some one say above me. "You frightened me nearly to death." I picked myself up, and when I had wiped my eyes clear of dust, I saw before me the lady's-maid, from whose shoulders the white cloak was just falling. "But," said I, in confusion, "was not the painter here?" "He was," she replied, saucily; "at least his cloak was, which he put around me when I met him at the gate, because I was cold." The Lady fair, hearing the noise, sprang up from the lounge and came out to us. My heart beat as if it would burst; but what was my dismay when I looked at her, and instead of the lovely Lady fair saw an entire stranger!

She was a rather tall, stout lady, with a haughty, hooked nose and high-arched black eyebrows, very beautiful and imposing. She looked at me so majestically out of her big, glittering eyes that I was overwhelmed with awe. So confused was I that I could only make bow after bow, and at last I attempted to kiss her hand. But she snatched it from me, and said something in Italian to her maid which I could not understand.

Meanwhile, the racket I had made had aroused the entire neighborhood. Dogs barked, children screamed, and men's voices were heard, approaching the garden. The Lady gave me another glance, as though she would have liked to pierce me through and through with fiery bullets, then turned hastily and went into the room, with a haughty, forced laugh, slamming the door directly in my face. The maid seized me by the sleeve and pulled me toward the garden gate.

"Your stupidity is beyond belief!" she said in the most spiteful way as we went along. I too was furious. "What the devil did you mean," I said, "by telling me to come here?" "That's just it!" exclaimed the girl. "My Countess favored you so—first threw flowers out of the window to you, sang songs—and this is her reward! But there is absolutely nothing to be done with you; you positively throw away your luck." "But," I rejoined, "I meant the Countess from Germany, the lovely Lady fair—" "Oh," she interrupted me, "she went back to Germany long ago, with your crazy passion for her. And you'd better run after her! No doubt she is pining for you, and you can play the fiddle together and gaze at the moon, only for pity's sake let me see no more of you!"

All was confusion about us by this time. People from the next garden were climbing over the fence armed with clubs, others were searching among the paths and avenues; frightened faces in nightcaps appeared here and there in the moonlight; it seemed as if the devil had let loose upon us a mob of evil spirits. The lady's-maid was nowise daunted. "There, there goes the thief!" she called out to the people, pointing across the garden. Then she pushed me out of the gate and clapped it to behind me.

There I stood once more beneath the stars in the deserted Square, as forlorn as when I had seen it first the day before. The fountain, which had but now seemed to sparkle as merrily in the moonlight as if cherubs were flitting up and down in it, plashed on, but all joy and happiness were buried beneath its waters. I determined to turn my back forever on treacherous Italy, with its crazy painters, its oranges, and its lady's-maids, and that very hour I wandered forth through the gate.



CHAPTER IX

On guard the faithful mountains stand: "Who wanders o'er the moorland there From other climes, in morning fair?" And as I look far o'er the land, For very glee my heart laughs out. The joyous "vivats" then I shout; Watchword and battle-cry shall be: Austria, for thee!

The landscape far and near I know; The birds and brooks and forests fair Send me their greetings on the air; The Danube sparkles down below; St. Stephen's spire far in the blue Seems waving me a welcome too. Warm to its core my heart shall be, Austria, for thee!

I was standing on the summit of a mountain whence the first view of Austria can be had, and I waved my hat joyfully in the air as I sang the last verse, when suddenly from the forest behind me some fine instrumental music joined in. I turned quickly and perceived three young fellows in long blue cloaks, one playing a hautboy, another a clarionet, and the third, who wore an old three-cornered hat, a horn. They played an accompaniment to my song, which made the woods ring again. I, nothing loath, took out my fiddle, and played and sang with a will. Then one glanced meaningly at the others; he who played the horn stopped puffing out his cheeks and took the instrument down from his mouth; at last they all ceased playing, and stared at me. I ended my performance also, and in turn stared at them. "We supposed," the cornetist said at last, "from the length of the gentleman's coat that he was a traveling Englishman, journeying afoot here to admire the beauties of nature, and we thought we might perhaps earn a trifle for our own travels. But the gentleman seems to be a musician himself." "Properly speaking, a Receiver," I interposed, "and I come at present directly from Rome; but, as it is some time since I received anything, I have paid my way with my violin." "'Tis not worth much nowadays," said the cornetist, as he betook himself to the woods again, and began fanning with his cocked hat a fire that they had kindled there. "Wind-instruments are more profitable," he continued. "When a noble family is seated quietly at their mid-day meal, and we unexpectedly enter their vaulted vestibule and all three begin to blow with all our might, a servant is sure to come running out to us with money or food, just to get rid of the noise. But will you not share our repast?"

The fire in the forest was burning cheerily, the morning was fresh; we all sat down on the grass, and two of the musicians took from the fire a can in which there was coffee with milk. Then they brought forth some bread from the pockets of their cloaks, and each dipped it in the can and drank turn about with such relish that it was a pleasure to see them. But the cornetist said, "I never could endure the black slops," and, after handing me a huge slice of bread and butter, he brought out a bottle of wine, from which he offered me a draught. I took a good pull at it, but had to put it down in a hurry with my face all of a pucker, for it tasted like "old Gooseberry." "The wine of the country," said the cornetist; "but Italy has probably spoilt your German taste."

Then he rummaged in his wallet, and finally produced from among all sorts of rubbish an old, tattered map of the country, in the corner of which the emperor in his royal robes was still to be discerned, a sceptre in his right hand, the orb in his left. This map he carefully spread out upon the ground; the others drew nearer, and they all consulted together as to their route.

"The vacation is nearly over," said one; "let us turn to the left as soon as we leave Linz, so as to be in Prague in time." "Upon my word!" exclaimed the cornetist. "Whom do you propose to pipe to on that road? Nobody there save wood-choppers and charcoal-burners; no culture nor taste for art—no station where one can spend a night for nothing!" "Oh, nonsense!" rejoined the other. "I like the peasants best; they know where the shoe pinches, and are not so particular if you sometimes blow a false note." "That is, you have no point d'honneur," said the cornetist. "Odi profanum vulgus et arceo, as the Latin has it." "Well, there must be some churches on the road," struck in the third; "we can stop at the Herr Pastors'." "No, I thank you," said the cornetist; "they give little money, but long sermons on the folly of philandering about the world when we might be acquiring knowledge, and they wax specially eloquent when they sniff in me a future member of their fraternity. No, no, clericus clericum non decimat. But why be in such a hurry? The Herr Professors are still at Carlsbad, and are sure not to be precise about the very day." "Nay, distinguendum est inter et inter," replied the other; "quod licet Jovi, non licet bovi!"

I now saw that they were students from Prague, and I conceived a great respect for them, especially as they spoke Latin like their mother-tongue. "Is the gentleman a student?" the cornetist asked me. I replied modestly that I had always been very fond of study, but that I had had no money. "That's of no consequence," said the cornetist; "we have neither money nor rich patrons, but we get along by mother-wit. Aurora musis amica, which means, being interpreted, 'Do not waste too much time at breakfast.' But when the bells at noon echo from tower to tower, and from mountain to mountain, and the scholars crowd out of the old dark lecture-room, and swarm shouting through the streets, we betake us to the Capuchin monastery, to the father who presides in the refectory, where there is sure to be a table spread for us, or if not actually spread, there will be at least a dish apiece, and we fall to, and perfect ourselves at the same time in our Latin. So you see we study right ahead from day to day. And when at last the vacation comes, and all the others depart for their homes, by coach or on horseback, then we stroll forth through the streets and through the city gate with our instruments under our cloaks and the world before us."

I can't tell how it was, but, while he spoke, the thought that such learned people were so forlorn and forsaken in this world went to my very heart. And then I thought of myself, and how I was not much better off, and the tears came into my eyes. The cornetist eyed me askance. "I wouldn't give a fig," he went on, "to travel with horses, and coffee, and freshly-made beds, and nightcaps and boot-jacks, all ordered beforehand. It's just the delightful part of it that, when we set out early in the morning, and the birds of passage are winging their flight high in the air above us, we do not know what chimney is smoking for us today, and can never foresee what special piece of luck may befall us before evening." "Yes," said the other, "and wherever we go, and take out our instruments, people are merry; and when we play at noon in the vestibule of some great country-house, the maids will dance before the door, and their masters and mistresses will have the drawing-room door opened a little, the better to hear the music, and the clatter of plates and the smell of the roast float out through the chink, and the young misses at table well-nigh twist their necks off to see the musicians outside." "That's true!" exclaimed the cornetist, with sparkling eyes. "Let who will pore over their compendiums, we choose to study in the vast picture-book which the dear God spreads open before us! Yes, the gentleman may believe me, we make the right sort of fellows, who know how to preach to the peasants from the pulpit and to bang the cushion, so that the clodpoles down below are ready to burst with humiliation and edification."

At hearing them talk thus, I became so pleased and interested that I longed to be a student too. I could have listened forever, for I enjoy the conversation of men of learning, from whom much is to be gained. But we had no real, sensible conversation, for one of the students was worried because the vacation was so nearly at an end. He put his clarionet together, set up a sheet of music on his knees, and began to practice a difficult passage from a mass which was to be played when they returned to Prague. There he sat and fingered and played away, sometimes so false that it fairly pierced your ears and you couldn't hear your own voice.

Suddenly the cornetist exclaimed in his bass tones, "I have it!" and down came his fist on the map before him. The other stopped practising for a moment, and looked at him in surprise. "Hark ye," said the cornetist, "there is a castle not far from Vienna, and in that castle there is a porter, and that porter is my cousin! Dearest fellow-students, that must be our goal; we must pay our respects to my cousin, and he will arrange for our further journey." When I heard that, I sprang to my feet. "Doesn't he play on the bassoon?" I cried. "Is he not tall and straight, with a big, prominent nose?" The cornetist nodded, upon which I embraced him so enthusiastically that his three-cornered hat fell off, and we all immediately determined to take the mail-boat on the Danube to the castle of the beautiful Countess.

When we arrived at the wharf all was ready for departure. The fat host before whose inn the ship had lain all night was standing broad and cheery in his door-way, which he quite filled, shouting out all sorts of jokes and farewell speeches, while from every window a girl's head was poked out nodding to the sailors, who were just carrying the last packages aboard. An elderly gentleman with a gray overcoat and a black neckerchief, who was also going in the boat, stood on the shore talking very earnestly with a slim young fellow in leather breeches and a trig scarlet jacket, mounted on a magnificent chestnut. To my great surprise, they seemed to glance at times toward me, and to be speaking of me. At last the old gentleman laughed, and the slim young fellow cracked his riding-whip and galloped off through the fresh morning across the shining landscape, with the larks soaring above him.

Meanwhile, the students and I had combined our resources. The captain laughed and shook his head when the cornetist counted out our passage-money to him in coppers, for which we had diligently searched every corner of our pockets. I shouted aloud when I once more saw the Danube before me; we hurried aboard, the captain gave the signal, and away we glided in the brilliant morning sunshine past the meadows and the mountains.

The birds in the woods were singing, and the morning bells echoed afar from the villages on each side of us, while overhead the larks' clear notes were now and then heard. On the boat a canary-bird in its cage trilled and twittered back so that it was a delight to listen to it.

It belonged to a pretty young girl who was on the boat with us. She kept the cage close beside her, and under the other arm she had a small bundle of linen; she sat by herself, quite still, looking in great content, now at her new traveling-shoes, which peeped out from beneath her petticoats, and now down at the water, while the morning sun shone on her white forehead, above which the hair was neatly parted. I noticed that the students would have liked to engage her in polite discourse, for they kept passing to and fro before her, and the cornetist, whenever he did so, cleared his throat, and settled, first his cravat, and then his three-cornered hat. But their courage failed them, and moreover the girl cast down her eyes as soon as they, approached her.

They seemed, besides, to stand in special awe of the elderly gentleman in the gray overcoat, who was now sitting on the other side of the boat, and whom they took for a divine. He held an open breviary, in which he was reading, looking up from it frequently to admire the lovely scenery, while the gilt edges of the book and the gay pictures of saints laid between its leaves shone brilliantly in the sun light. He was perfectly well aware, too, of what was going on around him, and soon recognized the birds by their feathers, for before long he addressed one of the students in Latin, whereupon all three approached him, took off their hats, and made answer also in Latin.

Meanwhile, I had seated myself at the prow of the boat, where, highly delighted, I dangled my legs above the water, gazing, while the boat glided onward and the waves below me leaped and foamed, constantly into the blue distance, watching towers and castles one after another emerge from the dim depths of green, grow and grow upon the sight, and finally recede and vanish behind us. "If I had but wings at this moment!" I thought; and at last in my impatience I drew forth my dear violin and played all my oldest pieces, which I had learned at home and at the castle of the Lady fair.

All at once some one behind me tapped me on the shoulder. It was the reverend gentleman, who had laid aside his book, and had been listening to me for a while. "Aha," he said laughing, "aha, my young ludi magister is forgetting to eat and drink!" Whereupon he bade me put away my fiddle and take a bit of luncheon with him, and he then led me to a pleasant little arbor which the boatmen had erected in the centre of the boat out of young birches and firs. He had a table placed beneath it, and I and the students, and even the young girl, were invited to sit down around it upon the casks and packages.

The reverend gentleman now produced cold meat and bread and butter, which had all been carefully wrapped in paper, and took from a case several bottles of wine and a silver goblet, gilt inside, which he filled, tasted first himself, then smelled, tasted again, and finally presented to each of us in turn. The students sat bolt upright on their casks, and only sipped a little, so great was their awe. The girl, too, just dipped her little beak in the goblet, glancing shyly first at me and then at the students; but the oftener she looked at us the bolder she grew.

At last she informed the reverend gentleman that she was leaving her home for the first time, to go into service at a certain castle, and as she spoke I blushed all over, for the castle she mentioned was that of the Lady fair. "Then she is my future lady's maid!" I thought, staring at her, and feeling almost giddy. "There is soon to be a grand wedding at the castle," said his reverence. "Yes," replied the girl, who would have liked to learn more of the matter; "they say it is an old secret attachment, but that the Countess could never be brought to give her consent." His reverence replied only by "hm! hm!" refilling his goblet, and sipping from it with a thoughtful air. I leaned forward with both elbows on the table, that I might lose no word of the conversation. His reverence observed it. "Let me tell you," he began again, "that both Countesses sent me forth to discover whether the bridegroom be not in the country hereabouts. A lady wrote from Rome that he left there some time ago." When he began about the lady in Rome I blushed again. "Is your reverence acquainted with the bridegroom?" I asked, in confusion. "No," replied the old gentleman; "but they say he is a gay bird." "Oh, yes," said I, hastily, "a bird that escapes as soon as it can from every cage, and sings gaily when it regains its freedom." "And wanders about in foreign countries," the old gentleman continued, composedly, "goes everywhere at night, and sleeps on door-steps in the daytime." That vexed me extremely. "Reverend sir," I exclaimed, with some heat, "you have been falsely informed. The bridegroom is a slender, moral, promising youth, who has been living in luxury in an old castle in Italy, and has associated solely with Countesses, famous painters, and lady's-maids, who knows perfectly well how to take care of his money, if he had any, who—" "Come, come, I had no idea that you knew him so well," the divine here interrupted me, laughing so heartily that he grew quite purple in the face and the tears rolled down his cheeks. "But I heard," the girl interposed, "that the bridegroom was a stout, very wealthy gentleman." "Good heavens, yes, yes, to be sure! Confusion worse confounded!" exclaimed his reverence, laughing so that it brought on a fit of coughing. When he had somewhat recovered himself, he raised his goblet aloft and cried, "Here's to the bridal pair!" I did not know what to make of the reverend gentleman and his talk, and I was ashamed, because of my adventures in Rome, to tell him here before all these people that I myself was the missing thrice happy bridegroom.

The goblet kept passing from hand to hand; the reverend gentleman had a kind word for every one, so that all liked him, and finally the entire company chatted gaily together. The students grew more and more loquacious, recounting their experiences in the mountains, and at last brought out their instruments and played away merrily. The cool breeze from the water sighed through the leaves of the arbor, the afternoon sun gilded the woods and vales which flew past us, while the shores echoed back the notes of the horn. And when the reverend gentleman, stimulated by the music, grew more and more genial, and told us stories of his youth, how in vacation-time he too had wandered over hills and dales, and had been often hungry and thirsty, but always happy, and how, in fact, a student's whole life, from its first day in the narrow, dry lecture-room to its last, is one long vacation, then the students drank all around once more, and struck up a song, that reechoed among the distant mountains

"The birds are southward winging Their yearly, airy flight, And roving lads are swinging Their caps in morning's light; We students thus are going, And, when the gates are nigh, Our trumpets shall be blowing, In token of good-bye. A long farewell we give thee, O Prague, for we must leave thee, Et habeat bonam pacem, Qui sedet post fornacem!

"When through the towns we're going At night, the windows shine, Behind their curtains showing Full many a damsel fine. We play at many a gate-way, And when our throats are dry We call mine host, and straightway He treats us generously; And o'er a goblet foaming We rest awhile from roaming. Venit ex sua domo— Beatus ille homo!

"When roaming through the forest Cold Boreas whistles shrill, 'Tis then our need is sorest; Wet through on plain and hill, Our cloaks the winds are tearing, Our shoes are worn and old, Still playing, onward faring, In spite of rain and cold. Beatus ille homo Qui sedet in sua domo Et sedet post fornacem, Et habeat bonam pacem!"

I, the captain, and the girl, although we did not understand Latin, joined gaily in the last lines of each verse; but I was the gayest of all, for I had caught a glimpse in the distance of my toll-house, and soon afterward the castle shone among the trees in the light of the setting sun.



CHAPTER X

The boat touched the shore, and we all left it as quickly as possible, and scattered about in the meadows, like birds suddenly set free from the cage. The reverend gentleman took a hasty leave of us, and strode off toward the castle. The students repaired to a retired dingle, where they could shake out their cloaks, wash themselves in the brook, and shave one another. The new lady's-maid, with her canary-bird and her bundle, set out for an inn, the hostess of which I had recommended to her as an excellent person, and where she wished to change her gown before she presented herself at the castle. As for me—the lovely evening shone right into my heart, and as soon as all the rest had disappeared I lost not a moment, but ran directly to the castle garden.

My toll-house, which I had to pass, was standing on the old spot, the tall trees in the castle garden were still murmuring above it, and a yellow-hammer, which always used to sing at sunset in the chestnut-tree before the window, was singing again, as if nothing in the world had happened since I last heard him. The toll-house window was open; I ran up to it with delight and looked in. There was no one there, but the clock in the corner was ticking away, the writing-table stood by the window, and the long pipe in the corner as of old. I could not resist the temptation to climb through the window and seat myself at the writing-table before the big account-book. Again the sunlight shone golden-green through the chestnut boughs upon the figures in the open book, again the bees buzzed in and out of the window, and again the yellow-hammer's jocund song sounded from the tree outside. All at once the door of the sleeping-room opened, and a tall, old Receiver, in my dotted dressing-gown, entered! He paused on the threshold upon beholding me thus unexpectedly, took his spectacles quickly from his nose, and looked angrily at me. Not a little alarmed, I started up, and, without saying a word, ran out of the door and through the little garden, where I was very nearly tripped up by the confounded potato-vines which the old Receiver had planted, evidently by the Porter's advice, in place of my flowers. I heard him as he came out of the door scolding after me, but I was mounted atop of the garden wall, and gazing with a throbbing heart over into the castle garden.

Ah, how the birds were flitting and twittering and singing! The lawns and paths were deserted, but the gilded tree-tops nodded a welcome to me in the evening breeze, and on one side, up through masses of dark green foliage, gleamed the Danube.

Suddenly I heard sung from the depths of the garden—

"When the yearning heart is stilled As in dreams, the forest sighing, To the listening earth replying, Tells the thoughts with which 'twas filled, Days long vanished, soothing sorrow— From the Past a light they borrow, And the heart is gently thrilled."

The voice and the song were strangely familiar, as if I had heard them somewhere in a dream. I pondered over and over again, and at last exclaimed, joyfully, "It is Herr Guido!" swinging myself quickly down into the garden. It was the selfsame song that he had sung on the balcony of the Italian inn on that summer evening when I saw him for the last time.

He went on singing, while I bounded over beds and hedges toward the singer. But as I emerged from between the last clumps of rose-bushes I suddenly paused spellbound. For on the green opening beside the little lake with the swans, clearly illuminated in the ruddy evening light, on a stone bench sat the lovely Lady fair in a beautiful dress, with a wreath of red and white roses on her dark-brown hair, and downcast eyes, tracing lines on the green-sward with her riding-whip, just as she had sat in the skiff when I was forced to sing her the song of the Lady fair. Opposite her sat another young lady, with brown curls clustering on a plump white neck, which was turned toward me; she was singing to a guitar, while the swans glided in wide circles on the placid water. All at once the Lady fair raised her eyes, and gave a scream on perceiving me. The other lady turned round toward me so quickly that her brown curls fell over her eyes, and when she saw me she burst into a fit of immoderate laughter, sprang up from the bench, and clapped her hands thrice. Whereupon a crowd of little girls in white short skirts with red and green sashes came running out from among the rose-bushes, so that I could not imagine where they had all been hiding. They had long garlands of flowers in their hands, and quickly formed a circle around me, dancing and singing—

"With ribbons gay of violets blue The bridal wreath we bring thee; The merry dance we lead thee to, And wedding songs we sing thee. Ribbons gay of violets blue, Bridal wreath we bring thee."

It was from Der Freischuetz. I recognized some of the little singers; they were girls from the village. I pinched their cheeks, and tried to escape from the circle, but the roguish little things would not let me out. I could not tell what to make of it all, and stood there perfectly dazed.

Suddenly a young man in hunting costume emerged from the shrubbery. Hardly could I believe my eyes—it was merry Herr Lionardo! The little girls now opened the circle and stood as if spell-bound on one foot, with the other stretched out, holding the garlands of flowers high above their heads with both hands. Herr Lionardo took the hand of the lovely Lady fair, who had risen, and had only now and then glanced at me, and, leading her up to me, said—

"Love—on this point philosophers are unanimous—is one of the most courageous qualities of the human heart; it shatters with a glance of fire the barriers of rank and station, the world is too confined for it, eternity too brief. It is, so to speak, a poet's robe, in which every dreamer enwraps himself once in this cold world, for a journey to Arcadia. And the farther two parted lovers wander from each other, the more beautiful and the richer are the folds of the robe, the more surprising and wonderful is its extent, as it sweeps behind them, so that one really cannot travel far without treading on a couple of such trains. O beloved Herr Receiver, and bridegroom! although wrapped in this robe you reached the shores of the Tiber, the little hands of your present bride held you fast by the extreme end of the train, and, however you might fiddle and fume, you had to return within the magic influence of her beautiful eyes. And since this is so, you two dear, foolish people, wrap yourselves both up in this blessed robe, forget all the rest of the world, love like turtle-doves, and be happy!"

Hardly had Herr Lionardo finished his speech when the other young lady who had sung the song approached me, crowned me with a wreath of fresh myrtle, and as she was arranging it, with her face close to my own, archly sang—

"And therefore do I crown thee, And therefore love thee so, Because thou oft hast moved me With the music of thy bow."

As she retreated a step or two, "Do you remember the robbers who shook you down from the tree at night?" said she, courtesying, and giving me so arch a glance that my heart danced within me. Thereupon, without waiting for an answer, she walked around me. "Actually just the same, without any Italian affectations! But no! look, look at his fat pockets!" she exclaimed suddenly to the lovely Lady fair. "Violin, linen, razor, portmanteau, everything stuffed together!" She turned me all round as she spoke, and could scarcely say anything more for laughing. Meanwhile, the lovely Lady fair was quite silent, and could hardly raise her eyes for shame and confusion. It seemed to me that at heart she was provoked at all this jesting talk. At last her eyes filled with tears, and she hid her face on the breast of the other lady, who first looked at her in surprise and then clasped her affectionately in her arms.

I stood there as in a dream. The longer I looked at the strange lady the more clearly I recognized her; she was in truth no other than—the young painter, Herr Guido!

I did not know what to say, and was just about to question her, when Herr Lionardo approached her and spoke in an undertone. "Does he not know yet?" I heard him ask. She shook her head. He reflected for a moment, and then said aloud, "No, no, he must be told all immediately, or there will be all kinds of fresh gossip and confusion."

"Herr Receiver," he said, turning to me, "we have not much time at present, but do me the favor to exhaust your stock of surprise and wonder as quickly as possible, that you may not hereafter, by questions, and wonderings, and head-shakings among the people about here, revive old tales and give rise to new rumors and suspicions." So saying, he drew me aside into the shrubbery, while Fraeulein Guido made passes in the air with the Lady fair's riding-whip, and shook all her curls down over her eyes, which did not prevent my seeing that she was blushing violently.

"Well, then," said Herr Lionardo, "Fraeulein Flora, who is trying to look as if she neither knew nor had heard anything of the whole affair, had exchanged hearts in a hurry with somebody. Whereupon somebody else appears, and with sound of trumpet and drum offers her his heart, and wishes for hers in return. But her heart is already bestowed upon somebody, and somebody's heart is in her possession, and that somebody will neither take back his heart nor give back hers. All the world exclaims—but have you never read any romances?" I shook my head. "Well, then, at all events you have taken part in one. In brief, there was such a jumble with the hearts that somebody—that is, I—had to take matters in hand. I sprang on my horse one warm summer night, mounted Fraeulein Flora as the painter Guido on another, and rode toward the south, to conceal her in one of my lonely castles in Italy till all the fuss about the hearts should be over. But on the way we were tracked, and from the balcony of the Italian inn before which you kept, sound asleep, such admirable watch, Flora suddenly caught sight of our pursuer." "The crooked Signor, then—" "Was a spy. Therefore we secretly took to the woods, and left you to travel post alone over our prearranged route. That misled our pursuer, and my people in the mountain castle besides; they were hourly expecting the disguised Flora, and with more zeal than penetration they took you for the Fraeulein. Even here at the castle they thought Flora was among the mountains; they inquired about her, they wrote to her—did you not receive a note?" In an instant I produced the note from my pocket: "This letter, then—?" "Is addressed to me," said Fraeulein Flora, who up to this point had seemed to be paying no attention to our conversation. She snatched the note from me, read it, and put it into her bosom. "And now," said Herr Lionardo, "we must hasten to the castle, where they are all waiting for us. In conclusion, as a matter of course, and as is fitting for every well-bred romance—discovery, repentance, reconciliation; but we are all happy together once more, and the wedding takes place the day after tomorrow!"

Just as he had finished, a terrific racket of drums and trumpets, horns and clarionets, was suddenly heard in the shrubbery; guns were fired at intervals, loud cheers were given, the little girls began to dance again, and heads appeared among the bushes as if they had grown out of the earth. I ran and leaped about in all the hurry and scurry, but as it began to grow dark I only gradually recognized all the faces. The old gardener beat the drum, the students from Prague in their cloaks played away, and among them the Porter fingered his bassoon like mad. When I suddenly perceived him thus unexpectedly, I ran to him and embraced him with enthusiasm, causing him to play quite out of time. "Upon my word, if he should travel to the ends of the earth he would never be anything but a goose!" he said to the students, and then went on blowing away at his bassoon in a fury.

Meanwhile, the lovely Lady fair had privately escaped from all the noise and confusion, and had fled like a startled fawn far into the depths of the garden.

I caught sight of her in time and hurried after her. In their zeal the musicians never noticed us; after a while they thought that we had decamped to the castle, and then the entire band took up the line of march in that direction.

We, however, almost at the same moment reached a summer-house on the borders of the garden, whence through the open window there was a view of the wide, deep valley. The sun had long since set behind the mountains, a rosy haze glimmered in the warm fading twilight, through which the murmur of the Danube ascended clearer and clearer the stiller grew the air. I looked long at the lovely Countess, who stood before me heated with her flight and so close that I could almost hear her heart beat. Now that I was alone with her I could find no words to speak, so great was my awe of her. At last I took heart of grace, and clasped in mine one of her little white hands—and in one moment her head lay on my breast and my arms were around her.

In an instant she extricated herself and turned to the window to cool her glowing cheeks in the evening air. "Ah," I cried, "my heart is full to bursting, but it all seems like a dream to me!" "And to me too," said the lovely Lady fair. "When, last summer," she went on after a while, "I came back with the Countess from Rome where we fortunately found Fraeulein Flora, and had brought her back with us but could hear nothing of you either there or here, I never thought all this would come to pass. It was only at noon today that Jocky, the good, brisk fellow, came breathless into the court-yard and brought the news that you had come by the mail-boat." Then she laughed quietly to herself. "Do you remember," she said, "that time when I came out on the balcony? It was just such an evening as this, and there was music in the garden." "And he is really dead?" I asked hastily. "Whom do you mean?" replied the Lady fair, looking at me in surprise. "Your ladyship's husband," said I, "who was with you on the balcony." She flushed crimson. "What strange fancies you have in your head!" she exclaimed. "That was the Countess's son, who had just returned from his travels, and, since it happened to be my birthday, he led me out on the balcony with him that I might have a share of the cheers. Was that why you ran away?" "Good heavens, yes!" I cried, striking my forehead with my hand. She shook her head and laughed merrily.

I was so happy there beside her while she went on chatting so confidingly, that I could have sat listening until morning. I found in my pocket a handful of almonds which I had brought with me from Italy. She took some, and we sat and cracked them and gazed abroad over the quiet country. "Do you see that little white villa," she said after a while, "gleaming over there in the moonlight? The Count has given us that, with its garden and vineyard; there is where we are to live. He found out long ago that we cared for each other, and he is very fond of you, for if he had not had you with them when he was running off with Fraeulein Flora they would both have been caught before the Countess had become reconciled to him, and everything would have been spoiled." "Good heavens! fairest, sweetest Countess," I cried out, "my head is fairly spinning with all this unexpected and amazing information; are you talking of Herr Lionardo?" "Yes, yes," she replied; "that is what he called himself in Italy; he owns all that property over there, and he is going to marry our Countess's daughter, the lovely Flora. But why do you call me Countess?" I stared at her. "I am no Countess," she went on. "Our Countess took me into the castle and had me educated under her care when my uncle, the Porter, brought me here a poor little orphan child."

Ah, what a stone fell from my heart at these words! "God bless the Porter," I said in an ecstasy, "for being our uncle! I always set great store by him." "And he would be very fond of you," she replied, "if you would only comport yourself with more dignity, as he expresses it. You must dress with greater elegance." "Oh," I exclaimed, enchanted, "an English dress-coat, straw hat, long trousers, and spurs! And as soon as we're married we will take a trip to Italy—to Rome—where lovely fountains are playing, and we'll take with us the Prague students, and the Porter!" She smiled quietly, and gave me a happy glance, while the music echoed in the distance, and rockets flew up from the castle above the garden in the quiet night, and the Danube kept murmuring on, and everything, everything was delightful!



ADALBERT VON CHAMISSO

* * * * *

THE CASTLE OF BONCOURT[37] (1827)

I dream of the days of my childhood, And shake my silvery head. How haunt ye my brain, O visions, Methought ye forgotten and dead!

From the shades of the forest uprises A castle so lofty and great; Well know I the battlements, towers, The arching stone-bridge, and the gate.

The lions look down from the scutcheon On me with familiar face; I greet the old friends of my boyhood, And speed through the courtyard space.

There lies the Sphinx by the fountain; The fig-tree's foliage gleams; 'Twas there, behind yon windows, I dreamt the first of my dreams.

I tread the aisle of the chapel, And search for my fathers' graves— Behold them! And there from the pillars Hang down the old armor and glaives.

Not yet can I read the inscription; A veil hath enveloped my sight, What though through the painted windows Glows brightly the sunbeam's light. Thus gleams, O hall of my fathers, Thy image so bright in my mind, From the earth now vanished, the ploughshare Leaves of thee no vestige behind.

Be fruitful, lov'd soil, I will bless thee, While anguish o'er-cloudeth my brow; Threefold will I bless him, whoever May guide o'er thy bosom the plough.

But I will up, up, and be doing; My lyre I'll take in my hand; O'er the wide, wide earth will I wander, And sing from land to land.



* * * * *

THE LION'S BRIDE[38]

With myrtle bedecked and in bridal array, Comes the keeper's fair daughter, as blooming as May. She enters the cage of the lion; he lies Calm and still at her feet and looks up in her eyes.

The terrible beast, of whom men are afraid, Lies peaceful and tame at the feet of the maid, While she, in her tender adorable grace, Is stroking his head as the tears stain her face.

"In the days that are gone, we were playmates so true; Like brother and sister we played, I and you. Our love was still constant in joy or in pain— But alas for the days that will ne'er come again!

"You learned to toss proudly your glorious head, And roar, as you tossed it, a warning of dread; I grew from a babe to a woman—you see, No longer a light-hearted child I can be.

"Oh, would that those days had had never an end, My splendid strong playmate, my noble old friend! But soon I must go, so my parents decree, Away with a stranger—no more am I free.

"A man has beheld me, and fancied me fair; He has asked for my hand—and the wreath's in my hair! Dear faithful old comrade, my girlhood is dead; And my sight is bedimmed with the tears I have shed.

"Do you know what I mean? Ah, your look is a sign! I have made up my mind, and you need not repine. But yonder he comes who must lead me away— So I'll give the last kiss to my playmate today!"

As the last fond farewell with reluctance she took, The huge frame so trembled the bars even shook; But when, drawing near a strange man he espied, A sudden alarm seized the heart of the bride.

The lion stands guard by the door of the cage— He is lashing his tail, he is roaring with rage. With threats, with entreaties she bids him to cease, But in vain—in his might he denies her release.

Without are confusion and cries of despair "Bring a gun!" shouts the bridegroom; "our one hope is there! I will snatch her away from his horrible claws * * *" But the lion defies him with foam-dripping jaws.

The girl makes a last frenzied dash for the door— But his past love the beast seems to measure no more; The sweet slender body goes down 'neath his might, All bleeding and lifeless, a pitiful sight.

Then, as if he knew well what a crime he had wrought, He throws himself down by her, caring for naught; He lies all unheeding what dangers remain, Till the bullet avenging speeds swift through his brain.

* * * * *

WOMAN'S LOVE AND LIFE[39] (1830)

1

Since mine eyes beheld him, Blind I seem to be; Wheresoe'er they wander, Him alone they see. Round me glows his image, In a waking dream; From the darkness rising Brighter doth it beam.

All is drear and gloomy That around me lies; Now my sister's pastimes I no longer prize; In my chamber rather Would I weep alone; Since my eyes beheld him Blind methinks I'm grown.

2

He, the best of all, the noblest, O how gentle! O how kind Lips of sweetness, eyes of brightness, Steadfast courage, lucid mind.

As on high, in Heaven's azure, Bright and splendid, beams yon star, Thus he in my heaven beameth, Bright and splendid, high and far.

Wander, wander where thou listest, I will gaze but on thy beam; With humility behold it, In a sad, yet blissful dream.

Hear me not thy bliss imploring With prayer's silent eloquence? Know me now, a lowly maiden, Star of proud magnificence!

May thy choice be rendered happy By the worthiest alone! And I'll call a thousand blessings Down on her exalted throne.

Then I'll weep with tears of gladness; Happy, happy then my lot! If my heart should rive asunder, Break, O heart—it matters not!

3

Is it true? O, I cannot believe it; A dream doth my senses enthrall; O can he have made me so happy, And exalted me thus above all?

Meseems as if he had spoken, "I am thine, ever faithful and true!" Meseems—O still am I dreaming— It cannot, it cannot be true!

O fain would I, rocked on his bosom, In the sleep of eternity lie; That death were indeed the most blissful, In the rapture of weeping to die.

4

Help me, ye sisters, Kindly to deck me, Me, O the happy one, aid me this morn! Let the light finger Twine the sweet myrtle's Blossoming garland, my brow to adorn!

As on the bosom Of my loved one, Wrapt in the bliss of contentment, I lay, He, with soft longing In his heart thrilling, Ever impatiently sighed for today.

Aid me, ye sisters, Aid me to banish Foolish anxieties, timid and coy, That I with sparkling Eye may receive him, Him the bright fountain of rapture and joy.

Do I behold thee, Thee, my beloved one, Dost thou, O sun, shed thy beam upon me? Let me devoutly, Let me in meekness Bend to my lord and my master the knee!

Strew, ye fair sisters, Flowers before him, Cast budding roses around at his feet! Joyfully quitting Now your bright circle, You, lovely sisters, with sadness I greet.

5

Dearest friend, thou lookest On me with surprise, Dost thou wonder wherefore Tears suffuse mine eyes? Let the dewy pearl-drops Like rare gems appear, Trembling, bright with gladness, In their crystal sphere.

With what anxious raptures Doth my bosom swell! O had I but language What I feel to tell! Come and hide thy face, love, Here upon my breast, In thine ear I'll whisper Why I am so blest.

Now the tears thou knowest Which my joy confessed, Thou shalt not behold them, Thou, my dearest, best; Linger on my bosom, Feel its throbbing tide; Let me press thee firmly, Firmly, to my side!

Here may rest the cradle, Close my couch beside, Where it may in silence My sweet vision hide; Soon will come the morning, When my dream will wake, And thy smiling image Will to life awake.

6

Upon my heart, and upon my breast, Thou joy of all joys, my sweetest, best! Bliss, thou art love; O love, thou art bliss— I've said it, and seal it here with a kiss. I thought no happiness mine could exceed, But now I am happy, O happy indeed! She only, who to her bosom hath pressed The babe who drinketh life at her breast; 'Tis only a mother the joys can know Of love, and real happiness here below. How I pity man, whose bosom reveals No joys like that which a mother feels! Thou look'st on me, with a smile on thy brow, Thou dear, dear little angel, thou! Upon my heart, and upon my breast, Thou joy of all joys, my sweetest, best!

7

Ah, thy first wound hast thou inflicted now! But oh! how deep! Hard-hearted, cruel man, now sleepest thou Death's long, long sleep.

I gaze upon the void in silent grief, The world is drear; I've lived and loved, but now the verdant leaf Of life is sere.

I will retire within my soul's recess, The veil shall fall; I'll live with thee and my past happiness, O thou, my all!



* * * * *

THE WOMEN OF WEINSBERG[40] (1831)

It was the good King Konrad with all his army lay Before the town of Weinsberg full many a weary day; The Guelph at last was vanquished, but still the town held out; The bold and fearless burghers they fought with courage stout.

But then came hunger, hunger! That was a grievous guest; They went to ask for favor, but anger met their quest. "Through you the dust hath bitten full many a worthy knight, And if your gates you open, the sword shall you requite!"

Then came the women, praying: "Let be as thou hast said, Yet give us women quarter, for we no blood have shed!" At sight of these poor wretches the hero's anger failed, And soft compassion entered and in his heart prevailed.

"The women shall be pardoned, and each with her shall bear As much as she can carry of her most precious ware; The women with their burdens unhindered forth shall go, Such is our royal judgment—we swear it shall be so!"

At early dawn next morning, ere yet the east was bright, The soldiers saw advancing a strange and wondrous sight; The gate swung slowly open, and from the vanquished town Forth swayed a long procession of women weighted down;

For perched upon her shoulders each did her husband bear— That was the thing most precious of all her household ware. "We'll stop the treacherous women!" cried all with one intent; The chancellor he shouted: "This was not what we meant!"

But when they told King Konrad, the good King laughed aloud; "If this was not our meaning, they've made it so," he vowed, "A promise is a promise, our loyal word was pledge; It stands, and no Lord Chancellor may quibble or map hedge."

Thus was the royal scutcheon kept free from stain or blot! The story has descended from days now half forgot; 'Twas eleven hundred and forty this happened, as I've heard, The flower of German princes thought shame to break his word.

* * * * *

THE CRUCIFIX[41] (1830)

In hopeless contemplation of his work The master stood, a frown upon his brow, Where shame and self-contempt appeared to lurk.

With all his art and knowledge he had now Portrayed the suffering Savior's image there— Yet could the marble not with life endow.

He could not make it live, for all his care— What is not flesh knows not to suffer pain; Cold stone can none but stone's cold likeness bear.

Beauty and due proportion though it gain, The chisel's marks will never disappear And nature wake, howe'er his prayer may strain:

"Ah, turn not from me, Nature! Thou most dear, I long to raise thee to undreamed of height— But thou art dumb * * * a sorry bungler's here!"

There entered then a loyal neophyte, Who looked with reverence on the master's art And stood beside him, flushed with new delight.

To the same muse was given his young heart, The selfsame quest of beauty filled his days— Yet must his soul with endless failure smart.

To him the master: "Scorn is in thy praise! If so this dull, dead stone thy mind can fill, To death, not life, thou must have turned thy face!"

Then boldly spoke the youth: "Admire I will! What though thy Christ for death's repose prepare So strangely silent and so strangely still,

Yet at a great thing greatly wrought I stare, And long to match the marvel that I see; I see what is, and thou what should be there."

The master looked upon him silently, His youthful strength, his limbs so straight and fine, And deemed there were no model such as he.

"A prey thou find'st me to despair malign— How get from lifeless marble life and pain? Here nature fails, whose secrets else are mine.

To seek a hireling's aid were all in vain; And sought I thine, though partner of my aims, Naught but a cold refusal should I gain."

"Nay," said the youth, "in art's and God's high names, I would perform unwearied, unafraid, Whate'er of me thy need transcendent claims."

He spoke, and straight his beauty disarrayed, Showing the fair flower of his youthful grace Within the guarded workshop's sacred shade.

Entranced the master gazed, and could not chase A thought that rose unbidden to his mind— If pain upon that form its lines could trace!

"The help thou off'rest if I am to find, Thee too the cross must raise above the ground * * *" Willing, the youth his gracious limbs resigned.

With tight cords first his prey the sculptor bound, Then brought the hammer and the piercing nails— A martyr's death must close the destined round!

The first sharp nail went through, and piteous wails Burst from the youth, but no compassion woke; An eager eye the look of suffering hails.

With restless haste redoubled, stroke on stroke Achieved the bleeding model that he sought. Calmly to work he went; no word he spoke.

A hideous joy upon his features wrought— For nature now each shade of anguished woe Upon the expiring lovely form had taught.

Unceasing worked his hands, above, below; His heart was to all human feeling dead— But in the marble * * * life began to show!

Whether in prayer the sufferer bowed his head, Or in despairing torment gnashed his teeth, Still on the sculptor's flying fingers sped.

The pale, exhausted victim, nigh to death, As night the third long day of agony Is ending, murmurs with his last weak breath,

"My God, my God, hast Thou forsaken me?" The eyes, half raised, sink down, the writhings cease, The awful crime has reached its term—and see

There, in its glory, stands a masterpiece!

II

"My God, my God, hast Thou forsaken me?" At midnight in the minster rang the wail; Who could have raised it? 'Twas a mystery.

At the high altar, where its radiance pale A tiny lamp threw out, a form was found To move, whence came the faltering accents frail.

And then it dashed itself upon the ground, Its forehead 'gainst the stones, and wildly wept; The vaulted roof reechoed with the sound.

Long was the vigil that dim figure kept That seemed by tears so strangely comforted; None dared its tottering footsteps intercept.

At last the night's mysterious hours were sped And day returned; but all was silent now, And with the dawn the ghostly form had fled.

The faithful came before their God to bow, The canons to the altar reverently. There had been placed above it, none knew how,

A crucifix whose like none e'er did see; Thus, only thus had God His strength put by, Thus had He looked upon the blood-stained tree.

To Him whose suffering brought salvation nigh Came sinners for release, a contrite band— And "Christ have mercy!" was the general cry.

It seems not like the work of mortal hand hand— Who can have set the godlike image there? Who in the dead of night such offering planned?

It is the master's, who with anxious care Has waited, from the public gaze withdrawn, To show the utmost that his art can dare.

What shall we bring him for his ease foregone And brain o'ertasked? Gold is but sorry meed— His head a crown of laurel shall put on!—

So soon a great procession was decreed Of priests and laymen; marching in the van Went one who bore the recompense agreed.

They came where dwelt the venerated man— And found an open door, an empty house; They called his name, and naught but echoes ran.

The drums and cymbals all the neighbors rouse And trumpets shrill their joy; but none appears To see the grateful people pay their vows.

He is not there, the grave assemblage hears; A neighbor, waking early, like a ghost Saw him steal forth, a prey to nameless fears.

From room to room they went—their pains were lost; In all the desolate chambers there was none That answered them, or came to play the host.

They called aloud, let in the cheerful sun Through opened windows—in their anxious round Into the workshop entrance last they won * * *,

Ah, speak not of the horror there they found!

III

They have brought a captive home, and raging told That he is stained with foulest blasphemy, Mocks their false prophet with his insults bold.

It is the pilgrim we were used to see For penance roaming 'neath our palm-trees' shade, Till at the Holy Grave he might be free.

Will he, when comes the hangman, unafraid A Christian's courage show in face of wrong? God strengthen him on whom he cries for aid!

Ah yes—though life is sweet, his will is strong, His mind made up; he yields him to their hands, Content to shed his blood in torment long.

Nay, look not yonder, where the savage bands And merciless prepare a hideous deed— Perchance a like dread fate before us stands!

He comes, a victim led * * * yet will he bleed? I see a wondrous radiance in his face, As though unlooked-for safety were decreed!

Can he have bought it * * *? No! they stride apace Toward the blood-stained spot—it is to be. The martyr's palm his confident brow shall grace.

"Weep not! No tears of pity flowed from me When to the cross the tender youth I bound— My heart of stone ignored his misery."

So, hounded by remorse, the sinner found The path of expiation, firmly trod, Cain's brand upon him, all the dreadful round.

"Thou who didst die for me, all-pitying God, Wilt Thou vouchsafe my tortures now an end? I have not asked deliverance from Thy rod,

Nor hoped Thou shouldst to me Thy mercy lend. 'Tis life, not death, that is so hard to bear * * * Into Thy hands my spirit I commend!"

So when the ruffian captors seized him there And bound him to the cross, he calmly smiled; 'Twas they that watched whose brows were lined with care.

And as his limbs were torn with anguish wild, And he was lifted 'mid the throng on high, White peace came down upon his soul defiled.

In passionate prayer the faithful watched him die That stood beneath the cross; his lips were still— His suffering was one long atoning cry.

The day passed, and the night; with dauntless will He yet found strength his torment dire to face. The third day's sun sank down behind the hill;

And as the glory of its parting rays He strove with glazing eye once more to see, With his last breath he cried in joyful praise

"My God, my God, Thou hast not forsaken me!"

* * * * *

THE OLD SINGER[42] (1833)

Once a strange old man went singing, Words of scornful admonition To the streets and markets bringing: "In the wilds a voice am I! Slowly, slowly seek your mission; Naught in haste, or rash endeavor— From the work yet ceasing never Slow and sure the hour draws nigh!

Time's great branches cease from shaking; Blind are ye, devoid of reason, If its fruit ye would be taking When its blossoms have but burst. Let it ripen to its season, Wind within its branches bluster— Of itself the fruits 'twill muster For whose juices ripe ye thirst."

Wild, excited crowds are scorning In their guise the gray old singer, Thus reward him for his warning, Ape his songs in mockery: "Shall we let the fellow linger To disgrace us? Stone him, beat him, With the scorn he merits treat him— Let the world his folly see!"

So the strange old man went singing, To the halls of royal splendor Scornful admonition bringing: "In the wilds a voice am I! Doubt not, dream not of surrender: Forward, forward, never ceasing, Strength in spite of all increasing— Slow and sure the hour draws nigh!

With the stream, before the breezes Wouldst thou show thy strength, then teach it Both to conquer as it pleases— Both are weaker than the grave. Choose thy port, and steer to reach it! Threatening rocks? The rudder's master; Turning back is sure disaster, And its end beneath the wave."

One was seen to blench in terror, Flushing first, then sudden paling: "Who gave entrance—whose the error Let this madman pass along? All things show his wits are failing— Shall he daze our people's senses? Prison him with sure defenses, Silence hold his silly song!"

But the strange old man went singing Where within the tower they bound him— Calm and clear his answer ringing: "In the wilds a voice am I! Though the people's hate surround him, Must the prophet still endeavor, From his mission ceasing never— Slow and sure the hour draws nigh!"

* * * * *

THE OLD WASHERWOMAN[43] (1833)

Among yon lines her hands have laden, A laundress with white hair appears, Alert as many a youthful maiden, Spite of her five-and-seventy years. Bravely she won those white hairs, still Eating the bread hard toil obtain'd her, And laboring truly to fulfil The duties to which God ordain'd her.

Once she was young and full of gladness; She loved and hoped, was woo'd and won; Then came the matron's cares, the sadness No loving heart on earth may shun. Three babes she bore her mate; she pray'd Beside his sick-bed; he was taken; She saw him in the churchyard laid, Yet kept her faith and hope unshaken.

The task her little ones of feeding She met unfaltering from that hour; She taught them thrift and honest breeding, Her virtues were their worldly dower. To seek employment, one by one, Forth with her blessing they departed, And she was in the world alone, Alone and old, but still high-hearted.

With frugal forethought, self-denying, She gather'd coin and flax she bought, And many a night her spindle plying, Good store of fine-spun thread she wrought. The thread was fashion'd in the loom; She brought it home, and calmly seated To work, with not a thought of gloom, Her decent grave-clothes she completed.

She looks on them with fond elation, They are her wealth, her treasure rare, Her age's pride and consolation, Hoarded with all a miser's care. She dons the sark each Sabbath day, To hear the Word that faileth never; Well-pleased she lays it then away, Till she shall sleep in it forever.

Would that my spirit witness bore me That, like this woman, I had done The work my Master put before me, Duly from morn till set of sun. Would that life's cup had been by me Quaff'd in such wise and happy measure, And that I too might finally Look on my shroud with such meek pleasure.



THE WONDERFUL HISTORY OF PETER SCHLEMIHL (1814)

By ADALBERT VON CHAMISSO TRANSLATED BY FREDERIC H. HEDGE

CHAPTER I

After a fortunate, but for me very troublesome voyage, we finally reached the port. The instant that I touched land in the boat, I loaded myself with my few effects, and passing through the swarming people, I entered the first, and most modest house, before which I saw a sign hang. I requested a room; the boots measured me with a look, and conducted me into the garret. I caused fresh water to be brought, and made him exactly describe to me where I should find Mr. Thomas John. He replied to my inquiry—"Before the north gate; the first country-house on the right hand; a large new house of red and white marble, with many columns."

"Good!" It was still early in the day. I opened at once my bundle; took thence my new black cloth coat; clad myself cleanly in my best apparel; put my letter of introduction into my pocket, and immediately set out on the way to the man who was to promote my modest expectations.

When I had ascended the long North Street, and reached the gate, I soon saw the pillars glimmer through the foliage. "Here it is, then," thought I. I wiped the dust from my shoes with my pocket-handkerchief, put my neckcloth in order, and in God's name rung the bell. The door flew open. In the hall I had an examination to undergo; the porter, however, permitted me to be announced, and I had the honor to be called into the park, where Mr. John was walking with a select party. I recognized the man at once by the lustre of his corpulent self-complacency. He received me very well—as a rich man receives a poor devil—even turned toward me, without turning from the rest of the company, and took the offered letter from my hand. "So, so, from my brother! I have heard nothing from him for a long time. But he is well? There," continued he, addressing the company, without waiting for an answer, and pointing with the letter to a hill, "there I am going to erect the new building." He broke the seal without breaking off the conversation, which turned upon riches.

"He that is not master of a million, at least," he observed, "is—pardon me the word—a wretch!"

"O! how true!" I exclaimed with a rush of overflowing feeling.

That pleased him. He smiled at me, and said—"Stay here, my good friend; in a while I shall perhaps have time to tell you what I think about this." He pointed to the letter, which he then thrust into his pocket, and turned again to the company. He offered his arm to a young lady; the other gentlemen addressed themselves to other fair ones; each found what suited him; and all proceeded toward the rose-blossomed mound.

I slid into the rear, without troubling any one, for no one troubled himself any further about me. The company was excessively lively; there were dalliance and playfulness; trifles were sometimes discussed with an important tone, but oftener important matters with levity; and especially pleasantly flew the wit over absent friends and their circumstances. I was too strange to understand much of all this; too anxious and introverted to take an interest in such riddles.

We had reached the rosary. The lovely Fanny, the belle of the day, as it appeared, would, out of obstinacy, herself break off a blooming bough. She wounded herself on a thorn, and as if from the dark roses, flowed the purple on her tender hand. This circumstance put the whole party into a flutter. English plaster was sought for. A still, thin, lanky, longish, oldish man, who stood near, and whom I had not hitherto remarked, put his hand instantly into the close-lying breast-pocket of his old French gray taffetty coat; produced thence a little pocket-book; opened it; and presented to the lady, with a profound obeisance, the required article. She took it without noticing the giver, and without thanks; the wound was bound up; and we went forward over the hill, from whose back the company could enjoy the wide prospect over the green labyrinth of the park to the boundless ocean.

The view was in reality vast and splendid. A light point appeared on the horizon between the dark flood and the blue of the heaven. "A telescope here!" cried John; and already, before the servants who appeared at the call were in motion, the gray man, modestly bowing, had thrust his hand into his coat-pocket, and drawn thence a beautiful Dollond and handed it to John. Bringing it immediately to his eye, the latter informed the company that it was the ship which went out yesterday, and was detained in view of port by contrary winds. The telescope passed from hand to hand, but not again into that of its owner. I, however, gazed in wonder at the man, and could not conceive how the great machine had come out of the narrow pocket; but this seemed to have struck no one else, and nobody troubled himself any farther about the gray man than about myself.

Refreshments were handed round; the choicest fruits of every zone, in the costliest vessels. Mr. John did the honors with an easy grace, and a second time addressed a word to me. "Help yourself; you have not had the like at sea." I bowed, but he saw it not; he was already speaking with some one else.

The company would fain have reclined upon the sward on the slope of the hill, opposite to the outstretched landscape, had they not feared the dampness of the earth. "It were divine," observed one of the party, "had we but a Turkey carpet to spread here." The wish was scarcely expressed when the man in the gray coat had his hand in his pocket, and was busied in drawing thence, with a modest and even humble deportment, a rich Turkey carpet interwoven with gold. The servants received it as a matter of course, and opened it on the required spot. The company, without ceremony, took their places upon it; for myself, I looked again in amazement on the man, at the pocket, at the carpet, which measured above twenty paces long and ten in breadth, and rubbed my eyes, not knowing what to think of it, especially as nobody saw anything extraordinary in it.

I would fain have had some explanation regarding the man, and have asked who he was, but I knew not to whom to address myself, for I was almost more afraid of the gentlemen's servants than of the served gentlemen. At length I took courage, and stepped up to a young man who appeared to me to be of less consideration than the rest, and who had often stood alone. I begged him softly to tell me who the agreeable man in the gray coat there was.

"He there, who looks like an end of thread that has escaped out of a tailor's needle?"

"Yes, he who stands alone."

"I don't know him," he replied, and, as it seemed, in order to avoid a longer conversation with me he turned away and spoke of indifferent matters to another.

The sun began now to shine more powerfully, and to inconvenience the ladies. The lovely Fanny addressed carelessly to the gray man, whom, as far as I am aware, no one had yet spoken to, the trifling question, "Whether he had not, perchance, also a tent by him?" He answered her by an obeisance most profound, as if an unmerited honor were done him, and had already his hand in his pocket, out of which I saw come canvas, poles, cordage, iron-work—in short, everything which belongs to the most splendid pleasure-tent. The young gentlemen helped to expand it, and it covered the whole extent of the carpet, and nobody found anything remarkable in it.

I had already become uneasy, nay, horrified at heart, but how completely so, as, at the very next wish expressed, I saw him yet pull out of his pocket three roadsters—I tell thee, three beautiful great black horses, with saddle and caparison. Bethink thee! for God's sake!—three saddled horses, still out of the same pocket from which already a pocket-book, a telescope, an embroidered carpet, twenty paces long and ten broad, a pleasure-tent of equal dimensions, and all the requisite poles and irons, had come forth! If I did not protest to thee that I saw it myself with my own eyes, thou couldst not possibly believe it.

Embarrassed and obsequious as the man himself appeared to be, little as was the attention which had been bestowed upon him, yet to me his grisly aspect, from which I could not turn my eyes, became so fearful that I could bear it no longer.

I resolved to steal away from the company, which from the insignificant part I played in it seemed to me an easy affair. I proposed to myself to return to the city, to try my luck again on the morrow with Mr. John, and if I could muster the necessary courage, to question him about the singular gray man. Had I only had the good fortune to escape so well!

I had already actually succeeded in stealing through the rosary, and, in descending the hill, found myself on a piece of lawn, when, fearing to be encountered in crossing the grass out of the path, I cast an inquiring glance round me. What was my terror to behold the man in the gray coat behind me, and making toward me! In the next moment he took off his hat before me, and bowed so low as no one had ever yet done to me. There was no doubt but that he wished to address me, and, without being rude, I could not prevent it. I also took off my hat; bowed also; and stood there in the sun with bare head as if rooted to the ground. I stared at him full of terror, and was like a bird which a serpent has fascinated. He himself appeared very much embarrassed. He raised not his eyes; again bowed repeatedly; drew nearer, and addressed me with a soft, tremulous voice, almost in a tone of supplication.

"May I hope, sir, that you will pardon my boldness in venturing in so unusual a manner to approach you, but I would ask a favor. Permit me most condescendingly——"

"But in God's name!" exclaimed I in my trepidation, "what can I do for a man who—" we both started, and, as I believe, reddened.

After a moment's silence, he again resumed: "During the short time that I had the happiness to find myself near you, I have, sir, many times—allow me to say it to you—really contemplated with inexpressible admiration, the beautiful, beautiful, shadow which, as it were, with a certain noble disdain, and without yourself remarking it, you cast from you in the sunshine. The noble shadow at your feet there. Pardon me the bold supposition, but possibly you might not be indisposed to make this shadow over to me."

He was silent, and a mill-wheel seemed to whirl round in my head. What was I to make of this singular proposition to sell my own shadow? He must be mad, thought I, and with an altered tone which was more assimilated to that of his own humility, I answered thus:

"Ha! ha! good friend, have not you then enough of your own shadow? I take this for a business of a very singular sort—"

He hastily interrupted me—"I have many things in my pocket which, sir, might not appear worthless to you, and for this inestimable shadow I hold the very highest price too small."

It struck cold through me again as I was reminded of the pocket. I knew not how I could have called him good friend. I resumed the conversation, and sought, if possible, to set all right again by excessive politeness.

"But, sir, pardon your most humble servant; I do not understand your meaning. How indeed could my shadow"—he interrupted me—

"I beg your permission only here on the spot to be allowed to take up this noble shadow and put it in my pocket; how I shall do that, be my care. On the other hand, as a testimony of my grateful acknowledgment to you, I give you the choice of all the treasures which I carry in my pocket—the genuine Spring-root, the Mandrake-root, the Change-penny, the Rob-dollar, the Napkin of Roland's Page, a Mandrake-man, at your own price. But these probably don't interest you—rather Fortunatus' Wishing-cap newly and stoutly repaired, and a lucky-bag such as he had!"

"The Luck-purse of Fortunatus!" I exclaimed, interrupting him; and great as my anxiety was, with that one word he had taken my whole mind captive. A dizziness seized me, and double ducats seemed to glitter before my eyes.

"Honored Sir, will you do me the favor to view, and to make trial of this purse?" He thrust his hand into his pocket, and drew out a tolerably large, well-sewed purse of stout Corduan leather, with two strong strings, and handed it to me. I plunged my hand into it, and drew out ten gold pieces, and again ten, and again ten, and again ten. I extended him eagerly my hand "Agreed! the business is done; for the purse you have my shadow!"

He closed with me; kneeled instantly down before me, and I beheld him, with an admirable dexterity, gently loosen my shadow from top to toe from the grass, lift it up, roll it together, fold it, and, finally, pocket it. He arose, made me another obeisance, and retreated toward the rosary. I fancied that I heard him there softly laughing to himself; but I held the purse fast by the strings; all round me lay the clear sunshine, and within me was yet no power of reflection.



CHAPTER II

At length I came to myself, and hastened to quit the place where I had nothing more to expect. In the first place I filled my pockets with gold; then I secured the strings of the purse fast round my neck, and concealed the purse itself in my bosom. I passed unobserved out of the park, reached the highway and took the road to the city. As, sunk in thought, I approached the gate, I heard a cry behind me—"Young gentleman! eh! young gentleman! hear you!" I looked round, an old woman called after me. "Do take care, sir, you have lost your shadow!" "Thank you, good mother!" I threw her a gold piece for her well-meant information, and stopped under the trees.