The German Classics of the Nineteenth and Twentieth Centuries, Volume 06

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During the night which I passed at Goslar, a remarkably curious occurrence befell me. Even now I cannot think of it without terror. I am not cowardly by nature and Heaven knows that I have never experienced any special anguish when, for example, a naked blade has sought to make acquaintance with my nose or when I have lost my way at night in a wood of ill repute, or when, at a concert, a yawning lieutenant has threatened to swallow me—but ghosts I fear almost as much as the Austrian Observer52. What is fear? Does it originate in the brain or in the emotions? This was a point which I frequently disputed with Dr. Saul Ascher, when we accidentally met in the Café Royal in Berlin, where for a long time I used to take dinner. The Doctor invariably maintained that we feared anything, because we recognized it as fearful, by a certain process of reasoning, for reason alone is an active power—the emotions are not. While I ate and drank my fill, the Doctor continued to demonstrate to me the advantages of reason. Toward the end of his demonstration, he was accustomed to look at his watch and remark conclusively, "Reason is the highest principle!" Reason! Never do I hear this word without recalling Dr. Saul Ascher, with his abstract legs, his tight-fitting transcendental-grey long coat, his forbidding icy face, which could have served as frontispiece for a textbook of geometry. This man, deep in the fifties, was a personified straight line. In his striving for the positive, the poor man had, by dint of philosophizing, eliminated all the splendid things from life, such as sunshine, religion, and flowers, so that there remained nothing for him but the cold positive grave. The Apollo Belvedere and Christianity were the two special objects of his malice, and he had even published a pamphlet against the latter, in which he had demonstrated its unreasonableness and untenableness. In addition to this, he has written a great number of books, in all of which Reason shines forth in all its peculiar excellence, and as the poor Doctor meant what he said in all seriousness, he was, so far, deserving of respect. But the great joke consisted precisely in this, that the Doctor invariably cut such a seriously absurd figure when he could not comprehend what every child comprehends, simply because it is a child. I visited the Doctor of Reason several times in his own house, where I found him in company with very pretty girls; for Reason, it seems, does not prohibit the enjoyment of the things of this world. Once, however, when I called, his servant told me the "Herr Doctor" had just died. I experienced as much emotion on this occasion as if I had been told that the "Herr Doctor" had just moved.

To return to Goslar. "The highest principle is Reason," said I soothingly to myself, as I slid into bed. But it availed me nothing. I had just been reading in Varnhagen von Ense's German Tales, which I had brought with me from Clausthal, that terrible story of the son who went about to murder his father and was warned in the night by the ghost of his mother. The wonderful truthfulness with which this story is depicted, caused, while reading it, a shudder of horror in all my veins. Ghost-stories invariably thrill us with additional horror when read during a journey, and by night in a town, in a house, and in a room where we have never been before. We involuntarily reflect, "How many horrors may have been perpetrated on this very spot where I now lie!" Meanwhile, the moon shone into my room in a doubtful, suspicious manner; all kinds of uncalled-for shapes quivered on the walls, and as I raised myself in bed and glanced fearfully toward them, I beheld—

There is nothing so uncanny as when a man accidentally sees his own face by moonlight in a mirror. At the same instant there struck a deep-booming, yawning bell, and that so slowly and wearily that after the twelfth stroke I firmly believed that twelve full hours must have passed and that it would begin to strike twelve all over again. Between the last and next to the last tones, there struck in very abruptly, as if irritated and scolding, another bell, which was apparently out of patience with the slowness of its colleague. As the two iron tongues were silenced, and the stillness of death sank over the whole house, I suddenly seemed to hear, in the corridor before my chamber, something halting and shuffling along, like the unsteady steps of an old man. At last my door opened, and there entered slowly the late departed Dr. Saul Ascher. A cold fever ran through me. I trembled like an ivy leaf and scarcely dared to gaze upon the ghost. He appeared as usual, with the same transcendental-grey long coat, the same abstract legs, and the same mathematical face; only this latter was a little yellower than usual, the mouth, which formerly described two angles of 22-1/2 degrees, was pinched together, and the circles around the eyes had a somewhat greater radius. Tottering, and supporting himself as usual upon his Malacca cane, he approached me, and said in his usual drawling accent but in a friendly manner, "Do not be afraid, nor believe that I am a ghost. It is a deception of your imagination, if you believe that you see me as a ghost. What is a ghost? Define one. Deduce for me the conditions of the possibility of a ghost. What reasonable connection is there between such an apparition and reason? Reason, I say, Reason!" Here the ghost proceeded to analyze reason, cited from Kant's Critique of Pure Reason, part II, section I, book 2, chap. 3, the distinction between phenomena and noumena, then went on to construct a hypothetical system of ghosts, piled one syllogism on another, and concluded with the logical proof that there are absolutely no ghosts. Meanwhile the cold sweat ran down my back, my teeth clattered like castanets, and from very agony of soul I nodded an unconditional assent to every assertion which the phantom doctor alleged against the absurdity of being afraid of ghosts, and which he demonstrated with such zeal that once, in a moment of distraction, instead of his gold watch he drew a handful of grave-worms from his vest-pocket, and remarking his error, replaced them with a ridiculous but terrified haste. "Reason is the highest—!" Here the clock struck one, but the ghost vanished.

The next morning I left Goslar and wandered along, partly at random, and partly with the intention of visiting the brother of the Clausthal miner. Again we had beautiful Sunday weather. I climbed hill and mountain, saw how the sun strove to drive away the mists, and wandered merrily through the quivering woods, while around my dreaming head rang the bell-flowers of Goslar. The mountains stood in their white night-robes, the fir-trees were shaking sleep out of their branching limbs, the fresh morning wind curled their drooping green locks, the birds were at morning prayers, the meadow-vale flashed like a golden surface sprinkled with diamonds, and the shepherd passed over it with his bleating flock.

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After much circuitous wandering I came to the dwelling of the brother of my Clausthal friend. Here I stayed all night and experienced the following beautiful poem—

  Stands the but upon the mountain    Where the ancient woodman dwells  There the dark-green fir-trees rustle,    Casts the moon its golden spells.  In the but there stands an arm-chair,    Richly carved and cleverly;  He who sits therein is happy,    And that happy man am I.  On the footstool sits a maiden,    On my lap her arms repose,  With her eyes like blue stars beaming,    And her mouth a new-born rose.  And the dear blue stars shine on me,    Wide like heaven's great arch their gaze;  And her little lily finger    Archly on the rose she lays.  Nay, the mother cannot see us,    For she spins the whole day long;  And the father plays the cithern    As he sings a good old song.  And the maiden softly whispers,    Softly, that none may hear;  Many a solemn little secret    Hath she murmured in my ear.  "Since I lost my aunt who loved me,    Now we never more repair  To the shooting-lodge at Goslar,    And it is so pleasant there!  "Here above it is so lonely,    On the rocks where cold winds blow;  And in winter we are always    Deeply buried in the snow.  "And I'm such a timid creature,    And I'm frightened like a child  At the evil mountain spirits,    Who by night are raging wild"  Silent falls the winsome maiden,    Frightened by her own surmise,  Little hands, so white and dimpled,    Pressing on her sweet blue eyes.  Louder now the fir-trees rustle,    Spinning-wheel more harshly drones;  In their pauses sounds the cithern,    And the old song's simple tones:  "Do not fear, my tender nursling,    Aught of evil spirits' might;  For good angels still are watching    Round thy pathway day and night."  Now the fir-tree's dark-green fingers    Tap upon the window low,  And the moon, a yellow listener,    Casts within her sweetest glow.  Father, mother, both are sleeping,    Near at hand their rest they take;  But we two, in pleasant gossip,    Keep each other long awake.  "That thou prayest much too often,    Seems unlikely, I declare;  On thy lips there is a quiver    Which was never born of prayer.  "Ah! that heartless, cold expression    All my being terrifies—  Though my darkling fear is lessened    By thy frank and honest eyes.  "Yet I doubt if thou believest    What is held for truth by most;  Hast thou faith in God the Father,    In the Son and Holy Ghost?"  "Ah, my darling! when an infant    By my mother's knee I stood,  I believed in God the Father,    In the Ruler great and good.  "He who made the world so lovely,    Gave man beauty, gave him force,  And to sun and moon and planets    Pre-appointed each its course.  "As I older grew, my darling,    And my way in wisdom won,  I in reason comprehended,    And believe now in the Son—  "In the well-loved Son, who, loving,    Oped the gates of Love so wide;  And for thanks—as is the custom—  By the world was crucified.  "Now, that I in full-grown manhood    Reading, travel, wisdom boast;  Still my heart expands, and, truly    I believe the Holy Ghost,  "Who bath worked the greatest wonders—    Greater still he'll work again;  He bath broken tyrants' strongholds,    Broken every vassal's chain.  "Ancient deadly wounds he healeth,    He renews man's ancient right;  All to him, born free and equal,    Are as nobles in his sight.  "Clouds of evil flee before him,    And those cobwebs of the brain  Which forbade us love and pleasure,    Scowling grimly on our pain.  "And a thousand knights in armor    Hath he chosen and required  To fulfil his holy bidding—    All with noblest zeal inspired.  "Lo! I their precious swords are gleaming,    And their banners wave in fight!  What! Thou fain would'st see, my darling,    Such a proud and noble knight?  "Well, then, gaze on me, my dearest;    I am of that lordly host,  Kiss me! and you kiss a chosen    Champion of the Holy Ghost!"  Silently the moon conceals her    Down behind the sombre trees,  And the lamp which lights our chamber    Flickers in the evening breeze.  But the starry eyes are beaming    Softly o'er the dimpled cheeks,  And the purple rose is glowing,    While the gentle maiden speaks.  "Little people—fairy goblins—    Steal away our meat and bread;  In the chest it lies at evening,    In the morning it has fled.  "From our milk the little people    Steal the cream and all the best;  Then they leave the dish uncovered,    And our cat drinks up the rest.  "And the cat's a witch, I'm certain,    For by night, when storms arise,  Oft she seeks the haunted hill-top    Where the fallen tower lies.  "There was once a splendid castle.    Home of joy and weapons bright,  Where there swept in stately pageant    Lady, page, and armèd knight.  "But a sorceress charmed the castle,    With its lords and ladies fair;  Now it is a lonely ruin,    And the owls are nesting there.  "But my aunt hath often told me,    Could I speak the proper word,  In the proper place up yonder,    When the proper hour occurred,  "I should see the ruins changing    Swiftly to a castle bright,  And again in stately dances    Dame and page and gallant knight.  "He who speaks the word of power    Wins the castle for his own,  And the knight with drum and trumpet    Loud will hail him lord alone."  So the simple fairy pictures    From the little rose-mouth bloom,  And the gentle eyes are shedding    Star-blue lustre through the gloom.  Round my hand the little maiden    Winds her gold locks as she will,  Gives a name to every finger,    Kisses, smiles, and then is still.  All things in the silent chamber,    Seem at once familiar grown,  As if e'en the chairs and clothes-press,    Well of old to me were known.  Now the clock talks kindly, gravely,    And the cithern, as 'twould seem,  Of itself is faintly chiming,    And I sit as in a dream.  Now the proper hour is striking,    Here the charm should now be heard;  Child, how would'st thou be astonished,    Should I speak the magic word!  If I spoke that word, then fading    Night would thrill in fearful strife;  Trees and streams would roar together    As the mountains woke to life.  Ringing lutes and goblin ditties    From the clefted rock would sound,  Like a mad and merry spring-tide    Flowers grow forest-high around.  Thousand startling, wondrous flowers,    Leaves of vast and fabled form,  Strangely perfumed, wildly quivering,    As if thrilled with passion's storm.  In a crimson conflagration    Roses o'er the tumult rise;  Giant lilies, white as crystal,    Shoot like columns to the skies.  Great as suns, the stars above us    Gaze adown with burning glow;  Fill the lilies' cups gigantic    With their lights' abundant flow.  We ourselves, my little maiden,    Would be changed more than all;  Torchlight gleams o'er gold and satin    Round us merrily would fall.  Thou thyself would'st be the princess,    And this hut thy castle high;  Ladies, lords, and graceful pages    Would be dancing, singing by.  I, however, I have conquered    Thee, and all things, with the word!  Serfs and castle—lo! with trumpet    Loud they hail me as their Lord!

The sun rose. The mists flitted away like phantoms at the third crow of the cock. Again I wandered up hill and down dale, while above me soared the fair sun, ever lighting up new scenes of beauty. The Spirit of the Mountain evidently favored me, well knowing that a "poetical character" has it in his power to say many a fine thing of him, and on this morning he let me see his Harz as it is not, most assuredly, seen by every one. But the Harz also saw me as I am seen by few, and there were as costly pearls on my eyelashes as on the grass of the valley. The morning dew of love wet my cheeks; the rustling pines understood me; their twigs parted and waved up and down, as if, like mute mortals, they would express their joy with gestures of their hands, and from afar I heard beautiful and mysterious chimes, like the sound of bells belonging to some hidden forest church. People say that these sounds are caused by the cattle-bells, which, in the Harz ring with remarkable clearness and purity.

It was noon, according to the position of the sun, as I chanced upon such a flock, and its shepherd, a friendly, light-haired young fellow, told me that the great hill at whose base I stood was the old, world-renowned Brocken. For many leagues around there is no house, and I was glad enough when the young man invited me to share his meal. We sat down to a déjeûner dînatoire, consisting of bread and cheese. The sheep snatched up our crumbs, while pretty glossy heifers jumped around, ringing their bells roguishly, and laughing at us with great merry eyes. We made a royal meal, my host appearing to me every inch a king; and as he is the only monarch who has ever given me bread, I will sing his praises right royally:

  Kingly is the herd-boy's calling,    On the knoll his throne is set,  O'er his hair the sunlight falling    Gilds a living coronet.  Red-marked sheep that bleat so loudly    Are his courtiers cross-bedight,  Calves that strut before him proudly    Seem each one a stalwart knight.  Goats are actors nimbly springing,    And the cows and warblers gay  With their bell and flute-notes ringing    Form the royal orchestra.  And whene'er the music hushes,    Soft the pine-tree murmurs creep;  Far away a cataract rushes—    Look, our noble king's asleep!  Meanwhile through the kingdom bounding    Rules the dog as minister,  Till his bark from cliffs rebounding    Echoes to the sleeper's ear.  Yawning syllables he utters—    "Ruling is too hard a task.  Were I but at home," he mutters,    "With my queen 'tis all I'd ask.  "On her arm my head reposes    Free from care, how happily!  And her loving glance discloses    Kingdom wide enough for me."53

We took leave of each other in a friendly manner, and with a light heart I began to ascend the mountain. I was soon welcomed by a grove of stately firs, for which I entertain great respect in every regard, for these trees have not found growing to be such an easy business, and during the days of their youth it fared hard with them. The mountain is here sprinkled with a great number of blocks of granite, and most of the trees were obliged either to twine their roots over the stones, or to split them in two, and thus laboriously to search for the soil from which to draw their nourishment. Here and there stones lie on top of one another, forming, as it were, a gate, and over all rise the trees, twining their naked roots down over the stone portals, and only laying hold of the soil when they reach its base, so that they appear to be growing in the air; and yet, as they have forced their way up to that startling height and grown into one with the rocks, they stand more securely than their comfortable comrades, who are rooted in the tame forest soil of the level country. So it is in life with those great men who have strengthened and established themselves by resolutely overcoming the obstacles and hindrances of their early years. Squirrels climbed amid the fir-twigs, while, beneath, yellow deer were quietly grazing. I cannot comprehend, when I see such a noble, lovable animal, how educated and refined people can take pleasure in hunting and killing it. Such a creature was once more merciful than man, and suckled the pining Schmerzenreich of the holy Genofeva. Most beautiful were the golden sun-rays shooting through the dark-green of the firs. The roots of the trees formed a natural stairway, and everywhere my feet encountered swelling beds of moss, for the stones are here covered foot-deep, as if with light-green velvet cushions. Everywhere a pleasant freshness and the dreamy murmur of streams. Here and there we see water rippling silver-clear amid the rocks, washing the bare roots and fibres of trees. Bend down toward all this ceaseless activity and listen, and you will hear, as it were, the mysterious history of the growth of the plants, and the quiet pulsations of the heart of the mountain. In many places the water jets strongly up amid rocks and roots, forming little cascades. It is pleasant to sit in such places. There is such a wonderful murmuring and rustling, the birds pour forth broken lovesick strains, the trees whisper as if with a thousand maidens' tongues, the odd mountain flowers peep up at us as if with a thousand maidens' eyes, stretching out to us their curious, broad, drolly-scalloped leaves; the sun-rays flash here and there in sport; the herbs, as though endowed with reason, are telling one another their green legends; all seems enchanted and it becomes more and more mysterious; an old, old dream is realized—the loved one appears! Alas, that she so quickly vanishes!

The higher we ascend, so much the shorter and more dwarflike do the fir-trees become, shrinking up, as it were, within themselves, until finally only whortleberries, bilberries, and mountain herbs remain. It is also sensibly colder. Here, for the first time, the granite boulders, which are frequently of enormous size, become fully visible. These may well have been the balls which evil spirits cast at one another on the Walpurgis night, when the witches come riding hither on brooms and pitchforks, when the mad, unhallowed revelry begins, as our credulous nurses have told us, and as we may see it represented in the beautiful Faust pictures of Master Retsch. Yes, a young poet, who, while journeying from Berlin to Gottingen passed the Brocken on the first evening in May, even noticed how certain ladies who cultivated belles-lettres, were holding their esthetic tea-circle in a rocky corner, how they comfortably read aloud the Evening Journal, how they praised as universal geniuses their poetic billy-goats which hopped bleating around their table, and how they passed a final judgment on all the productions of German literature. But when they at last fell upon Ratcliff and Almansor, utterly denying to the author aught like piety or Christianity, the hair of the youth rose on end, terror seized him—I spurred my steed and rode onwards!

In fact, when we ascend the upper half of the Brocken, no one can well help thinking of the amusing legends of the Blocksberg, and especially of the great mystical German national tragedy of Doctor Faust. It ever seemed to me that I could hear the cloven foot scrambling along behind, and some one breathing humorously. And I verily believe that "Mephisto" himself must breathe with difficulty when he climbs his favorite mountain, for it is a road which is to the last degree exhausting, and I was glad enough when I at last beheld the long-desired Brocken house.

This house, as every one knows from numerous pictures, is situated on the summit of the mountain, consists of a single story, and was erected in the year 1800 by Count Stolberg-Wernigerode, in behalf of whom it is managed as a tavern. On account of the wind and cold in winter its walls are incredibly thick. The roof is low. From its midst rises a towerlike observatory, and near the house lie two little out-buildings, one of which in earlier times served as shelter to the Brocken visitors.

On entering the Brocken house, I experienced a somewhat unusual and unreal sensation. After a long solitary journey amid rocks and pines, the traveler suddenly finds himself in a house amid the clouds. Far below lie cities, hills, and forests, while above he encounters a curiously blended circle of strangers, by whom he is received, as is usual in such assemblies, almost like an expected companion—half inquisitively and half indifferently. I found the house full of guests, and, as becomes a wise man, I first thought of the night, and of the discomfort of sleeping on straw. With the voice of one dying I called for tea, and the Brocken landlord was reasonable enough to perceive that the sick gentleman must be provided with a decent bed. This he gave me in a narrow room, where a young merchant—a long emetic in a brown overcoat—had already established himself.

In the public room I found a full tide of bustle and animation. There were students from different universities. Some of the newly arrived were taking refreshments. Others, preparing for departure, buckled on their knapsacks, wrote their names in the album, and received Brocken bouquets from the housemaids. There was pinching of cheeks, singing, springing, trilling; questions asked, answers given, fragments of conversation such as—fine weather—footpath—prosit—luck be with you!—Adieu! Some of those leaving were also partly drunk, and these derived a twofold pleasure from the beautiful scenery, for a tipsy man sees double.

After recruiting my strength I ascended the observatory, and there found a little gentleman with two ladies, one of whom was young and the other elderly. The young lady was very beautiful—a superb figure, flowing locks, surmounted by a helm-like black satin chapeau, amid whose white plumes the wind played; fine limbs, so closely enwrapped by a black silk mantle that their exquisite form was made manifest, and great free eyes, calmly looking down into the great free world.

When a boy I thought of naught save tales of magic and wonder, and every fair lady who had ostrich feathers on her head I regarded as an elfin queen. If I observed that the train of her dress was wet I believed at once that she must be a water-fairy. Now I know better, having learned from natural history that those symbolical feathers are found on the most stupid of birds, and that the train of a lady's dress may become wet in a very natural way. But if I had, with those boyish eyes, seen the aforesaid young lady in the aforesaid position on the Brocken, I would most assuredly have thought—"that is the fairy of the mountain, and she has just uttered the charm which has caused every thing down there to appear so wonderful." Yes, at the first glance from the Brocken everything appears in a high degree marvelous. New impressions throng in on every side, and these, varied and often contradictory, unite in our soul in an as yet undefined uncomprehended sensation. If we succeed in grasping the sensation in its conception we shall comprehend the character of the mountain. This character is entirely German as regards not only its advantages but also its defects. The Brocken is a German. With German thoroughness he points out to us—sharply and accurately defined as in a panorama—the hundreds of cities, towns, and villages which are principally situated to the north, and all the mountains, forests, rivers, and plains which extend endlessly in all directions. But for this very reason everything appears like a sharply designed and perfectly colored map, and nowhere is the eye gratified by really beautiful landscapes—just as we German compilers, owing to the honorable exactness with which we attempt to give all and everything, never appear to think of giving the details in a beautiful manner.