The German Classics of the Nineteenth and Twentieth Centuries, Volume 05

"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 Fräulein 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, "Fräulein 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 Fräulein 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 Fräulein. 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 Fräulein 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 Fräulein 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 Fräulein 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 BONCOURT37 (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 BRIDE38

  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 LIFE39 (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 WEINSBERG40 (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 CRUCIFIX41 (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 reëchoed 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!"