{"collection":"philosophy-ethics","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_12888/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_12888","id":"gutenberg_12888","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/12888","summary":null,"tags":["Category: German Literature","Category: Philosophy & Ethics","German literature -- 19th century -- Translations into English","German literature -- 20th century -- Translations into English","Germany"],"text":"VOLUME V\n\nTHE GERMAN CLASSICS\n\nMasterpieces of German Literature\n\nTRANSLATED INTO ENGLISH\n\nPatrons' Edition IN TWENTY VOLUMES\n\nILLUSTRATED\n\n1914\n\n\n\n\n\nCONTRIBUTORS AND TRANSLATORS\n\nVOLUME V\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nSpecial Writers\n\n    FRANK THILLY, PH.D., LL.D., Professor of Philosophy, Cornell\n    University: The Romantic Philosophers--Fichte, Schelling, and\n    Schleiermacher.\n\n    GEORGE H. DANTON, PH.D., Professor of German, Butler College: Later\n    German Romanticism.\n\n\nTranslators\n\n    PERCY MACKAYE, Dramatist and Poet: Departure; Would I were Free as\n    are My Dreams.\n\n    A.I. DU P. COLEMAN, A.M., Professor of English Literature, College\n    of the City of New York: Taillefer; The Lion's Bride; The Crucifix;\n    The Old Singer; From My Childhood Days; The Invitation; A Parable;\n    At Forty Years; etc.\n\n    MARGARETE M\u00dcNSTERBERG: Selections from The Boy's Magic Horn; Union\n    Song; The Mother Tongue; Spring Greeting to the Fatherland; Freedom;\n    Charlemagne's Voyage; Chidher; etc.\n\n    HERMAN MONTAGU DONNER: L\u00fctzow's Wild Band; Cavalryman's Morning\n    Song.\n\n    LOUIS H. GRAY, PH.D.: Addresses to the German Nation.\n\n    FREDERIC H. HEDGE: The Destiny of Man; The Wonderful History of\n    Peter Schlemihl; The Golden Pot.\n\n    GEORGE RIPLEY: On the Social Element in Religion.\n\n    J. ELLIOT CABOT: On the Relation of the Plastic Arts to Nature.\n\n    MRS. A.L.W. WISTER: From the Life of a Good-for-nothing.\n\n    MARGARET HUNT: The Frog King, or Iron Henry; The Wolf and the Seven\n    Little Kids; Rapunzel; Haensel and Grethel; The Fisherman and His\n    Wife.\n\n    F.E. BUNNETT: Selections from Undine.\n\n    H.W. DULCKEN: Song of the Fatherland; The White Hart; Evening Song;\n    Before the Doors.\n\n    C.T. BROOKS: Men and Knaves; Prayer During Battle; Song of the\n    Mountain Boy; The Chapel; etc.\n\n    W.W. SKEAT: The Shepherd's Sang on the Lord's Day; The Hostess'\n    Daughter; The Good Comrade.\n\n    W.H. FURNESS: The Lost Church; The Minstrel's Curse.\n\n    HENRY W. LONGFELLOW: The Luck of Edenhall; Remorse; The Castle by\n    the Sea.\n\n    KATE FREILIGRATH-KROEKER: On the Death of a Child.\n\n    C.G. LELAND: The Broken Ring.\n\n    ALFRED BASKERVILLE: Morning Prayer; The Castle of Boncourt; Woman's\n    Love and Life; The Spring of Love; etc.\n\n    BAYARD TAYLOR and LILIAN BAYARD TAYLOR KILIANI: The Women of\n    Weinsberg; Barbarossa; the Grave of Alaric.\n\n    JOHN OXENFORD: The Sentinel.\n\n    LORD LINDSAY: The Pilgrim Before St. Just's.\n\n    BAYARD TAYLOR: He Came to Meet Me.\n\n\n\n\nCONTENTS OF VOLUME V\n\n  The Romantic Philosophers--Fichte, Schelling, and Schleiermacher.\n  By Frank Thilly\n\n\n  Friedrich Schleiermacher\n\n  On the Social Element in Religion. Translated by George Ripley\n\n\n  Johann Gottlieb Fichte\n\n  The Destiny of Man. Translated by Frederic H. Hedge\n  Addresses to the German Nation. Translated by Louis H. Gray\n\n\n  Friedrich Wilhelm Joseph von Schelling\n\n  On the Relation of the Plastic Arts to Nature. Translated by J. Elliot\n  Cabot\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n  Later German Romanticism. By George H. Danton\n\n\n  Ludwig Achim von Arnim and Clemens Brentano\n\n  The Boy's Magic Horn. Selections translated by Margarete M\u00fcnsterberg.\n    Were I a Little Bird\n    The Mountaineer\n    As Many as Sand-grains in the Sea\n    The Swiss Deserter\n    The Tailor in Hell\n    The Reaper\n\n\n  Jacob and Wilhelm Grimm\n\n  Fairy Tales. Translated by Margaret Hunt.\n    The Frog King, or Iron Henry\n    The Wolf and the Seven Little Kids\n    Rapunzel\n    Haensel and Grethel\n    The Fisherman and His Wife\n\n\n  Ernst Moritz Arndt\n\n  Song of the Fatherland. Translated by H.W. Dulcken\n  Union Song. Translated by Margarete M\u00fcnsterberg\n\n\n  Theodor K\u00f6rner\n\n  Men and Knaves. Translated by C.T. Brooks\n  L\u00fctzow's Wild Band. Translated by Herman Montagu Donner\n  Prayer During Battle. Translated by C.T. Brooks\n\n\n  Maximilian Gottfried von Schenkendorf\n\n  The Mother Tongue. Translated by Margarete M\u00fcnsterberg\n  Spring Greeting to the Fatherland. Translated by Margarete M\u00fcnsterberg\n  Freedom. Translated by Margarete M\u00fcnsterberg\n\n\n  Ludwig Uhland\n\n  The Chapel. Translated by C.T. Brooks\n  The Shepherd's Song on the Lord's Day. Translated by W.W. Skeat\n  The Castle by the Sea. Translated by Henry W. Longfellow\n  Song of the Mountain Boy. Translated by C.T. Brooks\n  Departure. Translated by Percy MacKaye\n  Farewell. Translated by Alfred Baskerville\n  The Hostess' Daughter. Translated by W.W. Skeat\n  The Good Comrade. Translated by W.W. Skeat\n  The White Hart. Translated by H.W. Dulcken\n  The Lost Church. Translated by W.H. Furness\n  Charlemagne's Voyage. Translated by Margarete M\u00fcnsterberg\n  Free Art. Translated by Margarete M\u00fcnsterberg\n  Taillefer. Translated by A.I. du P. Coleman\n  Suabian Legend. Translated by Margarete M\u00fcnsterberg\n  The Blind King. Translated by C.T. Brooks\n  The Minstrel's Curse. Translated by W.H. Furness\n  The Luck of Edenhall. Translated by Henry W. Longfellow\n  On the Death of a Child. Translated by Kate Freiligrath-Kroeker\n\n\n  Joseph von Eichendorff\n\n  The Broken Ring. Translated by C.G. Leland\n  Morning Prayer. Translated by Alfred Baskerville\n  From the Life of a Good-for-nothing. Translated by Mrs. A.L.W. Wister\n\n\n  Adalbert von Chamisso\n\n  The Castle of Boncourt. Translated by Alfred Baskerville\n  The Lion's Bride. Translated by A.I. du P. Coleman\n  Woman's Love and Life. Translated by Alfred Baskerville\n  The Women of Weinsberg. Translated by Bayard Taylor and Lilian Bayard Taylor Kiliani\n  The Crucifix. Translated by A.I. du P. Coleman\n  The Old Singer. Translated by A.I. du P. Coleman\n  The Old Washerwoman. From the _Foreign Quarterly_\n  The Wonderful History of Peter Schlemihl. Translated by Frederic H. Hedge\n\n\n  Ernst Theodor Amadeus Hoffmann\n\n  The Golden Pot. Translated by Frederic H. Hedge\n\n\n  Friedrich Baron de la Motte-Fouqu\u00e9\n\n  Selections from Undine. Translated by F.E. Bunnett\n\n\n  Wilhelm Hauff\n\n  Cavalryman's Morning Song. Translated by Herman Montagu Donner\n  The Sentinel. Translated by John Oxenford\n\n\n  Friedrich R\u00fcckert\n\n  Barbarossa. Translated by Bayard Taylor and Lilian Bayard Taylor Kiliani\n  From My Childhood Days. Translated by A.I. du P. Coleman\n  The Spring of Love. Translated by Alfred Baskerville\n  He Came to Meet Me. Translated by Bayard Taylor\n  The Invitation. Translated by A.I. du P. Coleman\n  Murmur Not. Translated by A.I. du P. Coleman\n  A Parable. Translated by A.I. du P. Coleman\n  Evening Song. Translated by H.W. Dulcken\n  Chidher. Translated by Margarete M\u00fcnsterberg\n  At Forty Years. Translated by A.I. du P. Coleman\n  Before the Doors. Translated by H.W. Dulcken\n\n\n  August von Platen-Hallermund\n\n  The Pilgrim Before St. Just's. Translated by Lord Lindsay\n  The Grave of Alaric. Translated by Bayard Taylor and Lilian Bayard Taylor Kiliani\n  Remorse. Translated by Henry W. Longfellow\n  Would I were Free as are My Dreams. Translated by Percy MacKaye\n  Sonnet. Translated by Margarete M\u00fcnsterberg\n\n\n\n\nILLUSTRATIONS--VOLUME V\n\n  Heidelberg\n  Friedrich Schleiermacher. By E. Hader\n  The Three Hermits. By Moritz von Schwind\n  Johann Gottlieb Fichte. By Bury\n  Volunteers of 1813 before King Friedrich Wilhelm III in Breslau. By F.W. Scholtz\n  Friedrich Wilhelm Joseph von Schelling. By Carl Begas\n  The Jungfrau. By Moritz von Schwind\n  The Magic Horn. By Moritz von Schwind\n  Ludwig Achim von Arnim. By Str\u00f6hling\n  Clemens Brentano. By E. Linder\n  The Reaper. By Walter Crane\n  Wilhelm Grimm. By E. Hader\n  Jacob Grimm. By E. Hader\n  H\u00e4nsel and Gretel. By Ludwig Richter\n  Ernst Moritz Arndt. By Julius R\u00f6ting\n  Theodor K\u00f6rner. By E. Hader\n  Maximilian Gottfried von Schenkendorf\n  Ludwig Uhland. By C. J\u00e4ger\n  The Villa by the Sea. By Arnold B\u00f6cklin\n  Leaving at Dawn. By Moritz von Schwind\n  Joseph von Eichendorff. By Franz Kugler\n  Adalbert von Chamisso. By C. J\u00e4ger\n  The Wedding Journey. By Moritz von Schwind\n  Ernst Theodor Amadeus Hofmann. By Hensel\n  Friedrich Baron de la Motte-Fouqu\u00e9\n  Wilhelm Hauff. By E. Hader\n  The Sentinel. By Robert Haug\n  Friedrich R\u00fcckert. By C. J\u00e4ger\n  Memories of Youth. By Ludwig Richter\n  August Graf von Platen-Hallermund\n  The Morning Hour. By Moritz von Schwind\n\n\n\n\nTHE ROMANTIC PHILOSOPHERS--FICHTE, SCHELLING, AND SCHLEIERMACHER\n\nBy FRANK THILLY, PH.D., LL.D. Professor of Philosophy, Cornell\nUniversity\n\n\nThe Enlightenment of the eighteenth century had implicit faith in\nthe powers of human reason to reach the truth. With its\nlogical-mathematical method it endeavored to illuminate every nook and\ncorner of knowledge, to remove all obscurity, mystery, bigotry, and\nsuperstition, to find a reason for everything under the sun. Nature,\nreligion, the State, law, morality, language, and art were brought\nunder the searchlight of reason and reduced to simple and self-evident\nprinciples. Human institutions were measured according to their\nreasonableness; whatever was not rational had no _raison d'\u00eatre_;\nto demolish the natural and historical in order to make room for\nthe rational became the practical ideal of the day. Enlightenment\nemphasized the worth and dignity of the human individual, it sought to\ndeliver him from the slavery of authority and tradition, to make him\nself-reliant in thought and action, to obtain for him his natural\nrights, to secure his happiness and perfection in a world expressly\nmade for him, and to guarantee the continuance of his personal\nexistence in the life to come. In Germany this great movement found\nexpression in a popular commonsense philosophy which proved the\nexistence of God, freedom, and immortality, and conceived the universe\nas a rational order designed by an all-wise and all-good Creator for\nthe benefit of man, his highest product; while other thinkers regarded\nSpinozism as the only rational system, indeed as the last word of all\nspeculative metaphysics; for them logical thought necessarily led to\npantheism and determinism. In France, after reaching its climax in\nVoltaire, it ended in materialism, atheism, and fatalism; and in\nEngland, where it had developed the empiricism of Locke, it came to\ngrief in the scepticism of Hume. If we can know only our impressions,\nthen rational theology, cosmology, and psychology are impossible, and\nit is futile to philosophize about God, the world, and the human soul.\nConsistently carried out, the logical-mathematical method seemed to\nland the intellect in Spinozism or in materialism--in either case to\ncatch man in the causal machinery of nature. In this dilemma many were\ntempted to throw reason overboard as an instrument of ultimate\ntruth, and to seek for certainty through other functions of the human\nsoul--in feeling, faith, or mystical vision of some sort; the claims\nof the heart and will were urged against the proud pretensions of the\nintellect (Hamann, Herder, Jacobi). Another way of escape was found\nby substituting the organic conception of reality for the\nlogical-mathematical view of the _Aufkl\u00e4rung_; nature and life,\npoetry, art, language, political, social, and religious institutions\nare not creations of reason, not things made to order, but\norganic--products of evolution (Lessing, Herder, Winckelmann, Goethe).\nMan, himself, moreover, is not mere intellect, but a being in whom\nfeelings, impulses, yearnings, will, are elements to be reckoned with.\nAnd reality is not as transparent as the Enlightenment assumed it to\nbe; existence divided by reason leaves a remainder, as Goethe had put\nit.\n\nIt was Immanuel Kant who tried to arbitrate between the conflicting\ntendencies of his age. He was an _Aufkl\u00e4rer_ in so far as he brought\nreason itself to the bar of reason and sat in judgment upon its\nclaims, and, likewise, in so far as he insisted on the objective\nvalidity of physics and mathematics. But he was as much opposed to\nthe pretentiousness of dogmatic metaphysics as to the pusillanimity\nof scepticism and the _Schw\u00e4rmerei_ of mysticism. He repudiated the\nshallow proofs of the existence of God, freedom, and immortality\nno less emphatically than he rejected materialism with its\natheism, fatalism, and hedonism. He tried to save everything worth\nsaving--rational knowledge, modern science, the basal truths of\nthe old metaphysics, and the most precious human values. For\nthe scientific intelligence, so he held, nature and the self are\nabsolutely determined; every physical occurrence and every human act\nare necessary links in a causal chain. But such knowledge is\npossible only in the field of phenomena (_Erscheinungen_); through\nsense-perception and the discursive understanding we cannot reach the\ninner core of reality; nor can we pierce the veil of appearances by\nmeans of intellectual intuitions, mystical visions, feeling, or faith,\ni.e., through the emotional and instinctive parts of our nature. It is\nthe presence of the moral law or categorical imperative within us that\npoints to a spiritual world beyond the phenomenal causal order and\nassures us of our freedom, immortality, and God. It is because we\npossess this deeper source of truth in practical reason that freedom\nand an ideal kingdom in which purpose reigns are vouchsafed to us, and\nthat we can free ourselves from the mechanism of the natural order.\nIt is moral truth that both sets us free and demonstrates our freedom,\nand that makes harmony possible between the mechanical theory of\nscience and the teleological conception of philosophy. The scientific\nunderstanding would plunge us into determinism and agnosticism; from\nthese, faith in the moral law alone can deliver us. In this sense\nKant destroyed knowledge to make room for a rational faith in a\nsupersensible world, to save the independence and dignity of the human\nself and the spiritual values of his people. In claiming a place\nfor the autonomous personality in what _appeared to be_ a mechanical\nuniverse, Kant gave voice to some of the deeper yearnings of the age.\nThe German Enlightenment, the new humanism, mysticism, pietism,\nand the faith-philosophy were all interested in the human soul, and\nunwilling to sacrifice it to the demands of a rationalistic science or\nmetaphysics. In seeking to rescue it, the great criticist, piloted by\nthe moral law, steered his course between the rocks of rationalism,\nsentimentalism, and scepticism. It was his solution of the controversy\nbetween the head and the heart that influenced Fichte, Schelling, and\nSchleiermacher. They differed from Kant and among themselves in many\nrespects, but they all glorified the spirit, _Geist_, as the living,\nactive element of reality, and they all rejected the intellect as\nthe source of ultimate truth. They followed him in his\nanti-intellectualism, but they did not avoid, as he did, the\nattractive doctrine of an inner intuition; according to them we can\nsomehow grasp the supersensible in an inner experience which Fichte\ncalled intellectual, Schelling artistic, Schleiermacher religious. The\nbankruptcy of the intelligence was overcome in their systems by the\ndiscovery of a faculty that revealed to them the living, dynamic\nnature of the universe. They were all more or less influenced by the\nromantic currents of the times, seeking with Herder and Jacobi an\napproach to the heart of things other than through the categories\nof logic. Like Lessing and Goethe, they were also attracted to\nthe pantheistic teaching of Spinoza, though rejecting its rigid\ndeterminism so far as it might affect the human will. They likewise\naccepted the idea of development which the leaders of German\nliterature, Lessing, Herder, and Goethe, had already opposed to the\nunhistorical _Aufkl\u00e4rung_, and which came to play such a prominent\npart in the great system of Hegel.\n\nJohann Gottlieb Fichte was born in Ramenau, Oberlausitz, May 19, 1762,\nthe son of a poor weaver. Through the generosity of a nobleman,\nthe gifted lad was enabled to follow his intellectual bent; after\nattending the schools at Meissen and Schulpforta he studied theology\nat the universities of Jena, Leipzig, and Wittenberg with the purpose\nof entering the ministry. His poverty frequently compelled him to\ninterrupt his studies by accepting private tutorships in families, so\nthat he never succeeded in preparing him self for the examinations. In\n1790 he became acquainted with Kant's philosophy, which two students\nhad asked him to expound to them, and to which he now devoted himself\nwith feverish zeal. It revolutionized his entire mode of thought and\ndetermined the course of his life. The anonymous publication of his\nbook, _Attempt at a Critique of all Revelation_, in 1792, written\nfrom the Kantian point of view and mistaken at first for a work of\nthe great criticist, won him fame and a professorship at Jena (1794).\nHere, in the intellectual centre of Germany, Fichte became the\neloquent exponent of the new idealism, which aimed at the reform of\nlife as well as of _Wissenschaft_; he not only taught philosophy, but\n_preached_ it, as Kuno Fischer has aptly said. During the Jena\nperiod he laid the foundations for his \"Science of Knowledge\"\n(_Wissenschaftslehre_) which he presented in numerous works: _The\nConception of the Science of Knowledge_, 1794; _The Foundation of\nthe Entire Science of Knowledge_, 1794; _The Foundation of Natural\nRights_, 1796; _The System of Ethics_, 1798--(all these translated by\nKroeger); the two _Introductions to the Science of Knowledge_, 1797\n(trans. by Kroeger in _Journal of Speculative Philosophy_). The\nappearance of an article _Concerning the Ground of our Belief in a\nDivine World-Order_, 1798, in which Fichte seemed to identify God with\nthe moral world-order, brought down upon him the charge of atheism,\nagainst which he vigorously defended himself in his _Appeal to the\nPublic_ and a series of other writings. Full of indignation over the\nattitude which his government assumed in the matter, be offered his\nresignation (1799) and removed to Berlin, where he presented his\nphilosophical notions in popular public lectures and in writings which\nwere characterized by clearness, force, and moral earnestness rather\nthan by their systematic form. There appeared: _The Vocation of Man_,\n1800 (translated by Dr. Smith); _A Sun-Clear Statement concerning the\nNature of the New Philosophy_, 1801 (trans. by Kroeger in _Journal of\nSpeculative Philosophy_); _The Nature of the Scholar_, 1806 (trans. by\nSmith); _Characteristics of the Present Age_, 1806 (trans. by Smith);\n_The Way towards the Blessed Life_, 1806 (trans. by Smith). After the\noverthrow of Prussia by Napoleon, in 1806, Fichte fled from Berlin to\nK\u00f6nigsberg and Sweden, but returned when peace was declared in\n1807, and delivered his celebrated _Addresses to the German Nation_,\n1807-08, in which he sought to arouse the German people to a\nconsciousness of their national mission and their duty even while the\nFrench army was still occupying the Prussian capital.\n\nFichte was appointed professor of philosophy (1810) in the new\nUniversity of Berlin, for which he had been invited to construct a\nplan and in the establishment of which he took a lively interest.\nDuring the last period of his life he devoted himself to the\ndevelopment of his thoughts in systematic form and wrote a number of\nbooks; most of these were published after his death, which occurred\nJanuary 27, 1814. Among them we mention: _General Outline of\nthe Science of Knowledge_, 1810 (trans. by Smith); _The Facts of\nConsciousness_, 1813; _Theory of the State_, published 1820. The\nComplete Works, edited by his son, J.H. Fichte, appeared 1843-46. New\neditions of particular works are now appearing.\n\nThe world for Fichte is at bottom a spiritual order, the revelation\nof a self-determining ego or reason; hence the science of the ego, or\nreason, the _Wissenschaftslehre_, is the key to all knowledge, and we\ncan understand nature and man only when we have caught the secret\nof the self-active ego. Philosophy must, therefore, be\n_Wissenschaftslehre_, for in it all natural and mental sciences find\ntheir ultimate roots; they can yield genuine knowledge only when\nand in so far as they are based on the principles of the Science of\nKnowledge--mere empirical sciences having no real cognitive value.\nThe ego-principle itself, however, without which there could be no\nknowledge, cannot be grasped by the ordinary discursive understanding\nwith its spatial, temporal, and causal categories. Kant is right: if\nwe were limited to the scientific intellect, we could never rise above\nthe conception of a phenomenal order absolutely ruled by the causal\nlaw. But there is another source of knowledge: in an act of inner\nvision or intellectual intuition, which is itself an act of freedom,\nwe become conscious of the universal moral purpose; the law of duty or\nthe categorical imperative commands us to be free persons. We cannot\nrefuse to accept this law without abandoning ourselves as persons,\nwithout conceiving ourselves as _things_, or mere products of nature;\nthe choice of one's philosophy, therefore, depends upon what kind of\nman one is--upon one's values, upon one's will. The type of man who\nis a slave of things, who cannot raise himself out of the causal\nmechanism, who is not free, will never be able to conceive himself\notherwise than as a cog in a wheel. Fichte accepts the ego, or spirit,\nas the ultimate and absolute principle, because it alone can give our\nlife worth and meaning. Thus he grounds his entire philosophy upon a\nmoral imperative which presents itself to the ego in an inner vision.\nHe also tells us that we can become immediately aware of the\npure activity of the ego, of our free action, in a similar act of\nintellectual intuition. But we cannot know this free act unless we\nperform it ourselves; no one can understand the idealistic philosophy\nwho is not free; hence philosophy begins with an act of freedom--_im\nAnfang war die Tat_.\n\nIn order that we may rise to free action, opposition is needed, and\nthis we get in the spatial-temporal world of phenomena, or nature,\nwhich the ego creates for itself in order to have resistance to\novercome. Fichte conceives of nature as \"the material of our duty,\"\nas the obstacle against which the ego can exercise its freedom. There\ncould be no free action without something to act upon, and there could\nbe no purposive action without a world in which everything happens\naccording to law; and such a causal world we have in our phenomenal\norder, which is the product of the absolute spiritual principle.\nBy the ego Fichte did not mean the subjective ego, the particular\nindividual self with all its idiosyncrasies, but the universal ego,\nthe reason that manifests itself in all conscious individuals as\nuniversal and necessary truth. In his earlier period he did not define\nhis thought very carefully, but in time the absolute ego came to be\nconceived as the principle of all life and consciousness, as\nuniversal life, and ultimately identified with God. His philosophy is,\ntherefore, not subjective idealism, although it was so misinterpreted,\nbut objective idealism; nature is not the creation of the particular\nindividual ego, but the phenomenal expression, or reflection, in the\nsubject of the universal spiritual principle.\n\nUpon such an idealistic world-view Fichte based the ethical teachings\nthrough which he exercised a lasting influence upon the German people\nand the history of human thought. The universal ego is a moral ego,\nan ego with an ethical purpose, that realizes itself in nature and in\nman; it is, therefore, the vocation of man to obey the voice of duty\nand to free himself from the bondage of nature, to be a person, not a\nthing, to co\u00f6perate in the realization of the eternal purpose which\nis working itself out in the history of humanity, to sacrifice himself\nfor the ideal of freedom. Every individual has his particular place in\nwhich to labor for the social whole; how to do it, his conscience will\ntell him without fail. And so, too, the German people has its peculiar\nplace in civilization, its unique contribution to make in the struggle\nof the human race for the development of free personality. It is\nGermany's mission to regain its nationality, in order that it may\ntake the philosophical leadership in the work of civilization, and to\nestablish a State based upon personal liberty, a veritable kingdom\nof justice, such as has never appeared on earth, which shall realize\nfreedom based upon the equality of all who bear the human form.\n\nThe Fichtean philosophy holds the mirror up to its age. With the\nEnlightenment it glorifies reason, the free personality, nationality,\nhumanity, civilization, and progress; in this regard it expresses the\nspirit of all modern philosophy. It goes beyond the _Aufkl\u00e4rung_ in\nemphasizing the living, moving, developing nature of reality; for it,\nlife and consciousness constitute the essence of things, and universal\nlife reveals itself in a progressive history of mankind. Moreover,\nthe dynamic spiritual process cannot be comprehended by conceptual\nthought, by the categories of a rationalistic science and philosophy,\nbut only by itself, by the living experience of a free agent. In the\ncategorical imperative, and not in logical reasonings, the individual\nbecomes aware of his destiny; in the sense of duty, the love of truth,\nloyalty to country, respect for the rights of man, and reverence for\nideals, spirit speaks to spirit and man glimpses the eternal.\n\nAmong the elements in this idealism that appealed to the Romanticists\nwere its anti-intellectualism, its intuition, the high value it placed\nupon the personality, its historical viewpoint, and its faith in the\nuniqueness of German culture. They welcomed the _Wissenschaftslehre_\nas a valuable ally, and exaggerated those features of it which seemed\nto chime with their own views. The ego which Fichte conceives as\nuniversal reason becomes for them the subjective empirical self, the\nunique personality, in which the unconscious, spontaneous, impulsive,\ninstinctive phase constitutes the original element, the more\nextravagant among them transforming the rational moral ego into a\nromantic ego, an ego full of mystery and caprice, and even a lawless\nego. Such an ego is read into nature; for, filled with occult magic\nforces, nature can be understood only by the sympathetic divining\ninsight of the poetic genius. And so, too, authority and tradition, as\nrepresenting the instinctive and historical side of social life, come\ninto their own again.\n\nFichte's chief interest was centred upon the ego; nature he regarded\nas a product of the absolute ego in the individual consciousness,\nintended as a necessary obstacle for the free will. Without opposition\nthe self cannot act; without overcoming resistance it cannot become\nfree. In order to make free action possible, to enable the ego to\nrealize its ends, nature must be what it is, an order ruled by the\niron law of causality. This cheerless conception of nature--which,\nhowever, was not Fichte's last word on the subject, since he afterward\ncame to conceive it as the revelation of universal life, or the\nexpression of a pantheistic God--did not attract Romanticism. It was\nSchelling, the erstwhile follower and admirer of Fichte, who turned\nhis attention to the philosophy of nature and so more thoroughly\nsatisfied the romantic yearnings of the age.\n\nFriedrich Wilhelm Joseph Schelling was born at Leonberg, W\u00fcrtemberg,\nJanuary 27, 1775, the son of a learned clergyman and writer on\ntheology. He was a precocious child and made rapid progress in his\nstudies, entering the Theological Seminary at T\u00fcbingen at the age of\nfifteen. Between the ages of nineteen and twenty-two he wrote a\nnumber of able treatises in the spirit of the new idealism, and\nwas recognized as the most talented pupil of Fichte and his best\ninterpreter. After the completion of his course at the University\n(1795), he became the tutor and companion of two young noblemen with\nwhom he remained for two years (1796-98) at the University of Leipzig,\nduring which time he devoted himself to the study of mathematics,\nphysics, and medicine, and published a number of philosophical\narticles. In 1798 he received a call to a professorship at Jena, where\nFichte, Schiller, Wilhelm Schlegel, and Hegel became his colleagues,\nand where he entered into friendly relations with the Romantic circle\nof which Caroline Schlegel, who afterward became his wife, was a\nshining light. This was the most productive period of his life; during\nthe next few years he developed his own system of philosophy and\ngave to the world his most brilliant writings. In 1803 he accepted\na professorship at W\u00fcrzburg, but came into conflict with the\nauthorities; in 1806 he went to Munich as a member of the Academy of\nSciences and Director of the Academy of Fine Arts; in 1820 he moved to\nErlangen; and in 1827 he returned to Munich as professor of philosophy\nat the newly-established University and as General Curator of the\nScientific Collections of the State. He was called to Berlin in 1841\nto help counteract the influence of the Hegelian Philosophy, but met\nwith little success. He died in 1854.\n\nThe earlier writings of Schelling either reproduced the thoughts of\nthe _Wissenschaftslehre_ or developed them in the Fichtean spirit.\nAmong those of the latter class we note: _Ideas for a Philosophy of\nNature_, 1797; _On the World-Soul_, 1798; _System of Transcendental\nIdealism_, 1800. During the second period, in which the influence of\nBruno and Spinoza is prominent, he works out his own philosophy of\nidentity; at this time he publishes _Bruno, or, Concerning the Natural\nand Divine Principle of Things_, 1802, and _Method of Academic Study_,\n1803. In the third period the philosophy of identity becomes the basis\nfor a still higher system in which the influence of German theosophy\n(Jacob B\u00f6hme) is apparent; with the exception of _Philosophy and\nReligion_, 1804, the _Treatise on Human Freedom_, 1809, and a\nfew others, the works of this period did not appear until after\nSchelling's death. His previous philosophy is now called by him\n\"negative philosophy;\" the higher or positive philosophy has as its\naim the rational construction of the history of the universe, or the\nhistory of creation, upon the basis of the religious ideas of peoples;\nit is a philosophy of mythology and revelation. Translations of some\nof Schelling's works are to be found in the _Journal of Speculative\nPhilosophy_, an American periodical founded by W.T. Harris, which\ndevoted itself to the study of post-Kantian idealism. His Complete\nWorks, edited by his son, appeared in 14 volumes, 1856. There is a\nrevival of interest in his philosophy, and new editions of his books\nare now being published.\n\nLike most philosophers of note, Schelling reckons with the various\ntendencies of his times. With idealism he interprets the universe as\nidentical in essence with what we find in our innermost selves; it is\nat bottom a living dynamic process. If that is so, nature cannot be\na merely externalized obstacle for the ego, nor a dead static spatial\nmechanical system; as the expression of an active spiritual principle\nthere must be reason and purpose in it. But reason is not identified\nby Schelling with self-conscious intelligence, for with the\nfaith-philosophies and Romanticism he takes it in a wider sense; in\nphysical and organic nature it is a slumbering reason, an unconscious,\ninstinctive, purposive force similar to the Leibnizian monad,\nSchopenhauer's will, and Bergson's _\u00e9lan vital_. In this way the\ndualism between mechanism and teleology is reconciled. Nature is\na teleological order, an evolution from the unconscious to the\nconscious; in man, the highest stage and the climax of history, nature\nbecomes self-conscious. With this organic conception both Romanticists\nand many natural scientists of the age were in practical agreement;\nit was the view that had always appealed to Goethe--and Herder before\nhim--and it gained for Schelling a large following. In his earlier\nsystem he regarded nature as a lower stage in the evolution of\nreason and sought to answer the problems: How does Nature become\nConsciousness or Ego? the problem of the Philosophy of Nature; and,\nHow does Consciousness or the Ego become Nature? the problem of\nTranscendental Idealism. In his philosophy of identity, nature and\nmind are conceived as two different aspects of one and the same\nprinciple, which is both mind and nature, subject and object, ego and\nnon-ego. All things are identical in essence but differentiated in the\ncourse of evolution. It was not inconsistent with these tenets that\nSchelling sought, in his last period, to discover the meaning\nof universal history in the obscure beginnings of mythology\nand revelation rather than in the lucid regions of an advanced\ncivilization.\n\nWith the opponents of rationalism Schelling agrees that we cannot\nreach the inner meaning of reality, \"the living, moving element\nin nature,\" through the scientific intelligence, but that we must\nenvisage it in intuition. \"What is described in concepts,\" he tells\nus, \"is at rest; hence there can be concepts only of _things_ and of\nthat which is finite and sense-perceived. The notion of movement is\nnot movement itself, and without intuition we should never know what\nmotion is. Freedom, however, can be comprehended only by freedom,\nactivity only by activity.\" Schelling, who is a poet as well as a\nphilosopher, comes to regard this intuition or inner vision as an\nartistic intuition. In the products of art, subject and object, the\nideal and the real, mind and nature, form (or purpose) and matter,\nare one; here the harmony aimed at by philosophy lies before our very\neyes, and may be seen, touched, and heard. The creative artist creates\nlike nature in realizing the ideal; hence, art must serve as the\nabsolute model for the intuition of the world--it is the true and\neternal organ of philosophy. Like the artistic genius, the philosopher\nmust have the faculty for perceiving the harmony and identity in the\nuniverse; esthetic intuition is absolute knowing. Art aims to reveal\nto us the profoundest meaning of the world, which is the union of form\nand matter, of the ideal and the real; in art alone the striving of\nnature for harmony and identity is realized; the beautiful is the\ninfinite represented and made perceivable in finite form; here mind\nand nature interpenetrate. In creative art the artist imitates the\ncreative act of nature and becomes conscious of it; in esthetic\nintuition, or the perception of beauty, the philosophical genius\ndiscovers the secret of reality; nature herself is a poem and her\nsecret is revealed in art. This philosophy is a far cry from the\nlogical-mathematical method of the _Aufkl\u00e4rung_; it is a protest\nagainst this, a protest in which the leaders of the new German\nliterature, Herder, Goethe, Schiller, as well as the Romanticists,\nwillingly joined. Goethe's entire view of nature, art, and life rested\nupon the teleological or organic conception; he, too, regarded the\nability to peer into the heart of things--to see the whole in its\nparts, the ideal in the real, the universal in the particular, as\nthe poet's and thinker's highest gift. He called it an _aper\u00e7u_, \"a\nrevelation springing up in the inner man that gives him a hint of\nhis likeness to God.\" It is this gift which Faust craves and Mephisto\nsneers at as _die hohe Intuition_.\n\n  Dass ich erkenne was die Welt\n  Im innersten zusammenh\u00e4lt,\n  Schau alle Wirkungskraft and Samen\n  Und tu' nicht mehr in Worten kramen.\n\nThere was much that was fantastic in the _Naturphilosophie_ and much\n_a priori_ interpretation of nature that tended to withdraw the\nmind from the actualities of existence; it often dealt with bold\nassertions, analogies, and figures of speech, rather than with facts\nand proofs. But it had its merits; for it aroused an interest in\nnature and nature-study, it kept alive the _philosophical_ interest\nin the outer world, the desire for unity, _Einheitstrieb_, which has\nremained a marked characteristic of German science from Alexander von\nHumboldt down to Robert Mayer, Helmholtz, Naegeli, Haeckel, Ostwald,\nHertz, and Driesch. It opposed the one-sided mechanical method of\nscience, and emphasized conceptions (the idea of development,\nthe notion of the dynamic character of reality, pan-psychism, and\nvitalism) which are still moving the minds of men today, as is\nevidenced by the popularity of Henri Bergson, who, with our own\nWilliam James, leads the contemporary school of philosophical\nRomanticists.\n\nFichte's chief contribution to German thought was the\n_Wissenschaftslehre_, Schelling's the _Naturphilosophie_, and\nSchleiermacher's the philosophy of religion. All these thinkers took\naccount of the prevailing tendencies of the times--_Aufkl\u00e4rung_,\nKantian criticism, faith-philosophy, Romanticism, and Spinozism--and\nwere more or less affected by them. Schleiermacher also came under the\ninfluence of Fichte, Schelling, and Greek idealism, particularly\nof Plato's philosophy; many were the sources from which he drew his\nmaterial for the construction of a great system of Protestant theology\nthat exercised a profound influence far beyond the boundaries of his\ncountry and won for him the title of the founder of the New Theology.\n\nFriedrich Daniel Ernst Schleiermacher, the son of a clergyman of\nthe reformed church, was born at Breslau, November 21, 1768, and was\neducated at the Moravian schools at Niesky and Barby. Made sceptical\nby the newer criticism, he left the Moravian brotherhood and entered\nthe University of Halle (1787), where he devoted himself with equal\nzeal to the study of theology and philosophy. After his ordination\nin 1794 he occupied various pulpits until 1803, when he was made a\nprofessor and university preacher at Halle. In 1806 he removed from\nHalle to Berlin, becoming the preacher of Trinity Church in 1809\nand professor of theology at the newly founded University in 1810,\npositions which he filled with marked ability until his death,\nFebruary 12, 1834. It was in Berlin that he came into friendly touch\nwith the leaders of the Romantic school, Tieck, Friedrich Schlegel,\nand Novalis, but he did not allow himself to be carried away by their\nextravagances. He distinguished himself as a preacher, theologian,\nphilosopher, and philologist, and, by his study of the sources of\nphilosophy, added much to the knowledge of its history. Among the\nbooks published during his life-time are: _Addresses on Religion_,\n1799; _Monologues_, 1800; _Principles of a Criticism of Previous\nSystems of Ethics_, 1803; translations of Plato's _Dialogues_, with\nintroductions and notes, 1804-28; _The Christian Faith_, 1821-22.\nComplete Works, 1834-64.\n\nSchleiermacher's conception of religion is opposed to the\nrationalistic theology of the eighteenth century, as well as to the\nKantian moral theology which has remained popular in Germany to\nthis day. For him religion is not science or philosophy; it does\nnot consist in theoretical dogmas or rationalistic proofs; neither\ntheories about religion nor virtuous conduct nor acts of worship are\nreligion itself; nor is religion based upon a rational moral faith,\nas Kant had taught. He bravely took the part of Fichte in the\natheism-controversy, when the great leaders of German culture, Kant,\nHerder, and even Goethe, abandoned him to his fate. He rejected\nthe shallow proofs of the _Aufkl\u00e4rung_, as well as the orthodox\nutilitarian view of God as the dispenser of rewards and punishments,\nand showed that the real foes of religion were the rational and\npractical persons who endeavored to suppress the yearning for the\ntranscendent in man and to drive out all mystery in seeking to make\neverything clear to him. We cannot have conceptual knowledge of God,\nfor conceptual thought is concerned with differences and opposites,\nwhereas God is without such differences and oppositions: he is the\nabsolute union or identity of thought and being. Religion is grounded\nin feeling, or divining intuition; in feeling, we come into direct\nrelation with God; here the identity of thought and being is\nimmediately experienced in self-consciousness, and this union is the\ndivine element in us. Religion is the feeling of absolute dependence\nupon an absolute world-ground; it is the immediate consciousness that\neverything finite is infinite and exists through the infinite.\n\nThe conception of God as the unity of thought and being, and the idea\nof man's absolute dependence upon the world-ground, call to mind the\npantheism of Spinoza. Schleiermacher seeks to tone this down by giving\nthe world of things a relative independence; God and the world are\ninseparable, and yet must be distinguished. God is unity without\nplurality, the world plurality without unity; the world is\nspatial-temporal, while God is spaceless and timeless. He is, however,\nnot conceived as a personality, but as the universal creative force,\nas the source of all life. The determinism implied in this world-view\nis softened by giving the individual a measure of freedom and\nindependence. The particular individuals are subject to the law of\nthe whole; but each self has its unique endowment or gifts, its\nindividuality, and its freedom consists in the unfolding of its\npeculiar capacities. With Goethe, Schiller, and Romanticism, our\nphilosopher rejects the rigoristic Kantian-Fichtean view of duty\nwhich, in his opinion, would suppress individuality and reduce all\npersons to a homogeneous mass; like them he regards the development\nof unique personalities as the highest moral task. \"Every man should\nexpress humanity in his own peculiar way in a unique mixture of\nelements, in order that it may reveal itself in every possible form,\nand that everything may become real in the infinite fulness which\ncan spring from its lap.\" \"The same duties can be performed in many\ndifferent ways. Different men may practise justice according to the\nsame principles, each man keeping in view the general welfare and\npersonal merit, but with different degrees of feeling, all the\nway from extreme coldness to the warmest sympathy.\" The command,\ntherefore, is not merely: Be a person; but: Be a unique person, live\nyour own individual life. There is no irreconcilable conflict between\nthe natural law and the moral law, between impulse and reason. For the\nsame reasons he defends the diversity of religions and the claims of\npersonal religion; in each unique individual, religion should be left\nfree to express itself in its own unique and intimate way. His ideal\nis the development of unique, novel, original personalities; and these\nare expressions of the divine, which rationalism cannot bring under\neither its theoretical or practical rubrics.\n\nThe individual cannot become conscious of, and prize, his own\nindividuality without at the same time valuing uniqueness in\nothers; the higher a value he sets upon his own self, the more\nthe personalities of others must impress him. \"Whoever desires to\ncultivate his individuality must have an appreciation of everything\nthat he is not.\" \"The sense of universality (_der allgemeine Sinn_) is\nthe supreme condition of one's own perfection.\" Hence the ethical\nlife is a life in society--a society of unique individuals who respect\nhumanity in its uniqueness, in themselves and in others. \"They are\namong themselves a chorus of friends. Every one knows that he too is\na part and product of the universe, that in him too are revealed\nits divine life and action.\" \"The more every one approximates the\nuniverse, the more he communicates himself to others, the more perfect\nunity will they all form; no one has a consciousness for himself\nalone, every one has, at the same time, that of the other; they are no\nlonger only men, but mankind; rising above themselves and triumphing\nover themselves, they are on the road to true immortality and\neternity.\" In the feeling of piety man recognizes that his desire to\nbe a unique personality is in harmony with the action of the universe;\nhence that he can, ought, and must make the development of his\nuniqueness the goal, the strongest motive, and the highest good,\nand that he can surely realize what he is striving for, because the\nuniverse which created and determined him created him for that.\n\n\n\n\n_FRIEDRICH SCHLEIERMACHER_\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nON THE SOCIAL ELEMENT IN RELIGION (1799) [1]\n\nTRANSLATED BY GEORGE RIPLEY\n\n\nThose among you who are accustomed to regard religion as a disease\nof the human mind, cherish also the habitual conviction that it is an\nevil more easily borne, even though not to be cured, so long as it is\nonly insulated individuals here and there who are infected with\nit; but that the common danger is raised to the highest degree,\nand everything put at stake, as soon as a too close connection is\npermitted between many patients of this character. In the former\ncase it is possible by a judicious treatment, as it were by an\nantiphlegistic regimen, and by a healthy spiritual atmosphere, to ward\noff the violence of the paroxysms; and if not entirely to conquer the\nexciting cause of the disease, to attenuate it to such a degree that\nit shall be almost innocuous. But in the latter case we must despair\nof every other means of cure, except that which may proceed from some\ninternal beneficent operation of Nature. For the evil is attended with\nmore alarming symptoms, and is more fatal in its effects, when the too\ngreat proximity of other infected persons feeds and aggravates it in\nevery individual; the whole mass of vital air is then quickly poisoned\nby a few; the most vigorous frames are smitten with the contagion;\nall the channels in which the functions of life should go on are\ndestroyed; all the juices of the system are decomposed; and, seized\nwith a similar feverous delirium, the sound spiritual life and\nproductions of whole ages and nations are involved in irremediable\nruin. Hence your antipathy to the church, to every institution\nwhich is intended for the communication of religion, is always more\nprominent than that which you feel to religion itself; hence, also,\npriests, as the pillars and the most efficient members of such\ninstitutions, are, of all men, the objects of your greatest\nabomination.\n\nEven those among you who hold a little more indulgent opinion with\nregard to religion, and deem it rather a singularity than a disorder\nof the mind, an insignificant rather than a dangerous phenomenon,\ncherish quite as unfavorable impressions of all social organization\nfor its promotion. A slavish immolation of all that is free and\npeculiar, a system of lifeless mechanism and barren ceremonies--these,\nthey imagine, are the inseparable consequences of every such\ninstitution and are the ingenious and elaborate work of men, who, with\nalmost incredible success, have made a great merit of things which are\neither nothing in themselves, or which any other person was quite as\ncapable of accomplishing as they. I should pour out my heart but very\nimperfectly before you, on a subject to which I attach the utmost\nimportance, if I did not undertake to give you the correct point\nof view with regard to it. I need not here repeat how many of the\nperverted endeavors and melancholy fortunes of humanity you charge\nupon religious associations; this is clear as light, in a thousand\nutterances of your predominant individuals; nor will I stop to refute\nthese accusations, one by one, in order to fix the evil upon other\ncauses. Let us rather submit the whole conception of the church to\na new examination, and from its central point, throughout its whole\nextent, erect it again upon a new basis, without regard to what it has\nactually been hitherto, or to what experience may suggest concerning\nit.\n\nIf religion exists at all, it must needs possess a social character;\nthis is founded not only in the nature of man, but still more in the\nnature of religion. You will acknowledge that it indicates a state of\ndisease, a signal perversion of nature, when an individual wishes to\nshut up within himself anything which he has produced and elaborated\nby his own efforts. It is the disposition of man to reveal and to\ncommunicate whatever is in him, in the indispensable relations\nand mutual dependence not only of practical life, but also of his\nspiritual being, by which he is connected with all others of his\nrace; and the more powerfully he is wrought upon by anything, the more\ndeeply it penetrates his inward nature, so much the stronger is this\nsocial impulse, even if we regard it only from the point of view of\nthe universal endeavor to behold the emotions which we feel ourselves,\nas they are exhibited by others, so that we may obtain a proof from\ntheir example that our own experience is not beyond the sphere of\nhumanity.\n\n[Illustration: FRIEDRICH SCHLEIERMACHER]\n\nYou perceive that I am not speaking here of the endeavor to make\nothers similar to ourselves, nor of the conviction that what is\nexhibited in one is essential to all; it is merely my aim to ascertain\nthe true relation between our individual life and the common nature\nof man, and clearly to set it forth. But the peculiar object of this\ndesire for communication is unquestionably that in which man feels\nthat he is originally passive, namely, his observations and emotions.\nHe is here impelled by the eager wish to know whether the power which\nhas produced them in him be not something foreign and unworthy. Hence\nwe see man employed, from his very childhood, in communicating those\nobservations and emotions; the conceptions of his understanding,\nconcerning whose origin there can be no doubt, he allows to rest in\nhis own mind, and still more easily he determines to refrain from\nthe expression of his judgments; but whatever acts upon his senses,\nwhatever awakens his feelings, of that he desires to obtain witnesses,\nwith regard to that he longs for those who will sympathize with him.\nHow should he keep to himself those very operations of the world upon\nhis soul which are the most universal and comprehensive, which appear\nto him as of the most stupendous and resistless magnitude? How should\nhe be willing to lock up within his own bosom those very emotions\nwhich impel him with the greatest power beyond himself, and in the\nindulgence of which he becomes conscious that he can never understand\nhis own nature from himself alone? It will rather be his first\nendeavor, whenever a religious view gains clearness in his eye, or a\npious feeling penetrates his soul, to direct the attention of others\nto the same object, and, as far as possible, to communicate to their\nhearts the elevated impulses of his own.\n\nIf, then, the religious man is urged by his nature to speak, it is the\nsame nature which secures to him the certainty of hearers. There is no\nelement of his being with which, at the same time, there is implanted\nin man such a lively feeling of his total inability to exhaust it by\nhimself alone, as with that of religion. A sense of religion has no\nsooner dawned upon him, than he feels the infinity of its nature and\nthe limitation of his own; he is conscious of embracing but a small\nportion of it; and that which he cannot immediately reach he wishes\nto perceive, as far as he can, from the representations of others who\nhave experienced it themselves, and to enjoy it with them. Hence,\nhe is anxious to observe every manifestation of it; and, seeking\nto supply his own deficiencies, he watches for every tone which\nhe recognizes as proceeding from it. In this manner, mutual\ncommunications are instituted; in this manner, every one feels equally\nthe need both of speaking and hearing.\n\nBut the imparting of religion is not to be sought in books, like\nthat of intellectual conceptions and scientific knowledge. The pure\nimpression of the original product is too far destroyed in this\nmedium, which, in the same way that dark-colored objects absorb the\ngreatest proportion of the rays of light, swallows up everything\nbelonging to the pious emotions of the heart, which cannot be embraced\nin the insufficient symbols from which it is intended again to\nproceed. Nay, in the written communications of religious feeling,\neverything needs a double and triple representation; for that which\noriginally represented, must be represented in its turn; and yet\nthe effect on the whole man, in its complete unity, can only be\nimperfectly set forth by continued and varied reflections. It is only\nwhen religion is driven out from the society of the living, that it\nmust conceal its manifold life under the dead letter.\n\nNeither can this intercourse of heart with heart, on the deepest\nfeelings of humanity, be carried on in common conversation. Many\npersons, who are filled with zeal for the interests of religion, have\nbrought it as a reproach against the manners of our age that,\nwhile all other important subjects are so freely discussed in the\nintercourse of society, so little should be said concerning God\nand divine things. I would defend ourselves against this charge\nby maintaining that this circumstance, at least, does not indicate\ncontempt or indifference toward religion, but a happy and very correct\ninstinct. In the presence of joy and merriment, where earnestness\nitself must yield to raillery and wit, there can be no place for\nthat which should be always surrounded with holy veneration and awe.\nReligious views, pious emotions, and serious considerations with\nregard to them--these we cannot throw out to one another in such small\ncrumbs as the topics of a light conversation; and when the discourse\nturns upon sacred subjects, it would rather be a crime than a virtue\nto have an answer ready for every question, and a rejoinder for every\nremark. Hence, the religious sentiment retires from such circles\nas are too wide for it, to the more confidential intercourse of\nfriendship, and to the mutual communications of love, where the eye\nand the countenance are more expressive than words, and where even a\nholy silence is understood. But it is impossible for divine things\nto be treated in the usual manner of society, where the conversation\nconsists in striking flashes of thought, gaily and rapidly alternating\nwith one another; a more elevated style is demanded for the\ncommunication of religion, and a different kind of society, which is\ndevoted to this purpose, must hence be formed. It is becoming, indeed,\nto apply the whole richness and magnificence of human discourse to the\nloftiest subject which language can reach--not as if there were any\nadornment, with which religion could not dispense, but because it\nwould show a frivolous and unholy disposition in its heralds if they\ndid not bring together the most copious resources within their power\nand consecrate them all to religion, so that they might thus perhaps\nexhibit it in its appropriate greatness and dignity. Hence it is\nimpossible, without the aid of poetry, to give utterance to the\nreligious sentiment in any other than an oratorical manner, with all\nthe skill and energy of language, and freely using, in addition,\nthe service of all the arts which can contribute to flowing and\nimpassioned discourse. He, therefore, whose heart is overflowing with\nreligion, can open his mouth only before an auditory, where that which\nis presented, with such a wealth of preparation, can produce the most\nextended and manifold effects.\n\nWould that I could present before you an image of the rich and\nluxurious life in this city of God, when its inhabitants come together\neach in the fulness of his own inspiration, which is ready to stream\nforth without constraint, but, at the same time, each is filled with a\nholy desire to receive and to appropriate to himself everything which\nothers wish to bring before him. If one comes forward before the rest,\nit is not because he is entitled to this distinction, in virtue of an\noffice or of a previous agreement, nor because pride and conceitedness\nhave given him presumption; it is rather a free impulse of the spirit,\na sense of the most heartfelt unity of each with all, a consciousness\nof entire equality, a mutual renunciation of all First and Last, of\nall the arrangements of earthly order. He comes forward in order to\ncommunicate to others, as an object of sympathizing contemplation, the\ndeepest feelings of his soul while under the influence of God; to lead\nthem to the domain of religion in which he breathes his native air;\nand to infect them with the contagion of his own holy emotions. He\nspeaks forth the Divine which stirs his bosom, and in holy silence the\nassembly follows the inspiration of his words. Whether he unveils a\nsecret mystery, or with prophetic confidence connects the future with\nthe present; whether he strengthens old impressions by new examples,\nor is led by the lofty visions of his burning imagination into other\nregions of the world and into another order of things, the practised\nsense of his audience everywhere accompanies his own; and when he\nreturns into himself from his wanderings through the kingdom of\nGod, his own heart and that of each of his hearers are the common\ndwelling-place of the same emotion.\n\nIf, now, the agreement of his sentiments with that which they feel be\nannounced to him, whether loudly or low, then are holy mysteries--not\nmerely significant emblems, but, justly regarded, natural indications\nof a peculiar consciousness and peculiar feelings--invented and\ncelebrated, a higher choir, as it were, which in its own lofty\nlanguage answers to the appealing voice. But not only, so to speak;\nfor as such a discourse is music without tune or measure, so there\nis also a music among the Holy, which may be called discourse without\nwords, the most distinct and expressive utterance of the inward man.\nThe Muse of Harmony, whose intimate relation with religion, although\nit has been for a long time spoken of and described, is yet recognized\nonly by few, has always presented upon her altars the most perfect\nand magnificent productions of her selectest scholars in honor of\nreligion. It is in sacred hymns and choirs, with which the words\nof the poet are connected only by slight and airy bands, that those\nfeelings are breathed forth which precise language is unable to\ncontain; and thus the tones of thought and emotion alternate with each\nother in mutual support, until all is satisfied and filled with the\nHoly and the Infinite. Of this character is the influence of religious\nmen upon one another; such is their natural and eternal union. Do\nnot take it ill of them that this heavenly bond--the most consummate\nproduct of the social nature of man, but to which it does not\nattain until it becomes conscious of its own high and peculiar\nsignificance--that this should be deemed of more value in their sight\nthan the political union which you esteem so far above everything\nelse, but which will nowhere ripen to manly beauty, and which,\ncompared with the former, appears far more constrained than free, far\nmore transitory than eternal.\n\nBut where now, in the description which I have given of the community\nof the pious, is that distinction between priests and laymen, which\nyou are accustomed to designate as the source of so many evils? A\nfalse appearance has deceived you. This is not a distinction between\npersons, but only one of condition and performance. Every man is a\npriest, so far as he draws others around him, into the sphere which he\nhas appropriated to himself and in which he professes to be a master.\nEvery one is a layman, so far as he is guided by the counsel and\nexperience of another, within the sphere of religion, where he is\ncomparatively a stranger. There is not here the tyrannic aristocracy,\nwhich you describe with such hatred; but this society is a priestly\npeople, a perfect republic, where every one is alternately ruler and\ncitizen, where every one follows the same power in another which he\nfeels also in himself, and with which he, too, governs others.\n\nHow then could the spirit of discord and division--which you regard\nas the inevitable consequence of all religious combinations--find a\ncongenial home within this sphere? I see nothing but that All is One,\nand that all the differences which actually exist in religion, by\nmeans of this very union of the pious, are gently blended with one\nanother. I have directed your attention to the different degrees\nof religiousness, I have pointed out to you the different modes of\ninsight and the different directions in which the soul seeks for\nitself the supreme object of its pursuit. Do you imagine that\nthis must needs give birth to sects, and thus destroy all free\nand reciprocal intercourse in religion? It is true, indeed, in\ncontemplation, that everything which is separated into various parts\nand embraced in different divisions, must be opposed and contradictory\nto itself; but consider, I pray you, how Life is manifested in a great\nvariety of forms, how the most hostile elements seek out one another\nhere, and, for this very reason, what we separate in contemplation all\nflows together in life. They, to be sure, who on one of these points\nbear the greatest resemblance to one another, will present the\nstrongest mutual attraction, but they cannot, on that account, compose\nan independent whole; for the degrees of this affinity imperceptibly\ndiminish and increase, and in the midst of so many transitions there\nis no absolute repulsion, no total separation, even between the most\ndiscordant elements. Take which you will of these masses which have\nassumed an organic form according to their own inherent energy; if\nyou do not forcibly divide them by a mechanical operation, no one\nwill exhibit an absolutely distinct and homogeneous character, but the\nextreme points of each will be connected at the same time with those\nwhich display different properties and properly belong to another\nmass.\n\nIf the pious individuals, who stand on the same degree of a lower\norder, form a closer union with one another, there are yet some always\nincluded in the combination who have a presentiment of higher things.\nThese are better understood by all who belong to a higher social class\nthan they understand themselves; and there is a point of sympathy\nbetween the two which is concealed only from the latter. If those\ncombine in whom one of the modes of insight, which I have described,\nis predominant, there will always be some among them who understand\nat least both of the modes, and since they, in some degree, belong\nto both, they form a connecting link between two spheres which would\notherwise be separated. Thus the individual who is more inclined to\ncherish a religious connection between himself and nature, is yet by\nno means opposed, in the essentials of religion, to him who prefers to\ntrace the footsteps of the Godhead in history; and there will never be\nwanting those who can pursue both paths with equal facility. Thus in\nwhatever manner you divide the vast province of religion, you will\nalways come back to the same point.\n\nIf unbounded universality of insight be the first and original\nsupposition of religion, and hence also, most naturally, its fairest\nand ripest fruit, you perceive that it cannot be otherwise than that,\nin proportion as an individual advances in religion and the character\nof his piety becomes more pure, the whole religious world will\nmore and more appear to him as an indivisible whole. The spirit of\nseparation, in proportion as it insists upon a rigid division, is a\nproof of imperfection; the highest and most cultivated minds always\nperceive a universal connection, and, for the very reason that they\nperceive it, they also establish it. Since every one comes in contact\nonly with his immediate neighbor, but, at the same time, has an\nimmediate neighbor on all sides and in every direction, he is, in\nfact, indissolubly linked in with the whole. Mystics and Naturalists\nin religion, they to whom the Godhead is a personal Being, and they\nto whom it is not, they who have arrived at a systematic view of\nthe Universe, and they who behold it only in its elements or only in\nobscure chaos--all, notwithstanding, should be only one, for one band\nsurrounds them all and they can be totally separated only by a violent\nand arbitrary force; every specific combination is nothing but an\nintegral part of the whole; its peculiar characteristics are almost\nevanescent, and are gradually lost in outlines that become more and\nmore indistinct; and at least those who feel themselves thus united\nwill always be the superior portion.\n\nWhence, then, but through a total misunderstanding, have arisen that\nwild and disgraceful zeal for proselytism to a separate and peculiar\nform of religion, and that horrible expression--\"no salvation except\nwith us.\" As I have described to you the society of the pious, and as\nit must needs be according to its intrinsic nature, it aims merely\nat reciprocal communication, and subsists only between those who are\nalready in possession of religion, of whatever character it may be;\nhow then can it be its vocation to change the sentiments of those\nwho now acknowledge a definite system, or to introduce and consecrate\nthose who are totally destitute of one? The religion of this society,\nas such, consists only in the religion of all the pious taken\ntogether, as each one beholds it in the rest--it is Infinite; no\nsingle individual can embrace it entirely, since so far as it is\nindividual it ceases to be one, and hence no man can attain such\nelevation and completeness as to raise himself to its level. If any\none, then, has chosen a part in it for himself, whatever it may be,\nwere it not an absurd procedure for society to wish to deprive him of\nthat which is adapted to his nature--since it ought to comprise this\nalso within its limits, and hence some one must needs possess it?\n\n[Illustration: THE THREE HERMITS Moritz Von Schwind]\n\nAnd to what end should it desire to cultivate those who are yet\nstrangers to religion? Its own especial characteristic--the Infinite\nWhole--of course it cannot impart to them; and the communication of\nany specific element cannot be accomplished by the Whole, but only by\nindividuals. But perhaps then, the Universal, the Indeterminate,\nwhich might be presented, when we seek that which is common to all\nthe members? Yet you are aware that, as a general rule, nothing can be\ngiven or communicated, in the form of the Universal and Indeterminate,\nfor specific object and precise form are requisite for this purpose;\notherwise, in fact, that which is presented would not be a reality but\na nullity. Such a society, accordingly, can never find a measure or\nrule for this undertaking.\n\nAnd how could it so far abandon its sphere as to engage in this\nenterprise? The need on which it is founded, the essential principle\nof religious sociability, points to no such purpose. Individuals unite\nwith one another and compose a Whole; the Whole rests in itself,\nand needs not to strive for anything beyond. Hence, whatever is\naccomplished in this way for religion is the private affair of the\nindividual for himself, and, if I may say so, more in his relations\nout of the church than in it. Compelled to descend to the low grounds\nof life from the circle of religious communion, where the mutual\nexistence and life in God afford him the most elevated enjoyment and\nwhere his spirit, penetrated with holy feelings, soars to the highest\nsummit of consciousness, it is his consolation that he can connect\neverything with which he must there be employed, with that which\nalways retains the deepest significance in his heart. As he descends\nfrom such lofty regions to those whose whole endeavor and pursuit\nare limited to earth, he easily believes--and you must pardon him the\nfeeling--that he has passed from intercourse with Gods and Muses to a\nrace of coarse barbarians. He feels like a steward of religion among\nthe unbelieving, a herald of piety among the savages; he hopes, like\nan Orpheus or an Amphion, to charm the multitude with his heavenly\ntones; he presents himself among them, like a priestly form, clearly\nand brightly exhibiting the lofty, spiritual sense which fills his\nsoul, in all his actions and in the whole compass of his Being. If the\ncontemplation of the Holy and the Godlike awakens a kindred emotion in\nthem, how joyfully does he cherish the first presages of religion in\na new heart, as a delightful pledge of its growth even in a harsh and\nforeign clime! With what triumph does he bear the neophyte with him to\nthe exalted assembly! This activity for the promotion of religion is\nonly the pious yearning of the stranger after his home, the endeavor\nto carry his Fatherland with him in all his wanderings, and everywhere\nto find again its laws and customs as the highest and most beautiful\nelements of his life; but the Fatherland itself, happy in its own\nresources, perfectly sufficient for its own wants, knows no such\nendeavor.\n\n\n\n\n_JOHANN GOTTLIEB FICHTE_\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nTHE DESTINY OF MAN (1800)\n\nADAPTED FROM THE TRANSLATION BY FREDERIC H. HEDGE\n\nBOOK III: FAITH\n\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n\"Not merely to know, but to act according to thy knowledge, is thy\ndestination.\" So says the voice which cries to me aloud from my\ninnermost soul, so soon as I collect and give heed to myself for a\nmoment. \"Not idly to inspect and contemplate thyself, nor to brood\nover devout sensations--no! thou existest to act. Thine actions, and\nonly thine actions, determine thy worth.\"\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nShall I refuse obedience to that inward voice? I will not do it. I\nwill choose voluntarily the destination which the impulse imputes to\nme. And I will grasp, together with this determination, the thought of\nits reality and truth, and of the reality of all that it presupposes.\nI will hold to the viewpoint of natural thinking, which this impulse\nassigns to me, and renounce all those morbid speculations and\nrefinements of the understanding which alone could make me doubt its\ntruth. I understand thee now, sublime Spirit![2] I have found the\norgan with which I grasp this reality, and with it, probably, all\nother reality. Knowledge is not that organ. No knowledge can prove\nand demonstrate itself. Every knowledge presupposes a higher as its\nfoundation, and this upward process has no end. It is Faith, that\nvoluntary reposing in the view which naturally presents\nitself, because it is the only one by which we can fulfil our\ndestination--this it is that first gives assent to knowledge, and\nexalts to certainty and conviction what might otherwise be mere\nillusion. It is not knowledge, but a determination of the will to\nlet knowledge pass for valid. I hold fast, then, forever to this\nexpression. It is not a mere difference of terms, but a real\ndeep-grounded distinction, exercising a very important influence on\nmy whole mental disposition. All my conviction is only faith, and is\nderived from a disposition of the mind, not from the understanding.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThere is only one point to which I have to direct incessantly all my\nthoughts: What I must do, and how I shall most effectually accomplish\nwhat is required of me. All my thinking must have reference to my\ndoing--must be considered as means, however remote, to this end.\nOtherwise, it is an empty, aimless sport, a waste of time and power,\nand perversion of a noble faculty which was given me for a very\ndifferent purpose.\n\nI may hope, I may promise myself with certainty, that when I think\nafter this manner, my thinking shall be attended with practical\nresults. Nature, in which I am to act, is not a foreign being,\ncreated without regard to me, into which I can never penetrate. It is\nfashioned by the laws of my own thought, and must surely coincide with\nthem. It must be everywhere transparent, cognizable, permeable to\nme, in its innermost recesses. Everywhere it expresses nothing but\nrelations and references of myself to myself; and as certainly as\nI may hope to know myself, so certainly I may promise myself that I\nshall be able to explore it. Let me but seek what I have to seek,\nand I shall find. Let me but inquire whereof I have to inquire, and I\nshall receive answer.\n\n[Illustration: JOHANN GOTTLIEB FICHTE]\n\n\n\n\nI\n\n\nThat voice in my interior, which I believe, and for the sake of which\nI believe all else that I believe, commands me not merely to act in\nthe abstract. That is impossible. All these general propositions\nare formed only by my voluntary attention and reflection directed to\nvarious facts; but they do not express a single fact of themselves.\nThis voice of my conscience prescribes to me with certainty, in each\nparticular situation of my existence, what I must do and what I must\navoid in that situation. It accompanies me, if I will but listen to it\nwith attention, through all the events of my life, and never refuses\nits reward where I am called to act. It establishes immediate\nconviction, and irresistibly compels my assent. It is impossible for\nme to contend against it.\n\nTo harken to that voice, honestly and dispassionately, without\nfear and without useless speculation to obey it--this is my sole\ndestination, this the whole aim of my existence. My life ceases to\nbe an empty sport, without truth or meaning. There is something to be\ndone, simply because it must be done--namely, that which conscience\ndemands of me who find myself in this particular position. I exist\nsolely in order that it may be fulfilled. To perceive it, I have\nunderstanding; to do it, power.\n\nThrough these commandments of conscience alone come truth and reality\ninto my conceptions. I cannot refuse attention and obedience to them\nwithout renouncing my destination. I cannot, therefore, withhold my\nbelief in the reality which they bring before me, without, at the same\ntime, denying my destination. It is absolutely true, without\nfurther examination and demonstration--it is the first truth and the\nfoundation of all other truth and certainty--that I must obey that\nvoice. Consequently, according to this way of thinking, everything\nbecomes true and real for me which the possibility of such obedience\npresupposes.\n\nThere hover before me phenomena in space, to which I transfer the idea\nof my own being. I represent them to myself as beings of my own kind.\nConsistent speculation has taught me or will teach me that these\nsupposed rational beings, without me, are only products of my own\nconception; that I am necessitated, once for all, by laws of thought\nwhich can be shown to exist, to represent the idea of myself out\nof myself, and that, according to the same laws, this idea can be\ntransferred only to certain definite perceptions. But the voice of\nmy conscience cries to me: \"Whatever these beings may be in and for\nthemselves, thou shalt treat them as subsisting for themselves, as\nfree, self-existing beings, entirely independent of thyself. Take\nit for granted that they are capable of proposing to themselves aims\nindependently of thee, by their own power. Never disturb the execution\nof these, their designs, but further them rather, with all thy might.\nRespect their liberty. Embrace with love their objects as thine\nown.\" So must I act. And to such action shall, will, and must all my\nthinking be directed, if I have but formed the purpose to obey the\nvoice of my conscience. Accordingly, I shall ever consider those\nbeings as beings subsisting for themselves, and forming and\naccomplishing aims independently of me. From this viewpoint, I cannot\nconsider them in any other light; and the above-mentioned speculation\nwill vanish like an empty dream before my eyes. \"I _think_ of them as\nbeings of my own species,\" said I just now; but strictly, it is not a\nthought by which they are first represented to me as such. It is the\nvoice of conscience, the command: \"Here restrain thy liberty,\nhere suppose and respect foreign aims.\" This it is which is first\ntranslated into the thought: \"Here is surely and truly, subsisting\nof itself, a being like me.\" To consider them otherwise, I must first\ndeny the voice of my conscience in life and forget it in speculation.\n\nThere hover before me other phenomena which I do not consider as\nbeings like myself, but as irrational objects. Speculation finds it\neasy to show how the conception of such objects develops itself purely\nfrom my power of conception and its necessary modes of action. But\nI comprehend these same things also through need and craving and\nenjoyment. It is not the conception--no, it is hunger and thirst and\nthe satisfaction of these that makes anything food and drink to me.\nOf course, I am constrained to believe in the reality of that which\nthreatens my sensuous existence, or which alone can preserve it.\nConscience comes in, at once hallowing and limiting this impulse of\nNature. \"Thou shalt preserve, exercise and strengthen thyself, and\nthy sensuous power; for this sensuous power forms a part of the\ncalculation, in the plan of reason. But thou canst preserve it only\nby a suitable use, agreeable to the peculiar interior laws of such\nmatters. And, besides thyself, there are also others like thee, whose\npowers are calculated upon like thine own, and who can be preserved\nonly in the same way. Allow to them the same use of their portion\nwhich it is granted thee to make of thine own portion. Respect what\ncomes to them, as their property. Use what comes to thee in a suitable\nmanner, as thy property.\" So must I act, and I must think conformably\nto such action. Accordingly, I am necessitated to regard these things\nas standing under their own natural laws, independent of me, but which\nI am capable of knowing; that is, to ascribe to them an existence\nindependent of myself. I am constrained to believe in such laws,\nand it becomes my business to ascertain them; and empty speculation\nvanishes like mist when the warming sun appears.\n\nIn short, there is for me, in general, no pure, naked existence, with\nwhich I have no concern, and which I contemplate solely for the sake\nof contemplation. Whatever exists for me, exists only by virtue of\nits relation to me. But there is everywhere but one relation to\nme possible, and all the rest are but varieties of this, i.e., my\ndestination as a moral agent. My world is the object and sphere of my\nduties, and absolutely nothing else. There is no other world, no other\nattributes of my world, for me. My collective capacity and all finite\ncapacity is insufficient to comprehend any other. Everything which\nexists for me forces its existence and its reality upon me, solely by\nmeans of this relation; and only by means of this relation do I grasp\nit. There is utterly wanting in me an organ for any other existence.\n\nTo the question whether then in fact such a world exists as I\nrepresent to myself, I can answer nothing certain, nothing which is\nraised above all doubt, but this: I have assuredly and truly these\ndefinite duties which represent themselves to me as duties toward such\nand such persons, concerning such and such objects. These definite\nduties I cannot represent to myself otherwise, nor can I execute\nthem otherwise, than as lying within the sphere of such a world as I\nconceive. Even he who has never thought of his moral destination, if\nany such there could be, or who, if he has thought about it at all,\nhas never entertained the slightest purpose of ever, in the indefinite\nfuture, fulfilling it--even he derives his world of the senses and his\nbelief in the reality of such a world no otherwise than from his idea\nof a moral world. If he does not comprehend it through the idea of his\nduties, he certainly does so through the requisition of his rights.\nWhat he does not require of himself he yet requires of others, in\nrelation to himself--that they treat him with care and consideration,\nagreeably to his nature, not as an irrational thing, but as a free and\nself-subsisting being. And so he is constrained, in order that they\nmay comply with this demand, to think of them also as rational, free,\nself-subsisting, and independent of the mere force of Nature. And even\nthough he should never propose to himself any other aim in the use and\nfruition of the objects which surround him than that of enjoying them,\nhe still demands this enjoyment as a right, of which others must leave\nhim in undisturbed possession. Accordingly, he comprehends even the\nirrational world of the senses through a moral idea. No one who lives\na conscious life can renounce these claims to be respected as rational\nand self-subsisting. And with these claims at least there is connected\nin his soul a seriousness, an abandonment of doubt, a belief in\na reality, if not with the acknowledgment of a moral law in\nhis innermost being. Do but assail him who denies his own moral\ndestination and your existence and the existence of a corporeal\nworld, except in the way of experiment, to try what speculation can\ndo--assail him actively, carry his principles into life, and act as if\nhe either did not exist, or as if he were a piece of rude matter, and\nhe will soon forget the joke; he will become seriously angry with you,\nhe will seriously reprove you for treating him so, and maintain that\nyou ought not and must not do so to him; and, in this way, he will\npractically admit that you really possess the power of acting upon\nhim, that he exists, that you exist, and that there exists _a medium\nthrough which you act upon him_; and that you have at least duties\ntoward him.\n\nHence it is not the action of supposed objects without us, which exist\nfor us only and for which we exist only in so far as we already know\nof them; just as little is it an empty fashioning, by means of our\nimagination and our thinking, whose products would appear to us as\nsuch, as empty pictures; it is not these, but the necessary faith in\nour liberty and our power, in our veritable action and in definite\nlaws of human action, which serves as the foundation of all\nconsciousness of a reality without us, a consciousness which is\nitself but a belief, since it rests on a belief, but one which follows\nnecessarily from that belief. We are compelled to assume that we\nact in general, and that we ought to act in a certain way; we are\ncompelled to assume a certain sphere of such action--this sphere being\nthe truly and actually existing world as we find it. And _vice versa_,\nthis world is absolutely nothing but that sphere, and by no means\nextends beyond it. The consciousness of the actual world proceeds from\nthe necessity of action, and not the reverse--i.e., the necessity of\naction from the consciousness of such a world. The necessity is first\nnot the consciousness; that is derived. We do not act because we\nagnize, but we agnize because we are destined to act. Practical reason\nis the root of all reason. The laws of action for rational beings are\n_immediately_ certain; their world is certain _only because they are\ncertain_. Were we to renounce the former, the world, and, with it,\nourselves, we should sink into absolute nothing. We raise ourselves\nout of this nothing, and sustain ourselves above this nothing, solely\nby means of our morality.\n\n\n\n\nII\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nWhen I contemplate the world as it is, independently of any command,\nthere manifests itself in my interior the wish, the longing, no! not\na longing merely--the absolute demand for a better world. I cast a\nglance at the relations of men to one another and to Nature, at the\nweakness of their powers, at the strength of their appetites and\npassions. It cries to me irresistibly from my innermost soul: \"Thus it\ncannot possibly be destined always to remain. It must, O it must all\nbecome other and better!\"\n\nI can in no wise imagine to myself the present condition of man as\nthat which is designed to endure. I cannot imagine it to be his whole\nand final destination. If so, then would everything be dream and\ndelusion, and it would not be worth the trouble to have lived and to\nhave taken part in this ever-recurring, aimless, and unmeaning game.\nOnly so far as I can regard this condition as the means of something\nbetter, as a point of transition to a higher and more perfect, does\nit acquire any value for me. Not on its own account, but on account of\nsomething better for which it prepares the way, can I bear it, honor\nit, and joyfully fulfil my part in it. My mind can find no place, nor\nrest a moment, in the present; it is irresistibly repelled by it. My\nwhole life streams irrepressibly on toward the future and better.\n\nAm I only to eat and to drink that I may hunger and thirst again,\nand again eat and drink, until the grave, yawning beneath my feet,\nswallows me up, and I myself spring up as food from the ground? Am I\nto beget beings like myself, that they also may eat and drink and die,\nand leave behind them beings like themselves, who shall do the same\nthat I have done? To what purpose this circle which perpetually\nreturns into itself; this game forever recommencing, after the same\nmanner, in which everything is born but to perish, and perishes but\nto be born again as it was; this monster which forever devours itself\nthat it may produce itself again, and which produces itself that it\nmay again devour itself?\n\nNever can this be the destination of my being and of all being. There\nmust be something which exists because it has been brought forth, and\nwhich now remains and can never be brought forth again after it has\nbeen brought forth once. And this, that is permanent, must beget\nitself amid the mutations of the perishing, and continue amid those\nmutations, and be borne along unhurt upon the waves of time.\n\nAs yet our race wrings with difficulty its sustenance and its\ncontinuance from reluctant Nature. As yet the larger portion of\nmankind are bowed down their whole life long by hard labor, to procure\nsustenance for themselves and the few who think for them. Immortal\nspirits are compelled to fix all their thinking and scheming, and\nall their efforts, on the soil which bears them nourishment. It often\ncomes to pass as yet, that when the laborer has ended, and promises\nhimself, for his pains, the continuance of his own existence and of\nthose pains, then hostile elements destroy in a moment what he had\nbeen slowly and carefully preparing for years, and delivers up the\nindustrious painstaking man, without any fault of his own, to\nhunger and misery. It often comes to pass as yet, that inundations,\nstorm-winds, volcanoes, desolate whole countries, and mingle works\nwhich bear the impress of a rational mind, as well as their authors,\nwith the wild chaos of death and destruction. Diseases still hurry men\ninto a premature grave, men in the bloom of their powers, and children\nwhose existence passes away without fruit or result. The pestilence\nstill stalks through blooming states, leaves the few who escape\nit bereaved and alone, deprived of the accustomed aid of their\ncompanions, and does all in its power to give back to the wilderness\nthe land which the industry of man had already conquered for its own.\n\nSo it is, but so it cannot surely have been intended always to remain.\nNo work which bears the impress of reason, and which was undertaken\nfor the purpose of extending the dominion of reason, can be utterly\nlost in the progress of the times. The sacrifices which the irregular\nviolence of Nature draws from reason must at least weary, satisfy, and\nreconcile that violence. The force which has caused injury by acting\nwithout rule cannot be intended to do so in that way any longer, it\ncannot be destined to renew itself; it must be used up, from this time\nforth and forever, by that one outbreak. All those outbreaks of\nrude force, before which human power vanishes into nothing--those\ndesolating hurricanes, earthquakes, volcanoes, can be nothing else but\nthe final struggle of the wild mass against the lawfully progressive,\nlife-giving, systematic course to which it is compelled, contrary to\nits own impulse. They can be nothing but the last concussive strokes\nin the formation of our globe, now about to perfect itself. That\nopposition must gradually become weaker and at last exhausted, since,\nin the lawful course of things, there can be nothing that should renew\nits power. That formation must at last be perfected, and our destined\nabode complete. Nature must gradually come into a condition in which\nwe can count with certainty upon her equal step, and in which her\npower shall keep unaltered a definite relation with that power which\nis destined to govern it, that is, the human. So far as this relation\nalready exists and the systematic development of Nature has gained\nfirm footing, the workmanship of man, by its mere existence and its\neffects, independent of any design on the part of the author, is\ndestined to react upon Nature and to represent in her a new and\nlife-giving principle. Cultivated lands are to quicken and mitigate\nthe sluggish, hostile atmosphere of the eternal forests, wildernesses,\nand morasses. Well-ordered and diversified culture is to diffuse\nthrough the air a new principle of life and fructification, and the\nsun to send forth its most animating beams into that atmosphere which\nis breathed by a healthy, industrious, and ingenious people. Science,\nawakened, at first, by the pressure of necessity, shall hereafter\npenetrate deliberately and calmly into the unchangeable laws of\nNature, overlook her whole power, and learn to calculate her possible\ndevelopments--shall form for itself a new Nature in idea, attach\nitself closely to the living and active, and follow hard upon her\nfootsteps. And all knowledge which reason has wrung from Nature shall\nbe preserved in the course of the times and become the foundation\nof further knowledge, for the common understanding of our race. Thus\nshall Nature become ever more transparent and penetrable to\nhuman perception, even to its innermost secrets. And human power,\nenlightened and fortified with its inventions, shall rule her with\nease and peacefully maintain the conquest once effected. By degrees,\nthere shall be needed no greater outlay of mechanical labor than the\nhuman body requires for its development, cultivation and health. And\nthis labor shall cease to be a burden; for the rational being is not\ndestined to be a bearer of burdens.\n\nBut it is not Nature, it is liberty itself, that occasions the most\nnumerous and the most fearful disorders among our kind. The direst\nenemy of man is man.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nIt is the destination of our race to unite in one body, thoroughly\nacquainted with itself in all its parts, and uniformly cultivated in\nall. Nature, and even the passions and vices of mankind, have, from\nthe beginning, drifted toward this goal. A large part of the road\nwhich leads to it is already put behind us, and we may count with\ncertainty that this goal, which is the condition of further, united\nprogress, will be reached in due season. Do not ask History whether\nmankind, on the whole, have grown more purely moral! They have grown\nto extended, comprehensive, forceful acts of arbitrary will; but it\nwas almost a necessity of their condition that they should direct that\nwill exclusively to evil.\n\nNeither ask History whether the esthetic education and the\nrationalistic culture of the understanding, of the fore-world,\nconcentrated upon a few single points, may not have far exceeded, in\ndegree, that of modern times. It might be that the answer would put\nus to shame, and that the human race in growing older would appear, in\nthis regard, not to have advanced, but to have lost ground.\n\nBut ask History in what period the existing culture was most widely\ndiffused and distributed among the greatest number of individuals.\nUndoubtedly it will be found that, from the beginning of history down\nto our own day, the few light-points of culture have extended\ntheir rays farther and farther from their centres, have seized one\nindividual after another, and one people after another; and that this\ndiffusion of culture is still going on before our eyes.\n\nAnd this was the first goal of Humanity, on its infinite path. Until\nthis is attained, until the existing culture of an age is diffused\nover the whole habitable globe, and our race is made capable of the\nmost unlimited communication with itself, one nation, one quarter of\nthe globe, must await the other, on their common path, and each must\nbring its centuries of apparent standing still or retrogradation, as\na sacrifice to the common bond, for the sake of which, alone, they\nthemselves exist.\n\nWhen this first goal shall be attained, when everything useful that\nhas been discovered at one end of the earth shall immediately be\nmade known and imparted to all, then Humanity, without interruption,\nwithout cessation, and without retrocession, with united force, and\nwith one step shall raise itself up to a degree of culture which we\nlack power to conceive.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nBy the institution of this one true State and the firm establishment\nof internal peace, external war also, at least between true\nStates, will be rendered impossible. Even for the sake of its own\nadvantage--in order that no thought of injustice, plunder and violence\nmay spring up in its own subjects, and no possible opportunity be\nafforded them for any gain, except by labor and industry, in the\nsphere assigned by law--every State must forbid as strictly, must\nhinder as carefully, must compensate as exactly, and punish as\nseverely, an injury done to the citizen of a neighbor-State, as if it\nwere inflicted upon a fellow-citizen. This law respecting the security\nof its neighbors is necessary to every State which is not a community\nof robbers. And herewith the possibility of every just complaint of\none State against another, and every case of legitimate defense, are\ndone away.\n\nThere are no necessarily and continuously direct relations between\nStates, as such, that could engender warfare. As a general rule, it\nis only through the relations of single citizens of one State with the\ncitizens of another--it is only in the person of one of its members,\nthat a State can be injured. But this injury will be instantly\nredressed, and the offended State satisfied.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThat a whole nation should determine, for the sake of plunder, to\nattack a neighboring country with war, is impossible, since in a State\nin which all are equal the plunder would not become the booty of\na few, but must be divided equally among all, and, so divided, the\nportion of each individual would never repay him for the trouble of a\nwar. Only, then, when the advantage to be gained falls to the lot of a\nfew oppressors, but the disadvantages, the trouble, the cost fall upon\na countless army of slaves--only then is a war of plunder possible or\nconceivable. Accordingly, these States have no war to fear from States\nlike themselves, but only from savages or barbarians, tempted to prey\nby want of skill to enrich themselves by industry; or from nations of\nslaves, who are driven by their masters to procure plunder, of which\nthey are to enjoy no part themselves. As to the former, each single\nState is undoubtedly superior to them in strength, by virtue of the\narts of culture. As to the latter, the common advantage of all the\nStates will lead them to strengthen themselves by union with one\nanother. No free State can reasonably tolerate, in its immediate\nvicinity, polities whose rulers find their advantage in subjecting\nneighboring nations, and which, therefore, by their mere existence,\nperpetually threaten their neighbors' peace. Care for their own\nsecurity will oblige all free States to convert all around them into\nfree States like themselves, and thus, for the sake of their own\nsafety, to extend the dominion of culture to the savages, and that of\nliberty to the slave nations round about them. And so, when once a few\nfree States have been formed, the empire of culture, of liberty, and,\nwith that, of universal peace, will gradually embrace the globe.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nIn this only true State, all temptation to evil in general, and even\nthe possibility of deliberately determining upon an evil act, will be\ncut off, and man be persuaded as powerfully as he can be to direct his\nwill toward good. There is no man who loves evil because it is evil.\nHe loves in it only the advantages and enjoyments which it promises,\nand which, in the present state of Humanity, it, for the most part,\nactually affords. As long as this state continues, as long as a price\nis set upon vice, a thorough reformation of mankind, in the whole, is\nscarcely to be hoped for. But in such a civil Polity as should exist,\nsuch as reason demands, and such as the thinker easily describes,\nalthough as yet he nowhere finds it, and such as will necessarily\nshape itself with the first nation that is truly disenthralled--in\nsuch a Polity evil will offer no advantages, but, on the contrary, the\nmost certain disadvantages; and the aberration of self-love into acts\nof injustice will be suppressed by self-love itself. According to\ninfallible regulations, in such a State, all taking advantage of\nand oppressing others, every act of self-aggrandizement at another's\nexpense is not only sure to be in vain--labor lost--but it reacts upon\nthe author, and he himself inevitably incurs the evil which he would\ninflict upon others. Within his own State and outside of it, on the\nwhole face of the earth, he finds no one whom he can injure with\nimpunity. It is not, however, to be expected that any one will resolve\nupon evil merely for evil's sake, notwithstanding he cannot accomplish\nit and nothing but his own injury can result from the attempt. The\nuse of liberty for evil ends is done away. Man must either resolve\nto renounce his liberty entirely--to become, with patience, a passive\nwheel in the great machine of the whole--or he must apply his liberty\nto that which is good.\n\nAnd thus, then, in a soil so prepared, the good will easily flourish.\nWhen selfish aims no longer divide mankind, and their powers can no\nlonger be exercised in destroying one another in battle, nothing will\nremain to them but to turn their united force against the common and\nonly adversary which yet remains--resisting, uncultivated Nature. No\nlonger separated by private ends, they will necessarily unite in one\ncommon end, and there will grow up a body everywhere animated by one\nspirit and one love. Every disadvantage of the individual, since it\ncan no longer be a benefit to any one, becomes an injury to the whole\nand to each particular member of the same, and is felt in each member\nwith equal pain, and with equal activity redressed. Every advance\nwhich one man makes, human nature, in its entirety, makes with him.\n\nHere, where the petty, narrow self of the person is already\nannihilated by the Polity, every one loves every other one as truly as\nhimself, as a component part of that great _Self_ which alone remains\nfor him to love, and of which he is nothing but a component part,\nwhich only through the Whole can gain or lose. Here the conflict of\nevil with good is done away, for no evil can any longer spring up.\nThe contest of the good among themselves, even concerning the good,\nvanishes, now that it has become easy to them to love the good for its\nown sake, and not for their sakes, as the authors of it--now that the\nonly interest they can have is that it come to pass, that truth\nbe discovered, that the good deed be executed--not by whom it is\naccomplished. Here every one is always prepared to join his power to\nthat of his neighbor, and to subordinate it to that of his neighbor.\nWhoever, in the judgment of all, shall accomplish the best, in the\nbest way, him all will support and partake with equal joy in his\nsuccess.\n\nThis is the aim of earthly existence which Reason sets before us, and\nfor the sure attainment of which Reason vouches. It is not a goal for\nwhich we are to strive merely that our faculties may be exercised on\nsomething great, but which we must relinquish all hope of realizing.\nIt shall and must be realized. At some time or other this goal must be\nattained, as surely as there is a world of the senses, and a race of\nreasonable beings in time, for whom no serious and rational object can\nbe imagined but this, and whose existence is made intelligible by this\nalone. Unless the whole life of man is to be considered as the sport\nof an evil Spirit, who implanted this ineradicable striving after\nthe imperishable in the breasts of poor wretches merely that he might\nenjoy their ceaseless struggle after that which unceasingly flees\nfrom them, their still repeated grasping after that which still\neludes their grasp, their restless driving about in an ever-returning\ncircle--and laugh at their earnestness in this senseless sport--unless\nthe wise man, who must soon see through this game and be tired of his\nown part in it, is to throw away his life, and the moment of awakening\nreason is to be the moment of earthly death--that goal must be\nattained. O it is attainable in life and by means of life; for Reason\ncommands me to live. It is attainable, for I am.\n\n\n\n\nIII\n\nBut now, when it is attained, when Humanity shall stand at the\ngoal--what then? There is no higher condition on earth than that.\nThe generation which first attains it can do nothing further than to\npersist in it, maintain it with all their powers, and die and leave\ndescendants who shall do the same that they have done, and who, in\ntheir turn, shall leave descendants that shall do the same. Humanity\nwould then stand still in its course. Therefore its earthly goal\ncannot be its highest goal, for this earthly goal is intelligible, and\nattainable, and finite. Though we consider the preceding generations\nas means of developing the last and perfected, still we cannot escape\nthe inquiry of earnest Reason: \"Wherefore then these last?\" Given a\nhuman race on the earth, its existence must indeed be in accordance\nwith Reason, and not contrary to it. It must become all that it can\nbecome on earth. But why should it exist at all--this human race? Why\nmight it not as well have remained in the womb of the Nothing? Reason\nis not for the sake of existence, but existence for the sake of\nReason. An existence which does not, in itself, satisfy Reason and\nsolve all her questions, cannot possibly be the true one.\n\nThen, too, are the actions commanded by the voice of Conscience, whose\ndictates I must not speculate about, but obey in silence--are they\nactually the means, and the only means, of accomplishing the earthly\naim of mankind? That I cannot refer them to any other object but this,\nthat I can have no other intent with them, is unquestionable. But is\nthis, my intent, fulfilled in every case? Is nothing more needed but\nto will the best, in order that it may be accomplished? Alas! most of\nour good purposes are, for this world, entirely lost, and some of\nthem seem even to have an entirely opposite effect to that which was\nproposed. On the other hand, the most despicable passions of men,\ntheir vices and their misdeeds, seem often to bring about the good\nmore surely than the labors of the just man, who never consents to do\nevil that good may come. It would seem that the highest good of the\nworld grows and thrives quite independently of all human virtues or\nvices, according to laws of its own, by some invisible and unknown\npower, just as the heavenly bodies run through their appointed course,\nindependently of all human effort; and that this power absorbs into\nits own higher plan all human designs, whether good or ill, and,\nby its superior strength, appropriates what was intended for other\npurposes to its own ends.\n\nIf, therefore, the attainment of that earthly goal could be the design\nof our existence, and if no further question concerning it remained\nto Reason, that aim, at least, would not be ours, but the aim of that\nunknown Power. We know not at any moment what may promote it. Nothing\nwould be left us but to supply to that Power, by our actions, so much\nmaterial, no matter what, to work up in its own way, for its own ends.\nOur highest wisdom would be, not to trouble ourselves about things\nin which we have no concern, but to live, in each case, as the fancy\ntakes us, and quietly leave the consequences to that Power. The moral\nlaw within us would be idle and superfluous, and wholly unsuited to a\nbeing that had no higher capacity and no higher destination. In order\nto be at one with ourselves, we should refuse obedience to the voice\nof that law and suppress it as a perverse and mad enthusiasm.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nIf the whole design of our existence were to bring about a purely\nearthly condition of our race, all that would be required would be\nsome infallible mechanism to direct our action; and we need be nothing\nmore than wheels well fitted to the whole machine. Freedom would then\nnot only be useless, but even contrary to the purpose of existence;\nand good-will would be quite superfluous. The world, in that case,\nwould be very clumsily contrived--would proceed to its goal with waste\nof power and by circuitous paths. Rather, mighty World-Spirit, hadst\nthou taken from us this freedom, which, only with difficulty and by a\ndifferent arrangement, thou canst fit to thy plans, and compelled us\nat once to act as those plans required! Thou wouldst then arrive at\nthy goal by the shortest road, as the meanest of the inhabitants of\nthy worlds can tell thee.\n\nBut I am free, and therefore such a concatenation of cause and effect,\nin which freedom is absolutely superfluous and useless, cannot exhaust\nmy whole destination. I must be free; for not the mechanical act, but\nthe free determination of free-will, for the sake of the command\nalone and absolutely for no other purpose (so says the inward voice of\nconscience)--this alone determines our true worth. The band with which\nthe law binds me is a band for living spirits. It scorns to rule\nover dead mechanism, and applies itself alone to the living and\nself-acting. Such obedience it demands. This obedience cannot be\nsuperfluous.\n\nAnd, herewith, the eternal world rises more brightly before me, and\nthe fundamental law of its order stands clear before the eye of my\nmind. In that world the _will_, purely and only, as it lies, locked up\nfrom all eyes, in the secret dark of my soul, is the first link in a\nchain of consequences which runs through the whole invisible world\nof spirits; so in the earthly world the _deed_, a certain movement\nof matter, becomes the first link in a material chain which extends\nthrough the whole system of matter. The will is the working and living\nprinciple in the world of Reason, as motion is the working and living\nprinciple in the world of the senses. I stand in the centre of two\nopposite worlds, a visible in which the deed, and an invisible,\naltogether incomprehensible, in which the will, decides. I am one\nof the original forces for both these worlds. My will is that which\nembraces both. This will is in and of itself a constituent portion of\nthe supersensuous world. When I put it in motion by a resolution, I\nmove and change something in that world, and my activity flows on over\nthe whole and produces something new and ever-during which then exists\nand needs not to be made anew. This will breaks forth into a material\nact, and this act belongs to the world of the senses, and effects, in\nthat, what it can.\n\nI have not to wait until after I am divorced from the connection\nof the earthly world to gain admission into that which is above\nthe earth. I am and live in it already, far more truly than in the\nearthly. Even now it is my only firm standing-ground, and the eternal\nlife, which I have long since taken possession of, is the only\nreason why I am willing still to prolong the earthly. That which\nthey denominate Heaven lies not beyond the grave. It is already here,\ndiffused around our Nature, and its light arises in every pure heart.\nMy will is mine, and it is the only thing that is entirely mine and\ndepends entirely upon myself. By it I am already a citizen of the\nkingdom of liberty and of self-active Reason. My conscience, the tie\nby which that world holds me unceasingly and binds me to itself, tells\nme at every moment what determination of my will (the only thing\nby which, here in the dust, I can lay hold of that kingdom) is most\nconsonant with its order; and it depends entirely upon myself to give\nmyself the destination enjoined upon me. I cultivate myself then for\nthis world, and, accordingly, work in it and for it, while cultivating\none of its members. I pursue in it, and in it alone, without\nvacillation or doubt, according to fixed rules, my aim--sure of\nsuccess, since there is no foreign power that opposes my intent.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThat our good-will, in and for and through itself, must have\nconsequences, we know, even in this life; for Reason cannot require\nanything without a purpose. But what these consequences are--nay, how\nit is possible that a mere will can effect anything--is a question to\nwhich we cannot even imagine a solution, so long as we are entangled\nwith this material world, and it is the part of wisdom not to\nundertake an inquiry concerning which, we know beforehand, it must be\nunsuccessful.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThis then is my whole sublime destination, my true essence. I am a\nmember of two systems--a purely spiritual one, in which I rule by pure\nwill alone; and a sensuous one, in which I work by my deed.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThese two systems, the purely spiritual and the sensuous--which last\nmay consist of an immeasurable series of particular lives--exist in\nme from the moment in which my active reason is developed, and pursue\ntheir parallel courses. The latter system is only an appearance, for\nme and for those who share with me the same life. The former alone\ngives to the latter meaning, and purpose, and value. I _am_ immortal,\nimperishable, eternal, so soon as I form the resolution to obey the\nlaw of Reason; and do not first have to _become_ so. The supersensuous\nworld is not a future world; it is present. It never can be more\npresent at any one point of finite existence than at any other point.\nAfter an existence of myriad lives, it cannot be more present than at\nthis moment. Other conditions of my sensuous existence are to come;\nbut these are no more the true life than the present condition. By\nmeans of that resolution I lay hold on eternity, and strip off this\nlife in the dust and all other sensuous lives that may await me, and\nraise myself far above them. I become to myself the sole fountain\nof all my being and of all my phenomena; and have henceforth,\nunconditioned by aught without me, life in myself. My will, which\nI myself, and no stranger, fit to the order of that world, is this\nfountain of true life and of eternity.\n\nBut only my will is this fountain; and only when I acknowledge this\nwill to be the true seat of moral excellence, and actually elevate it\nto this excellence, do I attain to the certainty and the possession of\nthat supersensuous world.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe sense by which we lay hold on eternal life we acquire only by\nrenouncing and offering up sense, and the aims of sense, to the law\nwhich claims our will alone, and not our acts--by renouncing it with\nthe conviction that to do so is reasonable and alone reasonable. With\nthis renunciation of the earthly, the belief in the eternal first\nenters our soul and stands isolated there, as the only stay by which\nwe can still sustain ourselves when we have relinquished everything\nelse, as the only animating principle that still uplifts our hearts\nand still inspires our life. Well was it said, in the metaphors of\na sacred doctrine, that man must first die to the world and be born\nagain, in order to enter into the kingdom of God.\n\nI see, oh, I see now, clear before mine eyes, the cause of my former\nheedlessness and blindness concerning spiritual things! Filled with\nearthly aims, and lost in them with all my scheming and striving; put\nin motion and impelled only by the idea of a result, which is to be\nactualized without us, by the desire of such a result and pleasure in\nit--insensible and dead to the pure impulse of that Reason which gives\nthe law to itself, which sets before us a purely spiritual aim, the\nimmortal Psyche remains chained to the earth; her wings are bound. Our\nphilosophy becomes the history of our own heart and life. As we find\nourselves, so we imagine man in general and his destination. Never\nimpelled by any other motive than the desire of that which can be\nrealized in this world, there is no true liberty for us, no liberty\nwhich has the reason for its destination absolutely and entirely in\nitself. Our liberty, at the utmost, is that of the self-forming\nplant, no higher in its essence, only more curious in its result, not\nproducing a form of matter with roots, leaves and blossoms, but a form\nof mind with impulses, thoughts, actions. Of the true liberty we\nare positively unable to comprehend anything, because we are not in\npossession of it. Whenever we hear it spoken of, we draw the words\ndown to our own meaning, or briefly dismiss it with a sneer, as\nnonsense. With the knowledge of liberty, the sense of another world\nis also lost to us. Everything of this sort floats by like words which\nare not addressed to us; like an ash-gray shadow without color or\nmeaning, which we cannot by any end take hold of and retain. Without\nthe least interest, we let everything go as it is stated. Or if ever\na robuster zeal impels us to consider it seriously, we see clearly and\ncan demonstrate that all those ideas are untenable, hollow visions,\nwhich a man of sense casts from him. And, according to the premises\nfrom which we set out and which are taken from our own innermost\nexperience, we are quite right, and are alike unanswerable and\nunteachable, so long as we remain what we are. The excellent doctrines\nwhich are current among the people, fortified with special authority,\nconcerning freedom, duty and eternal life, change themselves for us\ninto grotesque fables, like those of Tartarus and the Elysian fields,\nalthough we do not disclose the true opinion of our hearts, because we\nthink it more advisable to keep the people in outward decency by means\nof these images. Or if we are less reflective, and ourselves fettered\nby the bands of authority, then we sink, ourselves, to the true\nplebeian level, by believing that which, so understood, would be\nfoolish fable; and by finding, in those purely spiritual indications,\nnothing but the promise of a continuance, to all eternity, of the same\nmiserable existence which we lead here below.\n\nTo say all in a word: Only through a radical reformation of my will\ndoes a new light arise upon my being and destination. Without this,\nhowever much I may reflect, and however distinguished my mental\nendowments, there is nothing but darkness in me and around me. The\nreformation of the heart alone conducts to true wisdom. So then, let\nmy whole life be directed unrestrainedly toward this one end!\n\n\n\n\nIV\n\nMy lawful will, simply as such, in and through itself, must\nhave consequences, certain and without exception. Every dutiful\ndetermination of my will, although no act should flow from it, must\noperate in another, to me incomprehensible, world; and, except this\ndutiful determination of the will, nothing can take effect in that\nworld. What do I suppose when I suppose this? What do I take for\ngranted?\n\nEvidently, a law, a rule absolutely and without exception valid,\naccording to which the dutiful will must have consequences. Just as in\nthe earthly world which environs me, I assume a law according to which\nthis ball, when impelled by my hand with this given force, in this\ngiven direction, must necessarily move in such a direction, with a\ndeterminate measure of rapidity, perhaps impel another ball with\nthis given degree of force by which the other ball moves on with a\ndeterminate rapidity; and so on indefinitely. As in this case, with\nthe mere direction and movement of my hand, I know and comprehend all\nthe directions and movements which shall follow it, as certainly as if\nthey were already present and perceived by me; even so I comprise, in\nmy dutiful will, a series of necessary and infallible consequences\nin the spiritual world, as if they were already present, only that I\ncannot, as in the material world, determine them--i.e., I merely know\nthat they shall be, not how they shall be. I suppose a law of the\nspiritual world, in which my mere will is one of the moving forces,\njust as my hand is one of the moving forces in the material world.\nThat firmness of my confidence and the thought of this law of a\nspiritual world are one and the same thing--not two thoughts of which\none is the consequence of the other, but precisely the same thought,\njust as the certainty with which I count upon a certain motion, and\nthe thought of a mechanical law of Nature, are the same. The idea\nof _Law_ expresses generally nothing else but the fixed, immovable\nreliance of Reason on a proposition, and the impossibility of\nsupposing the contrary.\n\nI assume such a law of a spiritual world, which my own will did not\nenact, nor the will of any finite being, nor the will of all finite\nbeings together, but to which my will and the will of all finite\nbeings is subject.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nAgreeably to what has now been advanced, the law of the supersensuous\nworld should be a _Will_.\n\nA Will which acts purely and simply as will, by its own agency,\nentirely without any instrument or sensuous medium of its efficacy;\nwhich is absolutely, in itself, at once action and result; which\nwills and it is done, which commands and it stands fast; in\nwhich, accordingly, the demand of Reason to be absolutely free and\nself-active is represented. A Will which is law in itself; which\ndetermines itself, not according to humor and caprice, not after\nprevious deliberation, vacillation and doubt, but which is forever and\nunchangeably determined, and upon which one may reckon with infallible\nsecurity, as the mortal reckons securely on the laws of his world.\nA Will in which the lawful will of finite beings has inevitable\nconsequences, but only their will, which is immovable to everything\nelse, and for which everything else is as though it were not.\n\nThat sublime Will, therefore, does not pursue its course for itself,\napart from the rest of Reason's world. There is between it and all\nfinite, rational beings, a spiritual tie, and that Will itself is\nthis spiritual tie of Reason's world. I will, purely and decidedly, my\nduty, and it then wills that I shall succeed, at least in the world of\nspirits. Every lawful resolve of the finite will enters into it,\nand moves and determines it--to speak after our fashion--not in\nconsequence of a momentary good pleasure, but in consequence of the\neternal law of its being.\n\nWith astounding clearness it now stands before my soul, the thought\nwhich hitherto had been wrapped in darkness--the thought that my will,\nmerely as such, and of itself, has consequences. It has consequences\nbecause it is infallibly and immediately taken knowledge of by another\nrelated Will, which is itself an act and the only life-principle of\nthe spiritual world. In that Will it has its first consequence, and\nonly through that, in the rest of the spiritual world which, in all\nits parts, is but the product of that infinite Will.\n\nThus I flow--the mortal must use the language of mortals--thus I flow\nin upon that Will; and the voice of conscience in my inmost being,\nwhich, in every situation of my life, instructs me what I have to do\nin that situation, is that by means of which it, in turn, flows\nin upon me. That voice is the oracle from the eternal world, made\nsensible by my environment, and translated, by my reception of it,\ninto my language; which announces to me how I must fit myself to my\npart in the order of the spiritual world, or to the infinite Will,\nwhich itself is the order of that spiritual world. I cannot oversee or\nsee through this spiritual order; nor need I. I am only a link in its\nchain, and can no more judge of the whole than a single tone in a song\ncan judge of the harmony of the whole. But what I myself should be, in\nthe harmony of Spirits, I must know; for only I myself can make myself\nthat, and it is immediately revealed to me by a voice which sounds\nover to me from that world. Thus I stand in connection with the only\nbeing that _exists_, and partake of its being. There is nothing truly\nreal, permanent, imperishable in me, but these two--the voice of my\nconscience and my free obedience. By means of the first, the spiritual\nworld bows down to me and embraces me, as one of its members. By means\nof the second, I raise myself into this world, lay hold of it, and\nwork in it. But that infinite Will is the mediator between it and me;\nfor, of it and me, that Will is the primal fountain. This is the only\ntrue and imperishable reality, toward which my soul moves from its\ninmost depth. All else is only phenomenon, and vanishes and returns\nagain, with new seeming.\n\nThis Will connects me with itself. The same connects me with all\nfinite beings of my species, and is the universal mediator between\nus all. That is the great mystery of the invisible world, and\nits fundamental law, so far as it is a world or system of several\nindividual wills: _Union and direct reciprocal action of several\nself-subsisting and independent wills among one another_--a mystery\nwhich, even in the present life, lies clear before all eyes, without\nany one's noticing it or thinking it worthy his admiration! The voice\nof Conscience, which enjoins upon each one his proper duty, is the ray\nby which we proceed from the Infinite and are set forth as individual\nparticular beings. It defines the boundaries of our personality; it\nis, therefore, our true original constituent, the foundation and the\nstuff of all the life which we live.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThat eternal Will, then, is indeed world-creator, as he alone can\nbe--in the finite reason (the only creation which is needed). They who\nsuppose him to build a world out of eternal inert matter, which world,\nin that case, could be nothing else but inert and lifeless, like\nimplements fashioned by human hands and not an eternal process of\nself-development, or who think they can imagine the going forth of a\nmaterial something out of nothing, know neither the world nor him. If\nmatter only is something, then there is nowhere anything, and nowhere,\nin all eternity, can anything be. Only Reason _is_: the infinite\nreason in itself, and the finite in and through the infinite. Only in\nour minds does he create the world, or, at least, that from which we\nunfold it, and that whereby we unfold it--the call to duty, and the\nfeelings, perceptions and laws of thought agreeing therewith. It is\n_his_ light whereby we see light and all that appears to us in that\nlight. In our minds he is continually fashioning this world, and\ninterposing in it by interposing in our minds with the call of duty,\nwhenever another free agent effects a change therein. In our minds he\nmaintains this world, and, therewith, our finite existence, of which\nalone we are capable, in that he causes to arise out of our states new\nstates continually. After he has proved us sufficiently for our next\ndestination, according to his higher aim, and when we shall have\ncultivated ourselves for the same, he will annihilate this world for\nus by what we call death, and introduce us into a new one, the product\nof our dutiful action in this. All our life is his life. We are in\nhis hand, and remain in it, and no one can pluck us out of it. We are\neternal because he is eternal.\n\nSublime, living Will, whom no name can name, and whom no conception\ncan grasp!--well may I raise my mind to thee, for thou and I are not\ndivided. Thy voice sounds in me, and mine sounds back in thee; and all\nmy thoughts, if only they are true and good, are thought in thee. In\nthee, the Incomprehensible, I become comprehensible to myself, and\nentirely comprehend the world. All the riddles of my existence are\nsolved, and the most perfect harmony arises in my mind.\n\nThou art best apprehended by childlike simplicity, devoted to thee.\nTo it thou art the heart-searcher who lookest through its innermost\nthoughts; the all-present, faithful witness of its sentiments, who\nalone knowest that it meaneth well, and who alone understandest it,\nwhen misunderstood by all the world. Thou art to it a Father, whose\npurposes toward it are ever kind, and who will order everything for\nits best good. It submitteth itself wholly, with body and soul, to thy\nbeneficent decrees. Do with me as thou wilt, it saith, I know that it\nshall be good, so surely as it is thou that dost it. The speculative\nunderstanding, which has only heard of thee but has never seen thee,\nwould teach us to know thy being in itself, and sets before us an\ninconsistent monster which it gives out for thine image, ridiculous to\nthe merely knowing, hateful and detestable to the wise and good.\n\nI veil my face before thee and lay my hand upon my mouth. How thou art\nin thyself, and how thou appearest to thyself, I can never know,\nas surely as I can never be thou. After thousand times thousand\nspirit-lives lived through, I shall no more be able to comprehend thee\nthan now, in this hut of earth. That which I comprehend becomes, by my\ncomprehension of it, finite; and this can never, by an endless process\nof magnifying and exalting, be changed into infinite. Thou differest\nfrom the finite, not only in degree but in kind. By that magnifying\nprocess they make thee only a greater and still greater man, but never\nGod, the Infinite, incapable of measure.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nI will not attempt that which is denied to me by my finite nature,\nand which could avail me nothing. I desire not to know how thou art\nin thyself. But thy relations and connections with me, the finite,\nand with all finite beings, lie open to mine eye, when I become what\nI should be. They encompass me with a more luminous clearness than the\nconsciousness of my own being. Thou workest in me the knowledge of my\nduty, of my destination in the series of rational beings. How? I know\nnot, and need not to know. Thou knowest and perceivest what I think\nand will. How thou canst know it--by what act thou bringest this\nconsciousness to pass--on that point I comprehend nothing. Yea, I know\nvery well that the idea of an act, of a special act of consciousness,\napplies only to me but not to thee, the Infinite. Thou willest,\nbecause thou willest, that my free obedience shall have consequences\nin all eternity. The act of thy will I cannot comprehend; I only know\nthat it is not like to mine. Thou _doest_, and thy will itself is\ndeed. But thy method of action is directly contrary to that of which,\nalone, I can form a conception. Thou _livest_ and _art_, for thou\nknowest, and willest, and workest, omnipresent to finite Reason. But\nthou art not such as through all eternity I shall alone be able to\nconceive of Being.\n\nIn the contemplation of these thy relations to me, the finite, I will\nbe calm and blessed. I know immediately, only what I must do. This\nwill I perform undisturbed and joyful, and without philosophizing.\nFor it is thy voice which commands me, it is the ordination of the\nspiritual world-plan concerning me, and the power by which I perform\nit is thy power. Whatsoever is commanded me by that voice, whatsoever\nis accomplished by this power, is surely and truly good in relation to\nthat plan. I am calm in all the events of this world, for they occur\nin thy world. Nothing can deceive, or surprise, or make me afraid, so\nsurely as thou livest and I behold thy life. For in thee and through\nthee, O infinite One, I behold even my present world in another light!\nNature and natural consequences in the destinies and actions of free\nbeings, in view of thee, are empty, unmeaning words. There is no\nNature more. Thou, thou alone, art.\n\nIt no longer appears to me the aim of the present world that the\nabove-mentioned state of universal peace among men, and of their\nunconditioned empire over the mechanism of Nature, should be brought\nabout merely that it may exist, but that it should be brought about\nby man himself, and, since it is calculated for all, then it should be\nbrought about by all, as one great, free, moral community. Nothing\nnew and better for the individual, except through his dutiful will,\nnothing new and better for the community, except through their united,\ndutiful will, is the fundamental law of the great moral kingdom of\nwhich the present life is a part.\n\nThe reason why the good-will of the individual is so often lost for\nthis world, is that it is only the will of the individual, and that\nthe will of the majority does not coincide with it; therefore it has\nno consequences but those which belong to a future world. Hence, even\nthe passions and vices of men appear to co\u00f6perate in the promotion of\na better state, _not in and for themselves_--in this sense good can\nnever come out of evil--but by furnishing a counter-poise to opposite\nvices, and finally annihilating those vices and themselves by their\npreponderance. Oppression could never have gained the upper hand\nunless cowardice, and baseness, and mutual distrust had prepared the\nway for it. It will continue to increase until it eradicates cowardice\nand the slavish mind; and despair re-awakens the courage that was\nlost. Then the two antagonistic vices will have destroyed each other,\nand the noblest in all human relations, permanent freedom, will have\ncome forth from them.\n\nThe actions of free beings have, strictly speaking, no other\nconsequences than those which affect other free beings. For only in\nsuch, and for such, does a world exist; and that, wherein all agree,\nis the world. But they have consequences in free agents only by\nmeans of the infinite Will, by which all individuals exist. A call, a\nrevelation of that Will to us, is always a requirement to perform some\nparticular duty. Hence, even that which we call evil in the world, the\nconsequence of the abuse of freedom, exists only through _him_; and it\nexists for all, for whom it exists, only so far as it imposes duties\nupon them. Did it not fall within the eternal plan of our moral\neducation and the education of our whole race that precisely these\nduties should be laid upon us, they would not have been imposed; and\nthat whereby they are imposed, and which we call evil, would never\nhave been. In this view, everything which takes place is good, and\nabsolutely accordant with the best ends. There is but one world\npossible--a thoroughly good one. Everything that occurs in this world\nconduces to the reformation and education of man, and, by means of\nthat, to the furtherance of his earthly destination.\n\nIt is this higher world-plan that we call Nature, when we say Nature\nleads men through want to industry, through the evils of general\ndisorder to a righteous polity, through the miseries of their\nperpetual wars to final, ever-during peace. Thy will, O Infinite, thy\nprovidence alone, is this higher Nature! This too is best understood\nby artless simplicity, which regards this life as a place of\ndiscipline and education, as a school for eternity; which, in all\nthe fortunes it experiences, the most trivial as well as the most\nmomentous, beholds thy ordinations designed for good; and which firmly\nbelieves that all things will work together for good to those who love\ntheir duty and know thee.\n\nO truly have I spent the former days of my life in darkness! Truly\nhave I heaped errors upon errors, and thought myself wise! Now only\nout of thy mouth, wondrous Spirit, I fully understand the doctrine\nwhich seemed so strange to me![3] although my understanding had\nnothing to oppose to it. For now only I overlook it, in its whole\nextent, in its deepest meaning, and in all its consequences.\n\nMan is not a product of the world of the senses; and the end of his\nexistence can never be attained in that world. His destination lies\nbeyond time and space and all that pertains to the senses. He must\nknow what he is and what he is to make himself. As his destination\nis sublime, so his thought must be able to lift itself above all the\nbounds of the senses. This must be his calling. Where his being is\nindigenous, there his thought must be indigenous also; and the most\ntruly human view, that which alone befits him, that in which his whole\npower of thought is represented, is the view by which he lifts himself\nabove those limits, by which all that is of the senses is changed for\nhim into pure nothing, a mere reflection in mortal eyes of the alone\nenduring, non-sensuous.\n\nMany have been elevated to this view without scientific thought,\nsimply by their great heart and their pure moral instinct; because\nthey lived especially with the heart, and in the sentiments. They\ndenied, by their conduct, the efficacy and reality of the world of\nthe senses; and in the shaping of their purposes and measures, they\nesteemed as nothing that concerning which they had not yet learned by\nthinking that it is nothing, even to thought. They who could say, \"our\ncitizenship is in heaven; we have here no permanent place, but seek\none to come;\" they whose first principle was, to die to the world and\nto be born anew, and, even here, to enter into another life--they,\ntruly, placed not the slightest value upon all the objects of sense,\nand were, to use the language of the School, practical transcendental\nIdealists.\n\nOthers who, in addition to the sensuous activity which is native to\nus all, have, by their thought, confirmed themselves in the sensuous,\nbecome implicated, and, as it were, grown together with it; they can\nraise themselves permanently and perfectly above the sensuous only by\ncontinuing and carrying out their thought. Otherwise, with the\npurest moral intentions, they will still be drawn down again by their\nunderstanding, and their whole being will remain a continued and\ninsoluble contradiction. For such, that philosophy, which I now first\nentirely understand, is the power by which Psyche first strips off her\nchrysalis, unfolds the wings on which she then hovers above herself,\nand casts one glance on the slough she has dropped, thenceforth to\nlive and work in higher spheres.\n\nBlessed be the hour in which I resolved to meditate on myself and my\ndestination! All my questions are solved. I know what I can know,\nand I am without anxiety concerning that which I cannot know. I am\nsatisfied. There is perfect harmony and clearness in my spirit, and a\nnew and more glorious existence for that spirit begins.\n\nMy whole, complete destination, I do not comprehend. What I am\ncalled to be and shall be, surpasses all my thought. A part of this\ndestination is yet hidden to me, visible only to him, the Father of\nSpirits, to whom it is committed. I know only that it is secured to\nme, and that it is eternal and glorious as himself. But that portion\nof it which is committed to me, I know. I know it entirely, and it\nis the root of all my other knowledge. I know, in every moment of my\nlife, with certainty, what I am to do in that moment. And this is my\nwhole destination, so far as it depends upon me. From this, since my\nknowledge goes no farther, I must not depart. I must not desire to\nknow anything beyond it. I must stand fast in this one centre, and\ntake root in it. All my scheming and striving, and all my faculty,\nmust be directed to that. My whole existence must inweave itself with\nit.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nI raise myself to this viewpoint, and am a new creature. My whole\nrelation to the existing world is changed. The threads by which my\nmind was heretofore bound to this world, and by whose mysterious\ntraction it followed all the movements of this world, are forever\nsevered, and I stand free--myself, my own world, peaceful and unmoved.\nNo longer with the heart, with the eye alone, I seize the objects\nabout me, and, through the eye alone, am connected with them. And this\neye itself, made clearer by freedom, looks through error and deformity\nto the true and the beautiful; as, on the unmoved surface of the\nwater, forms mirror themselves pure and with a softened light.\n\nMy mind is forever closed against embarrassment and confusion, against\ndoubt and anxiety; my heart is forever closed against sorrow, and\nremorse, and desire. There is but one thing that I care to know: What\nI must do; and this I know, infallibly, always. Concerning all besides\nI know nothing, and I know that I know nothing; and I root myself fast\nin this my ignorance, and forbear to conjecture, to opine, to quarrel\nwith myself concerning that of which I know nothing. No event in this\nworld can move me to joy, and none to sorrow. Cold and unmoved I look\ndown upon them all; for I know that I cannot interpret one of them,\nnor discern its connection with that which is my only concern.\nEverything which takes place belongs to the plan of the eternal world,\nand is good in relation to that plan; so much I know. But what, in\nthat plan, is pure gain, and what is only meant to remove existing\nevil, accordingly what I should most or least rejoice in, I know not.\nIn his world everything succeeds. This suffices me, and in this faith\nI stand firm as a rock. But what in his world is only germ, what\nblossom, what the fruit itself, I know not. The only thing which can\ninterest me is the progress of reason and morality in the kingdom of\nrational beings--and that purely for its own sake, for the sake of the\nprogress. Whether _I_ am the instrument of this progress or another,\nwhether it is my act which succeeds or is thwarted, or whether it is\nthe act of another, is altogether indifferent to me. I regard myself\nin every case but as one of the instruments of a rational design, and\nI honor and love myself, and am interested in myself, only as such;\nand I wish the success of my act only so far as it goes to accomplish\nthat end. Therefore I regard all the events of this world in the same\nmanner and only with exclusive reference to this one end--whether\nthey proceed from me or from another, whether they relate to me\nimmediately, or to others. My breast is closed against all vexation\non account of personal mortifications and affronts, against all\nexaltation on account of personal merits; for my entire personality\nhas long since vanished and been swallowed up in the contemplation of\nthe end.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nBodily sufferings, pain and sickness, should such befal me, I cannot\navoid to feel, for they are events of my nature, and I am and remain\nnature here below. But they shall not trouble me. They affect only the\nNature with which I am, in some strange way, connected; not myself,\nthe being which is elevated above all Nature. The sure end of all\npain, and of all susceptibility of pain, is death; and of all which\nthe natural man is accustomed to regard as evil, this is the least so\nto me. Indeed, I shall not die for myself, but only for others, for\nthose that remain behind, from whose connection I am severed. For\nmyself, the hour of death is the hour of birth to a new and more\nglorious life.\n\nSince my heart is thus closed to all desire for the earthly, since,\nin fact, I have no longer any heart for the perishable, the universe\nappears to my eye in a transfigured form. The dead inert mass which\nbut choked up space has vanished; and, instead thereof, flows, and\nwaves, and rushes the eternal stream of life, and power, and deed--of\nthe original life, of thy life, O Infinite! For all life is thy life,\nand only the religious eye pierces to the kingdom of veritable beauty.\n\nI am related to thee, and all that I behold around me is related\nto me. All is quick, all is soul, and gazes upon me with bright\nspirit-eyes, and speaks in spirit-tones to my heart. Most diversely\nsundered and severed, I behold, in all the forms without me, myself\nagain, and beam upon myself from them, as the morning sun, in thousand\ndew-drops diversely refracted, glitters back toward itself.\n\nThy life, as the finite being can apprehend it, is volition which\nshapes and represents itself by means of itself alone. This life, made\nsensible in various ways to mortal eyes, flows through me and from me\ndownward, through the immeasurable whole of Nature. Here it streams,\nas self-creating, self-fashioning matter, through my veins and\nmuscles, and deposits its fulness outside of me, in the tree, in\nthe plant, in the grass. As one connected stream, drop by drop, the\nforming life flows in all shapes and on all sides, wherever my eye can\nfollow it, and looks upon me, from every point of the universe, with\na different aspect, as the same force which fashions my own body in\ndarkness and in secret. Yonder it waves free, and leaps and dances as\nself-forming motion in the brute; and, in every new body, represents\nitself as another separate, self-subsisting world--the same power\nwhich, invisible to me, stirs and moves in my own members. All that\nlives follows this universal current, this one principle of all\nmovement, which transmits the harmonious concussion from one end of\nthe universe to the other. The brute follows it without freedom.\nI, from whom, in the visible world, the movement proceeds (without,\ntherefore, originating in me), follow it freely.\n\nBut, pure and holy, and near to thine own essence as aught, to mortal\napprehension, can be, this thy life flows forth as a band which binds\nspirits with spirits in one, as air and ether of the one world of\nReason, inconceivable and incomprehensible, and yet lying plainly\nrevealed to the spiritual eye. Conducted by this light-stream, thought\nfloats unrestrained and the same from soul to soul, and returns purer\nand transfigured from the kindred breast. Through this mystery the\nindividual finds, and understands, and loves himself, only in another;\nand every spirit detaches itself only from other spirits; and there\nis no man, but only a Humanity; no isolated thinking, and loving, and\nhating, but only a thinking, and loving, and hating in and through\none another. Through this mystery the affinity of spirits, in the\ninvisible world, streams forth into their corporeal nature, and\nrepresents itself in two sexes, which, though every spiritual band\ncould be severed, are still constrained, as natural beings, to love\neach other. It flows forth into the affection of parents and children,\nof brothers and sisters, as if the souls were sprung from one blood as\nwell as the bodies--as if the minds were branches and blossoms of the\nsame stem; and from thence it embraces, in narrower or wider circles,\nthe whole sentient world. Even the hatred of spirits is grounded in\nthirst for love; and no enmity springs up, except from friendship\ndenied.\n\nMine eye discerns this eternal life and motion, in all the veins of\nsensuous and spiritual Nature, through what seems to others a dead\nmass. And it sees this life forever ascend, and grow, and transfigure\nitself into a more spiritual expression of its own nature. The\nuniverse is no longer, to me, that circle which returns into itself,\nthat game which repeats itself without ceasing, that monster which\ndevours itself in order to reproduce itself as it was before. It is\nspiritualized to my contemplation, and bears the peculiar impress of\nthe spirit--continual progress toward perfection, in a straight line\nwhich stretches into infinity.\n\nThe sun rises and sets, the stars vanish and return again, and all the\nspheres hold their cycle-dance. But they never return precisely such\nas they disappeared; and in the shining fountains of life there is\nalso life and progress. Every hour which they bring, every morning and\nevery evening, sinks down with new blessings on the world. New life\nand new love drop from the spheres, as dew-drops from the cloud, and\nembrace Nature, as the cool night embraces the earth.\n\nAll death in Nature is birth; and precisely in dying the sublimation\nof life appears most conspicuous. There is no death-bringing principle\nin Nature, for Nature is only life, throughout. Not death kills, but\nthe more living life, which, hidden behind the old, begins and unfolds\nitself. Death and birth are only the struggle of life with itself to\nmanifest itself in ever more transfigured form, more like itself.\n\nAnd _my_ death--can that be anything different from this?--I, who am\nnot a mere representation and copy of life, but who bear within myself\nthe original, the alone true and essential life! It is not a possible\nthought that Nature should annihilate a life which did not spring from\nher--Nature, which exists only for my sake, not I for hers.\n\nBut even my natural life, even this mere representation of an inward\ninvisible life to mortal eyes, Nature cannot annihilate; otherwise she\nmust be able to annihilate herself--she who exists only for me and for\nmy sake, and who ceases to exist, if I am not. Even because she puts\nme to death she must quicken me anew. It can be only my higher life,\nunfolding itself in her, before which my present life disappears; and\nthat which mortals call death is the visible appearing of a second\nvivification. Did no rational being, who has once beheld its light,\nperish from the earth, there would be no reason to expect a new heaven\nand a new earth. The only possible aim of Nature, that of representing\nand maintaining Reason, would have been already fulfilled here below,\nand her circle would be complete. But the act by which she puts to\ndeath a free, self-subsisting being, is her solemn--to all Reason\napparent--transcending of that act, and of the entire sphere which she\nthereby closes. The apparition of death is the conductor by which my\nspiritual eye passes over to the new life of myself, and of a Nature\nfor me.\n\nEvery one of my kind who passes from earthly connections, and who\ncannot, to my spirit, seem annihilated, because he is one of my kind,\ndraws my thought over with him. He still is, and to him belongs a\nplace.\n\nWhile we, here below, sorrow for him with such sorrow as would be\nfelt, if possible, in the dull kingdom of unconsciousness, when a\nhuman being withdraws himself from thence to the light of earth's\nsun--while we so mourn, on yonder side there is joy because a man is\nborn into their world; as we citizens of earth receive with joy our\nown. When I, some time, shall follow them, there will be for me only\njoy; for sorrow remains behind, in the sphere which I quit.\n\nIt vanishes and sinks before my gaze--the world which I so lately\nadmired. With all the fulness of life, of order, of increase, which\nI behold in it, it is but the curtain by which an infinitely more\nperfect world is concealed from me. It is but the germ out of which\nthat infinitely more perfect shall unfold itself. My faith enters\nbehind this curtain, and warms and quickens this germ. It sees nothing\ndefinite, but expects more than it can grasp here below, than it will\never be able to grasp in time.\n\nSo I live and so I am; and so I am unchangeable, firm and complete\nfor all eternity. For this being is not one which I have received from\nwithout; it is my own only true being and essence.\n\n\n\n\nADDRESSES TO THE GERMAN NATION\n\n(1807 to 1808)\n\nTRANSLATED BY LOUIS H. GRAY, PH.D.\n\nADDRESS EIGHT\n\nThe Definition of a Nation in the Higher Sense of the Word, and of\nPatriotism\n\n\nThe last four addresses have answered the question, What is the German\nas contrasted with other nations of Teutonic origin? The argument will\nbe complete if we further add the examination of the question, What is\na nation? The latter question is identical with another, and, at the\nsame time, the other question, which has often been propounded and\nhas been answered in very different ways, helps in the solution. This\nquestion is, What is patriotism, or, as it would be more correctly\nexpressed, What is the love of the individual for his nation?\n\nIf we have thus far proceeded aright in the course of our\ninvestigation, it must become obvious therefrom that only the\nGerman--the primitive man, not he who has become petrified by\narbitrary laws and institutions--really has a nation and is entitled\nto count on one, and that only he is capable of real and rational love\nfor his nation.\n\nWe smooth our way to a solution of our proposed task by means of the\nfollowing remark, which appears, at first sight, to lie outside the\ncontext of our previous discussion.\n\nAs we have already observed in our third address, religion is able\nabsolutely to transport us above all time and above the whole of\npresent and perceptual life without doing the least injury to the\njustice, morality, and holiness of the life influenced by this belief.\nEven with the certain conviction that all our activity on this earth\nwill not leave the least trace behind it and will not produce the\nslightest results, and even with the belief that the divine may\nactually be perverse and may be used as a tool of evil and of still\ndeeper moral corruption, it is, nevertheless, possible to continue\nin this activity simply in order to maintain the divine life that\nhas come forth within us and that stands in relation to a higher\ngovernance of things in a future world where nothing perishes that\nhas been done in God. Thus, for instance, the apostles and the first\nChristians generally, even while living, were wholly transported\nabove the earth because of their belief in heaven; and affairs\nterrestrial--state, fatherland, and nation--were so entirely renounced\nthat they no longer deemed such trivial concerns worthy even of their\nconsideration. However possible this may be, however easy, moreover,\nfor faith, and however joyfully we may resign ourselves to the\nconviction, since it is unalterably the will of God, that we have\nno more an earthly country but are exiles and slaves here\nbelow--nevertheless, this is not the natural condition and the rule\ngoverning the course of the world, but is a rare exception. Moreover,\nit is a very perverse use of religion (and, among others, Christianity\nhas frequently been guilty of it) when, as a question of principle and\nwithout regard to the existent circumstances, it proceeds to commend\nthis withdrawal from the affairs of the state and of the nation as a\ntruly religious sentiment. Under such conditions, if they are true and\nreal and not perhaps induced merely by religious fanaticism, temporal\nlife loses all its independence and becomes simply a fore-court of\nthe true life and a hard trial to be borne only by obedience and\nsubmission to the will of God; in this view it becomes true that,\nas has been claimed by many, immortal souls have been plunged into\nearthly bodies, as into prisons, simply as a punishment. In the\nregular order of things, however, earthly life should itself truly be\nlife in which we may rejoice and which we may thankfully enjoy, even\nthough in expectation of a higher life; and although it is true that\nreligion is also the comfort of the slave illegally oppressed, yet,\nabove all things, the essence of religion is to oppose slavery and to\nprevent, so far as possible, its deterioration to a mere consolation\nof the captive. It is doubtless to the interest of the tyrant to\npreach religious resignation and to refer to heaven those to whom he\nwill not grant a tiny place on earth; we must, however, be less hasty\nto adopt the view of religion recommended by the tyrant, for, if\nwe can, we must forestall the making of earth into hell in order to\narouse a still greater longing for heaven.\n\nThe natural impulse of man, to be surrendered only in case of real\nnecessity, is to find heaven already on this earth and to amalgamate\ninto his earthly work day by day that which lasts forever; to plant\nand to cultivate the imperishable in the temporal itself--not merely\nin an unconceivable way, connected with the eternal solely by the gulf\nwhich mortal eyes may not pass, but in a manner which is visible to\nthe mortal eye itself.\n\nThat I may begin with this generally intelligible example--what\nnoble-minded man does not wish and aspire to repeat his own life in\nbetter wise in his children and, again, in their children, and still\nto continue to live upon this earth, ennobled and perfected in their\nlives, long after he is dead; to wrest from mortality the spirit,\nthe mind, and the character with which in his day he perchance put\nperversity and corruption to flight, established uprightness, aroused\nsluggishness, and uplifted dejection, and to deposit these, as his\nbest legacy to posterity, in the spirits of his survivors, in order\nthat, in their turn, they may again bequeath them equally adorned and\naugmented? What noble-minded man does not wish, by act or thought,\nto sow a seed for the infinite and eternal perfecting of his race;\nto cast into Time something new and hitherto non-existent, which\nmay abide there and become the unfailing source of new creations;\nto repay, for his place on this earth and for the short span of\nlife vouchsafed him, something that shall last forever even here on\nearth--to the end that he as an individual, even though unnamed by\nhistory (since thirst for fame is contemptible vanity), may leave\nbehind in his own consciousness and in his own belief manifest tokens\nthat he himself existed? What noble-minded man does not wish this,\nI asked; yet the world is to be considered as organized only in\naccordance with the requirements of those who thus view themselves as\nthe norm of how all men should be. It is for their sakes alone that\nthe world exists! They are indeed its kernel; and those who think\notherwise must be regarded as merely a part of the transitory world so\nlong as they reason on so low a plane, for they exist merely for the\nsake of the noble-minded and must accommodate themselves to the latter\nuntil they have risen to their height.\n\nWhat, now, could it be that might give solid foundation to this\nchallenge and to this belief of the noble in the eternity and the\nimperishability of his work? Obviously, only an order of things which\nhe could recognize as eternal in itself and as capable of receiving\neternal elements within itself. Such an order is, however, the\nspecial, spiritual nature of human surroundings, which can, it is\ntrue, be comprised in no concept, but which is, nevertheless, truly\npresent--the surroundings from which he has himself come forth with\nall his thought and activity and with his faith in their eternity--the\nnation from which he is descended, amid which he was educated and grew\nup to what he now is. For however undoubtedly true it may be that his\nwork, if he rightly lays claim to its eternity, is in no wise the mere\nresult of the spiritual, natural law of his nation, simply merging\ninto this result--no, it must be thought of as an element greater\nthan that--a something which flows immediately from the primitive\nand divine life. Nevertheless, it is equally true that this something\nmore, immediately after its formation as a visible phenomenon, has\nsubordinated itself to that special spiritual law of nature, has\nacquired a perceptual expression only in accordance with that law.\nUnder this same natural law, so long as this nation endures, all\nfurther revelations of the divine will also appear and be formed\nwithin it. Yet, through the fact that the man existed and so labored,\nthis law itself is further determined, and his activity has become\na permanent component of it; everything subsequent will likewise be\ncompelled to adapt itself accordingly and to conform to the law in\nquestion. And thus he is made certain that the culture which he has\nachieved remains with his nation for all time and becomes a permanent\nbasis of determination for all its further development.\n\nIn the higher conception of the word considered in general from the\nviewpoint of an insight into a spiritual world, a nation is this: The\ntotality of human beings living together in society and constantly\nperpetuating themselves both bodily and spiritually; and this totality\nstands altogether under a certain specific law through which the\ndivine develops itself. The universality of this specific law is what\nbinds this multitude into a natural totality, inter-penetrated by\nitself, in the eternal world, and, for that very reason, in the\ntemporal world as well. The law itself, in its essence, can be\ngenerally comprehended as we have applied it to the case of the\nGermans as a primal nation; through consideration of the phenomena\nof such a nation it may be even more exactly grasped in many of its\nfurther determinations; yet it can never be entirely understood by any\none who, unknown to himself, personally remains continually under its\ninfluence; it may in general, however, be clearly perceived that\nsuch a law exists. This law is a surplus of the figurative\nwhich amalgamates directly with the surplus of the unfigurative\nprimitiveness in the phenomenon, and thus, precisely in the\nphenomenon, both are then no longer separable. That law absolutely\ndetermines and completes what has been called the national character\nof a people--the law, namely, of the development of the primitive and\nof the divine. From the latter it is clear that men who do not in the\nleast believe in a primitive being and in a further development of\nit, but simply in an eternal circle of visible life, and who, through\ntheir belief, become what they believe, are no nation whatsoever in\nthe higher sense; and since they do not, strictly speaking, actually\nexist, they are equally powerless to possess a national character.\n\nThe belief of the noble-minded man in the eternal continuance of his\nactivity, even upon this earth, is based, accordingly, on the hope\nfor the eternal continuance of the nation from which he has himself\ndeveloped, and of its individuality in accordance with that hidden\nlaw, without intermixture and corruption by any alien element and\nby what does not appertain to the totality of this legislation.\nThis individuality is the permanent element to which he intrusts the\neternity of himself and of his continued action--the eternal order\nof things in which he lays his perpetuity. He must desire its\ncontinuance, for it is alone the releasing agency whereby the brief\nspan of his life here is extended to a continuous life upon the earth.\nHis belief and his endeavor to plant what shall not pass away, and\nthe concept in which he comprehends his own life as an eternal life,\nconstitute the bond which most intimately associates with himself,\nfirst, his own nation and, through that, the entire human race--which\nbrings the needs of them all, to the end of time, into his broadened\nheart. This is his love for his nation, and through it, first, he\nrespects, trusts, rejoices in it, and takes pride in his descent from\nit; the Divine has appeared in it, and has deigned to make it his\ncovering and his means of direct communication with the world; the\nDivine, therefore, will continue to break forth from it. Therefore\nman is, secondly, active, efficacious, and self-sacrificing for his\nnation. Life, simply as life, as a continuance of changing existence,\nhas certainly never possessed value for him apart from this--he has\ndesired it merely as the source of the permanent. This permanence,\nhowever, alone promises him the independent continuance of the\nexistence of his nation; and to save this he must even be willing to\ndie that it may live, and that in it he may live the only life that\nhas ever been possible to him.\n\nThus it is. Love, to be really love, and not merely a transitory\ndesire, never clings to the perishable, but is awakened and kindled\nby, and based upon, the eternal only. Man is not even able to love\nhimself unless he consider himself as eternal; moreover, he cannot\neven esteem and approve himself. Still less can he love anything\noutside himself, except, that is, that he receive it within the\neternity of his belief and of his soul, and connect it with this\neternity. He who does not, first of all, regard himself as eternal,\nhas no love whatever, nor can he, moreover, love a fatherland, since\nnothing of the sort exists for him. It is true that he who, perchance,\nregards his invisible life as eternal, but who does not, therefore,\nesteem his visible life as eternal in the same sense, may perhaps\nhave a heaven, and in this his fatherland, but here on earth he has no\nfatherland; for this also is seen only under the metaphor of eternity\nand, indeed, of visible eternity, rendered perceptible to the senses;\nmoreover, he cannot, therefore, love his fatherland. If such a man has\nnone, he is to be pitied; but he to whom one has been given, and\nin whose soul heaven and earth, the invisible and the visible,\ninterpenetrate, and thus for the first time create a true and worthy\nheaven, fights to the last drop of his blood again to transmit the\nprecious possession undiminished to posterity.\n\nThus has it been from time immemorial, though it has not been\nexpressed from time immemorial with this generality and with this\nclearness. What inspired the noble spirits among the Romans, whose\nsentiments and mode of thought still live and breathe among us in\ntheir monuments, to struggle and to sacrifice, to endure and be\npatient, for their fatherland? They themselves state it frequently and\nclearly. It was their firm belief in the eternal continuance of their\nRome, and their confident expectation of themselves continuing to live\nin this eternity. In so far as this conviction had foundation, and\nin so far as they themselves would have grasped it if they had been\nperfectly clear within themselves, it never deceived them.\n\nUnto this day what was really eternal in their eternal Rome lives on\nand they with it in our midst, and it will continue to live, in its\nresults, until the end of time.\n\nIn this sense--as the vehicle and the pledge of earthly eternity,\nand the interpretation of the eternal here--nation and fatherland\nfar transcend the State in the ordinary sense of the term social\norganization, as this is conceived in its simple, clear connotation,\nand as it is founded and maintained in accordance with this\nconception--a conception which demands sure justice and internal\npeace, and requires that every one through his efforts obtain his\nsupport and the prolongation of his sentient existence so long as God\nwill grant it to him. All this is only a means, a condition, and a\nscaffolding of what patriotism really means--the development of the\neternal and the divine in the world, which is ever to become purer,\nmore perfect in infinite progression. For that very reason this\npatriotism must, first of all, rule the State itself as absolutely the\nhighest, ultimate, and independent authority, by limiting it in the\nchoice of means for its immediate purpose--inner peace. To reach this\ngoal, the natural freedom of the individual must be limited in many\nways, it is true; and if this were absolutely the only consideration\nand intention regarding them, it would be well to restrict this\nliberty as closely as possible, in order to bring all their movements\nunder one uniform rule, and to keep them under constant supervision.\nGranted that such severity be necessary, it could at least do no harm\nfor this single end; only the higher concept of the human race and of\nthe nations widens this limited view. Even in the manifestations\nof external life freedom is the soil in which the higher culture\ngerminates; a legislation which keeps this later aim in view will give\nthe broadest possible scope to freedom, even at the risk that a less\ndegree of uniform quiet and calm may result, and that government may\nbecome a little more difficult and laborious.\n\nTo elucidate this by an example--it has been known to happen that\nnations have been told to their faces that they did not require as\nmuch freedom as many other nations do. This statement might, indeed,\nbe dictated by forbearance and a desire to palliate, the true meaning\nbeing that they were utterly unable to endure so great freedom and\nthat only a high degree of rigidity could prevent them from destroying\none another. If, however, the words are taken as they are spoken,\nthey are true under the presupposition that such a nation is entirely\nincapable of the natural life and of the impulse toward it. Such a\nnation--in case such a one, in which some few of the nobler sort did\nnot make an exception to the general rule, were possible--would indeed\nrequire no freedom whatever, since this is only for the higher ends\nwhich transcend the State; it requires simply taming and training in\norder that the individuals may live peaceably side by side, and that\nthe whole may be made an efficient means for arbitrary ends which\nlie outside its proper sphere. We need not decide whether this may\ntruthfully be said of any nation whatever; but this much is clear,\nthat a primitive nation requires freedom, that this freedom is the\npledge of its persistence as a primitive people, and that, as it\ncontinues, it bears, without any danger, an ever ascending degree of\nfreedom. And this is the first example of the necessity of patriotism\ngoverning the state itself.\n\nIt must, then, be patriotism which governs the state in that it sets\nfor it itself a higher end than the ordinary one of the maintenance of\nthe internal peace, of the property, of the personal freedom, of the\nlife, and of the well-being of all. Solely for this higher end, and\nwith no other intention, the state assembles an armed force. When the\nproblem of the application of this armed force arises, when it is\na question of hazarding all the aims of the state in the\nabstract-property, personal freedom, life, welfare, and the\ncontinuance of the state itself--when, answerable to God alone, they\nare called upon to decide without a clear and rational conception of\nthe sure attainment of the end in view, which in matters of this sort\nit is never possible to gain--then only the true primitive life holds\nthe rudder of the state, and here for the first time enters the true\nsovereign right of the government, like God, to imperil the lower\nlife for the sake of the higher. In the maintenance of the traditional\norganization, of the laws, and of civic welfare, there is absolutely\nno genuine life and no primitive decision. Circumstances and\nsituations, legislators who have perhaps long been dead, have created\nthose things; succeeding ages go trustingly forward in the road they\nhave entered, and thus, as a matter of fact, they do not live a public\nlife of their own, but merely repeat a former. In such periods there\nis no need of a real government. If, however, this uniform progress\nis imperiled, and the problem arises of deciding with reference to\nnew cases, then a life is required which has its roots in itself. What\nspirit is it, now, which in such cases may take its place at the helm,\nwhich is able to decide with individual certainty and without uneasy\nwavering, and which has an indubitable right authoritatively to lay\ndemands upon every one who may be concerned, whether he will or not,\nand to compel the recalcitrant to imperil everything, even to his\nlife? Not the spirit of calm civilian love for the constitution and\nthe laws, but the burning flame of the higher patriotism which regards\nthe nation as the veil of the eternal, for which the noble joyfully\nsacrifices himself, and for which the ignoble, who exists only for\nthe sake of the noble, should also sacrifice himself! It is not that\ncivilian love for the constitution, for this is absolutely incapable\nof such action if it is founded on reason only.\n\nWhatever may be the outcome, since governance is not unrewarded, some\none will always be found to take charge of it. Let the new ruler even\nfavor slavery (and in what does slavery consist except in contempt\nand suppression of the individuality of a primitive people?), since\nadvantage may be derived from the life of slaves, from their number,\nand even from their welfare, then slavery will be endurable under him\nprovided he is a calculator to any extent. They will at least always\nfind life and support. Why, then, should they thus struggle? According\nto both of them, it is peace which transcends everything in their\nopinion, but this is disturbed only by the continuance of the\nstruggle. The slave, therefore, puts forth every effort to end it\nquickly; he will yield and submit--and why should he not? He never had\na higher purpose, and he has never expected anything more from life\nthan the continuance of his existence under endurable conditions. The\npromise of a life lasting, even here, beyond the duration of earthly\nlife--this alone is what can inspire him to death for the fatherland.\n\nThus it has always been. Wheresoever real government has existed,\nwhere serious struggles have been fought out, where victory has been\nwon against mighty resistance, it has been the promise of eternal\nlife that governed and fought and conquered. The German Protestants,\nformerly mentioned in these addresses, fought with faith in this\npromise. Did they not perhaps know that nations might also be governed\nwith the old faith and be held in legal order, and that a good\nlivelihood might be found under this faith also? Why, then, did\ntheir princes thus determine upon armed resistance, and why did their\npeoples lend themselves to it with enthusiasm? It was heaven and\neternal happiness for which they gladly shed their blood. Yet what\nearthly power could then have penetrated into the inmost sanctuary of\ntheir souls and have been able to eradicate the faith which had now\nonce sprung up within them, and on which alone they based their hope\nof salvation? It was not, therefore, their own happiness for which\nthey struggled--of that they were already assured; it was the\nhappiness of their children, of their grandchildren still unborn,\nand of all posterity. These, too, should be brought up in the same\ndoctrine which alone seemed to them to bring salvation; they, too,\nshould share in the salvation which had dawned for them. It was this\nhope alone that was threatened by the foe; for that hope, for an order\nof things which should bloom above their graves long after they were\ndead, they shed their blood thus joyfully. If we grant that they were\nnot entirely clear to themselves, that in their designation of the\nnoblest they verbally mistook what was within them, and with their\nmouths did injustice to their souls; if we willingly acknowledge that\ntheir confession of faith was not the sole and exclusive means of\nattaining heaven beyond the grave--yet, this, at least, is eternally\ntrue that more heaven on this side of the grave, a more courageous and\nmore joyous lifting of the gaze above the earth, and a freer impulse\nof spirit have come through their sacrifice into all the life of\nsucceeding ages; and the descendants of their opponents, as well as\nwe ourselves, their own descendants, enjoy the fruits of their labors\nunto this day.\n\nIn this belief our oldest common ancestors, the parent nation of\ncivilization, the Teutons whom the Romans called Germans, boldly\nopposed the advancing world-dominion of the Romans. Did they not then\nsee before their eyes the higher bloom of the Roman provinces near\nthem, the more refined enjoyments in them, and, in addition, laws,\njudgment-seats, rods, and axes in superabundance? Were not the Romans\nwilling enough to allow them to share in all these blessings? Did they\nnot experience, in the case of several of their own princes who had\nallowed themselves to be persuaded that war against such benefactors\nof humanity was rebellion, proofs of the lauded Roman clemency,\nsince Rome adorned these submissive lords with kingly titles, with\ngeneralships in their armies, and with Roman fillets, and gave\nthem, if, perchance, they had been driven out by their compatriots,\nmaintenance and a place of refuge in their colonies? Had they no\nfeeling for the advantages of Roman culture, as, for example, for the\nbetter organization of their armies, in which even an Arminius did\nnot disdain to learn the trade of war? None of all these ignorances\nor negligences is to be charged against them. Their descendents even\nadopted the culture of the Romans as soon as they could do it without\nloss of their freedom and in so far as it was possible without\nimpairment of their individuality. Why did they, then, thus struggle\nfor several generations in sanguinary war, ever renewed with the same\nvirulence? A Roman author makes their leaders ask \"whether anything\nwas then left for them except either to assert their freedom or to die\nbefore they became slaves?\" Freedom meant to them that they remained\nGermans, that they continued to decide their affairs independently,\nin conformity with their national genius, and, likewise in conformity\nwith this spirit, that they continued to go forward in their\ndevelopment and transmitted this independence to their posterity;\nslavery meant to them all the blessings which the Romans offered them,\nbecause in that case they must be something else than Germans--they\nmight be half Romans. It is self-evident, they presuppose, that every\none would rather die than become thus, and that a true German can wish\nto live only that he may be and remain forever a German and may train\nall that belong to him to be Germans also.\n\nThey have not all died; they have not seen slavery; they have\nbequeathed liberty to their children. All the modern world owes it to\ntheir stubborn resistance that it exists as it does. If the Romans had\nsucceeded in subjugating them also and, as the Roman everywhere did,\nin eradicating them as a nation, then the entire future development of\nmankind would have taken a direction that we cannot imagine would\nhave been more pleasant. We, the immediate heirs of their land, their\nlanguage, and their thought, owe it to them that we be still Germans,\nthat the stream of primitive and independent life still bear us on;\nto them we owe everything that we have since become as a nation; and,\nunless we have now perhaps come to an end, and unless the last drop\nof blood inherited from them is dried up in our veins, we shall owe\nto them all that we shall be in the future. Even the other Teutonic\nraces, among whom are our brethren, and who have now become foreigners\nto us, owe to them their existence; when they conquered eternal Rome,\nno one of all these nations yet existed; at that time the possibility\nof their future origin was simultaneously won in the struggle.\n\nThese, and all others in universal history who have been of their type\nof thought, have conquered because the eternal inspired them, and thus\nthis inspiration ever and of necessity prevails over him who is not\ninspired. It is not the might of arms nor the fitness of weapons\nthat wins victories, but the power of the soul. He who sets himself\na limited goal for his sacrifices, and who can dare no further than a\ncertain point, surrenders resistance as soon as the danger reaches a\ncrisis where he cannot yield or dodge. He who has set himself no limit\nwhatsoever, but who hazards everything, even life--the highest\nboon that can be lost on earth--never ceases to resist, and, if his\nopponent has a more limited goal, he indubitably conquers. A people\nthat is capable, though it be only in its highest representatives and\nleaders, of keeping firmly before its vision independence, the face\nfrom the spirit world, and of being inspired with love for it, as\nwere our remotest forefathers, surely conquers a people that, like the\nRoman armies, is used merely as a tool for foreign dominion and for\nthe subjugation of independent nations; for the former have everything\nto lose, the latter have merely something to gain. But even a whim can\nprevail over the mental attitude which regards war as a game of hazard\nfor temporal gain or loss, and which, even before the game starts, has\nfixed the limit of the stake. Think, for example, of a Mohammed--not\nthe real Mohammed of history, concerning whom I confess that I have\nno judgment, but the Mohammed of a distinguished French poet--who\nhad once become firmly convinced that he was one of the extraordinary\nnatures who are called to guide the obscure and common folk of earth,\nand to whom, in consequence of this first presupposition, all his\nwhims, however meagre and limited they may really be, must necessarily\nappear to be great, exalted and inspiring ideas because they are his\nown, while everything that opposes them must seem obscure, common\nfolk, enemies of their own weal, evil-minded, and hateful. Such a man,\nin order to justify this self-conceit to himself as a divine vocation,\nand entirely absorbed in this thought, must stake everything upon it,\nnor can he rest until he has trampled under foot all that will not\nthink as highly of him as he does himself, or until his own belief in\nhis divine mission is reflected from the whole contemporary world. I\nshall not say what would be his fortunes in case a spiritual vision\nthat is true and clear within itself should actually come against\nhim on the field of battle, but he certainly wins from those limited\ngamblers, for he hazards everything against those who do not so\nhazard; no spirit inspires them, but he is altogether inspired by a\nfanatical spirit--that of his mighty and powerful self-conceit.\n\nIt follows from all this that the state, as mere governance of human\nlife proceeding in its normal peaceable course, is not a primal thing\nand one existing for itself, but that it is simply the means to the\nhigher end of the eternally uniform development of the purely human in\nthis nation; that it is only the vision and the love of this eternal\ndevelopment which is continually to guide the higher outlook upon the\nadministration of the state, even in periods of calm, and which alone\ncan save the independence of the nation when this is endangered. In\nthe case of the Germans, among whom, as being a primitive people, this\nlove of country was possible and, as we firmly believe, has actually\nexisted hitherto, such patriotism could, up to our own time, count\nwith a high degree of certainty upon the safety of its most important\ninterests. As was the case only among the Greeks in antiquity, among\nthe Germans the State and the nation were actually severed from\neach other, and each was represented separately; the former in the\nindividual German kingdoms and principalities; the latter visibly in\nthe Federation of the Empire, and invisibly--valid not in consequence\nof written law but as a sequence of a law living in the hearts of all,\nand in its results striking the eyes at every turn--in a multitude\nof customs and institutions. As far as the German language extended,\nevery one who saw the light within its domain could regard himself\nas a citizen in a two-fold sense, partly of his natal city, to whose\nimmediate protection he was recommended; and partly of the entire\ncommon fatherland of the German nation. Throughout the whole extent of\nthis fatherland each man might seek for himself that culture which was\nmost akin to his spirit, or he might search for the sphere of activity\nmost suited for it; and talent did not grow into its place, like a\ntree, but he was permitted to search for that place. He who became\nestranged from his immediate surroundings through the direction taken\nby his culture, easily found welcome reception elsewhere; he found new\nfriends instead of those whom he had lost; he found time and quiet in\nwhich to explain himself more accurately and perhaps to win over and\nto reconcile the wrathful themselves, and thus to unite the whole. No\nGerman-born prince could ever bring himself to mark off the fatherland\nof his subjects within the mountains or rivers where he ruled, and to\nregard them as bound to the soil. A truth which could not be uttered\nin one place might be proclaimed in another, where, perhaps, on the\ncontrary, those truths were forbidden which were allowable in the\nformer district; and thus, despite many instances of partiality and\nnarrow-mindedness in the individual states, in Germany, taken as\na whole, was found the utmost freedom of investigation and of\ncommunication that ever a nation possessed. Higher culture was, and\nremained on every hand, the result of the reciprocity of the citizens\nof all German states, and this higher culture then gradually descended\nin this form to the greater masses, who, consequently, have always,\non the whole, continued to educate themselves. As has been said, no\nGerman with a German heart, placed at the head of a government, has\never diminished this essential pledge of the continuance of a German\nnation; and even though, in view of other primitive decisions, what\nthe higher German patriotism must desire was not invariably to\nbe effected, yet at least there was no direct opposition to its\ninterests; no effort was made to undermine that love, to eradicate it,\nand to replace it by an antagonistic love.\n\nBut if, now, the original guidance both of that higher culture and\nof the national power--which should be used only in behalf of that\nculture and to further its continuance--the employment of German\nwealth and German blood is to pass from the supremacy of the German\nspirit to that of another, what would then necessarily result?\n\nHere is the place where there is special need of applying the policy\nwhich we outlined in our first address, namely, to be unwilling to\nbe deceived in regard to our own interest, and to have the courage\nwillingly to see the truth and acknowledge it. Moreover, it is still\npermissible, so far as I know, to talk with one another in German\nabout our fatherland, or at least to sigh in German, and, I\nbelieve, we should not do well if we ourselves precipitated such an\ninterdiction and wished to lay the fetters of individual timidity on\nthe courage which, no doubt, will already have considered the risk of\nthe venture.\n\nWell then, picture to yourself the presupposed new r\u00e9gime to be as\nkind and as benevolent as you will; make it good as God; will you also\nbe able to invest it with divine understanding? Even though it may, in\nall earnestness, desire the highest happiness and welfare of all,\nwill the best welfare that it can comprehend also be the welfare of\nGermany? I accordingly hope that I shall be perfectly understood in\nreference to the main point that I have presented to you today; I hope\nthat in the course of my remarks many have thought and felt that I\nmerely express clearly in words what has always lain within their\nhearts; I hope the same will be the case with the other Germans\nwho will some day read this address. Several Germans have said\napproximately the same things before me, and that sentiment has\nlain obscurely at the basis of the opposition continually manifested\nagainst a merely mechanical establishment and estimate of the State.\nAnd now I challenge all who are acquainted with modern foreign\nliterature to prove to me what later sage, poet, or lawgiver among\nthem has ever given birth to a prophetic thought similar to this,\nwhich regarded the human race as being in continual progress, and\nwhich correlated all its temporal activity only with this progress;\nwhether any one of them, even in the period when they soared most\nboldly to political creation, demanded from the state more than\nequality, internal peace, external national fame, and, when their\ndemands reached the extreme limit, domestic happiness? If this is\ntheir highest conception, as must be deduced from all that has been\nsaid, they can attribute to us likewise no higher needs and no\nhigher demands upon life, and--always presupposing those beneficent\nsentiments toward us and an absence of all selfishness and of all\ndesire to be more than we--they believe that they have made admirable\nprovision for us when they give us all that they alone recognize as\ndesirable. On the other hand, that for which alone the nobler soul\namong us can live is then eradicated from public life, and the people,\nwho have always shown themselves receptive toward the impulses of\nhigher things, and the majority of whom, it might be hoped, could even\nbe raised to that nobility, are--in so far as it is treated as they\nwish it to be treated--abased beneath its rank, dishonored, and\nblotted out, since it coalesces with the populace of the baser sort.\n\nIf, now, those higher claims upon life, together with the sense of\ntheir divine right, still remain living and potent in any one, he,\nwith deep indignation, feels himself crushed back into those first\nages of Christianity in which it was said: \"Resist not evil: but\nwhosoever shall smite thee on thy right cheek, turn to him the other\nalso. And if any man will take away thy coat, let him have thy cloak\nalso.\" And rightly so, for as long as he still sees a cloak upon thee,\nhe seeks an opportunity to quarrel with thee in order to take this\nalso from thee; not until thou art utterly naked dost thou escape his\nattention and art unmolested by him. Even his higher feelings, which\ndo him honor, make earth a hell and an abomination to him; he wishes\nthat he had not been born; he wishes that his eyes may close to the\nlight of day, the sooner the better; unceasing sorrow lays hold upon\nhis days until the grave claims him; he can wish for those dear to him\nno better gift than a quiet and contented spirit, that with less pain\nthey may live on in expectation of an eternal life beyond the grave.\n\nThese addresses lay upon you the task of preventing, by the sole means\nwhich still remains after the others have been tried in vain, the\ndestruction of every nobler impulse that may in the future possibly\narise among us and this debasement of our entire nation. They present\nto you a true and omnipotent patriotism, which, in the conception\nof our nation as of one that is eternal, and as citizens of our own\neternity, is to be deeply and ineradicably founded in the minds of\nall, by means of education. What this education may be, and in what\nway it may be achieved, we shall see in the following addresses.\n\n[Illustration: VOLUNTEERS OF 1813 BEFORE KING FRIEDRICH WILHELM III IN\nBRESLAU _From the Painting by F.W. Scholtz_]\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n\n\n\nADDRESS FOURTEEN\n\nConclusion of the Whole\n\n\nThe addresses which I here conclude have, indeed, been directed\nprimarily to you,[4] but they had in view the entire German nation;\nand, in intention, they have gathered about them, in the space wherein\nyou visibly breathe, all that would be capable of understanding\nthem as far as the German tongue extends. Should I have succeeded in\ncasting into any bosom throbbing before my eyes some sparks which may\nglimmer on and take life, it is not in my thought that they remain\nsolitary and alone, but, traversing the whole ground in common, I\nwould gather about them similar sentiments and purposes and weld them\nso unitedly that a continuous and coherent flame of patriotic thought\nmight spread and be enkindled from this centre over the soil of the\nfatherland and to its furthest bounds. My addresses have not been\ndirected to this generation for the pastime of idle ears and eyes, but\nI desire at last to know--even as every one who is like-minded should\nknow--whether there is anything outside us that is akin to our type\nof thought. Every German who still believes that he is a member of a\nnation, who thinks of it in grand and noble fashion, who hopes in it,\nand who dares, suffers, and endures for it, should at last be torn\nfrom the uncertainty of his belief; he should clearly discern whether\nhe is right or whether he is only a fool and a fanatic; henceforth he\nshould either continue his path with sure and joyous consciousness,\nor, with healthy resolution, should renounce a fatherland here below\nand comfort himself solely with that which is in heaven. To you,\ntherefore, not as such-and-such persons in our daily and circumscribed\nlife, but as representatives of the nation, and, through your ears, to\nthe nation as a whole, these addresses appeal.\n\nCenturies have passed since you have been convened as you are\ntoday--in such numbers, in so great, so insistent, so mutual an\ninterest, so absolutely as a nation and as Germans. Never again will\nyou be so bidden. If you do not listen now and examine yourselves, if\nyou again let these addresses pass you by as an empty tickling of the\nears or as a strange prodigy, no human being will longer take account\nof you. Hear at last for once; for once at last reflect! Only do not\ngo this time from the spot without having made a firm resolve; let\nevery one who hears this voice make this resolution within himself\nand for himself, even as though he were alone and must do everything\nalone. If very many individuals think thus, there will soon be a great\nwhole uniting into a single, close-knit power. If, on the contrary,\neach one, excluding himself, relies on the rest and relinquishes the\naffair to others, then there are no others at all, for, even though\ncombined, all remain just as they were before. Make it on the\nspot--this resolution! Do not say, \"Yet a little more sleep, a\nlittle more slumber, a little folding of the hands to sleep,\" until,\nperchance, improvement shall come of itself. It will never come of\nitself. He who has once missed the opportunity of yesterday, when\nclear perception would have been easier, will not be able to make\nup his mind today, and will certainly be even less able to do so\ntomorrow. Every delay only makes us still more inert and but lulls us\nmore and more into gentle acquiescence to our wretched plight. Neither\ncould the external stimulations to reflection ever be stronger and\nmore insistent, for surely he whom these present conditions do not\narouse has lost all feeling. You have been called together to make\na last, determined resolution and decision--not by any means to give\ncommands and mandates to others, or to depute others to do the work\nfor you. No, my purpose is to urge you to do the work yourself. In\nthis connection that idle passing of resolutions, the will to will,\nsome time or other, are not sufficient, nor is it enough to remain\nsluggishly satisfied until self-improvement sets in of its own\naccord. On the contrary, from you is demanded a determination which\nis identical with action and with life itself, and which will continue\nand control, unwavering and unchilled, until it gains its goal.\n\nOr is perchance the root, from which alone can grow a tenacity of\npurpose which takes hold upon life, utterly eradicated and vanished\nwithin you? Or is your whole being actually rarefied into a hollow\nshade, devoid of sap and blood and of individual power of movement, or\ndissolved to a dream in which, indeed, a motley array of faces arise\nand busily cross one another, but the body lies stiff and dead? Long\nsince it has been openly proclaimed to our generation and repeated\nunder every guise, that this is very nearly its condition. Its\nspokesmen have believed that this was declared merely in insult, and\nhave regarded themselves as challenged to return the insults, thinking\nthat thus the affair would resume its natural course. As for the rest,\nthere was not the slightest trace of change or of improvement. If\nyou have heard this, and if it was capable of rousing your\nindignation--well then, through your very actions, give the lie to\nthose who thus think and speak of you. Once show yourselves to be\ndifferent before the eyes of all the world, and before the eyes of all\nthe world they will be convicted of their falsehood. It may be that\nthey have spoken thus harshly of you with the precise intention of\nforcing this refutation from you, and because they despaired of any\nother means of arousing you. How much better, then, would have been\ntheir intentions toward you than were the purposes of those who\nflattered you that you might be kept in sluggish calm and in careless\nthoughtlessness!\n\nHowever weak and powerless you may be, during this period clear and\ncalm reflection has been vouchsafed you as never before. What\nreally plunged us into confusion regarding our position, into\nthoughtlessness, into a blind way of letting things go, was our sweet\ncomplacency with ourselves and our mode of existence. Things had thus\ngone on hitherto, and so they continued and would continue to go. If\nany one challenged us to reflect, we triumphantly showed him, instead\nof any other refutation, our continued existence which went on without\nany thought or effort on our part; yet things flowed along simply\nbecause we were not put to the test. Since that time we have passed\nthrough the ordeal and it might be supposed that the deceptions, the\ndelusions, and the false consolations with which we all misguided one\nanother would have collapsed! The innate prejudices which, without\nproceeding from this point or from that, spread over all like a\nnatural cloud and wrapped all in the same mist, ought surely, by this\ntime, to have utterly vanished! That twilight no longer obscures our\neyes, and can therefore no longer serve for an excuse. Now we stand,\nnaked and bare, stripped of all alien coverings and draperies, simply\nas ourselves. Now it must appear what each self is, or is not.\n\nSome one among you might come forward and ask me \"What gives you in\nparticular, the only one among all German men and authors, the special\ntask, vocation, and prerogative of convening us and inveighing against\nus? Would not any one among the thousands of the writers of Germany\nhave exactly the same right to do this as you have? None of them does\nit; you alone push yourself forward.\" I answer that each one would,\nindeed, have had the same right as I, and that I do it for the very\nreason that no one among them has done it before me; that I would be\nsilent if any one else had spoken previous to me. This was the first\nstep toward the goal of a radical amelioration, and some one must take\nit. I seemed to be the first vividly to perceive this--accordingly, it\nwas I who first took it. After this, a second step will be taken, and\nthereto every one has now the same right; but, as a matter of fact,\nit, in its turn, will be taken by but one individual. One man must\nalways be the first, and let him be he who can!\n\nWithout anxiety regarding this circumstance, let your attention rest\nfor an instant on the consideration to which we have previously led\nyou--in how enviable a position Germany and the world would be if the\nformer had known how to utilize the good fortune of her position and\nto recognize her advantage. Let your eyes rest upon what they both\nare now, and let your minds be penetrated by the pain and indignation\nwhich, in this reflection, must lay hold upon every noble soul. Then\nexamine yourselves and see that it is you who can release the age from\nthe errors of ancient times, and that, if only you will permit it,\nyour own eyes can be cleared of the mist that covers them; learn, too,\nthat it has been vouchsafed to you, as to no generation before you, to\nundo what has been done and to efface the dishonorable interval from\nthe annals of the German nation.\n\nLet the various conditions among which you must choose pass before\nyou. If you drift along in your torpor and your heedlessness, all the\nevils of slavery await you--deprivations, humiliations, the scorn and\narrogance of the conqueror; you will be pushed about from pillar to\npost, because you have never found your proper niche, until, through\nthe sacrifice of your nationality and of your language, you slip into\nsome subordinate place where your nation shall sink its identity. If,\non the other hand, you rouse yourselves, you will find, first of all,\nan enduring and honorable existence, and will behold a flourishing\ngeneration which promises to you and to the Germans the most glorious\nand lasting memory. Through the instrumentality of this new generation\nyou will see in spirit the German name exalted to the most glorious\namong all nations; you will discern in this nation the regenerator and\nrestorer of the world.\n\nIt depends upon you whether you will be the last of a dishonorable\nrace, even more surely despised by posterity than it deserves, and in\nwhose history--if there can be any history in the barbarism which will\nthen begin--succeeding generations will rejoice when it perishes and\nwill praise fate that it is just; or whether you will be the beginning\nand the point of development of a new age which will be glorious\nbeyond all your expectations, and become those from whom posterity\nwill date the year of their salvation. Bethink yourselves that you\nare the last in whose power this great change lies. You have heard\nthe Germans called a unit; you have still a visible sign of their\nunity--an Empire and an Imperial League--or you have heard of it;\namong you even yet, from time to time, voices have been audible which\nwere inspired by this higher patriotism. After you become accustomed\nto other concepts and will accept alien forms and a different course\nof occupation and of life--how long will it then be before no one\nlonger lives who has seen Germans or who has heard of them?\n\nWhat is demanded of you is not much. You should only keep before you\nthe necessity of pulling yourselves together for a little time and of\nreflecting upon what lies immediately and obviously before your eyes.\nYou should merely form for yourselves a fixed opinion regarding\nthis situation, remain true to it, and utter and express it in your\nimmediate surroundings. It is the presupposition, yea, it is our firm\nconviction, that this reflection will lead to the same result in all\nof you; that, if you only seriously consider, and do not continue in\nyour previous heedlessness, you will think in harmony; and that,\nif you can bring your intelligence to bear, and if only you do not\ncontinue to vegetate, unanimity and unity of spirit will come of\nthemselves. If, however, matters once reach this point, all else that\nwe need will result automatically.\n\nThis reflection is, moreover, demanded from each one of you who can\nstill consider for himself something lying obviously before his eyes.\nYou have time for this; events will not take you unawares; the records\nof the negotiations conducted with you will remain before your eyes.\nLay them not from your hands until you are in unity with your selves.\nNeither let, oh, let not yourselves be made supine by reliance upon\nothers or upon anything whatsoever that lies outside yourselves, nor\nyet through the unintelligent belief of our time that the epochs of\nhistory are made by the agency of some unknown power without any aid\nfrom man. These addresses have never wearied in impressing upon you\nthat absolutely nothing can help you but yourselves, and they find it\nnecessary to repeat this to the last moment. Rain and dew, fruitful or\nunfruitful years, may indeed be made by a power which is unknown to us\nand is not under our control; but only men themselves--and absolutely\nno power outside them--give to each epoch its particular stamp. Only\nwhen they are all equally blind and ignorant do they fall the victims\nof this hidden power, though it is within their own control not to\nbe blind and ignorant. It is true that to whatever degree, greater\nor less, things may go ill with us, in part depends upon that unknown\npower; but far more is it dependent upon the intelligence and the good\nwill of those to whom we are subjected. Whether, on the other hand,\nit will ever again be well with us depends wholly upon ourselves;\nand surely nevermore will any welfare whatsoever come to us unless we\nourselves acquire it for ourselves--especially unless each individual\namong us toils and labors in his own way as though he were alone and\nas though the salvation of future generations depended solely upon\nhim.\n\nThis is what you have to do; and these addresses adjure you to do this\nwithout delay.\n\nThey adjure you, young men! I, who have long since ceased to belong\nto you, maintain--and I have also expressed my conviction in these\naddresses--that you are yet more capable of every thought transcending\nthe commonplace, and are more easily aroused to all that is good and\ngreat, because your time of life still lies closer to the years of\nchildish innocence and of nature. Very differently does the majority\nof the older generation regard this fundamental trait in you. It\naccuses you of arrogance, of a rash, presumptuous judgment which soars\nbeyond your strength, of obstinacy, and of desire of innovation; yet\nit merely smiles good-naturedly at these, your errors. All this, it\nthinks, is based simply on your lack of knowledge of the world, that\nis, of universal human corruption, since it has eyes for nothing else\non earth. You are now supposed to have courage only because you hope\nto find help-mates like-minded with yourselves and because you do not\nknow the grim and stubborn resistance which will be opposed to your\nprojects of improvement. When the youthful fire of your imagination\nshall once have vanished, when you shall have perceived the universal\nselfishness, idleness, and horror of work, when you yourselves shall\nonce rightly have tasted the sweetness of plodding on in the customary\nrut--then the desire to be better and wiser than all others will soon\nfade away. They do not by any chance entertain these good expectations\nof you in imagination alone; they have found them confirmed in their\nown persons. They must confess that in the days of their foolish youth\nthey dreamed of improving the world, exactly as you dream today; yet\nwith increasing maturity they have become tame and quiet as you see\nthem now. I believe them; in my own experience, which has not been\nvery protracted, I have seen that young men who at first roused\ndifferent hopes nevertheless, later, exactly fulfilled the kind\nexpectations of mature age. Do this no longer, young men, for how else\ncould a better generation ever begin? The bloom of youth will indeed\nfall from you, and the flame of imagination will cease to be nourished\nfrom itself; but feed this flame and brighten it through clear\nthought, make this way of thinking your own, and as an additional gift\nyou will gain character, the fairest adornment of man. Through this\nclear thinking you will preserve the fountain of eternal youth;\nhowever your bodies grow old or your knees become feeble, your spirit\nwill be reborn in freshness ever renewed, and your character will\nstand firm and unchangeable. Seize at once the opportunity here\noffered you; reflect clearly upon the theme presented for your\ndeliberation; and the clarity which has dawned for you in one point\nwill gradually spread over all others as well.\n\nThese addresses adjure you, old men! You are regarded as you have just\nheard, and you are told so to your faces; and for his own past the\nspeaker frankly adds that--excluding the exceptions which, it must\nbe admitted, not infrequently occur, and which are all the more\nadmirable--the world is perfectly right with regard to the great\nmajority among you. Go through the history of the last two or three\ndecades; everything except yourselves agrees--and even you yourselves\nagree, each one in the specialty that does not immediately concern\nhim--that (always excluding the exceptions, and regarding only the\nmajority) the greatest uselessness and selfishness are found in\nadvanced years in all branches, in science as well as in practical\noccupations. The whole world has witnessed that every one who desired\nthe better and the more perfect still had to wage the bitterest battle\nwith you in addition to the battle with his own uncertainty and with\nhis other surroundings; that you were firmly resolved that nothing\nmust thrive which you had not done and known in the same way; that you\nregarded every impulse of thought as an insult to your intelligence;\nand that you left no power unutilized to conquer in this battle\nagainst improvement--and in fact you generally did prevail. Thus you\nwere the impeding power against all the improvements which kindly\nnature offered us from her ever--youthful womb until you were\ngathered to the dust which you were before, and until the succeeding\ngenerations, which were at war with you, had become like unto you and\nhad adopted your attitude. Now, also, you need only conduct yourselves\nas you have previously acted in case of all propositions for\namelioration; you need only again prefer to the general weal your\nempty honor in order that there may be nothing between heaven and\nearth that you have not already fathomed; then, through this last\nbattle, you are relieved from all further battle; no improvement\nwill accrue, but deterioration will follow in the footsteps of\ndeterioration, and thus there will be much satisfaction in reserve for\nyou.\n\nNo one will suppose that I despise and depreciate old age as old\nage. If only the source of primitive life and of its continuance is\nabsorbed into life through freedom, then clarity--and strength with\nit--increases so long as life endures. Such a life is easier to live;\nthe dross of earthly origin falls away more and ever more; it is\nennobled to the life eternal and strives toward it. The experience\nof such an old age is irreconcilable with evil, and it only makes the\nmeans clearer and the skill more adroit victoriously to battle against\nwickedness. Deterioration through increasing age is simply the fault\nof our time, and it necessarily results in every place where society\nis much corrupted. It is not nature which corrupts us--she produces\nus in innocence; it is society. He who has once surrendered to the\ninfluence of society must naturally become ever worse and worse the\nlonger he is exposed to this influence. It would be worth the trouble\nto investigate the history of other extremely corrupt generations in\nthis regard, and to see whether--for example, under the rule of the\nRoman emperors--what was once bad did not continually become worse\nwith increasing age.\n\nFirst of all, therefore, these addresses adjure you, old men and\nexperienced--you who form the exception! Confirm, strengthen, counsel\nin this matter the younger generation, which reverently looks up to\nyou. And the rest of you also, who are average souls, they adjure!\nIf you are not to help, at least do not interfere, this time; do not\nagain--as always hitherto--put yourselves in the way with your wisdom\nand with your thousand hesitations. This thing, like every rational\nthing in the world, is not complicated, but simple; and it also\nbelongs among the thousand matters which you know not. If your wisdom\ncould save, it would surely have saved us before; for it is you who\nhave counseled us thus far. Now, like everything else, all this is\nforgiven you, and you should no longer be reproached with it. Only\nlearn at last once to know yourselves, and be silent.\n\nThese addresses adjure you men of affairs! With few exceptions you\nhave thus far been cordially hostile to abstract thought and to all\nlearning which desired to be something for itself, even though you\ndemeaned yourselves as if you merely haughtily despised all this.\nAs far as you possibly could, you held from you the men who did such\nthings as well as their propositions; the reproach of lunacy, or the\nadvice that they be sent to the mad-house, was the thanks from you on\nwhich they might usually count. They, in their turn, did not venture\nto express themselves regarding you with the same frankness, since\nthey were dependent upon you; but their innermost thought was this,\nthat, with a few exceptions, you were shallow babblers and inflated\nbraggarts, dilettante who have only passed through school, blind\ngropers and creepers in the old rut who had neither wish nor ability\nfor aught else. Give them the lie through your deeds, and to this end\ngrasp the opportunity now offered you; lay aside that contempt for\nprofound thought and learning; let yourselves be advised and hear and\nlearn what you do not know, or else your accusers win their case.\n\nThese addresses adjure you, thinkers, scholars, and authors who are\nstill worthy of this name! In a certain sense that reproach of the men\nof affairs was not unjust. You often proceeded too unconcerned in\nthe realm of abstract thought, without troubling yourselves about the\nactual world and without considering how the one might be connected\nwith the other; you circumscribed your own world for yourselves, and\nlet the real world lie to one side, disdained and despised. Every\nregulation and every formation of actual life must, it is true,\nproceed from the higher regulating concept, and progress in the\ncustomary rut is insufficient for it; this is an eternal truth, and,\nin God's name, it crushes with undisguised contempt every one who\nis so bold as to busy himself with affairs without knowing this. Yet\nbetween the concept and the introduction of it into any individual\nlife there is a great gulf fixed. The filling of this gulf is the\ntask both of the men of affairs--who, however, must already first have\nlearned enough to understand you--and also of yourselves, who should\nnot forget life on account of the world of thought. Here you both\nmeet. Instead of regarding each other askance and depreciating each\nother across the gulf, endeavor rather to fill it, each on his own\nside, and thus seek to construct the road to union. At last, I beg\nyou, realize that you both are as mutually necessary to each other as\nhead and arm are indispensable the one to the other.\n\nIn other respects as well, these addresses adjure you, thinkers,\nscholars, and authors who are still worthy of this name! Your laments\nover the general shallowness, thoughtlessness, and superficiality,\nover self-conceit and inexhaustible babble, over the contempt for\nseriousness and profundity in all classes, may be true, even as they\nactually are. Yet what class is it, pray, that has educated all these\nclasses, that has transformed everything pertaining to science into a\njest for them, and that has trained them from their earliest youth\nin that self-conceit and that babble? Who is it, pray, who still\ncontinues to educate the generations that have outgrown the schools?\nThe most obvious source of the torpor of the age is that it has read\nitself torpid in the writings which you have written. Why are you,\nnevertheless, so continually solicitous to amuse this idle people,\ndespite the fact that you know that they have learned nothing and wish\nto learn nothing? Why do you call them \"the Public,\" flatter them as\nyour judge, stir them up against your rivals, and seek by every means\nto win this blind and confused mob over to your side? Finally, in your\nliterary reviews and in your magazines, why do you yourselves furnish\nthem with material and example for rash judgments by yourselves\njudging as unconnectedly, as carelessly, as recklessly, and, for the\nmost part, as tastelessly as even the least of your readers could?\nIf you do not all think thus, and if among you there are still some\nanimated by better sentiments, why, then, do not these latter unite to\nput an end to the evil? As to those men of affairs, in particular they\nhave passed through your schools--you say so yourselves. Why, then,\ndid you not at least make use of this transit of theirs to inspire in\nthem some silent respect for learning, and especially to break betimes\nthe self-conceit of the young aristocrat and to show him that\nbirth and station are of no assistance in the realm of thought? If,\nperchance, even at that time you flattered him and exalted him unduly,\nnow endure that for which you yourselves are responsible.\n\nThese addresses desire to excuse you on the supposition that you had\nnot grasped the importance of your occupation; they adjure you that,\nfrom this hour, you make yourselves acquainted with this importance,\nand that you no longer ply your occupation as a mere trade. Learn to\nrespect yourselves, and by your actions show that you do so, and the\nworld will respect you. You will give the first proof of this through\nthe amount of influence which you assume in regard to the resolution\nthat is proposed, and through the manner in which you conduct\nyourselves regarding it.\n\nThese addresses adjure you, princes of Germany! Those who act toward\nyou as though no man dared say aught to you, or had aught to say, are\ndespicable flatterers, are base slanderers of you yourselves. Drive\nthem far from you! The truth is that you were born exactly as ignorant\nas all the rest of us, and that, exactly like ourselves, you must hear\nand learn if you are to escape from this natural ignorance. Your share\nin bringing about the fate which has befallen you simultaneously with\nyour peoples is here set forth in the mildest way and, as we believe,\nin the way which is alone right and just; and in case you wish to\nhear only flattery, and never the truth, you cannot complain regarding\nthese addresses. Let all this be forgotten, even as all the rest of us\nalso desire that our share in the guilt may be forgotten. Now begins\na new life as well for yourselves as for all of us. May this voice\npenetrate to you through all the surroundings which normally make you\ninaccessible! With proud self-reliance it dares to say to you: You\nrule nations, faithful, plastic, and worthy of good fortune, such as\nprinces of no time and of no nation have ruled. They have a feeling\nfor freedom and are capable of it; but, because you so willed, they\nhave followed you into sanguinary war against that which to them\nseemed freedom. Some among you have later willed otherwise, and, again\nbecause you so willed, they have followed you into that which to them\nmust seem a war of annihilation against one of the last remnants of\nGerman independence. Since that time they have endured and have borne\nthe oppressive burden of common woes; yet they do not cease to be\nfaithful to you, to cling to you with inward devotion, and to love\nyou as their divinely appointed guardians. Yet may you notice them,\nunobserved by them; set free from surroundings which do not invariably\npresent to you the fairest aspect of humanity, may you be able to\ndescend into the house of the citizen, into the peasant's cottage,\nand may you be able attentively to follow the still and hidden life of\nthese classes, in which the fidelity and the probity which have become\nmore rare in the higher classes seem to have sought refuge! Surely,\noh, surely, you will resolve to reflect more seriously than ever how\nthey may be helped! These addresses have proposed to you a means of\nassistance which they believe to be sure, thorough, and decisive. Let\nyour councillors deliberate whether they also find it so or whether\nthey know a better means, provided only that it be equally decisive.\nBut the conviction that something must be done and must be done\nimmediately, that this something must be radical and final, and\nthat the time for half-measures and procrastination is past--this\nconviction these addresses would fain produce, if they could, in\nyou personally, as they still cherish the utmost confidence in your\nintegrity.\n\nThese addresses adjure you, Germans as a whole, whatever position\nyou may take in society, that each one among you who can think, think\nfirst of all upon the theme that has been suggested, and that each one\ndo for it exactly what in his own place lies nearest to him.\n\nYour forefathers unite with these addresses and adjure you. Imagine\nthat in my voice are mingled the voices of your ancestors from dim\nantiquity, who with their bodies opposed the on-rushing dominion of\nthe world-power of Rome, who with their blood won the independence of\nthe mountains, plains, and streams which, under your governance, have\nbecome the booty of the stranger. They call to you: Represent us;\ntransmit to posterity our memory honorable and blameless as it came\nto you, and as you have boasted of it and of descent from us. Thus far\nour resistance has been held to be noble and great and wise; we seemed\nto be initiated into the secrets of the divine plan of the universe.\nIf our race terminates with you, our honor is turned to shame and our\nwisdom to folly. For if the German stock was some time to be merged\ninto that of Rome, it was better that this had been into the old Rome\nthan into a new. We faced the former and conquered it; before the\nlatter you have been scattered like the dust. Now, however, since\naffairs are as they are, you are not to conquer them with physical\nweapons; only your spirit is to rise and stand upright over against\nthem. To you has been vouchsafed the greater destiny of establishing\ngenerally the empire of the spirit and of reason, and of wholly\nannihilating rude physical power as that which dominates the world. If\nyou shall do this, then are you worthy of descent from us.\n\nIn these voices also mingle the spirits of your later ancestors, of\nthose who fell in the holy struggle for freedom of religion and of\nfaith. Save our honor, likewise, they cry to you. It was not wholly\nclear to us for what we fought. Besides the legitimate resolve not to\nallow ourselves to be dominated in matters of conscience by a foreign\npower, we were also impelled by a higher spirit who never revealed\nhimself entirely unto us. To you this spirit is revealed, if you have\nthe power to look into the spirit world, and he gazes upon you\nwith clear and lofty eyes. The motley and confused intermingling of\nsensuous and of spiritual impulses is wholly to be deposed from\nits world-dominion; and spirit alone, absolute, and stripped of all\nsensuous impulses, is to take the helm of human affairs. Our blood was\nshed that this spirit might have freedom to develop and to grow to an\nindependent existence. Upon you it depends to give to this sacrifice\nits signification and its justification by installing this spirit into\nthe world-dominion destined for him. If this is not the final goal\ntoward which all the development of our nation has thus far aimed,\nour struggles, too, become a passing, empty farce, and the freedom of\nspirit and of conscience that we won is an empty word, if henceforth\nthere is to be no longer any spirit or any conscience whatsoever.\n\nYour descendants, still unborn, adjure you. You boast of your\nforefathers, they cry to you, and proudly you connect yourselves with\na noble lineage. Take care that the chain may not be broken in you; so\ndo that we also may boast of you, and that through you, as through\na faultless link, we may connect ourselves with the same glorious\nlineage. Cause us not to be compelled to be ashamed of our descent\nfrom you as a descent that is low, barbarous, and slavish, so that\nwe must conceal our ancestry or must feign an alien name and an alien\nlineage, lest we be immediately rejected or trodden under foot without\nfurther test. On the next generation that will proceed from you, will\ndepend your fame in history: honorable, if this honorably witnesses\nfor you; but ignominious, even beyond desert, if you have no offspring\nto speak for you, and if it is left to the victor to write your\nhistory. Never yet has a victor had sufficient inclination or\nsufficient knowledge rightly to judge the conquered. The more he\nabases them, the more justified does he appear. Who can know what\nmighty deeds, what magnificent institutions, and what noble customs of\nmany a people of antiquity have been forgotten because their posterity\nwas subjugated, and because, ungainsaid, the conqueror made his report\nupon them in accordance with his interests?\n\nEven foreign lands adjure you so far as they still understand\nthemselves in the very least, and still have an eye for their true\nadvantage. Indeed, there are spirits among all peoples who still\ncannot believe that the great promises made to the human race of a\nreign of justice, of reason, and of truth can be a vain and an empty\nphantom, and who assume, therefore, that the present iron age is but\na transit to a better state. They--and all modern humanity in\nthem--count on you. A great part of this humanity is descended from\nus; the rest have received from us religion and culture. The former\nadjure us by the soil of our common fatherland, which is also their\ncradle, and which they have bequeathed free to us; the latter adjure\nus by the culture which they have acquired from us as a pledge of a\nhigher happiness--they adjure us to maintain ourselves as we have ever\nbeen, for their sake; and not to suffer this member, which is of so\nmuch importance, to be torn from the continuity of the race that is\nnewly budded, lest they may painfully miss us if they some time need\nour counsel, our example, our cooperation toward the true goal of\nearthly life.\n\nAll generations, all the wise and good who have ever breathed upon\nthis earth, all their thoughts and aspirations for something higher\nmingle in these voices and surround you and lift to you imploring\nhands. Even Providence, if we may so say, and the divine plan of the\nuniverse in the creation of a human race--a plan which, indeed, exists\nonly to be thought out by man and to be realized by man--adjures you\nto save its honor and its existence. Whether those are justified\nwho have believed that mankind must always grow better, and that\nthe conception of a certain order and dignity among them is no empty\ndream, but the prophecy and the pledge of an ultimate actuality,\nor whether those are to prevail who slumber on in their animal and\nvegetative life, and who mock every flight to higher worlds-upon these\nalternatives it is left to you to pass a final and decisive judgment.\nThe ancient world with its magnificence and with its grandeur, and\nalso with its faults, has sunk through its own unworthiness and\nthrough your fathers' prowess. If there is truth in what has been\npresented in these addresses, then, among all modern peoples, it is\nyou in whom the germ of the perfecting of humanity most decidedly\nlies, and on whom progress in the development of this humanity is\nenjoined. If you perish as a nation, all the hope of the entire human\nrace for rescue from the depths of its woe perishes together with you.\nDo not hope and console yourselves with the imaginary idea, counting\non mere repetition of events that have already happened, that once\nmore, after the fall of the old civilization, a new one, proceeding\nfrom a half-barbarous nation, will arise upon the ruins of the first.\nIn antiquity such a nation, equipped with all the requisites for\nthis destiny, was at hand, and was very well known to the nation of\nculture, and was described by them; had they been able to imagine\ntheir destruction, they themselves might have found in that\nhalf-barbarous nation the means of their restoration. To us, also, the\nentire surface of the earth is very well known, and all the peoples\nthat live upon it. Do we, then, now know any such people, like to\nthe aborigines of the New World, of whom similar expectations may be\nentertained? I believe that every one who has not merely a fanatical\nopinion and hope, but who thinks after profound investigation, will\nbe compelled to answer this question in the negative. There is,\ntherefore, no escape; if you sink, all humanity sinks with you, devoid\nof hope of restoration at any future time.\n\nThis it was, gentlemen, that at the close of these addresses I felt\ncompelled to impress upon you as representatives of the nation and,\nthrough you, upon the nation as a whole.\n\n\n\n\n_FRIEDRICH WILHELM JOSEPH VON SCHELLING_\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nON THE RELATION OF THE PLASTIC ARTS TO NATURE (1807)\n\nA Speech on the Celebration of the 12th October, 1807, as the Name-Day\nof His Majesty the King of Bavaria\n\nDelivered before the Public Assembly of the Royal Academy of Sciences\nof Munich\n\nTRANSLATED BY J. ELLIOT CABOT\n\n\nPlastic Art, according to the most ancient expression, is silent\nPoetry. The inventor of this definition no doubt meant thereby\nthat the former, like the latter, is to express spiritual\nthoughts--conceptions whose source is the soul; only not by speech,\nbut, like silent Nature, by shape, by form, by corporeal, independent\nworks.\n\nPlastic Art, therefore, evidently stands as a uniting link between the\nsoul and Nature, and can be apprehended only in the living centre of\nboth. Indeed, since Plastic Art has its relation to the soul in common\nwith every other art, and particularly with Poetry, that by which\nit is connected with Nature, and, like Nature, a productive force,\nremains as its sole peculiarity; so that to this alone can a theory\nrelate which shall be satisfactory to the understanding, and helpful\nand profitable to Art itself.\n\nWe hope, therefore, in considering Plastic Art in relation to its\ntrue prototype and original source, Nature, to be able to contribute\nsomething new to its theory--to give some additional exactness or\nclearness to the conceptions of it; but, above all, to set forth\nthe coherence of the whole structure of Art in the light of a higher\nnecessity.\n\n[Illustration: FRIEDRICH WILHELM JOSEPH VON SCHELLING Carl Begas]\n\nBut has not Science always recognized this relation? Has not indeed\nevery theory of modern times taken its departure from this very\nposition, that Art should be the imitator of Nature? Such has indeed\nbeen the case. But what should this broad general proposition\nprofit the artist, when the notion of Nature is of such various\ninterpretation, and when there are almost as many differing views of\nit as there are various modes of life? Thus, to one, Nature is\nnothing more than the lifeless aggregate of an indeterminable crowd\nof objects, or the space in which, as in a vessel, he imagines things\nplaced; to another, only the soil from which he draws his nourishment\nand support; to the inspired seeker alone, the holy, ever-creative\noriginal energy of the world, which generates and busily evolves all\nthings out of itself.\n\nThe proposition would indeed have a high significance, if it taught\nArt to emulate this creative force; but the sense in which it was\nmeant can scarcely be doubtful to one acquainted with the universal\ncondition of Science at the time when it was first brought forward.\nSingular enough that the very persons who denied all life to Nature\nshould set it up for imitation in Art! To them might be applied the\nwords of a profound writer:[5] \"Your lying philosophy has put Nature\nout of the way; and why do you call upon us to imitate her? Is it that\nyou may renew the pleasure by perpetrating the same violence on the\ndisciples of Nature?\"\n\nNature was to them not merely a dumb, but an altogether lifeless\nimage, in whose inmost being even no living word dwelt; a hollow\nscaffolding of forms, of which as hollow an image was to be\ntransferred to the canvas, or hewn out of stone.\n\nThis was the proper doctrine of those more ancient and savage nations,\nwho, as they saw in Nature nothing divine, fetched idols out of her;\nwhilst, to the susceptive Greeks, who everywhere felt the presence of\na vitally efficient principle, genuine gods arose out of Nature.\n\nBut is, then, the disciple of Nature to copy everything in Nature\nwithout distinction?--and, of everything, every part? Only beautiful\nobjects should be represented; and, even in these, only the Beautiful\nand Perfect.\n\nThus is the proposition further determined, but, at the same time,\nthis asserted, that, in Nature, the perfect is mingled with the\nimperfect, the beautiful with the unbeautiful. Now, how should he who\nstands in no other relation to Nature than that of servile imitation,\ndistinguish the one from the other? It is the way of imitators to\nappropriate the faults of their model sooner and easier than its\nexcellences, since the former offer handles and tokens more easily\ngrasped; and thus we see that imitators of Nature in this sense have\nimitated oftener, and even more affectionately, the ugly than the\nbeautiful.\n\nIf we regard in things, not their principle, but the empty abstract\nform, neither will they say anything to our soul; our own heart, our\nown spirit we must put to it, that they answer us.\n\nBut what is the perfection of a thing? Nothing else than the creative\nlife in it, its power to exist. Never, therefore, will he, who fancies\nthat Nature is altogether dead, be successful in that profound process\n(analogous to the chemical) whence proceeds, purified as by fire, the\npure gold of Beauty and Truth.\n\nNor was there any change in the main view of the relation of Art to\nNature, even when the unsatisfactoriness of the principle began to\nbe more generally felt; no change, even by the new views and new\nknowledge so nobly established by John Winckelmann. He indeed restored\nto the soul its full efficiency in Art, and raised it from its\nunworthy dependence into the realm of spiritual freedom. Powerfully\nmoved by the beauty of form in the works of antiquity, he taught that\nthe production of ideal Nature, of Nature elevated above the Actual,\ntogether with the expression of spiritual conceptions, is the highest\naim of Art.\n\nBut if we examine in what sense this surpassing of the Actual by Art\nhas been understood by the most, it turns out that, with this view\nalso, the notion of Nature as mere product, of things as a lifeless\nresult, still continued; and the idea of a living creative Nature\nwas in no wise awakened by it. Thus these ideal forms also could be\nanimated by no positive insight into their nature; and if the forms\nof the Actual were dead for the dead beholder, these were not less so.\nWere no independent production of the Actual possible, neither would\nthere be of the Ideal. The object of the imitation was changed;\nthe imitation remained. In the place of Nature were substituted the\nsublime works of Antiquity, whose outward forms the pupils busied\nthemselves in imitating, but without the spirit that fills them. These\nforms, however, are as unapproachable, nay, more so, than the works of\nNature, and leave us yet colder if we bring not to them the spiritual\neye to penetrate through the veil and feel the stirring energy within.\n\nOn the other hand, artists, since that time, have indeed received a\ncertain ideal impetus, and notions of a beauty superior to matter;\nbut these notions were like fair words, to which the deeds do not\ncorrespond. While the previous method in Art produced bodies without\nsoul, this view taught only the secret of the soul, but not that of\nthe body. The theory had, as usual, passed with one hasty stride to\nthe opposite extreme; but the vital mean it had not yet found.\n\nWho can say that Winckelmann had not penetrated into the highest\nbeauty? But with him it appeared in its dissevered elements only: on\nthe one side as beauty in idea, and flowing out from the soul; on the\nother, as beauty of forms.\n\nBut what is the efficient link that connects the two? Or by what power\nis the soul created together with the body, at once and as if with one\nbreath? If this lies not within the power of Art, as of Nature,\nthen it can create nothing whatever. This vital connecting link,\nWinckelmann did not determine; he did not teach how, from the idea,\nforms can be produced. Thus Art went over to that method which we\nwould call the retrograde, since it strives from the form to come\nat the essence. But not thus is the Unlimited reached; it is not\nattainable by mere enhancement of the Limited. Hence, such works as\nhave had their beginning in form, with all elaborateness on that side,\nshow, in token of their origin, an incurable want at the very point\nwhere we expect the consummate, the essential, the final. The miracle\nby which the Limited should be raised to the Unlimited, the human\nbecome divine, is wanting; the magic circle is drawn, but the spirit\nthat it should inclose, appears not, being disobedient to the call of\nhim who thought a creation possible through mere form.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nNature meets us everywhere, at first with reserve, and in form more or\nless severe. She is like that quiet and serious beauty, that excites\nnot attention by noisy advertisement, nor attracts the vulgar gaze.\n\nHow can we, as it were, spiritually melt this apparently rigid form,\nso that the pure energy of things may flow together with the force of\nour spirit and both become one united mold? We must transcend Form,\nin order to gain it again as intelligible, living, and truly felt.\nConsider the most beautiful forms; what remains behind after you have\nabstracted from them the creative principle within? Nothing but mere\nunessential qualities, such as extension and the relations of space.\nDoes the fact that one portion of matter exists near another, and\ndistinct from it, contribute anything to its inner essence? or does\nit not rather contribute nothing? Evidently the latter. It is not mere\ncontiguous existence, but the manner of it, that makes form; and this\ncan be determined only by a positive force, which is even opposed to\nseparateness, and subordinates the manifoldness of the parts to the\nunity of one idea--from the force that works in the crystal to the\nforce which, comparable to a gentle magnetic current, gives to the\nparticles of matter in the human form that position and arrangement\namong themselves, through which the idea, the essential unity and\nbeauty, can become visible.\n\nNot only, however, as active principle, but as spirit and effective\nscience, must the essence appear to us in the form, in order that we\nmay truly apprehend it. For all unity must be spiritual in nature and\norigin; and what is the aim of all investigation of Nature but to find\nscience therein? For that wherein there is no Understanding cannot\nbe the object of Understanding; the Unknowing cannot be known. The\nscience by which Nature works is not, however, like human science,\nconnected with reflection upon itself; in it, the conception is not\nseparate from the act, nor the design from the execution. Therefore,\nrude matter strives, as it were, blindly, after regular shape,\nand unknowingly assumes pure stereometric forms, which belong,\nnevertheless, to the realm of ideas, and are something spiritual in\nthe material.\n\nThe sublimest arithmetic and geometry are innate in the stars, and\nunconsciously displayed by them in their motions. More distinctly, but\nstill beyond their grasp, the living cognition appears in animals;\nand thus we see them, though wandering about without reflection, bring\nabout innumerable results far more excellent than themselves: the bird\nthat, intoxicated with music, transcends itself in soul-like tones;\nthe little artistic creature, that, without practise or instruction,\naccomplishes light works of architecture; but all directed by an\noverpowering spirit, that lightens in them already with single flashes\nof knowledge, but as yet appears nowhere as the full sun, as in Man.\n\nThis formative science in Nature and Art is the link that connects\nidea and form, body and soul. Before everything stands an eternal\nidea, formed in the Infinite Understanding; but by what means does\nthis idea pass into actuality and embodiment? Only through the\ncreative science that is as necessarily connected with the Infinite\nUnderstanding, as in the artist the principle that seizes the idea\nof unsensuous Beauty is linked with that which sets it forth to the\nsenses.\n\nIf that artist be called happy and praiseworthy before all to whom\nthe gods have granted this creative spirit, then that work of art will\nappear excellent which shows to us, as in outline, this unadulterated\nenergy of creation and activity of Nature.\n\nIt was long ago perceived that, in Art, not everything is performed\nwith consciousness; that, with the conscious activity, an unconscious\naction must combine; and that it is of the perfect unity and mutual\ninterpenetration of the two that the highest in Art is born.\n\nWorks that want this seal of unconscious science are recognized by\nthe evident absence of life self-supported and independent of the\nproducer; as, on the contrary, where this acts, Art imparts to its\nwork, together with the utmost clearness to the understanding, that\nunfathomable reality wherein it resembles a work of Nature.\n\nIt has often been attempted to make clear the position of the artist\nin regard to Nature, by saying that Art, in order to be such, must\nfirst withdraw itself from Nature, and return to it only in the final\nperfection. The true sense of this saying, it seems to us, can be no\nother than this--that in all things in Nature, the living idea shows\nitself only blindly active; were it so also in the artist, he would be\nin nothing distinct from Nature. But, should he attempt consciously to\nsubordinate himself altogether to the Actual, and render with servile\nfidelity the already existing, he would produce _larvae_, but no works\nof Art. He must therefore withdraw himself from the product, from the\ncreature, but only in order to raise himself to the creative energy,\nspiritually seizing the same. Thus he ascends into the realm of\npure ideas; he forsakes the creature, to regain it with thousandfold\ninterest, and in this sense certainly to return to Nature. This spirit\nof Nature working at the core of things, and speaking through form\nand shape as by symbols only, the artist must certainly follow with\nemulation; and only so far as he seizes this with genial imitation\nhas he himself produced anything genuine. For works produced by\naggregation, even of forms beautiful in themselves, would still be\ndestitute of all beauty, since that, through which the work on the\nwhole is truly beautiful, cannot be mere form. It is above form--it\nis Essence, the Universal, the look and expression of the indwelling\nspirit of Nature.\n\nNow it can scarcely be doubtful what is to be thought of the so-called\nidealizing of Nature in Art, so universally demanded. This demand\nseems to arise from a way of thinking, according to which not Truth,\nBeauty, Goodness, but the contrary of all these, is the Actual. Were\nthe Actual indeed opposed to Truth and Beauty, it would be necessary\nfor the artist, not to elevate or idealize it, but to get rid of and\ndestroy it, in order to create something true and beautiful. But how\nshould it be possible for anything to be actual except the True; and\nwhat is Beauty, if not full, complete Being?\n\nWhat higher aim, therefore, could Art have, than to represent that\nwhich in Nature actually _is_? Or how should it undertake to excel\nso-called actual Nature, since it must always fall short of it?\n\nFor does Art impart to its works actual, sensuous life? This statue\nbreathes not, is stirred by no pulsation, warmed by no blood.\n\nBut both the pretended excelling and the apparent falling short show\nthemselves as the consequences of one and the same principle, as soon\nas we place the aim of Art in the exhibiting of that which truly is.\n\nOnly on the surface have its works the appearance of life; in Nature,\nlife seems to reach deeper, and to be wedded entirely with matter.\nBut does not the continual mutation of matter and the universal lot\nof final dissolution teach us the unessential character of this union,\nand that it is no intimate fusion? Art, accordingly, in the merely\nsuperficial animation of its works, but represents Nothingness as\nnon-existing.\n\nHow comes it that, to every tolerably cultivated taste, imitations of\nthe so-called Actual, even though carried to deception, appear in the\nlast degree untrue--nay, produce the impression of spectres; whilst a\nwork in which the idea is predominant strikes us with the full force\nof truth, conveying us then only to the genuinely actual world? Whence\ncomes it, if not from the more or less obscure feeling which tells us\nthat the idea alone is the living principle in things, but all else\nunessential and vain shadow?\n\nOn the same ground may be explained all the opposite cases which\nare brought up as instances of the surpassing of Nature by Art. In\narresting the rapid course of human years; in uniting the energy of\ndeveloped manhood with the soft charm of early youth; or exhibiting\na mother of grown-up sons and daughters in the full possession of\nvigorous beauty--what does Art except to annul what is unessential,\nTime?\n\nIf, according to the remark of a discerning critic, every growth in\nNature has but an instant of truly complete beauty, we may also say\nthat it has, too, only an instant of full existence. In this instant\nit is what it is in all eternity; besides this, it has only a coming\ninto and a passing out of existence. Art, in representing the thing\nat that instant, removes it out of Time, and sets it forth in its pure\nBeing, in the eternity of its life.\n\nAfter everything positive and essential had once been abstracted from\nForm, it necessarily appeared restrictive, and, as it were, hostile,\nto the Essence; and the same theory that had reproduced the false and\npowerless Ideal, necessarily tended to the formless in Art. Form would\nindeed be a limitation of the Essence if it existed independent of it.\nBut if it exists with and by means of the Essence, how could this feel\nitself limited by that which it has itself created? Violence\nwould indeed be done it by a form forced upon it, but never by\none proceeding from itself. In this, on the contrary, it must rest\ncontented, and feel its own existence to be perfect and complete.\n\nDeterminateness of form is in Nature never a negation, but ever\nan affirmation. Commonly, indeed, the shape of a body seems a\nconfinement; but could we behold the creative energy it would reveal\nitself as the measure that this energy imposes upon itself, and in\nwhich it shows itself a truly intelligent force; for in everything\nis the power of self-rule allowed to be an excellence, and one of the\nhighest.\n\nIn like manner most persons consider the particular in a negative\nmanner--i.e., as that which is not the whole or all. Yet no\nparticular exists by means of its limitation, but through the\nindwelling force with which it maintains itself as a particular Whole,\nin distinction from the Universe.\n\nThis force of particularity, and thus also of individuality,\nshowing itself as vital character, the negative conception of it\nis necessarily followed by an unsatisfying and false view of the\ncharacteristic in Art. Lifeless and of intolerable hardness would be\nthe Art that should aim to exhibit the empty shell or limitation of\nthe Individual. Certainly we desire to see not merely the individual,\nbut, more than this, its vital Idea. But if the artist has seized the\ninward creative spirit and essence of the Idea, and sets this forth,\nhe makes the individual a world in itself, a class, an eternal\nprototype; and he who has grasped the essential character needs not\nto fear hardness and severity, for these are the conditions of life.\nNature, that in her completeness appears as the utmost benignity,\nwe see, in each particular, aiming even primarily and principally at\nseverity, seclusion and reserve. As the whole creation is the work\nof the utmost externization and renunciation [Ent\u00e4usserung], so\nthe artist must first deny himself and descend into the Particular,\nwithout shunning isolation, nor the pain, the anguish of Form.\n\nNature, from her first works, is throughout characteristic; the energy\nof fire, the splendor of light, she shuts up in hard stone, the tender\nsoul of melody in severe metal; even on the threshold of Life, and\nalready meditating organic shape, she sinks back overpowered by the\nmight of Form, into petrifaction.\n\nThe life of the plant consists in still receptivity, but in what\nexact and severe outline is this passive life inclosed! In the animal\nkingdom the strife between Life and Form seems first properly to\nbegin; her first works Nature hides in hard shells, and, where these\nare laid aside, the animated world attaches itself again through its\nconstructive impulse to the realm of crystallization. Finally\nshe comes forward more boldly and freely, and vital, important\ncharacteristics show themselves, being the same through whole classes.\nArt, however, cannot begin so far down as Nature. Though Beauty is\nspread everywhere, yet there are various grades in the appearance\nand unfolding of the Essence, and thus of Beauty. But Art demands a\ncertain fulness, and desires not to strike a single note or tone, nor\neven a detached accord, but at once the full symphony of Beauty.\n\nArt, therefore, prefers to grasp immediately at the highest and most\ndeveloped, the human form. For since it is not given it to embrace\nthe immeasurable whole, and as in all other creatures only single\nfulgurations, in Man alone full entire Being appears without\nabatement, Art is not only permitted but required to see the sum of\nNature in Man alone. But precisely on this account--that she here\nassembles all in one point--Nature repeats her whole multiformity, and\npursues again in a narrower compass the same course that she had gone\nthrough in her wide circuit.\n\nHere, therefore, arises the demand upon the artist first to be true\nand faithful in detail, in order to come forth complete and beautiful\nin the whole. Here he must wrestle with the creative spirit of Nature\n(which in the human world also deals out character and stamp in\nendless variety), not in weak and effeminate, but stout and courageous\nconflict.\n\nPersevering exercise in the study of that by virtue of which the\ncharacteristic in things is a positive principle, must preserve him\nfrom emptiness, weakness, inward inanity, before he can venture to\naim, by ever higher combination and final melting together of manifold\nforms, to reach the extremest beauty in works uniting the highest\nsimplicity with infinite meaning.\n\nOnly through the perfection of form can Form be made to disappear; and\nthis is certainly the final aim of Art in the Characteristic. But as\nthe apparent harmony that is even more easily reached by the empty and\nfrivolous than by others, is yet inwardly vain; so in Art the quickly\nattained harmony of the exterior, without inward fulness. And if it is\nthe part of theory and instruction to oppose the spiritless copying\nof beautiful forms, especially must they oppose the tendency toward\nan effeminate characterless Art, which gives itself, indeed, higher\nnames, but therewith only seeks to hide its incapacity to fulfil the\nfundamental conditions.\n\nThat lofty Beauty in which the fulness of form causes Form itself to\ndisappear, was adopted by the modern theory of Art, after Winckelmann,\nnot only as the highest, but as the only standard. But as the deep\nfoundation upon which it rests was overlooked, it resulted that a\nnegative conception was formed even of that which is the sum of all\naffirmation.\n\nWinckelmann compares Beauty with water drawn from the bosom of the\nspring, which, the less taste it has, the wholesomer it is esteemed.\nIt is true that the highest Beauty is characterless, but so we say\nof the Universe that it has no determinate dimension, neither length,\nbreadth nor depth, since it has all in equal infinity; or that the Art\nof creative Nature is formless, because she herself is subjected to no\nform.\n\nIn this and in no other sense can we say that Grecian art in its\nhighest development rises into the characterless; but it did not aim\nimmediately at this. It was from the bonds of Nature that it struggled\nupward to divine freedom. From no lightly scattered seed, but only\nfrom a deeply infolded kernel, could this heroic growth spring up.\nOnly mighty emotions, only a deep stirring of the fancy through the\nimpression of all-enlivening, all-commanding energies of Nature,\ncould stamp upon Art that invincible vigor with which from the rigid,\nsecluded earnestness of earlier productions up to the period of works\noverflowing with sensuous grace, it ever remained faithful to truth,\nand produced the highest spiritual Reality which it is given to\nmortals to behold.\n\nIn like manner, as their Tragedy commences with the grandest\ncharacteristicness in morals, so the beginning of their Plastic Art\nwas the earnestness of Nature, and the stern goddess of Athens its\nfirst and only Muse.\n\nThis epoch is marked by that style which Winckelmann describes as the\nstill harsh and severe, from which the next or lofty style was able to\ndevelop itself by the mere enhancement of the Characteristic into the\nSublime and the Simple.\n\nFor in the statues of the most perfect or divine natures not only\nall the complexity of form of which human nature is capable had to\nbe united, but moreover the union must be such as may be conceived to\nexist in the system of the Universe itself--the lower forms, or those\nrelating to inferior attributes, being comprehended under higher, and\nall at last under one supreme form, in which they indeed extinguish\none another as separately existing, but still continue in Essence and\nefficiency.\n\nThus, though we cannot call this high and self-sufficing Beauty\ncharacteristic, so far as herewith is connected the notion of\nlimitation or conditionality in the manifestation, yet still the\ncharacteristic continues efficient, though indistinguishable, within;\nas in the crystal, although transparent, the texture nevertheless\nremains; each characteristic element has its weight, however slight,\nand helps to bring about the sublime equipoise of Beauty.\n\nThe outer side or basis of all Beauty is beauty of form. But as\nForm cannot exist without Essence, wherever Form is, there also is\nCharacter, whether in visible presence or only perceptible in its\neffects. Characteristic Beauty, therefore, is Beauty in the root,\nfrom which alone Beauty can arise as the fruit. Essence may, indeed,\noutgrow Form, but even then the Characteristic remains as the still\nefficient groundwork of the Beautiful.\n\nThat most excellent critic,[6] to whom the gods have given sway over\nNature as well as Art, compares the Characteristic in its relation to\nBeauty, with the skeleton in its relation to the living form. Were we\nto interpret this striking simile in our sense, we should say that\nthe skeleton, in Nature, is not, as in our thought, detached from the\nliving whole; that the firm and the yielding, the determining and\nthe determined, mutually presuppose each other, and can exist only\ntogether; thus that the vitally Characteristic is already the whole\nform, the result of the action and reaction of bone and flesh, of\nActive and Passive. And although Art, like Nature, in its higher\ndevelopments, thrusts inward the previously visible skeleton, yet the\nlatter can never be opposed to Shape and Beauty, since it has always\na determining share in the production of the one as well as of the\nother.\n\nBut whether that high and independent Beauty should be the only\nstandard in Art, as it is the highest, seems to depend on the degree\nof fulness and extent that belongs to the particular Art.\n\nNature, in her wide circumference, ever exhibits the higher with the\nlower; creating in Man the godlike, she elaborates in all her other\nproductions only its material and foundation, which must exist in\norder that in contrast with it the Essence as such may appear. And\neven in the higher world of Man the great mass serves again as the\nbasis upon which the godlike that is preserved pure in the few,\nmanifests itself in legislation, government, and the establishment of\nReligion. So that wherever Art works with more of the complexity of\nNature, it may and must display, together with the highest measure of\nBeauty, also its groundwork and raw material, as it were, in distinct\nappropriate forms.\n\nHere first prominently unfolds itself the difference in Nature of the\nforms of Art.\n\nPlastic Art, in the more exact sense of the term, disdains to give\nSpace outwardly to the object, but bears it within itself. This,\nhowever, narrows its field; it is compelled, indeed, to display the\nbeauty of the Universe almost in a single point. It must therefore aim\nimmediately at the highest, and can attain complexity only separately\nand in the strictest exclusion of all conflicting elements. By\nisolating the purely animal in human nature it succeeds in forming\ninferior creations too, harmonious and even beautiful, as we are\ntaught by the beauty of numerous Fauns preserved from antiquity; yea,\nit can, parodying itself like the merry spirit of Nature, reverse\nits own Ideal, and, for instance, in the extravagance of the Silenic\nfigures, by light and sportive treatment appear freed again from the\npressure of matter.\n\nBut in all cases it is compelled strictly to isolate the work, in\norder to make it self-consistent and a world in itself; since for\nthis form of Art there is no higher unity, in which the dissonance of\nparticulars should be melted into harmony.\n\nPainting, on the contrary, in the very extent of its sphere, can\nbetter measure itself with the Universe, and create with epic\nprofusion. In an Iliad there is room even for a Thersites; and what\ndoes not find a place in the great epic of Nature and History!\n\nHere the Particular scarcely counts anything by itself; the Universe\ntakes its place, and that, which by itself would not be beautiful,\nbecomes so in the harmony of the whole. If in an extensive painting,\nuniting forms by the allotted space, by light, by shade, by\nreflection, the highest measure of Beauty were everywhere employed,\nthe result would be the most unnatural monotony; for, as Winckelmann\nsays, the highest idea of Beauty is everywhere one and the same, and\nscarcely admits of variation. The detail would be preferred to\nthe whole, where, as in every case in which the whole is formed by\nmultiplicity, the detail must be subordinate to it.\n\n[Illustration: THE JUNGFRAU _From the Painting by Moritz von Schwind_]\n\nIn such a work, therefore, a gradation of Beauty must be observed, by\nwhich alone the full Beauty concentrated in the focus becomes visible;\nand from an exaggeration of particulars proceeds an equipoise of the\nwhole. Here, then, the limited and characteristic finds its place; and\ntheory at least should direct the painter, not so much to the narrow\nspace in which the entire Beauty is concentrically collected, as to\nthe characteristic complexity of Nature, through which alone he can\nimpart to an extensive work the full measure of living significance.\n\nThus thought, among the founders of modern art, the noble Leonardo;\nthus Raphael, the master of high Beauty, who shunned not to exhibit\nit in smaller measure, rather than to appear monotonous, lifeless, and\nunreal--though he understood not only how to produce it, but also how\nto break up uniformity by variety of expression.\n\nFor, although Character can show itself also in rest and equilibrium\nof form, it is only in action that it becomes truly alive.\n\nBy character we understand a unity of several forces, operating\nconstantly to produce among them a certain equipoise and determinate\nproportion, to which, if undisturbed, a like equipoise in the symmetry\nof the forms corresponds. But if this vital Unity is to display itself\nin act and operation, this can only be when the forces, excited by\nsome cause to rebellion, forsake their equilibrium. Every one sees\nthat this is the case in the Passions.\n\nHere we are met by the well-known maxim of the theorists, which\ndemands that Passion should be moderated as far as possible, in its\nactual outburst, that beauty of Form may not be injured. But we think\nthis maxim should rather be reversed, and read thus--that Passion\nshould be moderated by Beauty itself. For it is much to be feared that\nthis desired moderation too may be taken in a negative sense--whereas,\nwhat is really requisite is to oppose to Passion a positive force. For\nas Virtue consists, not in the absence of passions, but in the mastery\nof the spirit over them, so Beauty is preserved, not by their removal\nor abatement, but by the mastery of Beauty over them.\n\nThe forces of Passion must actually show themselves--it must be seen\nthat they are prepared to rise in mutiny, but are kept down by the\npower of Character, and break against the forms of firmly-founded\nBeauty, as the waves of a stream that just fills, but cannot overflow\nits banks. Otherwise, this striving after moderation would resemble\nonly the method of those shallow moralists, who, the more readily\nto dispose of Man, prefer to mutilate his nature; and who have so\nentirely removed every positive element from actions that the\npeople gloat over the spectacle of great crimes, in order to refresh\nthemselves at last with the view of something positive.\n\nIn Nature and Art the Essence strives first after actualization,\nor exhibition of itself in the Particular. Thus in each the utmost\nseverity is manifested at the commencement; for without bound, the\nboundless could not appear; without severity, gentleness could not\nexist; and if unity is to be perceptible, it can only be through\nparticularity, detachment, and opposition. In the beginning,\ntherefore, the creative spirit shows itself entirely lost in the Form,\ninaccessibly shut up, and even in its grandeur still harsh. But the\nmore it succeeds in uniting its entire fulness in one product, the\nmore it gradually relaxes from its severity; and where it has fully\ndeveloped the form, so as to rest contented and self-collected in it,\nit seems to become cheerful and begins to move in gentle lines. This\nis the period of its fairest maturity and blossom, in which the pure\nvessel has arrived at perfection; the spirit of Nature becomes free\nfrom its bonds, and feels its relationship to the soul. By a gentle\nmorning blush stealing over the whole form, the coming soul announces\nitself; it is not yet present, but everything prepares for its\nreception by the delicate play of gentle movements; the rigid outlines\nmelt and temper themselves into flexibility; a lovely essence, neither\nsensuous nor spiritual, but which cannot be grasped, diffuses itself\nover the form, and intwines itself with every outline, every vibration\nof the frame.\n\nThis essence, not to be seized, as we have already remarked, but yet\nperceptible to all, is what the language of the Greeks designated by\nthe name _Charis_, ours as Grace.\n\nWherever, in a fully developed form, Grace appears, the work is\ncomplete on the side of Nature; nothing more is wanting; all demands\nare satisfied. Here, already, soul and body are in complete harmony;\nBody is Form, Grace is Soul, although not Soul in itself, but the Soul\nof Form, or the Soul of Nature.\n\nArt may linger, and remain stationary at this point; for already,\non one side at least, its whole task is finished. The pure image of\nBeauty arrested at this point is the Goddess of Love.\n\nBut the beauty of the Soul in itself, joined to sensuous Grace, is the\nhighest apotheosis of Nature.\n\nThe spirit of Nature is only in appearance opposed to the Soul;\nessentially, it is the instrument of its revelation; it brings about\nindeed the antagonism that exists in all things, but only that the\none essence may come forth, as the utmost benignity, and the\nreconciliation of all the forces.\n\nAll other creatures are driven by the mere force of Nature, and\nthrough it maintain their individuality; in Man alone, as the central\npoint, arises the soul, without which the world would be like the\nnatural universe without the sun. The Soul in Man, therefore, is not\nthe principle of individuality, but that whereby he raises himself\nabove all egoism, whereby he becomes capable of self-sacrifice, of\ndisinterested love, and (which is the highest) of the contemplation\nand knowledge of the Essence of things, and thus of Art.\n\nIn him it is no longer concerned about Matter nor has it immediate\nconcern with it, but with the spirit only as the life of things.\nEven while appearing in the body, it is yet free from the body, the\nconsciousness of which hovers in the soul in the most beauteous shapes\nonly as a light, undisturbing dream. It is no quality, no faculty, nor\nanything special of the sort; it knows not, but is Science; it is\nnot good, but Goodness; it is not beautiful, as body even may be, but\nBeauty itself.\n\nIn the first instance, it is true, in a work of art, the soul of the\nartist is seen as invention in the detail, and in the total result as\nthe unity that hovers over the work in serene stillness. But the Soul\nmust be visible in objective representation, as the primeval energy\nof thought, in portraitures of human beings, altogether filled by an\nidea, by a noble contemplation; or as indwelling, essential Goodness.\n\nEach of these finds its distinct expression even in the completest\nrepose, but a more living one where the Soul can reveal itself in\nactivity and antagonism; and since it is by the passions mainly that\nthe peace of life is interrupted, it is the generally received opinion\nthat the beauty of the Soul shows itself especially in its quiet\nsupremacy amid the storm of the passions.\n\nBut here an important distinction is to be made. For the Soul must not\nbe called upon to moderate those passions which are only an outbreak\nof the lower spirits of Nature, nor can it be displayed in antithesis\nwith these; for where calm considerateness is still in contention\nwith them, the Soul has not yet appeared; they must be moderated by\nunassisted Nature in Man, by the might of the Spirit. But there are\ncases of a higher sort, in which not a single force alone, but the\nintelligent Spirit itself breaks down all barriers--cases, indeed,\nwhere even the Soul is subjected by the bond that connects it with\nsensuous existence, to pain, which should be foreign to its divine\nnature; where Man feels himself hard fought and attacked in the root\nof his existence, not by mere powers of Nature, but by moral forces;\nwhere innocent error hurries him into crime, and thus into misery;\nwhere deep-felt injustice excites to rebellion the holiest feelings of\nhumanity.\n\nThis is the case in all situations, truly, and, in a high sense,\ntragic, such as the Tragedy of the ancients brings before our eyes.\nWhere blindly passionate forces are aroused, the collected Spirit is\npresent as the guardian of Beauty; but if the Spirit itself be carried\naway, as by an irresistible might, what power shall watch over\nand protect sacred beauty? Or, if even the soul participate in the\nstruggle, how shall it save itself from pain and from desecration?\n\nArbitrarily to restrain the power of pain, of feeling in revolt, would\nbe to sin against the very meaning and aim of Art, and would betray a\nwant of feeling and soul in the artist himself.\n\nAlready therein, that Beauty, based on grand and firmly established\nforms, has become Character, Art has provided the means of displaying\nwithout injury to symmetry the whole intensity of Feeling. For where\nBeauty rests on mighty forms, as upon immovable pillars, even a slight\nchange in its relations, scarcely touching the form, causes us to\ninfer the great force that was necessary in order to provide it. Still\nmore does Grace sanctify pain. It is the essential nature of Grace\nthat it does not know itself; but not being wilfully acquired, it also\ncannot be wilfully lost. When intolerable anguish, when even madness,\nsent by avenging gods, takes away consciousness and reason, Grace\nstands as a protecting demon by the suffering person, and prevents it\nfrom manifesting anything unseemly, anything discordant to Humanity,\nbut sees to it that, if the person falls, it falls at least a pure and\nunspotted victim.\n\nAlthough not yet the Soul itself, but its forebodings only, Grace\naccomplishes by natural means what the Soul does by a divine power, in\ntransforming pain, torpor, even death itself, into Beauty.\n\nYet Grace, which thus maintained itself in the extremest adversity,\nwould be dead, without its transfiguration by the Soul. But what\nexpression can belong to the Soul in this situation? It delivers\nitself from pain, and comes forth conquering, not conquered, by\nrelinquishing its connection with sensuous existence.\n\nIt is for the natural Spirit to exert its energies for the\npreservation of sensuous existence; the Soul enters not into\nthis contest, but its presence moderates even the storms of\npainfully-struggling life. Outward force can take away only outward\ngoods, but not reach the Soul; it can tear asunder a temporal bond,\nnot dissolve the eternal one of a truly divine love. Not hard and\nunfeeling, nor giving up love itself, on the contrary the Soul\ndisplays in pain this love alone, as the sentiment that outlasts\nsensuous existence, and thus raises itself above the ruins of outward\nlife or fortune in divine glory.\n\nIt is this expression of the Soul that the creator of the Niobe has\npresented to us. All the means by which Art tempers even the Terrible,\nare here made use of. Mightiness of form, sensuous Grace, nay, even\nthe nature of the subject-matter itself, soften the expression,\nthrough this, that Pain, transcending all expression, annihilates\nitself, and Beauty, which it seemed impossible to preserve from\ndestruction when alive, is protected from injury by the commencing\ntorpor.\n\nBut what would it all be without the Soul, and how does this manifest\nitself?\n\nWe see on the countenance of the mother, not grief alone for the\nalready prostrated flower of her children; not alone deadly anxiety\nfor the preservation of those yet remaining, and of the youngest\ndaughter, who has fled for safety to her bosom; nor resentment against\nthe cruel deities; least of all, as is pretended, cool defiance-all\nthese we see, indeed, but not these alone; for, through grief,\nanxiety, and resentment streams, like a divine light, eternal love, as\nthat which alone remains; and in this is preserved the mother, as\none who was not, but now is a mother, and who remains united with the\nbeloved ones by an eternal bond.\n\nEvery one acknowledges that greatness, purity, and goodness of Soul\nhave also their sensuous expressions. But how is this conceivable,\nunless the principle that acts in Matter be itself cognate and similar\nto Soul?\n\nFor the representation of the Soul there are again gradations in\nArt, according as it is joined with the merely Characteristic, or in\nvisible union with the Charming and Graceful.\n\nWho perceives not already, in the tragedies of \u00c6schylus, the presence\nof that lofty morality which is predominant in the works of Sophocles?\nBut in the former it is enveloped in a bitter rind, and passes\nless into the whole work, since the bond of sensuous Grace is still\nwanting. But out of this severity, and the still rude charms of\nearlier Art, could proceed the grace of Sophocles, and with it the\ncomplete fusion of the two elements, which leaves us doubtful whether\nit is more moral or sensuous Grace that enchants us in the works of\nthis poet.\n\nThe same is true of the plastic productions of the early and severe\nstyle, in comparison with the gentleness of the later.\n\nIf Grace, besides being the transfiguration of the spirit of Nature,\nis also the medium of connection between moral Goodness and sensuous\nAppearance, it is evident how Art must tend from all points toward\nit as its centre. This Beauty, which results from the perfect\ninterpenetration of moral Goodness and sensuous Grace, seizes and\nenchants us when we meet it, with the force of a miracle. For, whilst\nthe spirit of Nature shows itself everywhere else independent of the\nSoul, and, indeed, in a measure opposed to it, here, it seems, as if\nby voluntary accord, and the inward fire of divine love, to melt into\nunion with it; the remembrance of the fundamental unity of the essence\nof Nature and the essence of the Soul comes over the beholder with\nsudden clearness--the conviction that all antagonism is only apparent,\nthat Love is the bond of all things, and pure Goodness the foundation\nand substance of the whole Creation.\n\nHere Art, as it were, transcends itself, and again becomes means only.\nOn this summit sensuous Grace becomes in turn only the husk and body\nof a higher life; what was before a whole is treated as a part, and\nthe highest relation of Art and Nature is reached in this--that it\nmakes Nature the medium of manifesting the soul which it contains.\n\nBut though in this blossoming of Art, as in the blossoming of the\nvegetable kingdom, all the previous stages are repeated, yet, on the\nother hand, we may see in what various directions Art can proceed from\nthis centre. Especially does the difference in nature of the two\nforms of Plastic Art here show itself most strongly. For Sculpture,\nrepresenting its ideas by corporeal things, seems to reach its highest\npoint in the complete equilibrium of Soul and Matter--if it give a\npreponderance to the latter it sinks below its own idea--but it seems\naltogether impossible for it to elevate the Soul at the expense of\nMatter, since it must thereby transcend itself. The perfect sculptor\nindeed, as Winckelmann remarks apropos of the Belvedere Apollo, will\nuse no more material than is needful to accomplish his spiritual\npurpose; but also, on the other hand, he will put into the Soul no\nmore energy than is at the same time expressed in the material; for\nprecisely upon this, fully to embody the spiritual, depends his\nart. Sculpture, therefore, can reach its true summit only in the\nrepresentation of those natures in whose constitution it is implied\nthat they actually embody all that is contained in their Idea or Soul;\nthus only in divine natures. So that Sculpture, even if no Mythology\nhad preceded it, would of itself have come upon gods, and have\ninvented such if it found none.\n\nMoreover as the Spirit, on this lower platform, has again the same\nrelation to Matter that we have ascribed to the Soul (being the\nprinciple of activity and motion, as Matter is that of rest and\ninaction), the law that regulates Expression and Passion must be a\nfundamental principle of its nature.\n\nBut this law must be applicable not only to the lower passions, but\nalso equally to those higher and godlike passions, if it is permitted\nso to call them, by which the Soul is affected in rapture, in\ndevotion, in adoration. Hence, since from these passions the gods\nalone are exempt, Sculpture is inclined from this side also to the\nimaging of divine natures.\n\nThe nature of Painting, however, seems to differ entirely from that of\nSculpture. For the former represents objects, not like the latter, by\ncorporeal things, but by light and color, through a medium therefore\nitself incorporeal and in a measure spiritual. Painting, moreover,\ngives out its productions nowise as the things themselves, but\nexpressly as pictures. From its very nature therefore it does not lay\nas much stress on the material as Sculpture, and seems indeed for\nthis reason, while exalting the material above the spirit, to degrade\nitself more than Sculpture in a like case; on the other hand to be so\nmuch more justified in giving a clear preponderance to the Soul.\n\nWhere it aims at the highest it will indeed ennoble the passions by\nCharacter, or moderate them by Grace, or manifest in them the power of\nthe Soul: but on the other hand it is precisely those higher passions,\ndepending on the relationship of the Soul with a Supreme Being, that\nare entirely suited to the nature of Painting. Indeed, while Sculpture\nmaintains an exact balance between the force whereby a thing exists\noutwardly and acts in Nature and that by virtue of which it lives\ninwardly and as Soul, and excludes mere suffering even from Matter,\nPainting may soften in favor of the Soul the characteristicness of the\nforce and activity in Matter, and transform it into resignation\nand endurance, making it apparent that Man becomes more generally\nsusceptible to the inspirations of the Soul, and to higher influences\nin general.\n\nThis diametrical difference explains of itself not only the necessary\npredominance of Sculpture in the ancient, and of Painting in the\nmodern world (since in the former the tone of mind was thoroughly\nplastic, whereas the latter makes even the Soul the passive instrument\nof higher revelations); but this also is evident--that it is\nnot enough to strive after the Plastic in form and manner of\nrepresentation, but that it is requisite, before all, to think and to\nfeel plastically, that is, antiquely.\n\nAnd as the deviation of Sculpture into the picturesque is destructive\nto Art, so the narrowing down of Painting to the conditions and forms\nbelonging to Sculpture is an arbitrarily imposed limitation. For while\nSculpture, like gravitation, acts toward one point, it is permitted to\nPainting, as to light, to fill all space with its creative energy.\n\nThis unlimited universality of Painting is demonstrated by History\nitself, and by the examples of the greatest masters, who, without\ninjury to the essential character of their art, have developed to\nperfection each particular stage by itself, so that we can find also\nin the history of Art the same sequence that may be pointed out in its\nnature--not indeed in exact order of time, but yet substantially. For\nthus is represented in Michelangelo the oldest and mightiest epoch of\nliberated Art, that in which it displays its yet uncontrolled strength\nin gigantic progeny; as in the fables of the symbolic Fore-world, the\nEarth, after the embrace of Uranus, brought forth at first Titans and\nheaven-storming giants before the mild reign of the serene gods began.\n\nThus the painting of the Last Judgment, with which, as the sum of his\nart, that giant spirit filled the Sistine Chapel, seems to remind\nus more of the first ages of the Earth and its products, than of\nits last. Attracted toward the most hidden abysses of organic,\nparticularly of the human form, he shuns not the Terrible; nay,\nhe seeks it purposely, and startles it from its repose in the dark\nworkshops of Nature. Want of delicacy, grace, pleasingness, he\nbalances by the extremest energy; and if he excites horror by his\nrepresentations, it is the terror that, according to fable, the\nancient god Pan spreads around him when he suddenly appears in the\nassemblies of men.\n\nIt is the method of Nature to produce the extraordinary by isolation\nand the exclusion of opposed qualities. Thus, it was necessary that,\nin Michelangelo, earnestness and the deep significant energy of Nature\nshould prevail, rather than a sense of the grace and sensibility that\nbelong to the Soul, in order to display the extreme of pure plastic\nforce in the painting of modern times.\n\nAfter the earlier violence and the vehement impulse of birth is\nassuaged, the spirit of Nature is transfigured into Soul, and Grace is\nborn. This point Art reached, after Leonardo da Vinci, in Correggio,\nin whose works the sensuous Soul is the active principle of Beauty.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nAs the modern fable of Psyche closes the circle of the old mythology;\nso Painting, by giving a preponderance to the Soul, attained a new,\nthough not a higher step of Art.\n\nThis Guido Reni strove after, and became the proper painter of the\nSoul. Such seems to us to be the necessary interpretation of his whole\nendeavor, often uncertain, and, in many of his works, losing itself in\nthe vague.\n\nThis is shown, as, perhaps, in few of his other pictures, in the\nmasterpiece that is offered to the admiration of all in the great\ncollection of our king.\n\nIn the figure of the heavenward-ascending Virgin, all harshness and\nsternness are effaced, even to the last trace; and, indeed, does not\nPainting itself seem in it to soar upward, transfigured on its own\npinions, as the liberated Psyche delivered from the severity of Form?\n\nHere nothing outward remains, with separate natural force; everything\nexpresses receptivity and still endurance, even the perishable flesh,\nthe character of which the Italian language designates by the term\n_morbidezza_, altogether unlike that with which Raphael invests the\ndescending Queen of Heaven, as she appears to the adoring pope and a\nsaint.\n\nThough the remark be well-founded, that the original of Guido's female\nheads is the Niobe of antiquity, yet the ground of this similarity is\nsurely no mere intentional imitation; perhaps a like aim led to like\nmeans.\n\nAs the Florentine Niobe is an extreme in Sculpture, and the\nrepresentation in it of the Soul, so this well-known picture is\nan extreme in Painting, which here ventures to lay aside even the\nrequisite of shade and the obscure, and to work almost with pure\nLight.\n\nEven though it might be permitted to Painting, from its peculiar\nnature, to give a distinct preponderance to the Soul, yet theory and\ninstruction will do best constantly to aim at that original Centre,\nwhence alone Art may be produced ever anew; whereas, at the stage last\nmentioned, it must necessarily stand still, or degenerate into cramped\nmannerism. For even that higher passion is opposed to the idea of\nhaving reached the acme of energy, whose image and reflex Art is\ncalled upon to display.\n\nA right intelligence will ever enjoy seeing a creature worthily, and,\nas far as possible, also individually, represented; yea, Deity itself\nwould look down with pleasure on a being that, gifted with a pure\nsoul, should stoutly assert the dignity of its nature outwardly also,\nand by its sensually efficient existence.\n\nWe have seen how the work of Art, springing up out of the depths of\nNature, begins with determinateness and limitation, unfolds its inward\nplenitude and infinity, is finally transfigured in Grace, and at\nlast attains to Soul. But we can conceive only in detail what, in the\ncreative act of mature Art, is but one operation. No theory and no\nrules can give this spiritual, creative power. It is the pure gift of\nNature, which here, for the second time, makes a close; for, having\nfully actualized herself, she invests the creature with her creative\nenergy. But as, in the grand progress of Art, these different stages\nappeared successively, until, at the highest, all joined in one; so\nalso, in particulars, sound culture can spring up only where it has\nunfolded itself regularly from the germ and root to the blossom.\n\nThe requirement that Art, like everything living, should commence from\nthe first rudiments, and, to renew its youth, constantly return\nto them, may seem a hard doctrine to an age that has so often\nbeen assured that it has only to take from works of Art already in\nexistence the most consummate Beauty, and thus, as at a step, to reach\nthe final goal. Have we not already the Excellent, the Perfect? How\nthen should we return to the rudimentary and unformed?\n\nHad the great founders of modern Art thought thus, we should never\nhave seen their miracles. Before them also stood the creations of the\nancients, round statues and works in relief, which they might have\ntransferred immediately to their canvas. But such an appropriation of\na Beauty not self-won, and therefore unintelligible, would not satisfy\nan artistic instinct that aimed throughout at the fundamental, and\nfrom which the Beautiful was again to create itself with free original\nenergy. They were not afraid, therefore, to appear simple, artless,\ndry, beside those exalted ancients; nor to cherish Art for a long time\nin the undistinguished bud, until the period of Grace had arrived.\n\nWhence comes it that we still look upon these works of the older\nmasters, from Giotto to the teacher of Raphael, with a sort of\nreverence, indeed with a certain predilection, if not that the\nfaithfulness of their endeavor, and the grand earnestness of their\nserene voluntary limitation, compel our respect and admiration.\n\nThe same relation that they held to the ancients, the present\ngeneration holds to them. Their time and ours are joined by no living\ntransmission, no link of continuous, organic growth; we must reproduce\nArt in the way they did, but with energy of our own, in order to be\nlike them.\n\nEven that Indian-summer of Art, at the end of the sixteenth and the\nbeginning of the seventeenth centuries, could call forth only a few\nnew blossoms on the old stem, but no productive germs, still less\nplant a new tree of Art. But to set aside the works of perfected\nArt, and to seek out its scanty and simple beginnings, as some have\ndesired, would be a new and perhaps greater mistake; it would be no\nreal return to the fundamental; simplicity would be affectation, and\ngrow into hypocritical show.\n\nBut what prospect does the present time offer for an Art springing\nfrom a vigorous germ, and growing up from the root? For it is in a\ngreat measure dependent on the character of its time; and who\nwould promise the approbation of the present time to such earnest\nbeginnings, when Art, on the one hand, scarcely obtains equal\nconsideration with other instruments of prodigal luxury, and, on the\nother, artists and amateurs, with entire want of ability to grasp\nNature, praise and demand the Ideal?\n\nArt springs only from that powerful striving of the inmost powers of\nthe heart and the spirit, which we call Inspiration. Everything that\nfrom difficult or small beginnings has grown up to great power and\nheight, owes its growth to Inspiration. Thus spring empires and\nstates, thus arts and sciences. But it is not the power of the\nindividual that accomplishes this, but the Spirit alone, that diffuses\nitself over all. For Art especially is dependent on the tone of the\npublic mind, as the more delicate plants on atmosphere and weather; it\nneeds a general enthusiasm for Sublimity and Beauty, like that which,\nin the time of the Medici, as a warm breath of spring, called forth at\nonce and together all those great spirits.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nIt is only when the public life is actuated by the same forces through\nwhose energy Art is elevated, that the latter can derive any advantage\nfrom it; for Art cannot, without giving up the nobility of its nature,\naim at anything outward.\n\nArt and Science can move only on their own axes; the artist, like\nevery spiritual laborer, can follow only the law that God and Nature\nhave written in his heart. None can help him--he must help himself;\nnor can he be outwardly rewarded, since anything that he should\nproduce for the sake of aught out of itself, would thereby become a\nnullity; hence, too, no one can direct him, nor prescribe the path\nhe is to tread. Is he to be pitied if he have to contend against his\ntime, he is deserving of contempt if he truckle to it. But how\nshould it be even possible for him to do this? Without great general\nenthusiasm there are only sects--no public opinion; not an established\ntaste, not the great ideas of a whole people, but the voices of a few\narbitrarily-appointed judges, determine as to merit; and Art, which\nin its elevation is self-sufficing, courts favor, and serves where it\nshould rule.\n\nTo different ages are given different inspirations. Can we expect none\nfor this age, since the new world now forming itself, as it exists in\npart already outwardly, in part inwardly and in the hearts of men, can\nno longer be measured by any standard of previous opinion, and since\neverything, on the contrary, loudly demands higher standards and an\nentire renovation?\n\nShould not the sense to which Nature and History have more livingly\nunfolded themselves, restore to Art also its great arguments? The\nattempt to draw sparks from the ashes of the Past, and fan them again\ninto universal flame, is a vain endeavor. Only a revolution in the\nideas themselves is able to raise Art from its exhaustion; only new\nKnowledge, new Faith, can inspire it for the work by which it can\ndisplay, in a renewed life, a splendor like the past.\n\nAn Art in all respects the same as that of foregoing centuries, will\nnever return; for Nature never repeats herself. Such a Raphael will\nnever be again, but another, who shall have reached in an equally\noriginal manner the summit of Art. Only let the fundamental conditions\nbe fulfilled, and renewed Art will show, like that which preceded\nit, in its first works, its aim and intent. In the production of the\ndistinctly characteristic, if it proceed from a fresh original energy,\nGrace is already present, even though hidden, and in both the advent\nof the Soul already determined. Works produced in this manner, even in\ntheir rudimentary imperfection, are necessary and eternal. * * *\n\n\n\n\nLATER GERMAN ROMANTICISM\n\nBy George H. Danton, PH.D\n\nProfessor of German, Butler College\n\n\nThe group of later Romanticists is distinguished from the earlier\npioneers by less emphasis on speculative philosophy, by greater\nspontaneity, and by more creative ability. The later school was less\ninterested in questions primarily esthetic and was more democratic.\nBoth groups were enemies of the aristocratic Enlightenment of the\neighteenth century; but where the earlier group worked with the\nKantian understanding and with a supersensuous philosophy, the younger\nmen lived in the world and were of it; they used the people to carry\non their propaganda. Thus, though later Romanticism contains nearly\nall the ideas of earlier Romanticism, it displays in addition also,\npolitical, national, and social tendencies which were in the main\nforeign to the earlier writers.\n\nThere was in the later group a deeper sense of religion and a firmer\nbelief in the spiritual foundations of experience than is shown by\ntheir predecessors, though all Romanticism tried to penetrate the\nmysteries of life and all Romanticists were seers as well as\nprophets. In the later school, too, there appears a development of the\nnature-sense far beyond anything shown in the first group. Indeed,\nthe Schlegels may be said to have been without a sense for nature; in\nTieck there is a great discrepancy between the man, his beliefs,\nand his practise, and Novalis' nature-feeling is not attached to\nany specific place. But Brentano loves the Rhine, and Eichendorff's\nlandscape is genuinely Silesian. Caroline and Dorothea know nothing of\nthe mood which makes Bettina throw herself prone in the grass to watch\nan insect crawl over her hand.\n\nA keener appreciation of natural beauty led to a study of natural\nscience; thence it was but a step to the \"night-sides\" of nature;\nand spiritism, mesmerism, occultism, and abnormal psychology fill the\nminds of such men as the Romantic philosopher Schubert, and of the\nphysicians Carus and Passavant. Justinus Kerner wrote of the Seeress\nof Prevorst, and Clemens Brentano watched for years at the bedside\nof a stigmatized nun. On the other hand, from nature comes a love for\nhome and country, and this love serves as a bridge to the patriotism\nwhich was the vital force in the Wars of Liberation and which, by\nwell-marked gradations, destroyed the cosmopolitanism engendered by\nthe French Revolution. Art went hand in hand with nature; the\nwild, weird landscapes of Caspar David Friedrich, fascinating and\nspecifically German, express the Romantic spirit fully as well as the\ndelicate, spiritual, and thoroughly sane fancies of Philip Otto Runge,\nthe artist of early Romanticism.\n\nAs the earlier men centred in Jena, so the later Romanticists\nflourished in Heidelberg, that city which Eichendorff called \"itself\na magnificent Romanticism.\" The earlier group was largely North German\nand brought with it clear perception and a certain power of analysis,\nan ability to dissect and to reason. With the Heidelberg group the\nSouth begins to play a larger part, though there were a number of\nNorth Germans in it. The richer fancy, the longer literary tradition,\nnow add color to their productions. It is significant, too, that\nthough \"castle Romanticism\" does not die out, a new note is struck\nwith the celebration of the Rhine in song, story, and legend. The\nriver begins with Romantic tradition and in a Romantic _milieu_, but\nrises to political significance as \"Germany's stream and not Germany's\nboundary.\" The southward tendency of the movement reached its climax\nwhen its centre shifted to Munich, with a culture-loving king, an\nAcademy of Sciences and a new University. Munich was fortunately not\ndestined to become like Vienna, that other South German city, \"a Capua\nof the spirit.\"\n\nThough certain members of the later Romantic group were closely\nassociated with each other in a way that was unknown to the older set,\nArnim and Savigny having each married a sister of Brentano, there was\nless real solidarity among them than in their forerunners. By no means\nall the men treated within the confines of the present article had the\nclose personal association which, when combined with intellectual or\nliterary activity, goes by the rather loose name of a \"school.\" The\nfirst Romanticists were held together by a common effort to formulate\nor to attain a speculative philosophy. In the second group, there was\na decentralizing, catholicizing tendency, and, above all, a greater\nindividual creative ability. It was not merely the chance difference\nof external fortunes that kept them apart, though they never held\ntogether after the death of Brentano's wife in 1806, but that each\nprojected his individuality into his literary work rather than into a\ncommon polemic ideal. The path-finding and discovery had already been\ndone; in the quieter backwater it was possible to develop well-rounded\nworks of real esthetic value.\n\nVery significant of the differences between the schools is their\njournalistic activity. The ideal of the first Romanticists was to work\nwithout collaboration; but the very prospectus of Arnim's _Journal for\nHermits_ is signed by a company of editors. The early journals were\nturned to the study of German literature through a renunciation of\nthe present; the later Germanic studies arose from a high idealism and\nfrom a sincere desire to awaken the present to new national activity.\nWhen, later in life, G\u00f6rres remarked of these journals that their\ncollaborators felt as if they were accompanying the Holy Roman Empire\nto its grave, he was thinking of the year in which the most important\nof them flourished, 1808. In this, Germany's darkest period, Kleist's\nPhoebus, so cordially hated by many, and Arnim's _Journal for Hermits_\nhad their brief but influential career.\n\nSuch a journal as the _Athenaeum_, with its over-emphasis on the\nesthetic, with its fighting spirit, its excoriating, inexorable wit,\nits constructive and destructive criticism, its complete and total\nsilence on Schiller, would have been an impossibility in the later\nperiod. The feeling for and thinking in Fragments, as practised by\nFriedrich Schlegel and Novalis, was foreign to the new school. They\nhad no illusions that such thinking would become the daily custom\nof the people; they kept their eyes open to that which went on about\nthem, and though they no more dared than the earlier group to work\ndirectly upon the political conditions of the day as did G\u00f6rres later\n(1814) in his _Rheinischer Merkur_, they attempted indirectly to\nreact on the broad mass by branching out into religion and other\nfolk-interests as the earlier school never cared to do. Perhaps this\nis an excuse for the shallowness of some of the product, especially of\nthe fiction; at any rate, the attempt at dissemination was not without\nits success.\n\nThe external link connecting the two schools as well as the Romantic\ngroups in general and the object of their star-worship, Goethe, was\nClemens Maria Brentano (1778-1842), in many ways the most typical\nRomantic figure of either school. Brentano's grandmother, Sophie La\nRoche, had been the friend of Wieland; his mother, Maximiliane,\nplayed a not unimportant r\u00f4le in the life of the young Goethe and\nis immortalized in the latter part of _Werther_. Maximiliane married\nBrentano, an Italian from the Como region, and Clemens was the third\nchild of this loveless union. Brentano's early life was not happy; he\nwas destined for a business career but was a failure in it, and then\nstudied at various universities but with no great application or\nsuccess. From 1797-1800 he was at Jena, where he succeeded in making\nhimself hated by the Schlegels in spite of his defense of them in\nhis satirical play, _Gustav Wasa_ (1800). This play, in the manner of\nTieck's _Puss in Boots_, attempts to ridicule Kotzebue. The method\nis the same as Tieck's: there is the play within the play, the gagged\nofficer (to take the place of the critic B\u00f6ttger), the puns, of which,\nperhaps, the one on Lucinde _(Lux inde)_ is the best, and which,\nas often in Brentano, go beyond and surpass Tieck. Romantic irony\nflourishes: the whole world of the theatre, the author, the very\nlights, the building, the working day and the musical instruments in\nthe orchestra are dramatized in turn. The dialogue of the latter far\nmore intimately suggests their quality than does the speech of\nthe flutes in Tieck, where their spirit is cerulean blue. _Wasa_,\nunfortunately, runs off into dull allegory, and this work is not to be\ncompared with August von Schlegel's _Gate of Honor_ as a satire on the\nsame subject.\n\nBrentano's _Godwi_ (1801), the sub-title of which, \"An Unmanageable\nNovel by Maria,\" shows its character, is a far better production. It\nhas the strong, full-blooded, passionate love of life characteristic\nof its author, \"the many-souled\" Brentano, whose Romantic irony\nresulted from his being ashamed of his sentimentality, and whose\nhatred of philistinism was caused by his fear of his own latent\ntendency toward that point of view. The plot of _Godwi_ runs wild, but\nthe satire and the interspersed lyrics make it interesting reading.\nRomantic irony can go no farther than in this book, in which the\nauthor's own death-bed scene is portrayed and in which the preceding\nparts of the work are referred to by page and line--\"This is the pond\ninto which I fall on page so and so.\"\n\nIf Brentano's _Rosary_ cycle (1809) is somewhat unpleasantly\nsuperhuman, and if, at times, he mixes sex and religion like a mystic\nof the Middle Ages or a Spaniard of the Counter Reformation, he rises\nto wonderful lyric heights when he touches his own experiences, or\nwhen he expresses the note of the people. His use of the supernatural,\nof the subconscious mood, gives rise to such poems as _The Lore-Lay_,\nthe legend of which was actually invented by Brentano. Like all\nRomanticists, Brentano was a poet of incomplete works, of moods\nwhich abandoned him before the artistic perfection of his effort was\nreached; but his suggestive touches, and, above all, his constant use\nof the refrain in all phases and _genres_, especially to emphasize\nand summarize his musical consciousness, are a striking proof of the\nFrench adage, \"Quand le coeur chante, c'est toujours un refrain.\"\nBrentano surrenders himself passionately to his mood. His surrender\nand his distorting irony, like Heine's, arise from his desire to\nassimilate all of the outside world; it explains, in part, the\nRomantic desire to mediate, to translate, to bridge the cleft between\noneself and the world. In part, too, it explains the desire for\nmusical imitation so apparent in both Tieck and Brentano. It is an\nattempt to express in terms of one sense the ideas or apperceptions\nof another. But where Tieck falls into meaningless jingle, Brentano\nsucceeds, not merely in suggesting but in producing the effect, as in\nhis _Merry Musicians_ (1803), or in bringing about its latent mood,\nas in his _Spinner's Song_ or in his version of the old\nfolk-epithalamium, \"Come out, come out, thou lovely, lovely bride.\"\n\nBrentano's prose tales vary in quality from the over-allegorized\nlatter part of _The Fairy Tale of the Rhine and the Miller Radlauf_\n(1816) to the simple and homely _Kasper and Annie_ (1817), with its\nelemental clash of soldiers and citizens. Through many of the tales\nthere runs a note of satire and of symbolism, but the fancy is\nexuberant and the interest well maintained. Brentano's discovery\nof the Rhine as an object of poetry and veneration is completely\nsummarized in _Radlauf_, where the Rhine lyrics are often of wonderful\nbeauty and definiteness and the river becomes a benevolent _deus ex\nmachina_, who--significantly--in dreams, guides and aids the simple,\nhonest miller in his search for a bride.\n\nLater in life, Brentano returned to the Roman Church into which he\nhad been baptized as a child, and gradually withdrew from literary\nactivity. Long before his death in 1842, he had renounced his earlier\nlife as wicked and abhorrent, and had given himself over entirely to\nthe Church. But his career with its constant wanderings, its lack\nof permanency of occupation, of family ties, and of a real home,\nhis inability to grow old, his inner unreality, his excessive\nproductivity-in short, all that is incomplete, over-stimulated,\ndestructive of self, make him the most typical figure of the later\nRomantic group.\n\nLudwig Achim von Arnim (1781-1831) is by no means so bizarre a figure.\nBorn in Berlin of a noble family, he inherited a peculiar\npatriotism and his love of culture, and developed these without\nthe eccentricities which characterized his brother-in-law. The main\ninfluences of his early years were Goethe and Jena, but, as a direct\ninspiration, Tieck must also be mentioned. Arnim's early works lie\nlargely in the field of natural science, especially in physics. He had\nlittle of Brentano's lyric gift; indeed, his poems, where not wooden,\nare often merely reminiscent. They show, too, in an unusual degree,\nthe ability to adapt himself to another's mood and assimilate it--that\nwhich the Germans call \"Nachempfinden,\" a quality which stood him in\nexcellent stead in his work on _The Boy's Magic Horn_.\n\nThe drama _Halle and Jerusalem_ (1810) is an amalgamation of the story\nof Cardenio and Celinde used by Gryphius and Immermann, with the story\nof the Wandering Jew. The first four acts take place in Halle where\nCardenio is a teacher and where he is living in incestuous relation\nwith Olympia. He is a Faust-nature and his father is Ahasuerus.\nThe fifth act is taken up with a pilgrimage to Jerusalem where the\nromantic fates of the characters are decided. The play abounds in\ncontemporary satire and, as in all of Arnim's work, there is distinct\nemphasis on action, the goal of human endeavor.\n\nArnim's prose is better than his verse. Soon, in _The Guardians of\nthe Crown_ (1817; volume 2 unfinished and published in his literary\nremains, 1854), he strikes an individual note. This novel is one\nof the best products of German Romanticism. The Guardians are a\nmysterious secret organization who guard the imperial crown in a fairy\ncastle and are favorable to the ancient house of Hohenstaufen but\ninimical to the ruling Habsburgs. The basis is the newly awakening\nideal of German unity but Arnim fails to express this clearly, and\nthe concluding motif, that Germany's crown is to be spiritually won,\nresolves the whole into a frosty allegory. The progress of the story\nis, however, extremely interesting; the whole spacious and varied\nscene of medieval life is there, and as Tieck and Wackenroder\ndiscovered Nuremberg, and Brentano the Rhine, so Arnim may be said to\nhave shown in its full activity the Ghibelline city of Waiblingen. It\nis, to be sure, a Romantic Waiblingen, and not the real city, as Arnim\nhimself was afterward forced to admit with some disappointment when he\nactually saw it. But as Arnim portrays it, it rises to typical value\nwithout losing any of its poetic individuality. It is the city of the\nHohenstaufens, the last stand of medievalism against the encroachment\nof a new civilization. The echoes from Gotz von Berlichingen are at\nonce apparent to the reader. But Arnim's city of the sixteenth century\ndoes not look backward only; the conflicts in it point forward also.\nIts abbess is not the traditional pious, fat old lady, but a tall,\nthin, practical and active woman. Its Faust is a figure of aggressive\nnaturalism, a charlatan and quack who practises blood-transfusion on\nthe hero and who lies drunk in a pig-sty--a scene which shows Arnim's\npower of drastic contrast at its best. The hero, Berthold, does\nnot sit back and wait for the crown to come to him, but with money\nmysteriously given him builds a cloth-mill on the site of his\nancestral palace and becomes the mayor of the city. How different a\npicture from the hazy cities of Novalis' _Heinrich von Ofterdingen_!\nIt is a part of the new spirit in Romanticism to point the way for the\npeople of Germany to go forward--to leave mysticism and dreams, and to\ngrapple with the life around them.\n\nA similar impulse toward popularization actuated Arnim and Brentano\nin their joint work, _The Boy's Magic Horn_ (1806-8). This is the\nachievement upon which their greatest fame will always rest. It is\none of the best collections of folk-songs and popular ballads in any\nlanguage, and has been of the greatest influence upon Germany. There\nwas no desire on the part of the editors to write a learned treatise;\nthey simply wished to gather together and record the folk-songs of the\nFatherland before they were lost forever. In Arnim's own words: \"The\nrichness of this our national song cannot fail to attract universal\nattention; it will surprise many; it will supplement many an effort of\nour own times, or will render such effort needless. We expect a great\ndeal from the joyous happy life in these songs--a manifold, full tone\nin poetry, an echo of very definite ideas, or an impulse to arouse\nmany a half-forgotten youthful memory. These poems will not only be\nread, they will be remembered and sung. They embrace in their content,\nperhaps the greatest portion of German poetry. They will thus set free\nmany an indefinite longing--a something which is not satisfied by much\nre-reading.\"\n\nGoethe greeted the new undertaking with enthusiasm and urged the\neditors to \"keep their poetic archives clean, strict, and in good\norder.\" He, too, urged that \"this book should be in every house where\njoyful humans dwell, by the window, under the mirror, or where song\nbook and cook book lie. There it should remain, ready to be opened,\nand there something should be found for every varying mood.\" While\nthis fate has not been granted the work, it has grown deservedly\npopular. Philological criticism has caviled at the free hand which\nArnim, especially, used in remolding the songs, but the editors are\nfreed of any possible charge of intellectual dishonesty toward reader\nand source in that their object was to present artistic unities and\nnot material for further study and dissection.\n\nA folk-song is a song which has become a part of the lyric\nconsciousness of the people; often the singers do not know that\nwhat they are singing has a literary origin--they have thoroughly\nassimilated it. In the best sense of the term, the songs of _The Boy's\nMagic Horn_ are folk-songs. They are both narrative and dramatic as\nwell as pure lyric in form, and are simple, powerful, and direct in\nexpression. They treat all phases of German life of the past, from a\ncrude version of the _Lay of Hildebrant_ to the riddles, lullabies,\nand counting-out rhymes of children. Pictures of the moral and social\nlife of peasant Germany are followed by poems of nature and of the\nsupernatural. Tragedies vary with humorous skits, extravagant and\nmocking, and the collection is enlivened with many flyting poems\nabout tailors--a favorite butt of the peasant past. Ballads of popular\norigin and ballads with an added sentimental touch, such as the famous\nStrassburg poem with the added Alpine horn motif, are found here.\nDelicate, haunting rhymes alternate with crude assonances, and\noccasionally one meets with banalities; but, as a whole, the\ncollection is of surprising merit. It is a product of the Romantic\nreturn to the past, but is filled with a poetic outlook toward the\nfuture. Of the work as a whole Heine says, \"I cannot praise the book\nenough. It contains the most graceful flowers of the German spirit,\nand he who wishes to know the German people at their best, let him\nread these folk-songs. * * * In these songs one feels the heart-beat\nof the German folk. It is a revelation of all melancholy cheerfulness,\nall their foolish reason. Here German anger beats its drum, here is\nthe pipe of German scorn, the kiss of German love.\"\n\nThe part which the Romantic mood played in the Wars of Liberation is\ndefinite and well-recognized. The soldier, Gneisenau, felt that the\npolitics of the future lay in the poetry of the day, and Adam Muller\nproudly proclaimed poetry to be a war-power: The Romantic longing\nfor the distance, for love, when directed to the remote past of\nthe Fatherland, not only yielded a new life in art and religion but\ninduced a tremendous patriotism as well. The cosmopolitan temper which\ncaused Lessing to say that love of country was an unknown feeling to\nhim, gave way before an intenser nationalism. The earlier Romanticists\nbegan it; in the later group it took more specific form and became\na propaganda. It was also precipitated in verse and prose. The spark\ncame from Fichte, who was gradually led to see in the destiny of\nthe German people a large cultural fact. Fichte, like a true German,\nemphasized education as the means of progress: Arnim grasped the\nproblem from another side; he felt himself autochthonous, and\nconsciously set out to make his connection with the soil react on\nthose sprung from the soil. In him, as well as in Fichte, dawns the\nideal of the German people as an entity, as a nation.\n\nThere are three poets whose main value lies in the appeal they made to\nthe belligerent spirit of the day. They represent three phases of the\nGerman character. Ernst Moritz Arndt (1769-1860), the eldest of the\ngroup, is the pamphleteer, the politician, and the teacher, as well\nas the poet. He is the hard-headed, earnest intellectual whose lyric\npoetry, whatever its esthetic weaknesses, arouses to action by its\ndeadly insistence on an idea, on hatred of the French, on salvation by\nthe sword. Arndt is all virility and fire.\n\nThe life of Theodor K\u00f6rner (1791-1813), the son of Schiller's intimate\nfriend, shows that mixture of idealism and practicality for which the\nGermans are becoming more and more noted. K\u00f6rner was aroused from his\npoetic diletantism by the alarms of war. He enlisted in the famous\nL\u00fctzow corps and died a soldier's death, thus becoming the symbol of\nall that was ideal for the patriotic youth of his day, the hero and\nthe poet, the man of \"Lyre and Sword.\" His patriotic poems, often\ncomposed on the very field of battle, were sung by the soldiers to the\nroll of cannon and the beat of drum. The trace of Schiller's rhetoric\nin K\u00f6rner's poems adds to their effectiveness, spurring to action and\nfiring young minds to patriotic emulation of high ideals. Like Arndt's\nlyrics, K\u00f6rner's poems are actual documents in the struggle for\nliberty-verses which affected men.\n\nThe German mystic trait, the touch of the religious, marks the poetry\nof Max Schenkendorf (1783-1817). His was a quieter nature, which\nloved the Fatherland, its language, its romantic scenes and past.\nCharacteristic also is his veneration for Queen Luise, whose beauty,\ntenderness, and fortitude had endeared her to the people as well as to\nthe poets.\n\nThough every Romantic poet took some stand on the questions of\nthe day, the most distinctly lyric of them, Joseph von Eichendorff\n(1788-1857), was not of a military temperament. Even he, however,\nfollowed the King of Prussia's call to arms but, significantly enough\nfor \"the last Knight of Romanticism,\" as he was called, arrived a day\ntoo late on the field of Waterloo. The somewhat fanciful title by no\nmeans indicates a jouster at windmills; it implies, rather, that\nin Eichendorff there were gathered for the last time with all their\npoetic brilliancy, the declining rays of the Romantic movement. After\nhim, the enthusiasm is in its decline or changes to forms which lie\noutside the confines of the Romantic spirit.\n\nEichendorff is a thorough _pleinairiste_, filled with the atmosphere\nof his native Silesia and, in some measure, hardly intelligible apart\nfrom its landscape. His birth-place, the castle of Lubowitz, near\nRatibor, rising high on a hill in full sight of the Oder, is the\nultimate background of all his nature-poetry. Here must be localized\nthe ever-recurring hill and valley, wood, nightingale, and castle.\nHere, too, he heard the rustling of the forest leaves and the\nsplashing of the fountain; here he was grounded in the strong\nand pious, if somewhat narrow, Catholicism of his race. It was a\nCatholicism, however, which was genuinely Romantic in that it sought\ncomfort in sorrow directly from nature, a tendency which gives rise\nto some of the best and most heartfelt religious poetry in German\nliterature. A fine example of this is to be found in Eichendorff's\nbeautiful poems on the death of his child. It is interesting to see\nhow, in this spiritual poetry, there is a constant melting of nature\ninto religion, a dissolving of the Romantic atmosphere, of that\nyouthful fervor which Eichendorff never really outgrew but continued\nto draw upon for inspiration for all his later work, into a broad,\ndeep, manly piety.\n\nEichendorff's poetry began with Tieckian notes; it was influenced by\nBrentano, and, unfortunately, was colored by the productions of Count\nOtto von L\u00f6ben (1786-1825), a pseudo-Romanticist of less than\nmediocre ability. But Eichendorff's individuality, with its constant\naccentuation of the acoustic, soon made itself felt and brought into\nGerman poetry what Tieck had tried for and failed in--an effect of\nperfect musical synthesis. The melody of the verse receives a peculiar\nlilt by frequent changes in metre between stanzas or in the midst of\nthe stanza, and is thus saved from monotony. Were its metrical harmony\ntiring in any way, it could not have been set to music with such\nsurprising success. As it is, Eichendorff's poetry has become a\npermanent part of the musical life of the nation. _The Broken\nRing_ has passed into a folk-song, and _\"O valleys wide!\"_ with\nMendelssohn's music is a popular choral of deep religious import.\n\nYet Eichendorff does not attract either by the variety of his themes\nor of his rhymes. It is his very repetitions which so endear him\nto the popular heart. His is not passionate poetry, nor does it\nsubjectively portray the soul-life of its author. In fact, it is saved\nfrom monotony of content at times only by its extreme honesty and\nits lovable simplicity. There is none of Goethe's power of suggesting\nlandscape in a few touches, none of Goethe's logic of description,\nnone of Goethe's clear inner objectivity, but a certain haze lies over\nEichendorff's landscapes--the haze of a lyric Corot; at the same time,\nthis landscape has the power of suggestion to the German mind. Paul\nHeyse, himself a poet, makes one of his characters say, \"I have always\ncarried Eichendorff Is book of songs with me on my travels. Whenever a\nfeeling of strangeness comes over me in the variegated days, or I feel\na longing for home, I turn its leaves and am at home again. None of\nour poets has the same magic reminiscence of home which captures our\nhearts with such touching monotony, with so few pictures and notes.\n* * * He is always new, as the voices of Nature itself, and never\noppresses, but rather lulls one to sweet dreams as if a mother were\nsinging her child to sleep.\"\n\nThe one novel of Eichendorff which has lived, _From the Life of\na Good-for-nothing_ (1826), is a last Romantic shoot of Friedrich\nSchlegel's doctrine of divine laziness--a delightful story, abounding\nin those elements which perennially endear Romanticism to the young\nheart, for it is full of nature and love and fortunate happenings.\nWhat could be more charming than the spirit in which the hero throws\naway the vegetables in his garden and puts in flowers? What more na\u00efve\nthan his spyings, his fiddlings? The strength of the story lies in the\nfact that while its head is in the clouds, its feet are on the ground.\nThere is no sentimentalizing, no breaking down of class distinctions;\nthe good-for-nothing marries his lady-love, but she is of his own\nrank. The pseudo-Romanticism of modern novels is avoided; the\nhero neither wins a kingdom nor is he the long-lost heir of some\npotentate--he remains just what he was, a lovable good-for-nothing.\nThe weather-eye on probability is what in later times has helped the\nRomanticists to slip so easily into Realism--and to reactionary views.\n\nOf all the great mass of material left by Friedrich de la Motte Fouqu\u00e9\n(1777-1843), only a lyric or two and the fairy tale _Undine_ have any\nvalue for the present day. Fouqu\u00e9 represents the talent which develops\nin the glare of the world, is popular for a decade, but soon withers\nwhen the sun is set. His relations to Romanticism are largely\nexternal; he frequented the salons of Rachel Levin and Henrietta Herz\nin Berlin, was aided by August von Schlegel, and was praised by\nJean Paul; but in his heart he was not inspired by any of the deeper\nlongings that characterize the true Romantic spirit. Even though he is\nto be credited with the first modern dramatization of the Nibelungen\nstory, _The Hero of the North_ (1810), and though he took subjects\nfrom the Germanic past and from the chivalric days, he brought no new\nlife to his rehabilitations. Fouqu\u00e9 was too productive, too facile,\ntoo external, too indifferent to psychological motivation to be real.\nHe diluted Romanticism and sentimentalized it. In him patriotism\nbecomes chauvinism; love, philandering; and his age of chivalry, a\nthinly veiled and sentimental picture of his own times. The strength\nand the indigenousness of Arnim are gone, and that power to throw a\nRomantic glamor over life which Tieck and Hoffmann had, is lacking.\n\nOnly in his charming fairy-tale, _Undine_ (1811), does Fouqu\u00e9 rise\nabove his _milieu. Undine_, the source of which, according to Fouqu\u00e9\nhimself, is to be found in a work of Paracelsus on supernatural\nbeings, remains one of the best creations of the Romantic school and,\nlike Eichendorff's novel, has become international, not only in\nits original form but in the opera by Lortzing (first performance,\nHamburg, 1845). The value of the story lies in the author's power\nto make the reader believe in Undine, the water sprite, and in\nthe presentation of a new nature-mythology. All Romanticists have\nconsciously or unconsciously attempted to satisfy Friedrich Schlegel's\ndemand for anew mythology: Fouqu\u00e9's earth, air, and water spirits\npeople the elements with graceful forms from the world of nature; the\nnymph Undine in the form of a flowing stream embraces even in death\nthe grave of her lover.\n\nLudwig Uhland (1787-1862) was not fundamentally a Romantic\npersonality. He is called \"the classicist of Romanticism,\" and\nwith justice. The term shows that he is felt to have something of\ncompletion, of inner perfection, of harmony of form and content which\nwas lacking in the truer Romanticists. Uhland was without their early\ncosmopolitanism. Political life as manifested in him was, first of\nall, Suabian--for Uhland was a Suabian and most intimately associated\nwith that section of Germany. He was actively and practically\ninterested in the politics of his native land as a member of its\nlegislative bodies and as delegate to the national parliament at\nFrankfurt in 1848. Uhland had a conservative love for the \"good old\nSuabian law.\" He felt the doubtful position of the South German states\nin the struggle against Napoleon, and it was only when W\u00fcrtemberg took\nits stand with the allies in the final conflict that the embarrassment\nof his position was relieved, and Uhland's patriotic verse assumed its\nfull tone. But his poetry never became a spur to national achievement\nlike the verse of Arndt, that other German poet-professor. As a member\nof the national parliament, Uhland was opposed to the exclusion\nof Austria from the hegemony, and to the two-chamber system of\nlegislation. But Uhland's conservatism is unalterably honest without\nany reactionary traits; he resigned his professorship rather than be\nhindered in his political activities, and refused, with the peasant's\ndourness, all the orders and distinctions that were offered him.\n\nIndeed, there is something of the peasant nature in all of Uhland's\nverse. Sturdy reserve characterizes it--that reserve which forbids the\npeasant to show his feelings under the stress of the greatest emotion.\nUhland does not carry his feelings to market; like Schiller, he is\nnot a love poet. There is no display, no self-analysis, no\nself-exaltation, no amalgamation of self with nature. Uhland as a poet\nis not interested in his own psychology, but in the impinging world\nand in the tender past. When Goethe said that Uhland was primarily\na balladist, he was right, for the ballad presupposes just\nthat permeation of the object by the emotion that satisfies the\nunquestionable lyric gift possessed by Uhland, without in any way\ndestroying the essentially narrative objectivity of his style.\n\nUhland's greatest fame rests, then, on his ballads. The difference\nbetween these and those of Goethe and Schiller is not merely in\nthe so-called \"castle-Romanticism\" of Uhland, not in a lingering\nsentimentality in some of the poorer ones, but in Uhland's ability at\nwill to catch the folk-tone. Sometimes this folk-tone is a question\nof certain technical tricks, such as the abrupt shift of scene,\nrepetition, varying series of scenes or words, archaized language; but\nit is just as often in the mood which Uhland throws over the whole. He\nthus can catch the inner form and essential mood of the popular ballad\nin a way that not even Goethe does in his _Erlking_. Uhland's ballads\nand romances vary greatly in quality; none, perhaps, has the grandiose\ndramatic and ethical note of Schiller's _The Cranes of Ibycus_\nand none the power of revealing the hidden forces of nature in\nanthropomorphic and demoniac form as Goethe does in his _Erlking_ and\n_The Fisher_. But Uhland's poems are more varied in treatment, even\nthough he cannot be said to have brought any new forms and themes into\nGerman verse. There is much talk of poets and poetry in his verse and\nmuch of the tender melancholy of parting lovers, of separation and\ndeath. There are also some very healthy bacchic notes. Often the\nballads are a mere presentation of a scene, with neither plot nor\nmoral; once in a while, too, Uhland shows a humorous touch. But\nvarious as are his themes and treatments, the treatment is always\nnicely adapted to the theme.\n\nIt is difficult to imagine a better suiting of form and content than\nin _The Singer's Curse_. The management of the vowel sequences is\ntruly wonderful and the rhymes carry the emotional words with a fine\nvirtuosity. _The Luck of Edenhall_, a variation of a Scottish theme\nand also of the Biblical \"_Mene tekel_,\" displays without sermonizing\nthe greatest ethical vigor. It has far more dramatic energy than\neither Byron's or Heine's \"Belshazzar\" poems, with fully as much\ndismal foreboding. _Taillefer_, which has been called \"the sparkling\nqueen\" of Uhland's ballads, has fresh vigor but lacks the power\nof handling the moral forces of the universe with as much dramatic\nvividness. It has a na\u00efve joy of life not elsewhere found in Uhland's\nballads.\n\nUhland was the greatest poet of the \"Suabian School,\" a group of young\nmen who objected to being denominated a school. Among them was\nWilliam Hauff (1802-27), who is known for several lyrics, a number\nof excellent short stories, and a historical novel, _Lichtenstein_\n(1826), in the manner of Scott. His _Trooper's Song_ is a variation\nof an old theme and is of great metrical interest in that here, as\nin Uhland, one may observe how the subtle handling of rhythm, the\nlengthening or shortening of a line, or the shift of stress, brings\nwith it a corresponding shift of emotion. _Lichtenstein_ is the story\nof the struggle of Ulrich of W\u00fcrtemberg against the Suabian League and\ngives us a Romantic picture of the Duke which is not justified by the\nfacts. It was, however, an attempt to vitalize history and owes its\norigin to the Romantic longing for fatherland. Its immediate impulse\namong Scott's novels was _Quentin Durward_ and, like _Quentin\nDurward_, it has a double plot--the sentimental young lovers and the\nromantic ruler. It also shows all the pageantry of Romanticism and the\nna\u00efve technique of the beginning of an art-form in the early stages of\na new literary movement.\n\nFriedrich R\u00fcckert (1788-1866) was prevented from taking part in the\nWars of Liberation by poor health, but added his _Sonnets in Harness_\nto the poetry of the period. These sonnets had no such stirring effect\nas the poems of K\u00f6rner, not only because of their literary form, but\nbecause, in spite of their unquestioned belligerency, they had not the\ntone of religious conviction against the enemy which characterized\nthe verses of Arndt and the rest. Other poems, like _K\u00f6rner's Spirit_,\nshow how deeply R\u00fcckert felt himself in sympathy with his times; his\nreward has been to have added a very large number of poems to the\nevery-day repertory of Germany. His _Barbarossa_ is found in almost\nevery reading book.\n\nThe cycle _Love's Spring_ is an imperishable monument to his love for\nLouisa Wiethaus. But too many of the poems are dedicated to her and\ntoo many inconsequential moods relating to her are recorded. In spite\nof this, R\u00fcckert has resolved the discord between every-day life and\npoetry with the simplest poetic apparatus. R\u00fcckert has also enriched\nthe German language with a mass of gnomic poetry, to the writing of\nwhich he was led by his Oriental studies. This gnomic poetry (_The\nWisdom of the Brahman_) has been aptly said to recall at times the\nripeness of the mature Goethe and at other times--Polonius. R\u00fcckert\nwas one of the first to introduce the Orient and its verse-forms\ninto German literature. Here the influence of Friedrich Schlegel\nis unmistakable. He was also a master in the reproduction of the\ncomplicated metres of the East and South. Though many of these\nverse-forms have refused to become indigenous in Germany, a large\nnumber of new words invented by R\u00fcckert have had poetical vogue, and\neven where the new formations were too bold or too _recherch\u00e9_, they\naccustomed German ears to a new idea-presentation through sound.\nR\u00fcckert, like the average Romanticist, lacked moderation in his\nproduction, and was utterly without critical faculty in respect to\nhis own verse. Much that he has written has perished, but some of his\nwork--both original and translation--is a permanent part of the best\nof German lyric verse.\n\nMore individual than R\u00fcckert is Adalbert von Chamisso (1781-1838).\nThough he was born in the Champagne in France, and was therefore a\nfellow-countryman of Joinville and La Fontaine, he became a German\nby education and preference, and his name is inseparably linked with\nGerman scholarship and letters. It is remarkable that Chamisso began\nto write German only after 1801 and is reported never to have spoken\nit perfectly; yet his verse ranks with the best products of Germany in\nfluency and in form. Much of it, especially that with woman's love as\nits theme, is extremely German in thought and feeling, though perhaps\nFrench in its keenness of analysis. So German is Chamisso felt to be\nthat at his best he is ranked with Goethe and Heine.\n\nWhen the boy Chamisso was nine years old, the family was driven from\nFrance but was later allowed to return, though Adalbert never went\nback permanently. Thus it was that during the years 1806-13, the young\nexpatriate led a life of the greatest mental torment; France no longer\nmeant anything to him, and in Germany he felt himself a stranger and\nan outcast. Always awkward personally, and of a nervous temperament,\nhe found it difficult to adjust himself to surrounding conditions.\nHis scholarly zeal, however, and his ability to sit for hours in close\nstudy, show how completely his mentality was adjustable to the German\nmanner. In Berlin he was accepted by the younger Romantic group and\nwas a member of the famous North Star Club with Arnim and his set. In\n1815-18 he made a trip around the world, and in later years devoted\nhimself especially to the study of botany.\n\nOnly the poetry of Chamisso's later period is of supreme consequence.\nAs a man in the fifties, he wrote some of his most beautiful verse.\nHe was a na\u00efve poet, but a poet of many moods. His love poetry is the\npoetry of longing, and ranks with that of Brentano in its ability to\nsuggest states of feeling. Among his best poems are his verse-tales,\nsuch as _The Women of Weinsberg_, where his narrative genius ranks\nwith that of his fellow-countryman, La Fontaine. Especially good are\nhis poems in terzines. These mark the real introduction of this metre\ninto Germany. The best of these, _Salas y Gomez_, has the additional\nadvantage of real experience, for the material observation at the\nbasis of it is derived from his tour of circumnavigation. His poems in\nthis metre are often genre poems, pure prose in part, but frequently\nof a drastic humor that ranks with that of the best of the old French\nfabliaux. His realism is, however, never common, and, in such poems as\n_The Old Washerwoman_, to quote Goethe's _Tasso_, \"he often ennobles\nwhat seems vulgar to us.\"\n\nChamisso is Romantic in his interest in translations, in early\nreminiscences of Uhland's \"castle-Romanticism,\" and in his poetry of\nindefinite longing, but his admiration for Napoleon and his tendency\ntoward realism point the way which all Romanticism naturally took--the\nway leading through Heine to Young Germany on the one hand and through\nTieck's novelettes to realistic prose on the other.\n\nAs a matter of fact, the work for which Chamisso is best known, a\nwork which has become international in popularity, _Peter Schlemihl_\n(1813), is an early bit of such realistic prose. The tale of the\nman who sells his shadow to the devil for the sake of the sack of\nFortunatus has become in Chamisso's hands a genuine folk-fairy-tale\nin key-note and style. At the same time it is thoroughly Romantic\nin subject-matter and treatment. The word Schlemihl is a Hebrew word\nvariously interpreted as \"Lover of God,\" or as \"awkward fellow.\" If\nit mean the former, Schlemihl then becomes a Theophilus, that medieval\nFaust who also made a compact with the devil; if the latter, one who\nbreaks his finger when sticking it into a custard pie; then Schlemihl\nis Chamisso himself, \"that dean of Schlemihls,\" feeling himself at a\nloss in any environment. He may be the man without a country, he may\nbe the man who draws attention to himself by selling what seems of\nlittle value to him, but which afterward proves indispensable for the\nright conduct of life. The story in this way brings forward a bit\nof popular ethics, or, rather, it examines an ethical note from the\npopular point of view. Like Hoffmann, Chamisso takes his reader into\nthe midst of current life, but, unlike Hoffmann, his moods are not\nthe dissolving views which leave the reader in doubt as to whether\nthe whole is a phantasmagoria and a hallucination. _Schlemihl_ is\ngenuinely and consistently realistic. It is a story in the first\nperson and has a rigidly logical arrangement of episodes leading up to\nits climax. It does not make mood--it has mood.\n\nThe brothers Jacob and Wilhelm Grimm are the products of Romantic\nscholarship; they represent the highest type of scholarly attainment\nand of scholarly personality. They are always thought of together, for\nthey shared all possessions alike and were not drawn apart by the fact\nthat William married and Jacob remained a bachelor. Their fidelity to\neach other is touching, and no more lovable story is told than that\nof Jacob's breaking down in a lecture and crying, \"My brother is so\nsick!\"\n\nJacob (1785-1863) was the philologist, the inductive gatherer of\nscientific material, the close logical deducer of facts. He \"presented\nGermany with its mythology, with its history of legal antiquities,\nwith its grammar and its history of language.\" He is the author of\nGrimm's law of consonant permutation which laid the foundations of\nmodern philological science and is the founder of philological science\nin general.\n\nWilhelm (1786-1859), no less exact a scientist, was more a Romantic\nnature, with a greater power of synthesis under poetic stress. The\ntwo brothers began their collecting activities under the influence\nof Arnim, and their work with folk-tales in prose corresponds to _The\nBoy's Magic Horn_ in verse. It was Wilhelm who gave Grimms' _Fairy\nTales_ their artistic form. He remolded, joined, separated--in\nfact, wrought the crude materials into such shape that this work has\npenetrated into every land and has become a household word for young\nand old. The various early editions show the progress in the method\nof Wilhelm. The first edition (1812) reproduces more exactly what the\nbrothers heard; the later ones show that Wilhelm consciously attempted\nto give artistic form to the tales. That his method was justified\nthe history of the stories proves; they are not only material for\nethnological study, but are dear to all hearts. The stories have the\ngenuine folk-tone; they are true products of the folk-imagination,\nwith all the logic of that imagination. All phases of life are touched\nand the interest never flags. The spirit of nature has been kept.\n\nThe Romanticists were not successful in the drama. Kleist, the\ngreatest dramatist of the period, was not primarily a Romantic\npoet. The Schlegels wrote frosty plays and Tieck attempted dramatic\nproduction. It was left for the most bizarre of the Romantic group to\nwrite the play of greatest power in it and to set a dramatic fashion\nwhich for more than a decade carried all before it.\n\nZacharias Werner (1768-1823), after a life of wild sensual excesses,\nfinally found refuge in the Roman Church and as a popular and\nsensational preacher aroused Vienna with drastic sermons and clownish\nantics. Of his various plays, _The Sons of the Valley_ (1803) and the\n_Cross on the Baltic_ (1806) deserve mention for their religious\nand mystic subject-matter, for which Werner himself has attempted an\nexplanation, though without adding to their understanding. _Martin\nLuther, or the Consecration of Power_ (1807) is a pageant play of\ngreat interest. Its recantation, _The Power of Weakness_, was written\nafter Werner's conversion. More important than these is his so-called\n\"fate tragedy,\" _The 24th of February_ (1810 per formed in Weimar;\npublished 1815). This day was a day of terror to Werner, for on it\nhe lost in the same year his mother and his most intimate friend. He\ntherefore in the play invests the day with a fatal significance, and\non it a malignant fate has especial power over the fortunes of the\npersons of the drama; there is also a fatal requisite and a general\natmosphere of fatalism. The play started a whole series; some of\nthese were crude and weak imitations, others, like Grillparzer's _The\nAncestress_, were of great power. These plays were conditioned by\nsomething in the air. Perhaps Napoleon, the man of fate, ruling the\nminds and destinies of a whole continent, had something to do with the\nphilosophical background. Werner caught the fatalistic spirit, gave it\nconcise and logical form, and succeeded in producing a play which has\nboth atmosphere and logic of development. In all of these plays, in so\nfar as they are good, the effect is produced by the recognition\nscenes which hold the reader rapt to the end. But the weak and vulgar\nimitations of the category outnumbered the powerful plays in the\n_genre_, and the well-merited death-blow was given them by Platen's\n_The Fateful Fork_ (1826).\n\nE.T.A. Hoffmann (1776-1822) was a thoroughly Romantic person. Like\nhis fellow-K\u00f6nigsberger, Werner, he went through a period of wildest\ndissipation, and all his life was easily influenced by alcohol. He was\na painter, a writer, and a musician. His ability in the pictorial arts\nwas mainly in caricature and his career as a composer is typically\nRomantic; though he never but once completed a composition, that he\nstarted, he was thoroughly at home in the theory of the art. Like all\nRomanticists, Hoffmann was interested in and tried all phases of life\nand refused to recognize the boundaries between the various parts\nof existence, between the arts, and between reality and unreality.\nHoffmann, with all his North German power of reasoning and his zeal\nand conscientiousness in public office, was emphatically _that_\nRomanticist associated with the night-sides of literature and life.\nThere is something uncanny both in the man and his writings. His\npower of putting the scene of his most unreal stories in the midst of\nwell-known places, his ability to shift the reader from the real\nto the unreal and _vice versa_, make some of his stories seem like\nphantasmagorias.\n\nIn all of Hoffmann's stories there is some unpleasant, bizarre\ncharacter; this is the author's satire on his own strange personality.\nThere is none of Poe's objectivity in Hoffmann, but he uses his\nsubjectivity in a peculiarly Romantic fashion. It is his idea to raise\nthe reader above the every-day point of view, to flee from this to\na magic world where the unusual shall take the place of the real and\nwhere wonder shall rule. So there are in Hoffmann's stories a series\nof characters who are really doubles. To the uninitiated they seem\nevery-day creatures; to those who know, they are fairies or beings\nfrom the supernatural world. Such characters are found at their best\nin _The Golden Pot_.\n\nHoffmann has influenced both French and English literatures more than\nany other Romantic poet. Hawthorne and Poe read him, and he was felt\nby the French to be one of the first Germans whom they understood. It\nwas not merely that his clear reason appealed to the French, but that\nthey saw in him one endowed as with a sixth sense. He has a fineness\nof observation, especially for the ridiculous sides of humanity,\ntogether with a tenderness of spirit, that was new in German\nliterature as such men as Sainte-Beuve and Gautier saw it. The soul\nat war with itself, uncovering its most secret thoughts, the _\"malheur\nd'\u00eatre po\u00e8te,\"_ coupled with wit, taste, gaiety, and the comedy\nspirit--all these the French found in Hoffmann as in no other German.\nPoe was also influenced by Hoffmann, but Poe's whole world is the\nsupernatural, and where Hoffmann slips with fantastic but logical\nchanges from the real to the unreal, Poe's metempsychosis is the real\nin his world and he has a deeper insight into the world of terror. The\ndifference between Hawthorne and Hoffmann is even more striking, for\nin the American the supernatural is the embodiment of the Puritan\nNew England conscience. In Hoffmann there is no such elevation of the\nmoral world to the rank of an atmosphere.\n\nIn Hoffmann there is no out-of-doors, no lyric love; some of his\ncharacters are frankly insane. The musical takes on a supreme\nsignificance among the sensations, and music seemed the only art which\nwas able to draw the soul of the man from his earth-bound habitation.\nOnly in music did Hoffmann find the ability to make the Romantic\nescape from the homelessness of this existence to the all-embracing\nworld of the unreal. But too often in his works does the unreal fail\nto satisfy the reader. There is an effort felt, an effect sought for,\nand, while the amalgamation of the two worlds is perfect, the world\nto which Hoffmann is able to take us proves to be without the cogency\nwhich our imaginations expect. Here Hoffmann fails. His world of the\nimagination cannot always be taken seriously.\n\nCount August von Platen-Hallermund (1796-1835) is characterized by\nthe eternal Romantic homelessness; at every turn of his career this\nimpresses one. Of ancient noble Franconian stock, he felt himself a\nforeigner in Bavaria which had acquired Franconia in the Napoleonic\nperiod. In his early life in the military academy at Munich he was\nnever thoroughly at home, for his was not a military spirit and he was\nunable to follow his literary tastes. When finally he was enabled to\nstudy at W\u00fcrzburg and Erlangen, even the friendship of Schelling could\nnot compensate for the late beginning of a university career which was\nfilled with the study of modern European and Oriental languages but\nwhich had the bitterest personal disappointments. Even in Italy, the\nland of every German poet's dreams, Platen never felt himself at\nhome, and the pictures of him from his Italian life are of a tragic,\nlonesome figure. The discord between body and soul, that homelessness\nin one's own physical body which characterized Hoffmann and made him\nseem diabolical to so many, is also to be noted in Platen. Carried\nover to the moral world, it accounts for his ardent cultivation of\nfriendship rather than love, and frees him from the bitter accusations\nof Heine, whose attack in _The Baths of Lucca_ is one of the most\nscurrilous and venomous pasquils in all literary history. Finally, in\nthe esthetic world, Platen seems largely un-German. His esthetics were\nof the Classical and Renaissance times; in an age of the breaking\ndown of conventions and of literary revolutions, Platen held himself\nrigidly aristocratic; he clung to a canon of beauty in an age which\nwas giving birth to realism.\n\nPlaten's poetry falls into two periods--the early German tentative\nperiod and the later or foreign period, the poems of which were mostly\nwritten in Italy and in imitation of, or adapted from, foreign metres.\nPlaten is always represented as a master of form, and, since\nJacob Grimm's characterization of him, has been accused of \"marble\ncoldness.\" That Platen handled difficult metres with virtuosity is not\nto be laid against him; it is to the advantage of German verse that\nsuch poems as his _ghasels_ made indigenous, in part, the feeling for\nmere beauty in verse. German poets have too often gone the road of\nmere formlessness. Platen cultivated style, polished and revised his\nlines with as great care as did his arch-enemy Heine, and it is only\na confession of lack of ear to refuse him the name of poet. No one who\nreads his Polish Songs can help feeling that they are the products of\nfire and inspiration.\n\nIt must be confessed, however, that there is in Platen a remarkable\nlack of inner experience. He went through life without ever having\nbeen shaken to the depths of his nature and was, unfortunately, not of\nso Olympian a calmness that, like Goethe, he could present the world\nin plastic repose and sublimity. With all his refinement and fervor he\nhas left but few poems of lasting interest, and of these _The Grave in\nthe Busento_ is perhaps the best.\n\n[Illustration: THE MAGIC HORN]\n\n\n\n\n_LUDWIG ACHIM VON ARNIM AND CLEMENS BRENTANO_\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n  THE BOY'S MAGIC HORN[7] (1806)\n\n  WERE I A LITTLE BIRD\n\n\n  Were I a little bird,\n  And had two little wings,\n  I'd fly to thee;\n  But I must stay, because\n  That cannot be.\n\n  Though I be far from thee,\n  In sleep I dwell with thee,\n  Thy voice I hear.\n  But when I wake again,\n  Then all is drear.\n\n  Each nightly hour my heart\n  With thoughts of thee will start\n  When I'm alone;\n  For thou 'st a thousand times\n  Pledged me thine own.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n  THE MOUNTAINEER\n\n\n  Oh, would I were a falcon wild,\n    I should spread my wings and soar;\n  Then I should come a-swooping down\n    By a wealthy burgher's door.\n\n  In his house there dwells a maiden,\n    She is called fair Magdalene,\n  And a fairer brown-eyed damsel\n    All my days I have not seen.\n\n  On a Monday morning early,\n    Monday morning, they relate,\n  Magdalene was seen a-walking\n    Through the city's northern gate.\n\n  Then the maidens said: \"Thy pardon--\n    Magdalene, where wouldst thou go?\"\n  \"Oh, into my father's garden,\n    Where I went the night, you know.\"\n\n  And when she to the garden came,\n    And straight into the garden ran,\n  There lay beneath the linden-tree\n    Asleep, a young and comely man.\n\n  \"Wake up, young man, be stirring,\n    Oh rise, for time is dear,\n  I hear the keys a-rattling,\n    And mother will be here.\"\n\n  \"Hearst thou her keys a-rattling,\n    And thy mother must be nigh,\n  Then o'er the heath this minute\n    Oh come with me, and fly!\"\n\n  And as they wandered o'er the heath,\n    There for these twain was spread,\n  A shady linden-tree beneath,\n    A silken bridal-bed.\n\n  And three half hours together,\n    They lay upon the bed.\n  \"Turn round, turn round, brown maiden;\n    Give me thy lips so red!\"\n\n  \"Thou sayst so much of turning round,\n    But naught of wedded troth,\n  I fear me I have slept away\n    My faith and honor both.\"\n\n  \"And fearest thou, thou hast slept away\n    Thy faith and honor too,\n  I say I'll wed thee yet, my dear,\n    So thou shalt never rue.\"\n\n  Who was it sang this little lay,\n    And sang it o'er with cheer?\n  On St. Annenberg by the town,\n    It was the mountaineer.\n\n  He sang it there right gaily,\n    Drank mead and cool red wine,\n  Beside him sat and listened\n    Three dainty damsels fine.\n\n  As many as sand-grains in the sea,\n  As many as stars in heaven be,\n  As many as beasts that dwell in fields,\n  As many as pence which money yields,\n  As much as blood in veins will flow,\n  As much as heat in fire will glow,\n  As much as leaves in woods are seen\n  And little grasses in the green,\n  As many as thorns that prick on hedges,\n  As grains of wheat that harvest pledges,\n  As much as clover in meadows fair,\n  As dust a-flying in the air,\n  As many as fish in streams are found,\n  And shells upon the ocean's ground,\n  And drops that in the sea must go,\n  As many as flakes that shine in snow--\n  As much, as manifold as life abounds both far and nigh,\n  So much, so many times, for e'er, oh thank the Lord on high!\n\n[Illustration: LUDWIG ACHIM VON ARNIM Str\u00f6hling]\n\n[Illustration: CLEMENS BRENTANO E. Linder]\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n  THE SWISS DESERTER\n\n\n  At Strassburg in the fort\n  All woe began for me\n  The Alpine bugle's call enticed me o'er,\n  I had to swim to my dear country's shore;\n  That should not be.\n\n  One hour 'twas in the night,\n  They took me in my plight,\n  And led me straightway to the captain's door.\n  O God, they caught me in the stream--what more?\n  Now all is o'er.\n\n  Tomorrow morn at ten\n  The regiment I'll have to face;\n  They'll lead me there to beg for grace.\n  I'll have my just reward, I know.\n  It must be so.\n\n  Ye brothers, all ye men,\n  Ye'll never see me here again;\n  The shepherd boy, I say, began it all,\n  And I accuse the Alpine bugle-call\n  Of this my fall.\n\n  I pray ye, brothers three,\n  Come on and shoot at me;\n  Fear not my tender life to hurt,\n  Shoot on and let the red blood spurt--\n  Come on, I say!\n\n  O Lord of heaven, on high!\n  Take my poor erring soul\n  Unto its heavenly goal;\n  There let it stay forever--\n  Forget me never!\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n  THE TAILOR IN HELL\n\n\n  A tailor 'gan to wander\n  One Monday morning fair,\n  And then he met the devil,\n  Whose feet and legs were bare:\n  Hallo, thou tailor-fellow,\n  Come now with me to hell--oh,\n  And measure clothes for us to wear,\n  For what we will, is well, oh!\n\n  The tailor measured, then he took\n  His scissors long, and clipped\n  The devils' little tails all off,\n  And to and fro they skipped.\n  Hallo, thou tailor-fellow,\n  Now hie thee out of hell--oh,\n  We do not need this clipping, sir,\n  For what we will, is well, oh!\n\n  The tailor took his iron out,\n  And tossed it in the fire;\n  The devils' wrinkles then he pressed;\n  Their screams were something dire.\n  Hallo, thou tailor-fellow,\n  Begone now from our hell--oh,\n  We do not need this pressing,\n  For what we will, is well, oh!\n\n  \"Keep still!\" he said and pierced their heads\n  With a bodkin from his sack.\n  \"This way we put the buttons on,\n  For that's our tailor's knack!\n  Hallo, thou tailor-fellow,\n  Now get thee out of hell--oh,\n  We do not need this dressing,\n  For what we will, is well, oh!\n\n  With thimble and with needle then\n  His stitching he began,\n  And closed the devils' nostrils up\n  As tight as e'er one can.\n\n  Hallo, thou tailor-fellow,\n  Now his thee out of hell--oh,\n  We cannot use our noses,\n  Do what we will for smell, oh!\n\n  Then he began to cut away--\n  It must have made them smart;\n  With all his might the tailor ripped\n  The devils' ears apart.\n  Hallo, thou tailor-fellow,\n  Now march away from hell--oh,\n  We else should need a doctor,\n  If what we will were well--oh!\n\n  And last of all came Lucifer\n  And cried: \"What horror fell!\n  No devil has his little tail;\n  So drive him out of hell.\"\n  Hallo, thou tailor-fellow,\n  Now his thee out of hell--oh,\n  We need to wear no clothes at all--\n  For what we will, is well, oh!\n\n  And when the tailor's sack was packed,\n  He felt so very well--oh!\n  He hopped and skipped without dismay\n  And had a laughing spell, oh!\n  And hurried out of hell--oh,\n  And stayed a tailor-fellow;\n  And the devil will catch no tailor now,\n  Let him steal, as he will--it is well, though!\n\n[Illustration: THE REAPER Walter Crane]\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n  THE REAPER\n\n\n  There is a reaper, Death his name;\n  His might from God the highest came.\n  Today his knife he'll whet,\n  'Twill cut far better yet;\n  Soon he will come and mow,\n  And we must bear the woe--\n  Beware, fair flower!\n\n  The flowers fresh and green today,\n  Tomorrow will be mowed away\n  Narcissus so white,\n  The meadows' delight,\n  The hyacinthias pale\n  And morning-glories frail--\n  Beware, fair flower!\n\n  Full many thousand blossoms blithe\n  Must fall beneath his deadly scythe:\n  Roses and lilies pure,\n  Your end is all too sure!\n  Imperial lilies rare\n  He will not spare--\n  Beware, fair flower!\n\n  The bluet wee, of heaven's hue,\n  The tulips white and yellow too,\n  The dainty silver bell,\n  The golden phlox as well--\n  All sink upon the earth.\n  Oh, what a sorry dearth!\n  Beware, fair flower!\n\n  Sweet lavender of lovely scent,\n  And rosemary, dear ornament,\n  Sword-lilies proud, unfurled,\n  And basil, quaintly curled,\n  And fragile violet blue--\n  He soon will seize you too!\n  Beware, fair flower!\n\n  Death, I defy thee! Hasten near\n  With one great sweep--I have no fear!\n  Though hurt, I'll stay undaunted,\n  For I shall be transplanted\n  Into the garden by heaven's gate,\n  The heavenly garden we all await.\n  Rejoice, fair flower!\n\n\n\n\n\n_JACOB AND WILHELM GRIMM_\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nFAIRY TALES[8] (1812)\n\nTRANSLATED AND EDITED BY MARGARET HUNT\n\nTHE FROG-KING, OR IRON HENRY\n\n\nIn old times, when wishing still helped one, there lived a king whose\ndaughters were all beautiful, but the youngest was so beautiful that\nthe sun itself, which has seen so much, was astonished whenever it\nshone in her face. Close by the King's castle lay a great dark forest,\nand under an old lime-tree in the forest was a well, and when the day\nwas warm the King's child went out into the forest and sat down by\nthe side of the cool fountain, and when she was dull she took a\ngolden ball and threw it up high and caught it, and this ball was her\nfavorite plaything.\n\nNow it so happened that, on one occasion, the princess' golden ball\ndid not fall into the little hand which she was holding up for it, but\nonto the ground beyond, and rolled straight into the water. The King's\ndaughter followed it with her eyes, but it vanished, and the well was\ndeep so deep that the bottom could not be seen. On this she began to\ncry, and cried louder and louder, and could not be comforted. And\nas she thus lamented, some one said to her: \"What ails thee, King's\ndaughter? Thou weepest so that even a stone would show pity.\" She\nlooked around to the side from whence the voice came, and saw a\nfrog stretching forth its thick, ugly head from the water. \"Ah! old\nwater-splasher, is it thou?\" asked she; \"I am weeping for my golden\nball, which has fallen into the well.\"\n\n[Illustration: JACOB GRIMM E. Hader]\n\n[Illustration: WILLIAM GRIMM E. Hader]\n\n\"Be quiet, and do not weep,\" answered the frog; \"I can help thee; but\nwhat wilt thou give me if I bring thy plaything up again?\" \"Whatever\nthou wilt have, dear frog,\" said she--\"my clothes, my pearls and\njewels, and even the golden crown which I am wearing.\"\n\nThe frog answered, \"I do not care for thy clothes, thy pearls and\njewels, or thy golden crown, but if thou wilt love me and let me be\nthy companion and play-fellow, and sit by thee at thy little table,\nand eat off thy little golden plate, and drink out of thy little cup,\nand sleep in thy little bed--if thou wilt promise me this I will go\ndown below and bring thee thy golden ball again.\"\n\n\"Oh, yes,\" said she, \"I promise thee all thou wishest, if thou wilt\nbut bring me my ball back again.\" She, how ever, thought, \"How the\nsilly frog does talk! He lives in the water with the other frogs and\ncroaks, and can be no companion to any human being!\"\n\nBut the frog, when he had received this promise, put his head into the\nwater and sank down, and in a short time came swimming up again with\nthe ball in his mouth, and threw it on the grass. The King's daughter\nwas delighted to see her pretty plaything once more, and picked it up,\nand ran away with it. \"Wait, wait,\" said the frog; \"take me with thee;\nI can't run as thou canst.\" But what did it avail him to scream his\ncroak, croak, after her, as loudly as he could? She did not listen to\nit, but ran home and soon forgot the poor frog, who was forced to go\nback into his well again.\n\nThe next day, when she had seated herself at the table with the King\nand all the courtiers and was eating from her little golden plate,\nsomething came creeping splish splash, splish splash, up the marble\nstaircase, and when it had got to the top, it knocked at the door and\ncried, \"Princess, youngest princess, open the door for me.\" She ran to\nsee who was outside, but when she opened the door, there sat the frog\nin front of it. Then she slammed the door to, in great haste, sat down\nto dinner again, and was quite frightened. The King saw plainly that\nher heart was beating violently, and said, \"My child, what art thou so\nafraid of? Is there perchance a giant outside who wants to carry thee\naway?\" \"Ah, no,\" replied she, \"it is no giant, but a disgusting frog.\"\n\n\"What does the frog want with thee?\" \"Ah, dear father, yesterday when\nI was in the forest sitting by the well, playing, my golden ball fell\ninto the water. And because I cried so the frog brought it out again\nfor me, and because he insisted so on it, I promised him he should be\nmy companion; but I never thought he would be able to come out of his\nwater! And now he is outside there, and wants to come in to me.\"\n\nIn the meantime it knocked a second time, and cried\n\n  \"Princess! youngest princess!\n  Open the door for me!\n  Dost thou not know what thou saidst to me\n  Yesterday by the cool waters of the fountain!\n  Princess, youngest princess!\n  Open the door for me!\"\n\nThen said the King, \"That which thou has promised must thou perform.\nGo and let him in.\" She went and opened the door, and the frog hopped\nin and followed her, step by step, to her chair. There he sat still\nand cried, \"Lift me up beside thee.\" She delayed, until at last the\nKing commanded her to do it. When the frog was once on the chair he\nwanted to be on the table, and when he was on the table he said, \"Now,\npush thy little golden plate nearer to me that we may eat together.\"\nShe did this, but it was easy to see that she did not do it willingly.\nThe frog enjoyed what he ate, but almost every mouthful she took\nchoked her. At length he said, \"I have eaten and am satisfied; now I\nam tired, carry me into thy little room and make thy little silken bed\nready, and we will both lie down and go to sleep.\"\n\nThe King's daughter began to cry, for she was afraid of the cold frog\nwhich she did not like to touch, and which was now to sleep in her\npretty, clean little bed. But the King grew angry and said, \"He\nwho helped thee when thou wert in trouble ought not afterward to be\ndespised by thee.\" So she took hold of the frog with two fingers,\ncarried him upstairs, and put him in a corner. But when she was in\nbed he crept to her and said, \"I am tired, I want to sleep as well\nas thou; lift me up or I will tell thy father.\" Then she was terribly\nangry, and took him up and threw him with all her might against the\nwall. \"Now thou wilt be quiet, odious frog,\" said she. But when he\nfell down he was no frog but a king's son with beautiful kind eyes. He\nby her father's will was now her dear companion and husband. Then he\ntold her how he had been bewitched by a wicked witch, and how no one\ncould have delivered him from the well but herself, and that tomorrow\nthey would go together into his kingdom. Then they went to sleep, and\nnext morning when the sun awoke them, a carriage came driving up with\neight white horses, which had white ostrich feathers on their heads,\nand were harnessed with golden chains, and behind stood the young\nKing's servant, faithful Henry. Faithful Henry had been so unhappy\nwhen his master was changed into a frog that he had caused three iron\nbands to be laid round his heart, lest it should burst with grief and\nsadness. The carriage was to conduct the young King into his kingdom.\nFaithful Henry helped them both in, and placed himself behind again,\nand was full of joy because of this deliverance. And when they had\ndriven a part of the way, the King's son heard a crackling behind him\nas if something had broken. So he turned round and cried, \"Henry, the\ncarriage is breaking.\"\n\n\"No, master, it is not the carriage. It is a band from my heart, which\nwas put there in my great pain when you were a frog and imprisoned in\nthe well.\" Again and once again while they were on their way something\ncracked, and each time the King's son thought the carriage was\nbreaking; but it was only the bands which were springing from the\nheart of faithful Henry because his master was set free and was happy.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n\n\n\nTHE WOLF AND THE SEVEN LITTLE KIDS\n\n\nThere was once on a time an old goat who had seven little kids, and\nshe loved them with all the love of a mother for her children. One day\nshe wanted to go into the forest and fetch some food. So she called\nall seven to her and said, \"Dear children, I have to go into the\nforest; be on your guard against the wolf; if he comes in, he will\ndevour you all--skin, hair, and everything. The wretch often disguises\nhimself, but you will know him at once by his rough voice and his\nblack feet.\" The kids said, \"Dear mother, we will take good care of\nourselves; you may go away without any anxiety.\" Then the old one\nbleated and went on her way with an easy mind.\n\nIt was not long before some one knocked at the house door, and cried,\n\"Open the door, dear children; your mother is here, and has brought\nsomething back with her for each of you.\" But the little kids knew\nthat it was the wolf, by the rough voice. \"We will not open the door,\"\ncried they; \"thou art not our mother. She has a soft, pleasant voice,\nbut thy voice is rough; thou art the wolf!\" Then the wolf went away to\na shopkeeper and bought himself a great lump of chalk, ate this, and\nmade his voice soft with it. Then he came back, knocked at the door\nof the house, and cried, \"Open the door, dear children; your mother is\nhere and has brought something back with her for each of you.\" But the\nwolf had laid his black paws against the window, and the children saw\nthem and cried, \"We will not open the door; our mother has not black\nfeet like thee; thou art the wolf!\" Then the wolf ran to a baker and\nsaid, \"I have hurt my feet, rub some dough over them for me.\" And when\nthe baker had rubbed his feet over, he ran to the miller and said,\n\"Strew some white meal over my feet for me.\" The miller thought to\nhimself, \"The wolf wants to deceive some one,\" and refused; but the\nwolf said, \"If thou wilt not do it, I will devour thee.\" Then the\nmiller was afraid, and made his paws white for him. Truly men are like\nthat.\n\nSo now the wretch went for the third time to the house door, knocked\nat it, and said, \"Open the door for me, children; your dear little\nmother has come home, and has brought every one of you something back\nfrom the forest with her.\" The little kids cried, \"First show us thy\npaws that we may know if thou art our dear little mother.\" Then he put\nhis paws in through the window, and when the kids saw that they were\nwhite, they believed that all he said was true, and opened the door.\nBut who should come in but the wolf! They were terrified and wanted to\nhide themselves. One sprang under the table, the second into the bed,\nthe third into the stove, the fourth into the kitchen, the fifth into\nthe cupboard, the sixth under the washing-bowl, and the seventh\ninto the clock-case. But the wolf found them all, and used no great\nceremony; one after the other he swallowed them down his throat. The\nyoungest in the clock-case was the only one he did not find. When the\nwolf had satisfied his appetite he took himself off, laid himself\ndown under a tree in the green meadow outside, and went to sleep. Soon\nafterward the old goat came home again from the forest. Ah! what\na sight she saw there! The house door stood wide open. The table,\nchairs, and benches were thrown down, the washing-bowl lay broken to\npieces, and the quilts and pillows were pulled off the bed. She sought\nher children, but they were nowhere to be found. She called them one\nafter another by name, but no one answered. At last, when she came\nto the youngest, a soft voice cried, \"Dear mother, I am in the\nclock-case.\" She took the kid out, and it told her that the wolf had\ncome and had eaten all the others. Then you may imagine how she wept\nover her poor children.\n\nAt length in her grief she went out, and the youngest kid ran with\nher. When they came to the meadow, there lay the wolf by the tree\nsnoring so loud that the branches shook. She looked at him on every\nside and saw that something was moving and struggling in his gorged\nbody. \"Ah, heavens!\" said she, \"is it possible that my poor children,\nwhom he has swallowed down for his supper, can be still alive?\" Then\nthe kid had to run home and fetch scissors, and a needle and thread,\nand the goat cut open the monster's stomach. Hardly had she made one\ncut than one little kid thrust its head out; and, when she had cut\nfurther, all six sprang out one after another. They were all still\nalive and had suffered no injury whatever, for in his greediness the\nmonster had swallowed them down whole. What rejoicing there was!\nThen they embraced their dear mother, and jumped like a tailor at\nhis wedding. The mother, however, said, \"Now go and look for some big\nstones, and we will fill the wicked beast's stomach with them while he\nis still asleep.\" Then the seven kids dragged the stones thither with\nall speed, and put as many of them into his stomach as they could get\nin; and the mother sewed him up again in the greatest haste, so that\nhe was not aware of anything, and never once stirred.\n\nWhen the wolf at length had had his sleep out, he got on his legs,\nand, as the stones in his stomach made him very thirsty, he wanted to\ngo to a well to drink. But when he began to walk and to move about,\nthe stones in his stomach knocked against one another and rattled.\nThen cried he--\n\n  \"What rumbles and tumbles\n  Against my poor bones?\n  I thought 'twas six kids,\n  But it's naught but big stones.\"\n\nAnd when he got to the well and stooped over the water and was just\nabout to drink, the heavy stones made him fall in and there was no\nhelp, but he had to drown miserably. When the seven kids saw that,\nthey came running to the spot, and cried aloud, \"The wolf is dead!\nThe wolf is dead!\" and danced for joy round about the well with their\nmother.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n\n\n\nRAPUNZEL\n\n\nThere were once a man and a woman who had long in vain wished for\na child. At length the woman hoped that God was about to grant her\ndesire. These people had a little window at the back of their house\nfrom which a splendid garden could be seen, which was full of the most\nbeautiful flowers and herbs. It was, however, surrounded by a high\nwall, and no one dared to go into it because it belonged to an\nenchantress, who had great power and was dreaded by all the world. One\nday the woman was standing by this window and looking down into the\ngarden, when she saw a bed which was planted with the most beautiful\nrampion (rapunzel), and it looked so fresh and green that she longed\nfor it, and had the greatest desire to eat some. This desire increased\nevery day, and as she knew that she could not get any of it, she\nquite pined away and looked pale and miserable. Then her husband was\nalarmed, and asked, \"What aileth thee, dear wife?\" \"Ah,\" she replied,\n\"if I can't get some of the rampion, which is in the garden behind our\nhouse, to eat, I shall die.\" The man, who loved her, thought, \"Sooner\nthan let my wife die, I will bring her some of the rampion myself,\nlet it cost me what it will.\" In the twilight of evening, he clambered\ndown over the wall into the garden of the enchantress, hastily\nclutched a handful of rampion, and took it to his wife. She at once\nmade herself a salad of it and ate it with much relish. She, however,\nliked it so much, so very much, that the next day she longed for it\nthree times as much as before, and, if he was to have any rest,\nher husband must once more descend into the garden. In the gloom\nof evening, therefore, he let himself down again; but when he had\nclambered down the wall he was terribly afraid, for he saw the\nenchantress standing before him. \"How canst thou dare,\" said she with\nangry look, \"to descend into my garden and steal my rampion like a\nthief? Thou shalt suffer for it!\" \"Ah,\" answered he, \"let mercy\ntake the place of justice; I only made up my mind to do it out of\nnecessity. My wife saw your rampion from the window, and felt such\na longing for it that she would have died if she had not got some to\neat.\" Then the enchantress allowed her anger to be softened, and said\nto him, \"If the case be as thou sayest, I will allow thee to take\naway with thee as much rampion as thou wilt, only I make one\ncondition--thou must give me the child which thy wife will bring into\nthe world; it shall be well treated and I will care for it like a\nmother.\" The man in his terror consented to everything, and when the\nwoman was brought to bed, the enchantress appeared at once, gave the\nchild the name of Rapunzel, and took it away with her.\n\nRapunzel grew into the most beautiful child beneath the sun. When she\nwas twelve years old, the enchantress shut her into a tower which lay\nin a forest and had neither stairs nor door, but quite at the top\nwas a little window. When the enchantress wanted to go in, she placed\nherself beneath this, and cried cried--\n\n  \"Rapunzel, Rapunzel,\n  Let down thy hair to me.\"\n\nRapunzel had magnificent long hair, fine as spun gold, and when she\nheard the voice of the enchantress she unfastened her braided tresses,\nwound them round one of the hooks of the window above, and then the\nhair fell twenty ells down, and the enchantress climbed up by it.\n\nAfter a year or two, it came to pass that the King's son rode through\nthe forest and went by the tower; there he heard a song, which was so\ncharming that he stood still and listened. This was Rapunzel, who in\nher solitude passed her time in letting her sweet voice resound. The\nKing's son wanted to climb up to her, and looked for the door of the\ntower, but none was to be found. He rode home, but the singing had so\ndeeply touched his heart that every day he went out into the forest\nand listened to it. Once, when he was thus standing behind a tree, he\nsaw that an enchantress came there, and he heard how she cried--\n\n  \"Rapunzel, Rapunzel,\n  Let down thy hair.\"\n\nThen Rapunzel let down the braids of her hair, and the enchantress\nclimbed up to her. \"If that is the ladder by which one mounts, I will\nfor once try my fortune,\" said he; and the next day when it began to\ngrow dark, he went to the tower and cried--\n\n  \"Rapunzel, Rapunzel,\n  Let down thy hair.\"\n\nImmediately the hair fell down and the King's son climbed up.\n\nAt first Rapunzel was terribly frightened when a man such as her eyes\nhad never yet beheld came to her; but the King's son began to talk\nto her quite like a friend, and told her that his heart had been so\nstirred that it had let him have no rest, and he had been forced to\nsee her. Then Rapunzel lost her fear, and when he asked her if she\nwould take him for her husband, and she saw that he was young and\nhandsome, she thought, \"He will love me more than old Dame Gothel\ndoes;\" and she said yes, and laid her hand in his. She said, \"I will\nwillingly go away with thee, but I do not know how to get down. Bring\nwith thee a skein of silk every time that thou comest, and I will\nweave a ladder with it, and when that is ready I will descend, and\nthou wilt take me on thy horse.\" They agreed that, until that time, he\nshould always come to see her in the evening, for the old woman came\nby day. The enchantress remarked nothing of this, until once Rapunzel\nsaid to her, \"Tell me, Dame Gothel, how it happens that you are so\nmuch heavier for me to draw up than the young King's son--he is with\nme in a moment.\" \"Ah! thou wicked child,\" cried the enchantress, \"what\ndo I hear thee say? I thought I had separated thee from all the world,\nand yet thou hast deceived me!\" In her anger she clutched Rapunzel's\nbeautiful tresses, wrapped them twice round her left hand, seized a\npair of scissors with the right, and, snip, snap, they were cut off,\nand the lovely braids lay on the ground. And she was so pitiless that\nshe took poor Rapunzel into a desert where she had to live in great\ngrief and misery.\n\nOn the same day, however, that she cast out Rapunzel, the enchantress\nin the evening fastened the braids of hair which she had cut off to\nthe hook of the window, and when the King's son came and cried cried--\n\n  \"Rapunzel, Rapunzel,\n  Let down thy hair,\"\n\nshe let the hair down. The King's son ascended, but he did not find\nhis dearest Rapunzel above-only the enchantress, who gazed at him with\nwicked and venomous looks. \"Aha!\" she cried mockingly, \"thou wouldst\nfetch thy dearest, but the beautiful bird sits no longer singing in\nthe nest; the cat has got it, and will scratch out thy eyes as well.\nRapunzel is lost to thee; thou wilt never see her more.\" The King's\nson was beside himself with pain, and in his despair leapt down from\nthe tower. He escaped with his life, but the thorns into which he fell\npierced his eyes. Then he wandered quite blind about the forest, ate\nnothing but roots and berries, and did nothing but lament and weep\nover the loss of his dearest wife. Thus he roamed about in misery for\nsome years, and at length came to the desert where Rapunzel, with\nthe twins to which she had given birth, a boy and a girl, lived in\nwretchedness. He heard a voice, and it seemed so familiar to him that\nhe went toward it, and, when he approached, Rapunzel knew him and fell\non his neck and wept. Two of her tears wetted his eyes and they grew\nclear again so that he could see with them as before. He led her to\nhis kingdom where he was joyfully received, and they lived for a long\ntime afterward, happy and contented.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n\n\n\nHAENSEL AND GRETHEL\n\n\nHard by a great forest dwelt a poor wood-cutter with his wife and his\ntwo children. The boy was called Haensel and the girl Grethel. He had\nlittle to bite and to break, and once, when great scarcity fell on the\nland, he could no longer procure daily bread. Now when he thought over\nthis by night in his bed, and tossed about in his anxiety, he groaned\nand said to his wife, \"What is to become of us? How are we to feed\nour poor children when we no longer have anything even for ourselves?\"\n\"I'll tell you what, husband,\" answered the woman, \"early tomorrow\nmorning we will take the children out into the forest to where it is\nthe thickest, and there we will light a fire for them, and give each\nof them one piece of bread more; then we will go to our work and leave\nthem alone. They will not find the way home again, and we shall be\nrid of them.\" \"No, wife,\" said the man, \"I will not do that; how can I\nbear to leave my children alone in the forest? The wild animals would\nsoon come and tear them to pieces.\" \"O, thou fool!\" said she, \"then we\nmust all four die of hunger and thou mayest as well plane the planks\nfor our coffins;\" and she left him no peace until he consented. \"But I\nfeel very sorry for the poor children, all the same,\" said the man.\n\n[Illustration: H\u00c4NSEL AND GRETHEL Ludwig Richter]\n\nThe two children had also not been able to sleep for hunger, and had\nheard what their step-mother had said to their father. Grethel wept\nbitter tears, and said to Haensel, \"Now all is over with us.\" \"Be\nquiet, Grethel,\" said Haensel. \"Do not distress thyself, I will soon\nfind a way to help us.\" And when the old folks had fallen asleep, he\ngot up, put on his coat, opened the door below, and crept outside. The\nmoon shone brightly and the white pebbles which lay in front of the\nhouse glittered like real silver pennies. Haensel stooped and put as\nmany of them in the little pocket of his coat as he could possibly get\nin. Then he went back and said to Grethel, \"Be comforted, dear little\nsister, and sleep in peace; God will not forsake us;\" and he lay down\nagain in his bed. When day dawned, but before the sun had risen, the\nwoman came and awoke the two children, saying, \"Get up, you sluggards!\nwe are going into the forest to fetch wood.\" She gave each a little\npiece of bread, and said, \"There is something for your dinner, but\ndo not eat it up before then, for you will get nothing else.\" Grethel\ntook the bread under her apron, as Haensel had the stones in his\npocket. Then they all set out together on the way to the forest. When\nthey, had walked a short time, Haensel stood still and peeped back at\nthe house, and did so again and again. His father said, \"Haensel, what\nart thou looking at there and staying behind for? Mind what thou art\nabout, and do not forget how to use thy legs.\" \"Ah, father,\" said\nHaensel, \"I am looking at my little white cat, which is sitting upon\nthe roof, and wants to say good-bye to me.\" The wife said, \"Fool, that\nis not thy little cat; that is the morning sun which is shining on the\nchimneys.\" Haensel, however, had not been looking back at the cat, but\nhad been constantly throwing one of the white pebble-stones out of his\npocket on the road.\n\nWhen they had reached the middle of the forest, the father said, \"Now,\nchildren, pile up some wood, and I will light a fire that you may not\nbe cold.\" Haensel and Grethel gathered brushwood together, as high\nas a little hill. The brushwood was lighted, and when the flames were\nburning very high the woman said, \"Now, children, lay yourselves down\nby the fire and rest and we will go into the forest and cut some wood.\nWhen we have done, we will come back and fetch you away.\"\n\nHaensel and Grethel sat by the fire, and, when noon came, each ate a\nlittle piece of bread, but, as they heard the strokes of the wood-axe,\nthey believed that their father was near. It was, however, not the\naxe; it was a branch which he had fastened to a withered tree which\nthe wind was blowing backward and forward; and, as they had been\nsitting such a long time, their eyes shut with fatigue and they\nfell fast asleep. When at last they awoke it was already dark night.\nGrethel began to cry and said, \"How are we to get out of the forest\nnow?\" But Haensel comforted her and said, \"Just wait a little, until\nthe moon has risen, and then we will soon find the way.\" And when the\nfull moon had risen, Haensel took his little sister by the hand and\nfollowed the pebbles, which shone like newly-coined silver pieces and\nshowed them the way.\n\nThey walked the whole night long, and by break of day came once more\nto their father's house. They knocked at the door, and when the woman\nopened it and saw that it was Haensel and Grethel, she said, \"You\nnaughty children, why have you slept so long in the forest? We thought\nyou were never coming back at all!\" The father, however, rejoiced, for\nit had cut him to the heart to leave them behind alone.\n\nNot long afterward, there was once more great scarcity in all parts,\nand the children heard their mother saying at night to their father,\n\"Everything is eaten again; we have one-half loaf left, and after that\nthere is an end. The children must go. We will take them farther into\nthe wood, so that they will not find their way out again; there is no\nother means of saving ourselves!\" The man's heart was heavy, and he\nthought, \"It would be better for thee to share the last mouthful with\nthy children.\" The woman, however, would listen to nothing that he\nhad to say, but scolded and reproached him. He who says A must say\nB likewise, and, as he had yielded the first time, he had to do so a\nsecond time also.\n\nThe children were, however, still awake and had heard the\nconversation. When the old folks were asleep, Haensel again got up,\nand wanted to go out and pick up pebbles; but the woman had locked\nthe door, and Haensel could not get out. Nevertheless he comforted his\nlittle sister, and said, \"Do not cry, Grethel, go to sleep quietly.\nThe good God will help us.\"\n\nEarly in the morning came the woman, and took the children out of\ntheir beds. Their bit of bread was given to them, but it was still\nsmaller than the time before. On the way into the forest Haensel\ncrumbled his in his pocket, and often stood still and threw a morsel\non the ground. \"Haensel, why dost thou stop and look around?\" asked\nthe father; \"go on.\" \"I am looking back at my little pigeon which\nis sitting on the roof, and wants to say good-bye to me,\" answered\nHaensel. \"Simpleton!\" said the woman, \"that is not thy little pigeon,\nthat is the morning sun that is shining on the chimney.\" Haensel,\nhowever, little by little, threw all the crumbs on the path.\n\nThe woman led the children still deeper into the forest, where they\nhad never in their lives been before. Then a great fire was again\nmade, and the mother said, \"Just sit there, you children, and when you\nare tired you may sleep a little; we are going into the forest to cut\nwood, and in the evening, when we are done, we will come and fetch\nyou away.\" When it was noon, Grethel shared her piece of bread with\nHaensel, who had scattered his by the way. Then they fell asleep and\nevening came and went, but no one came to the poor children. They did\nnot awake until it was dark night; but Haensel comforted his little\nsister and said, \"Just wait, Grethel, until the moon rises, and then\nwe shall see the crumbs of bread which I have strewn about. They will\nshow us our way home again.\" When the moon rose they set out, but they\nfound no crumbs, for the many thousands of birds which fly about in\nthe woods and fields had picked them all up. Haensel said to Grethel,\n\"We shall soon find the way,\" but they did not find it. They walked\nthe whole night and all the next day too, from morning till evening,\nbut they did not get out of the forest, and were very hungry, for they\nhad nothing to eat but two or three berries which grew on the ground.\nAnd as they were so weary that their legs would carry them no longer,\nthey lay down beneath a tree and fell asleep.\n\nIt was now three mornings since they had left their father's house.\nThey began to walk again, but they always got so much deeper into the\nforest that, if help did not come soon, they must die of hunger and\nweariness. When it was mid-day, they saw a beautiful snow-white bird\nsitting on a bough, which sang so delightfully that they stood still\nand listened to it. And when it had finished its song, it spread\nits wings and flew away before them, and they followed it until they\nreached a little house, on the roof of which it alighted; and when\nthey came quite up to the little house they saw that it was built\nof bread and covered with cakes, and that the windows were of clear\nsugar. \"We will set to work on that,\" said Haensel, \"and have a good\nmeal. I will eat a bit of the roof, and thou, Grethel, canst eat some\nof the window; it will taste sweet.\" Haensel reached up above, and\nbroke off a little of the roof to try how it tasted, and Grethel leant\nagainst the window and nibbled at the panes. Then a soft voice cried\nfrom the room--\n\n  \"Nibble, nibble, gnaw,\n  Who is nibbling at my little house?\"\n\nThe children answered--\n\n  \"The wind, the wind,\n  The heaven-born wind,\"\n\nand went on eating without disturbing themselves.\n\nHaensel, who thought the roof tasted very nice, tore down a\ngreat piece of it, and Grethel pushed out the whole of one round\nwindow-pane, sat down, and enjoyed herself with it. Suddenly the door\nopened, and a very, very old woman, who supported herself on crutches,\ncame creeping out. Haensel and Grethel were so terribly frightened\nthat they let fall what they had in their hands. The old woman,\nhowever, nodded her head, and said, \"Oh, you dear children, who has\nbrought you here? Do come in, and stay with me. No harm shall happen\nto you.\" She took them both by the hand, and led them into her little\nhouse. Then good food was set before them, milk and pancakes, with\nsugar, apples, and nuts. Afterward two pretty little beds were covered\nwith clean white linen, and Haensel and Grethel lay down in them, and\nthought they were in heaven.\n\nThe old woman had only pretended to be so kind; she was in reality\na wicked witch, who lay in wait for children, and had only built the\nlittle bread house in order to entice them there. When a child fell\ninto her power, she killed it, cooked and ate it, and that was a feast\nday with her. Witches have red eyes, and cannot see far, but they have\na keen scent, like the beasts, and are aware when human beings draw\nnear. When Haensel and Grethel came into her neighborhood, she laughed\nmaliciously, and said mockingly, \"I have them; they shall not escape\nme again!\" Early in the morning, before the children were awake, she\nwas already up, and when she saw both of them sleeping and looking so\npretty, with their plump red cheeks, she muttered to herself, \"That\nwill be a dainty mouthful!\" Then she seized Haensel with her shriveled\nhand, carried him into a little stable, and shut him in with a grated\ndoor. He might scream as he liked, that was of no use. Then she went\nto Grethel, shook her till she awoke, and cried, \"Get up, lazy thing,\nfetch some water, and cook something good for thy brother; he is in\nthe stable outside, and is to be made fat. When he is fat, I will eat\nhim.\" Grethel began to weep bitterly, but it was all in vain; she was\nforced to do what the wicked witch ordered her.\n\nAnd now the best food was cooked for poor Haensel, but Grethel got\nnothing but crab-shells. Every morning the woman crept to the little\nstable, and cried, \"Haensel, stretch out thy finger that I may feel if\nthou wilt soon be fat.\" Haensel, however, stretched out a little bone\nto her, and the old woman, who had dim eyes, could not see it, and\nthought it was Haensel's finger, and was astonished that there was no\nway of fattening him. When four weeks had gone by, and Haensel still\ncontinued thin, she was seized with impatience and would not wait any\nlonger. \"Hola, Grethel,\" she cried to the girl, \"be active, and bring\nsome water. Let Haensel be fat or lean, tomorrow I will kill him and\ncook him.\" Ah, how the poor little sister did lament when she had\nto fetch the water, and how her tears did flow down over her cheeks!\n\"Dear God, do help us!\" she cried. \"If the wild beasts in the forest\nhad but devoured us, we should at any rate have died together.\" \"Just\nkeep thy noise to thyself,\" said the old woman; \"all that won't help\nthee at all.\"\n\nEarly in the morning, Grethel had to go out and hang up the caldron\nwith the water, and light the fire. \"We will bake first,\" said the old\nwoman; \"I have already heated the oven, and kneaded the dough.\" She\npushed poor Grethel out to the oven from which flames of fire were\nalready darting. \"Creep in,\" said the witch, \"and see if it is\nproperly heated, so that we can shut the bread in.\" And when once\nGrethel was inside, she intended to shut the oven and let her bake in\nit, and then she would eat her, too. But Grethel saw what she had in\nher mind, and said, \"I do not know how I am to do it; how do you get\nin?\" \"Silly goose,\" said the old woman. \"The door is big enough; just\nlook, I can get in myself!\" and she crept up and thrust her head into\nthe oven. Then Grethel gave her a push that drove her far into it, and\nshut the iron door, and fastened the bolt. Oh! then she began to\nhowl quite horribly, but Grethel ran away, and the godless witch was\nmiserably burnt to death.\n\nGrethel, however, ran as quick as lightning to Haensel, opened his\nlittle stable, and cried, \"Haensel, we are saved! The old witch is\ndead!\" Then Haensel sprang out like a bird from its cage when the door\nis opened for it. How they did rejoice and embrace each other, and\ndance about and kiss each other! And as they had no longer any need to\nfear her, they went into the witch's house; and in every corner there\nstood chests full of pearls and jewels. \"These are far better than\npebbles!\" said Haensel, and thrust into his pockets whatever could be\ngot in; and Grethel said, \"I, too, will take something home with me,\"\nand filled her pinafore full. \"But now we will go away,\" said Haensel,\n\"that we may get out of the witch's forest.\"\n\nWhen they had walked for two hours, they came to a great piece of\nwater. \"We cannot get over,\" said Haensel, \"I see no foot-plank, and\nno bridge.\" \"And no boat crosses either,\" answered Grethel, \"but a\nwhite duck is swimming there; if I ask her, she will help us over.\"\nThen she cried--\n\n  \"Little duck, little duck, dost thou see,\n  Haensel and Grethel are waiting for thee?\n  There's never a plank, or bridge in sight,\n  Take us across on thy back so white.\"\n\nThe duck came to them, and Haensel seated himself on its back, and\ntold his sister to sit by him. \"No,\" replied Grethel, \"that will be\ntoo heavy for the little duck; she shall take us across, one after the\nother.\" The good little duck did so, and when they were once safely\nacross and had walked for a short time, the forest seemed to be more\nand more familiar to them, and at length they saw from afar their\nfather's house. Then they began to run, rushed into the parlor, and\nthrew themselves into their father's arms. The man had not known one\nhappy hour since he had left the children in the forest; the woman,\nhowever, was dead. Grethel emptied her pinafore until pearls and\nprecious stones ran about the room, and Haensel threw one handful\nafter another out of his pocket to add to them. Then all anxiety was\nat an end, and they lived together in perfect happiness. My tale is\ndone. There runs a mouse; whosoever catches it may make himself a big\nfur cap out of it.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n\n\n\nTHE FISHERMAN AND HIS WIFE\n\n\nThere was once on a time a Fisherman who lived with his wife in a\nmiserable hovel close by the sea, and every day he went out fishing.\nAnd once as he was sitting with his rod, looking at the clear water,\nhis line suddenly went down, far down below, and when he drew it up\nagain he brought out a large Flounder. Then the Flounder said to\nhim, \"Hark, you Fisherman, I pray you, let me live; I am no Flounder\nreally, but an enchanted prince. What good will it do you to kill me?\nI should not be good to eat; put me in the water again, and let me\ngo.\" \"Come,\" said the Fisherman, \"there is no need for so many words\nabout it--a fish that can talk I should certainly let go, anyhow.\"\nWith that he put him back again into the clear water, and the Flounder\nwent to the bottom, leaving a long streak of blood behind him.\nThen the Fisherman got up and went home to his wife in the hovel.\n\"Husband,\" said the woman, \"have you caught nothing today?\" \"No,\" said\nthe man; \"I did catch a Flounder, who said he was an enchanted prince,\nso I let him go again.\" \"Did you not wish for anything first?\" said\nthe woman. \"No,\" said the man; \"what should I wish for?\" \"Ah,\" said\nthe woman, \"it is surely hard to have to live always in this dirty\nhovel. You might have wished for a small cottage for us. Go back and\ncall him. Tell him we want to have a small cottage; he will certainly\ngive us that.\" \"Ah,\" said the man, \"why should I go there again?\"\n\"Why,\" said the woman, \"you did catch him, and you let him go again;\nhe is sure to do it. Go at once.\" The man still did not quite like to\ngo, but did not like to oppose his wife, either, and so went to the\nsea. When he got there the sea was all green and yellow, and no longer\nsmooth, as before; so he stood and said--\n\n  \"Flounder, Flounder, in the sea,\n  Come, I pray thee, here to me;\n  For my wife, good Ilsabil,\n  Wills not as I'd have her will.\"\n\nThen the Flounder came swimming to him and said, \"Well, what does she\nwant, then?\" \"Ah,\" said the man, \"I did catch you, and my wife says I\nreally ought to have wished for something. She does not like to live\nin a wretched hovel any longer; she would like to have a cottage.\"\n\"Go, then,\" said the Flounder, \"she has it already.\"\n\nWhen the man went home, his wife was no longer in the hovel, but,\ninstead of it, there stood a small cottage, and she was sitting on a\nbench before the door. Then she took him by the hand and said to him,\n\"Just come inside, look, now isn't this a great deal better?\" So they\nwent in, and there was a small porch, and a pretty little parlor and\nbedroom and a kitchen and pantry, with the best of furniture, and\nfitted up with the most beautiful things made of tin and brass,\nwhatsoever was wanted. And behind the cottage there was a small yard,\nwith hens and ducks, and a little garden with flowers and fruit.\n\"Look,\" said the wife, \"is not that nice!\" \"Yes,\" said the husband,\n\"and so we must always think it; now we will live quite contented.\"\n\"We will think about that,\" said the wife. With that they ate\nsomething and went to bed.\n\nEverything went well for a week or a fortnight, and then the woman\nsaid, \"Hark you, husband, this cottage is far too small for us, and\nthe garden and yard are little; the Flounder might just as well\nhave given us a larger house. I should like to live in a great stone\ncastle; go to the Flounder, and tell him to give us a castle.\" \"Ah,\nwife,\" said the man, \"the cottage is quite good enough; why should\nwe live in a castle?\" \"What!\" said the woman; \"just go there, the\nFlounder can always do that.\" \"No, wife,\" said the man, \"the Flounder\nhas just given us the cottage; I do not like to go back so soon.\nIt might make him angry.\" \"Go,\" said the woman, \"he can do it quite\neasily, and will be glad to do it; just you go to him.\"\n\nThe man's heart grew heavy, and he would not go. He said to himself,\n\"It is not right,\" and yet he went. And when he came to the sea the\nwater was quite purple and dark-blue, and gray and thick, and no\nlonger green and yellow; but it was still quiet. And he stood there\nand said--\n\n  \"Flounder, Flounder, in the sea,\n  Come, I pray thee, here to me;\n  For my wife, good Ilsabil,\n  Wills not as I'd have her will.\"\n\n\"Well, what does she want, then?\" said the Flounder. \"Alas,\" said the\nman, half scared, \"she wants to live in a great stone castle.\" \"Go to\nit, then, she is standing before the door,\" said the Flounder.\n\nThen the man went away, intending to go home, but when he got there,\nhe found a great stone palace, and his wife was just standing on the\nsteps going in, and she took him by the hand and said, \"Come in.\" So\nhe went in with her, and in the castle was a great hall paved with\nmarble, and many servants, who flung wide the doors; and the walls\nwere all bright with beautiful hangings, and in the rooms were\nchairs and tables of pure gold, and crystal chandeliers hung from the\nceiling, and all the rooms and bedrooms had carpets, and food and wine\nof the very best were standing on all the tables so that they nearly\nbroke down beneath it. Behind the house, too, there was a great\ncourtyard, with stables for horses and cows, and the very best of\ncarriages; there was a magnificent large garden, too, with the most\nbeautiful flowers and fruit-trees, and a park quite half a mile long,\nin which were stags, deer, and hares, and everything that could\nbe desired. \"Come,\" said the woman, \"isn't that beautiful?\" \"Yes,\nindeed,\" said the man; \"now let it be; we will live in this beautiful\ncastle and be content.\" \"We will consider about that,\" said the woman,\n\"and sleep upon it;\" thereupon they went to bed.\n\nNext morning the wife awoke first, and it was just daybreak, and from\nher bed she saw the beautiful country lying before her. Her husband\nwas still stretching himself, so she poked him in the side with her\nelbow, and said, \"Get up, husband, and just peep out of the window.\nLook you, couldn't we be the King over all that land? Go to the\nFlounder, we will be the King.\" \"Ah, wife,\" said the man, \"why should\nwe be King? I do not want to be King.\" \"Well,\" said the wife, \"if you\nwon't be King, I will; go to the Flounder, for I will be King.\" \"Oh,\nwife,\" said the man, \"why do you want to be King? I do not like to\nsay that to him.\" \"Why not?\" asked the woman; \"go to him this instant;\nI must be King!\" So the man went, and was quite unhappy because his\nwife wished to be King. \"It is not right; it is not right,\" thought\nhe. He did not wish to go; but yet he went.\n\nAnd when he came to the sea, it was quite dark-gray, and the water\nheaved up from below, and smelt putrid. Then he went and stood by it,\nand said--\n\n  \"Flounder, Flounder, in the sea,\n  Come, I pray thee, here to me;\n  For my wife, good Ilsabil,\n  Wills not as I'd have her will.\"\n\n\"Well, what does she want, then?\" asked the Flounder. \"Alas,\" said the\nman, \"she wants to be King.\" \"Go to her; she is King already.\"\n\nSo the man went, and when he came to the palace, the castle had become\nmuch larger, and had a great tower and magnificent ornaments, and\nthe sentinel was standing before the door, and there were numbers of\nsoldiers with kettle-drums and trumpets. And when he went inside the\nhouse, everything was of real marble and gold, with velvet covers\nand great golden tassels. Then the doors of the hall were opened, and\nthere was the court in all its splendor, and his wife was sitting on\na high throne of gold and diamonds, with a great crown of gold on her\nhead, and a sceptre of pure gold and jewels in her hand, and on both\nsides of her stood her maids-in-waiting in a row, each of them always\none head shorter than the last.\n\nThen he went and stood before her, and said, \"Ah, wife, and now you\nare King!\" \"Yes,\" said the woman, \"now I am King.\" So he stood and\nlooked at her, and when he had looked at her thus for a time he said,\n\"And now that you are King, let all else be; now we will wish for\nnothing more.\" \"Nay, husband,\" said the woman, quite anxiously,\n\"I find time pass very heavily; I can bear it no longer; go to the\nFlounder. I am King, but I must be Emperor, too.\"\n\n\"Alas, wife, why do you wish to be Emperor?\" \"Husband,\" said she, \"go\nto the Flounder. I will be Emperor.\" \"Alas, wife,\" said the man, \"he\ncannot make you Emperor; I may not say that to the fish. There is only\none Emperor in the land. An Emperor the Flounder cannot make you! I\nassure you he cannot.\"\n\n\"What!\" said the woman, \"I am the King, and you are nothing but my\nhusband; will you go this moment? Go at once! If he can make a king\nhe can make an emperor. I will be Emperor; go instantly.\" So he was\nforced to go. As the man went, however, he was troubled in mind,\nand thought to himself, \"It will not end well; it will not end well!\nEmperor is too shameless! The Flounder will at last be tired out.\"\n\nWith that he reached the sea, and the sea was quite black and thick,\nand began to boil up from below, so that it threw up bubbles, and such\na sharp wind blew over it that it curdled, and the man was afraid.\nThen he went and stood by it, and said--\n\n  \"Flounder, Flounder, in the sea,\n  Come, I pray thee, here to me;\n  For my wife, good Ilsabil,\n  Wills not as I'd have her will.\"\n\n\"Well, what does she want, then?\" asked the Flounder. \"Alas,\nFlounder,\" said he, \"my wife wants to be Emperor.\" \"Go to her,\" said\nthe Flounder; \"she is Emperor already.\"\n\nSo the man went, and when he got there the whole palace was made\nof polished marble with alabaster figures and golden ornaments, and\nsoldiers were marching before the door blowing trumpets, and beating\ncymbals and drums; and in the house, barons, and counts, and dukes\nwere going about as servants. Then they opened the doors to him,\nwhich were of pure gold. And when he entered, there sat his wife on a\nthrone, which was made of one piece of gold, and was quite two miles\nhigh; and she wore a great golden crown that was three yards high, and\nset with diamonds and carbuncles, and in one hand she had the sceptre,\nand in the other the imperial orb; and on both sides of her stood\nthe yeomen of the guard in two rows, each being smaller than the one\nbefore him, from the biggest giant, who was two miles high, to the\nvery smallest dwarf, just as big as my little finger. And before it\nstood a number of princes and dukes.\n\nThen the man went and stood among them, and said, \"Wife, are you\nEmperor now?\" \"Yes,\" said she, \"now I am Emperor.\" Then he stood and\nlooked at her well; and when he had looked at her thus for some time,\nbe said, \"Ah, wife, be content, now that you are Emperor.\" \"Husband,\"\nsaid she, \"why are you standing there? Now, I am Emperor, but I will\nbe Pope too; go to the Flounder.\"\n\n\"Alas, wife,\" said the man, \"what will you not wish for? You cannot\nbe Pope; there is but one in Christendom; he cannot make you Pope.\"\n\"Husband,\" said she, \"I will be Pope; go immediately, I must be Pope\nthis very day.\" \"No, wife,\" said the man, \"I do not like to say that\nto him; that would not do; it is too much; the Flounder can't make you\nPope.\" \"Husband,\" said she, \"what nonsense! If he can make an emperor\nhe can make a pope. Go to him directly. I am Emperor and you are\nnothing but my husband; will you go at once?\"\n\nThen he was afraid, and went; but he was quite faint, and shivered and\nshook, and his knees and legs trembled. And a high wind blew over the\nland, and the clouds flew, and toward evening all grew dark, and the\nleaves fell from the trees, and the water rose and roared as if it\nwere boiling, and splashed upon the shore; and in the distance he saw\nships which were firing guns in their sore need, pitching and tossing\non the waves. And yet in the midst of the sky there was still a small\nbit of blue, though on every side it was as red as in a heavy storm.\nSo, full of despair, he went and stood in much fear and said--\n\n  \"Flounder, Flounder, in the sea,\n  Come, I pray thee, here to me;\n  For my wife, good Ilsabil,\n  Wills not as I'd have her will.\"\n\n\"Well, what does she want, then?\" asked the Flounder. \"Alas,\" said the\nman, \"she wants to be Pope.\" \"Go to her then,\" said the Flounder; \"she\nis Pope already.\"\n\nSo he went, and when he got there, he saw what seemed to be a large\nchurch surrounded by palaces. Inside, however, everything was lighted\nup with thousands and thousands of candles, and his wife was clad in\ngold, and she was sitting on a much higher throne, and had three great\ngolden crowns on, and around about her there was much ecclesiastical\nsplendor; and on both sides of her was a row of candles the largest of\nwhich was as tall as the very tallest tower, down to the very smallest\nkitchen candle, and all the emperors and kings were on their knees\nbefore her, kissing her shoe. He pushed his way through the crowd.\n\"Wife,\" said the man, and looked attentively at her, \"are you now\nPope?\" \"Yes,\" said she, \"I am Pope.\" So he stood and looked at her,\nand it was just as if he was looking at the bright sun. When he had\nstood looking at her thus for a short time, he said, \"Ah, wife, if you\nare Pope, do let well alone!\" But she looked as stiff as a post, and\ndid not move or show any signs of life. Then said he, \"Wife, now that\nyou are Pope, be satisfied; you cannot become anything greater now.\"\n\"I will consider about that,\" said the woman. Thereupon they both\nwent to bed, but she was not satisfied, and greediness let her have no\nsleep, for she was continually thinking what there was left for her to\nbe.\n\nThe man slept well and soundly, for he had run about a great deal\nduring the day; but the woman could not fall asleep at all, and flung\nherself from one side to the other the whole night through, thinking\nalways what more was left for her to be, but unable to call to mind\nanything else. At length the sun began to rise, and when the woman saw\nthe red of dawn, she sat up in bed and looked at it. And when, through\nthe window, she saw the sun thus rising, she said, \"Cannot I, too,\norder the sun and moon to rise?\" \"Husband,\" said she, poking him in\nthe ribs with her elbow, \"wake up! go to the Flounder, for I wish\nto be even as God is.\" The man was still half asleep, but he was\nso horrified that he fell out of bed. He thought he must have heard\namiss, and rubbed his eyes, and said, \"Alas, wife, what are you\nsaying?\" \"Husband,\" said she, \"if I can't order the sun and moon to\nrise, and have to look on and see the sun and moon rising, I can't\nbear it. I shall not know what it is to have another happy hour,\nunless I can make them rise myself.\"\n\nThen she looked at him so terribly that a shudder ran over him, and\nsaid, \"Go at once; I wish to be like unto God.\" \"Alas, wife,\" said the\nman, falling on his knees before her, \"the Flounder cannot do that; he\ncan make an emperor and a pope; I beseech you, go on as you are, and\nbe Pope.\" Then she fell into a rage, and her hair flew wildly about\nher head, and she cried, \"I will not endure this, I'll not bear it any\nlonger; wilt thou go?\" Then he put on his trousers and ran away like a\nmadman. But outside a great storm was raging and blowing so hard that\nhe could scarcely keep his feet; houses and trees toppled over, the\nmountains trembled, rocks rolled into the sea, the sky was pitch\nblack, and it thundered and lightened, and the sea came in with black\nwaves as high as church-towers and mountains, and all with crests\nof white foam at the top. Then he cried, but could not hear his own\nwords--\n\n  \"Flounder, Flounder, in the sea,\n  Come, I pray thee, here to me;\n  For my wife, good Ilsabil,\n  Wills not as I'd have her will\"\n\n\"Well, what does she want, then?\" asked the Flounder. \"Alas,\" said\nhe, \"she wants to be like unto God.\" \"Go to her, and you will find\nher back again in the dirty hovel.\" And there they are living still at\nthis very time.\n\n\n\n\n_ERNST MORITZ ARNDT_\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n\n  SONG OF THE FATHERLAND[9] (1813)\n\n\n  God, who gave iron, purposed ne'er\n    That man should be a slave;\n  Therefore the sabre, sword, and spear\n    In his right hand He gave.\n  Therefore He gave him fiery mood,\n    Fierce speech, and free-born breath,\n  That he might fearlessly the feud\n    Maintain through blood and death.\n\n  Therefore will we what God did say,\n    With honest truth, maintain--\n  And ne'er a fellow-creature slay,\n    A tyrant's pay to gain!\n  But he shall perish by stroke of brand\n    Who fighteth for sin and shame,\n  And not inherit the German land\n    With men of the German name.\n\n  O Germany! bright Fatherland!\n    O German love so true!\n  Thou sacred land--thou beauteous land--\n    We swear to thee anew!\n  Outlawed, each knave and coward shall\n    The crow and raven feed;\n  But we will to the battle all--\n    Revenge shall be our meed.\n\n  Flash forth, flash forth, whatever can,\n    To bright and flaming life!\n  Now, all ye Germans, man for man,\n    Forth to the holy strife!\n  Your hands lift upward to the sky--\n    Your hearts shall upward soar--\n  And man for man let each one cry,\n    Our slavery is o'er!\n\n  Let sound, let sound, whatever can\n    Trumpet and fife and drum!\n  This day our sabres, man for man,\n    To stain with blood, we come;\n  With hangman's and with coward's blood,\n    O glorious day of ire\n  That to all Germans soundeth good!--\n    Day of our great desire!\n\n  Let wave, let wave, whatever can--\n    Standard and banner wave!\n  Here will we purpose, man for man,\n    To grace a hero's grave.\n  Advance, ye brave ranks, hardily--\n    Your banners wave on high;\n  We'll gain us freedom's victory,\n    Or freedom's death we'll die!\n\n[Illustration: ERNST MORITZ ARNDT Julius R\u00f6ting]\n\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n\n  UNION SONG[10] (1814)\n\n\n  This blessed hour we are united,\n    Of German men a mighty choir,\n  And from the lips of each, delighted,\n    Our praying souls to heaven aspire;\n  With high and sacred awe abounding\n    We join in solemn thoughts today,\n  And so our hearts should be resounding\n    In clear harmonic song and play.\n\n  To whom shall foremost thanks be given?\n    To God, the great, so long concealed,\n  Who, when the cloud of shame was riven,\n    Himself in flames to us revealed,\n  Who, stubborn foes with lightning felling,\n    Restored to us our strength of yore,\n  Who, on the stars in power dwelling,\n    Reigns ever and forevermore.\n\n  Who should our second wish be hearing?\n    The majesty of Fatherland--\n  Destroyed be those who still are sneering!\n    Hail them who with it fall and stand!\n  By virtue winning admiration,\n    Beloved for honesty and might,\n  Long live through centuries our nation\n    As strong in honor and in might!\n\n  The third is German manhood's treasure--\n    Ring out it shall, with clearness mete!\n  For Freedom is the German pleasure,\n    And Germans step to Freedom's beat.\n  Be life and death by her inspir\u00e8d--\n    Of German hearts, oh, longing bright!\n  And death for Freedom's sake desir\u00e8d\n    Is German honor and delight.\n\n  The fourth--for noble consecration\n    Now lift on high both heart and hand!\n  Old loyalty within our nation\n    And German faith forever stand!--\n  These virtues shall, our weal assuring,\n    Remain our union's shield and stay;\n  Our manly word will be enduring\n    Until the world shall pass away.\n\n  Now let the final chord be ringing\n    In jubilee--stand not apart!\n  Let sound our mighty, joyful singing\n    From lip to lip, from heart to heart!\n  The weal from which no devils bar us,\n    The word that doth our league infold--\n  The bliss which tyrants cannot mar us\n    We must believe in, we must hold!\n\n\n\n\n_THEODOR K\u00d6RNER_\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n  MEN AND KNAVES[11] (1813)\n\n\n  The storm is out; the land is roused;\n  Where is the coward who sits well-housed?\n  Fie, on thee, boy, disguised in curls,\n  Behind the stove, 'mong gluttons and girls!\n    A graceless, worthless wight thou must be;\n    No German maid desires thee,\n    No German song inspires thee,\n    No German Rhine-wine fires thee.\n        Forth in the van,\n        Man by man,\n    Swing the battle-sword who can!\n\n  When we stand watching, the livelong night,\n  Through piping storms, till morning light,\n  Thou to thy downy bed canst creep,\n  And there in dreams of rapture sleep.\n\n  _Chorus_.\n\n  When, hoarse and shrill, the trumpet's blast,\n  Like the thunder of God, makes our hearts beat fast,\n  Thou in the theatre lov'st to appear,\n  Where trills and quavers tickle the ear.\n\n  _Chorus_.\n\n  When the glare of noonday scorches the brain,\n  When our parched lips seek water in vain,\n  Thou canst make the champagne corks fly,\n  At the groaning tables of luxury.\n\n  _Chorus_.\n\n  When we, as we rush to the strangling fight,\n  Send home to our true loves a long \"Good night,\"\n  Thou canst hie thee where love is sold,\n  And buy thy pleasure with paltry gold.\n\n  _Chorus_.\n\n  When lance and bullet come whistling by,\n  And death in a thousand shapes draws nigh,\n  Thou canst sit at thy cards, and kill\n  King, queen, and knave, with thy spadille.\n\n  _Chorus_.\n\n  If on the red field our bell should toll,\n  Then welcome be death to the patriot's soul.\n  Thy pampered flesh shall quake at its doom,\n  And crawl in silk to a hopeless tomb.\n    A pitiful exit thine shall be;\n    No German maid shall weep for thee,\n    No German song shall they sing for thee,\n    No German goblets shall ring for thee.\n        Forth in the van,\n        Man for man,\n    Swing the battle-sword who can!\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n  L\u00dcTZOW'S WILD BAND[12] (1813)\n\n\n  What gleams through the woods in the morning sun?\n    Hear it nearer and nearer draw!\n  It winds in and out in columns dun,\n  And the trumpet-notes on the roused winds run,\n    And they startle the soul with awe.\n  Should you of the comrades black demand--\n  That is L\u00fctzow's wild and untamed band.\n\n  What passes swift through the darksome glade,\n    And roves o'er the mountains all?\n  It crouches in nightly ambuscade;\n  The hurrah breaks round the foe dismayed,\n    And the Frankish sergeants fall.\n  Should you of the rangers black demand--\n  That is L\u00fctzow's wild and audacious band.\n\n  Where the vineyards flourish, there roars the Rhine;\n    There the tyrant thought him secure;\n  Then by thunder-crash and lightning-shine\n  In the waters plunges the fighting line;\n    Of the hostile bank makes sure.\n  Should you of the swimmers black demand--\n  That is L\u00fctzow's wild and foolhardy band.\n\n  There down in the valley what clamorous fight!\n    What clangor of bloody swords!\n  Fierce-hearted horsemen wage the fight,\n  And the spark of freedom's at last alight,\n    Flaming red the heavens towards.\n  Should you of the horsemen black demand--\n  That is L\u00fctzow's wild and intrepid band.\n\n  Who with death-rattle there bid the day farewell\n    'Mid the moans of prostrate foes?\n  Of the hand of death the drawn features tell,\n  Yet the dauntless hearts triumphant swell,\n    For his Fatherland's safe each knows!\n  Should you of the black-clad fallen demand--\n  That is L\u00fctzow's wild and invincible band.\n\n  The wild, fierce band and the Teuton band,\n    For all tyrants' blood athirst!--\n  So you who would mourn us, be not unmanned;\n  For the morning dawns, and we freed our land,\n    Though to free it we won death first!\n  Then tell, at your grandsons' rapt demand:\n  That was L\u00fctzow's wild and unconquered band!\n\n[Illustration: THEODOR K\u00d6RNER]\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n  PRAYER DURING BATTLE[13](1813)\n\n\n        Father, I call to thee.\n  The roaring artillery's clouds thicken round me,\n  The hiss and the glare of the loud bolts confound me.\n        Ruler of battles, I call on thee\n        O Father, lead thou me!\n\n        O Father, lead thou me;\n  To victory, to death, dread Commander, O guide me;\n  The dark valley brightens when thou art beside me;\n        Lord, as thou wilt, so lead thou me.\n        God, I acknowledge thee.\n\n        God, I acknowledge thee;\n  When the breeze through the dry leaves of autumn is moaning,\n  When the thunder-storm of battle is groaning,\n        Fount of mercy, in each I acknowledge thee.\n        O Father, bless thou me!\n\n        O Father, bless thou me;\n  I trust in thy mercy, whate'er may befall me;\n  'Tis thy word that hath sent me; that word can recall me.\n        Living or dying, O bless thou me!\n        Father, I honor thee.\n\n        Father, I honor thee;\n  Not for earth's hoards or honors we here are contending;\n  All that is holy our swords are defending;\n        Then falling, and conquering, I honor thee.\n        God, I repose in thee.\n\n        God, I repose in thee;\n  When the thunders of death my soul are greeting,\n  When the gashed veins bleed, and the life is fleeting,\n        In thee, my God, I repose in thee.\n        Father, I call on thee.\n\n\n\n\n_MAXIMILIAN GOTTFRIED VON SCHENKENDORF_\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n  THE MOTHER TONGUE[14] (1814)\n\n\n  Mother tongue, oh, tongue most dear,\n  Sweet and gladsome to mine ear!\n    Word that first I heard, endearing\n  Word of love, first timid sound\n    That I stammered--still I'm hearing\n  Thee within my soul profound.\n\n  Oh, my heart will ever grieve\n  When my Fatherland I leave,\n    For in foreign tongues repeating\n  Words of strangers, I lose cheer.\n    Oh, they seem not like a greeting,\n  And I'll never hold them dear.\n\n  Speech so wonderful to hear--\n  How thou ringest pure and clear!\n    Though thy beauty hath enthralled me,\n  Still I'll deepen my delight,\n    Awed, as if my fathers called me\n  From the grave's eternal night.\n\n  Ring on ever, tongue of old,\n  Tongue of lovers, heroes bold!\n    Rise, old song, though lost for ages,\n  From thy secret tomb, and go\n    Live again in sacred pages,\n  Set all hearts once more aglow.\n\n  Breath of God is everywhere,\n  Custom sacred here as there.\n    Yet when I give thanks, am praying,\n  A beloved heart would seek,\n    When my highest thoughts I'm saying--\n  Then my mother tongue I speak.\n\n\n[Illustration: MAXIMILIAN GOTTFRIED VON SCHENKENDORF]\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n  SPRING GREETING TO THE FATHERLAND[15] (1814)\n\n\n  Fatherland, thy pleasures greet me\n    After bondage, war's distress!\n  I must steep my soul completely\n    Here in all thy gorgeousness.\n  Where the oak-trees murmur mildly\n    With their crowns to heaven raised,\n  Mighty streams are roaring wildly--\n    There the German land be praised.\n\n  From the Rhinefall, all delighted,\n    I have walked, from Danube's spring;\n  Mildly, in my soul benighted\n    Love-stars rose, illumining;\n  Now I would descend, and brightly\n    Radiate a joyous shine\n  Into Neckar's valleys sprightly,\n    O'er the blue and silver Main.\n\n  Onward fly, my message, bringing\n    Freedom's greeting evermore,\n  Far away thou shalt be ringing\n    By my home on Memel's shore.\n  Where the German tongue is spoken,\n    Hearts have fought to make her free--\n  Fought right gladly--there unbroken\n    Stays our sacred Germany.\n\n  All with sunlight seems a-blazing,\n    All things seem adorned with green--\n  Pastures where the herds are grazing,\n    Hills where ripening grapes are seen.\n  Such a spring time has not graced thee,\n    Fatherland, for thousand years;\n  Glory of thy fathers faced thee\n    Once in dreams, and now appears.\n\n  Once more weapons must be wielded;\n    Go, a spirit-fray begin,\n  Till the latest foe has yielded--\n    He who threatens you within.\n  Passions vile ye should be blighting,\n    Hate, suspicion, envy, greed--\n  Then take, after heavy fighting,\n    German hearts, the rest ye need.\n\n  Then shall all men be possessing\n    Honor, humbleness, and might,\n  And thus only can the blessing\n    Sent our monarch shine with right.\n  All the ancient sins must perish--\n    In the God-sent deluge all,\n  And the heritage we cherish\n    To a worthy heir must fall.\n\n  God has blessed the grain that's growing\n    And the vineyard's fruit no less;\n  Men with hunter's joy are glowing;\n    In the homes reigns happiness.\n  And our freedom's sure foundation,\n    Pious longing, fills the breast;\n  Love that charms in every nation\n    In our German land is best.\n\n  Ye that are in castles dwelling,\n    Or in towns that grace our soil,\n  Farmers that in harvests swelling\n    Reap the fruits of German toil--\n  German brothers dear, united,\n    Mark my words both old and new!\n  That our land may stay unblighted,\n    Keep this concord, and be true!\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n  FREEDOM[16] (1815)\n\n\n  Freedom that I love,\n    Shining in my heart,\n  Come now from above,\n    Angel that thou art.\n\n  Wilt thou ne'er appear\n    To the world oppressed?\n  With thy grace and cheer\n    Only stars are blessed?\n\n  In the forest gay\n    When the trees are green,\n  'Neath the blooming spray,\n    Freedom, thou art seen.\n\n  Oh, what dear delight!\n    Music fills the air,\n  And thy secret might\n    Thrills us everywhere,\n\n  When the rustling boughs\n    Friendly greetings send,\n  When we lovers' vows\n    Looks and kisses spend.\n\n  But the heart aspires\n    Upward evermore,\n  And our high desires\n    Ever sky-ward soar.\n\n  From his simple kind\n    Comes my rustic child,\n  Shows his heart and mind\n    To the world beguiled;\n\n  For him gardens bloom,\n    For him fields have grown,\n  Even in, the gloom\n    Of a world of stone.\n\n  Where in that man's breast\n    Glows a God-sent flame\n  Who with loyal zest\n    Loves the ancient name,\n\n  Where the men unite\n    Valiantly to face\n  Foes of honor's right--\n    There dwells freedom's race.\n\n  Ramparts, brazen doors\n    Still may bar the light,\n  Yet the spirit soars\n    Into regions bright;\n\n  For the fathers' grave,\n    For the church to fall,\n  And for dear ones--brave,\n    True at freedom's call--\n\n  That indeed is light,\n    Glowing rosy-red;\n  Heroes' cheeks grow bright\n    And more fair when dead.\n\n  Down to us, oh, guide\n    Heaven's grace, we pray!\n  In our hearts reside--\n    German hearts--to stay!\n\n  Freedom sweet and fair,\n    Trusting, void of fear,\n  German nature e'er\n    Was to thee most clear.\n\n\n\n\n_LUDWIG UHLAND_\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n  THE CHAPEL[17] (1805)\n\n\n  Yonder chapel, on the mountain,\n    Looks upon a vale of joy;\n  There, below, by moss and fountain,\n    Gaily sings the herdsman's boy.\n\n  Hark! Upon the breeze descending,\n    Sound of dirge and funeral bell;\n  And the boy, his song suspending,\n    Listens, gazing from the dell.\n\n  Homeward to the grave they're bringing\n    Forms that graced the peaceful vale;\n  Youthful herdsman, gaily singing!\n    Thus they'll chant thy funeral wail.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n  THE SHEPHERD'S SONG ON THE LORD'S DAY[18] (1805)\n\n\n    The Lord's own day is here!\n  Alone I kneel on this broad plain;\n  A matin bell just sounds; again\n    'Tis silence, far and near.\n\n    Here kneel I on the sod;\n  O deep amazement, strangely felt!\n  As though, unseen, vast numbers knelt\n    And prayed with me to God!\n\n    Yon heav'n afar and near--\n  So bright, so glorious seems its cope\n  As though e'en now its gates would ope--\n    The Lord's own day is here!\n\n[Illustration: LUDWIG UHLAND]\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n  THE CASTLE BY THE SEA[19] (1805)\n\n\n  Hast thou seen that lordly castle,\n    That castle by the sea?\n  Golden and red above it\n    The clouds float gorgeously.\n\n  And fain it would stoop downward\n    To the mirrored lake below;\n  And fain it would soar upward\n    In the evening's crimson glow.\n\n  Well have I seen that castle,\n    That castle by the sea,\n  And the moon above it standing,\n    And the mist rise solemnly.\n\n  The winds and the waves of ocean--\n    Had they a merry chime?\n  Didst thou hear, from those lofty chambers,\n    The harp and the minstrel's rhyme?\n\n  The winds and the waves of ocean,\n    They rested quietly;\n  But I heard in the gale a sound of wail,\n    And tears came to mine eye.\n\n  And sawest thou on the turrets\n    The king and his royal bride,\n  And the wave of their crimson mantles,\n    And the golden crown of pride?\n\n  Led they not forth, in rapture,\n    A beauteous maiden there,\n  Resplendent as the morning sun,\n    Beaming with golden hair!\n\n  Well saw I the ancient parents,\n    Without the crown of pride;\n  They were moving slow, in weeds of woe--\n    No maiden was by their side!\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n  SONG OF THE MOUNTAIN BOY[20] (1806)\n\n\n  The mountain shepherd-boy am I;\n  The castles all below me spy.\n  The sun sends me his earliest beam,\n  Leaves me his latest, lingering gleam.\n    I am the boy of the mountain!\n\n  The mountain torrent's home is here,\n  Fresh from the rock I drink it clear;\n  As out it leaps with furious force,\n  I stretch my arms and stop its course.\n    I am the boy of the mountain!\n\n  I claim the mountain for my own;\n  In vain the winds around me moan;\n  From north to south let tempests brawl--\n  My song shall swell above them all.\n    I am the boy of the mountain!\n\n  Thunder and lightning below me lie,\n  Yet here I stand in upper sky;\n  I know them well, and cry, \"Harm not\n  My father's lowly, peaceful cot.\"\n    I am the boy of the mountain!\n\n  But when I hear the alarm-bell sound,\n  When watch-fires gleam from the mountains round,\n  Then down I go and march along,\n  And swing my sword, and sing my song.\n    I am the boy of the mountain!\n\n[Illustration: THE VILLA BY THE SEA From the Painting by Arnold B\u00f6cklin]\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n  DEPARTURE[21] (1806)\n\n\n  What jingles and carols along the street!\n  Fling open your casements, damsels sweet!\n  The prentice' friends, they are bearing\n  The boy on his far wayfaring.\n\n  'Mid fluttering ribbons and tossing caps,\n  Full merry the rabble huzzas and claps;\n  But the boy regards not the token--\n  He walks like one heartbroken.\n\n  Full clear clinks the wine-can, full red gleams the wine\n  \"Drink deep and drink deeper, dear brother mine!\"\n  \"Oh, have done with the red wine of parting\n  That burns me within with its smarting!\"\n\n  And outside from the cottage, last of all,\n  A maiden peeps out and her tear-drops fall,\n  Yet her tear-drops to none she discloses\n  But forget-me-nots and roses.\n\n  And outside by the cottage, last of all,\n  The boy glances up at a casement small,\n  And glances down without greeting.\n  'Neath his hand his heart is beating.\n\n  \"What, brother! Art lacking a bright nosegay?\n  See yonder--the beckoning, blossomy spray!\n  God save thee, thou prettiest sweeting!\n  Drop down now a nosegay for greeting!\"\n\n  \"Nay, brothers, pass yonder casement by.\n  No prettiest sweeting like her have I.\n  In the sun those blossoms would wither;\n  The wind it would blow them thither.\"\n\n  So farther and farther with shout and song!\n  And the maiden listens and harkens long\n  \"Ah, me! he is flown now beyond me--\n  The boy I have loved so fondly!\n\n  And here I stay, with my lonely lot,\n  With roses, ah!--and forget-me-not,\n  And he whose heart I'd be sharing--\n  He is gone on his far wayfaring!\"\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n  FAREWELL[22] (1807)\n\n\n  Farewell, farewell! From thee\n    Today, love, must I sever.\n  One kiss, one kiss give me,\n    Ere I quit thee forever!\n\n  One blossom from yon tree\n    O give to me, I pray!\n  No fruit, no fruit for me!\n    So long I may not stay.\n\n\n[Illustration: LEAVING AT DAWN]\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n  THE HOSTESS' DAUGHTER[23] (1809)\n\n\n  Three students had cross'd o'er the Rhine's dark tide;\n  At the door of a hostel they turned aside.\n\n  \"Hast thou, Dame hostess, good ale and wine\n  And where is thy daughter, so sweet and fine?\"\n\n  \"My ale and wine are cool and clear;\n  On her death-bed lieth my daughter dear.\"\n\n  And when to the chamber they made their way,\n  In a sable coffin the damsel lay.\n\n  The first--the veil from her face he took,\n  And gazed upon her with mournful look:\n\n  \"Alas! fair maiden--didst thou still live,\n  To thee my love would I henceforth give!\"\n\n  The second--he lightly replaced the shroud,\n  Then round he turned him, and wept aloud:\n\n  \"Thou liest, alas I on thy death-bed here;\n  I loved thee fondly for many a year!\"\n\n  The third--he lifted again the veil,\n  And gently he kissed those lips so pale:\n\n  \"I love thee now, as I loved of yore,\n  And thus will I love thee forevermore!\"\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n  THE GOOD COMRADE[24] (1809)\n\n\n  I had a gallant comrade,\n    No better e'er was tried;\n  The drum beat loud to battle--\n  Beside me, to its rattle,\n    He marched, with equal stride.\n\n  A bullet flies toward us us--\n    \"Is that for me or thee?\"\n  It struck him, passing o'er me;\n  I see his corpse before me\n    As 'twere a part of me!\n\n  And still, while I am loading,\n    His outstretched hand I view;\n  \"Not now--awhile we sever;\n  But, when we live forever,\n    Be still my comrade true!\"\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n  THE WHITE HART[25] (1811)\n\n\n  Three huntsmen forth to the greenwood went;\n  To hunt the white hart was their intent.\n\n  They laid them under a green fir-tree,\n  And a singular vision befell those three.\n\n  THE FIRST HUNTSMAN\n\n  I dreamt I arose and beat on the bush,\n  When forth came rushing the stag--hush, hush!\n\n  THE SECOND\n\n  As with baying of hound he came rushing along,\n  I fired my gun at his hide--bing, bang!\n\n  THE THIRD\n\n  And when the stag on the ground I saw,\n  I merrily wound my horn--trara!\n\n  Conversing thus did the huntsmen lie,\n  When lo! the white hart came bounding by;\n\n  And before the huntsmen had noted him well,\n  He was up and away over mountain and dell!--\n      Hush, hush!--bing, bang!--trara!\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n  THE LOST CHURCH[26] (1812)\n\n\n  When one into the forest goes,\n    A music sweet the spirit blesses;\n  But whence it cometh no one knows,\n    Nor common rumor even guesses.\n  From the lost Church those strains must swell\n    That come on all the winds resounding;\n  The path to it now none can tell,\n    That path with pilgrims once abounding.\n\n  As lately, in the forest, where\n    No beaten path could be discover'd,\n  All lost in thought, I wander'd far,\n    Upward to God my spirit hover'd.\n  When all was silent round me there,\n    Then in my ears that music sounded;\n  The higher, purer, rose my prayer,\n    The nearer, fuller, it resounded.\n\n  Upon my heart such peace there fell,\n    Those strains with all my thoughts so blended,\n  That how it was I cannot tell\n    That I so high that hour ascended.\n  It seem'd a hundred years and more\n    That I had been thus lost in dreaming,\n  When, all earth's vapors op'ning o'er,\n    A free large place stood, brightly beaming.\n\n  The sky it was so blue and bland,\n    The sun it was so full and glowing,\n  As rose a minster vast and grand,\n    The golden light all round it flowing.\n  The clouds on which it rested seem'd\n    To bear it up like wings of fire;\n  Piercing the heavens, so I dream'd,\n    Sublimely rose its lofty spire.\n\n  The bell--what music from it roll'd!\n    Shook, as it peal'd, the trembling tower;\n  Rung by no mortal hand, but toll'd\n    By some unseen, unearthly power.\n  The selfsame power from Heaven thrill'd\n    My being to its utmost centre,\n  As, all with fear and gladness fill'd,\n    Beneath the lofty dome I enter.\n\n  I stood within the solemn pile--\n    Words cannot tell with what amazement,\n  As saints and martyrs seem'd to smile\n    Down on me from each gorgeous casement.\n  I saw the picture grow alive,\n    And I beheld a world of glory,\n  Where sainted men and women strive\n    And act again their godlike story.\n\n  Before the altar knelt I low--\n    Love and devotion only feeling,\n  While Heaven's glory seem'd to glow,\n    Depicted on the lofty ceiling.\n  Yet when again I upward gazed,\n    The mighty dome in twain was shaken,\n  And Heaven's gate wide open blazed,\n    And every veil away was taken.\n\n  What majesty I then beheld,\n    My heart with adoration swelling;\n  What music all my senses fill'd,\n    Beyond the organ's power of telling,\n  In words can never be exprest;\n    Yet for that bliss who longs sincerely,\n  O let him to the music list,\n    That in the forest soundeth clearly!\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n  CHARLEMAGNE'S VOYAGE[27] (1812)\n\n\n  With comrades twelve upon the main\n    King Charles set out to sail.\n  The Holy Land he hoped to gain,\n    But drifted in a gale.\n\n  Then spake Sir Roland, hero brave:\n    \"Well I can fight and shield;\n  Yet neither stormy wind nor wave\n    Will to my weapon yield.\"\n\n  Sir Holger spoke, from Denmark's strand:\n    \"The harp I feign would play;\n  But what avails the music bland\n    When tempests roaring sway!\"\n\n  Sir Oliver was not too glad;\n    Upon his sword he'd stare:\n  \"For my own weal 'twere not so bad,\n    I grieve, for good Old Clare.\"\n\n  Said wicked Ganilon with gall\n    (He said it 'neath his breath):\n  \"The devil come and take ye all--\n    Were I but spared this death!\"\n\n  Archbishop Turpin deeply sighed:\n    \"The knights of God are we.\n  O come, our Savior, be our guide,\n    And lead us o'er the sea!\"\n\n  Then spake Sir Richard Fearless stern:\n    \"Ye demons there in hell,\n  I served ye many a goodly turn,\n    Now serve ye me as well!\"\n\n  \"My counsel often has been heard,\"\n    Sir Naimes did remark.\n  \"Fresh water, though, and helpful word\n    Are rare upon a bark.\"\n\n  Then spake Sir Riol, old and gray:\n    \"An aged knight am I;\n  And they shall lay my corpse away\n    Where it is good and dry.\"\n\n  And then Sir Guy began to sing--\n    He was a courtly knight:\n  \"Feign would I have a birdie's wing,\n    And to my love take flight!\"\n\n  Then Count Garein, the noble, said:\n    \"God, danger from us keep!\n  I'd rather drink the wine so red\n    Than water in the deep.\"\n\n  Sir Lambert spake, a sprightly youth:\n    \"May God behold our state!\n  I'd rather eat good fish, forsooth,\n    Than be myself a bait.\"\n\n  Then quoth Sir Gottfried: \"Be it so,\n    I heed not how I fare;\n  Whatever I must undergo,\n    My brothers all would share.\"\n\n  But at the helm King Charles sat by,\n    And never said a word,\n  And steered the ship with steadfast eye\n    Till no more tempest stirred.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n  FREE ART[28] (1812)\n\n  Thou, whom song was given, sing\n    In the German poets' wood!\n  When all boughs with music ring--\n    Then is life and pleasure good.\n\n  Nay, this art doth not belong\n    To a small and haughty band;\n  Scattered are the seeds of song\n    All about the German land.\n\n  Music set thy passions free\n    From the heart's confining cage;\n  Let thy love like murmurs be,\n    And like thunder-storm thy rage!\n\n  Singest thou not all thy days,\n    Joy of youth should make thee sing.\n  Nightingales pour forth their lays\n    In the blooming months of spring!\n\n  Though in books they hold not fast\n    What the hour to thee imparts,\n  Leaves unto the breezes cast,\n    To be seized by youthful hearts!\n\n  Fare thou well, thou secret lore:\n    Necromancy, Alchemy!\n  Formulas shall bind no more,\n    And our art is poesy.\n\n  Names we deem but empty air;\n    Spirits we revere alone;\n  Though we honor masters rare.\n    Art is free--it is our own!\n\n  Not in haunts of marble chill,\n    Temples drear where ancients trod--\n  Nay, in oaks on woody hill,\n    Lives and moves the German God.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n  TAILLEFER[29] (1812)\n\n\n  Duke William of the Normans spoke unto his servants all:\n  \"Who is it sings so sweetly in the court and in the hall?\n  Who sings from early morn till the house is still at night\n  So sweetly that he fills my heart with laughter and delight?\"\n\n  \"'Tis Taillefer,\" they answered him, \"so joyously that sings\n  Within the courtyard, as the wheel above the well he swings,\n  And when the fire upon the hearth he stirs to burn more bright,\n  And when he rises to his toil or lays him down at night.\"\n\n  Then spoke the Duke, \"In him I trow I have a faithful knave--\n  This Taillefer that serves me here, so loyal and so brave;\n  He turns the wheel and stirs the fire with willing, sturdy arm,\n  And, best of all, with blithesome song he knows my heart to charm.\"\n\n  Then out spake lusty Taillefer, \"Ah, lord, if I were free,\n  Far better would I serve thee then, and gladly sing to thee.\n  How on my stately charger would I serve thee in the field,\n  How sing before thee cheerily, with clang of sword and shield!\"\n\n  The days went by, and Taillefer rode out as rides a knight\n  Upon a prancing charger borne, a gay and gallant sight;\n  And from the tower looked down on him Duke William's sister fair,\n  And softly murmured, \"By my troth, a stately knight goes there!\"\n\n  When as he rode before the tower, and spied her harkening,\n  Now sang he like a driving storm, now like a breeze of spring;\n  She cried, \"To hear that wondrous song is of all joys the best--\n  The very stones they tremble, and the heart within my breast.\"\n\n  And now the Duke has called his men and crossed the salt sea-foam;\n  With gallant knights and vassals bold to England he has come.\n  And as he sprang from out the ship, he slipped upon the strand,\n  And \"By this token, thus,\" he cried, \"I seize a subject land!\"\n\n  And now on Hastings field arrayed, the host for fight prepare;\n  Before the Duke reins up his horse the valiant Taillefer:\n  \"If I have sung and blown the fire for many a weary year,\n  And since for other years have borne the knightly shield and spear,\n\n  \"If I have sung and served thee well, and praises won from thee,\n  First as a lowly knave and then a warrior, bold and free,\n  Today I claim my guerdon just, that all the host may know--\n  To ride the foremost to the field, strike first against the foe!\"\n\n  So Taillefer rode on before the glittering Norman line\n  Upon his stately steed, and waved a sword of temper fine;\n  Above the embattled plain his song rang all the tumult o'er--\n  Of Roland's knightly deeds he sang and many a hero more.\n\n  And as the noble song of old with tempest-might swelled out,\n  The banners waved and knights pressed on with war-cry and with shout;\n  And every heart among the host throbbed prouder still and higher,\n  And still through all sang Taillefer, and blew the battle-fire.\n\n  Then forward, lance in rest, against the waiting foe he dashed,\n  And at the shock an English knight from out the saddle crashed;\n  Anon he swung his sword and struck a grim and grisly blow,\n  And on the ground beneath his feet an English knight lay low.\n\n  The Norman host his prowess saw, and followed him full fain;\n  With joyful shouts and clang of shields the whole field rang again,\n  And shrill and fast the arrows sped, and swords made merry play--\n  Until at last King Harold fell, his stubborn carles gave way.\n\n  The Duke his banner planted high upon the bloody plain,\n  And pitched his tent a conqueror amid the heaps of slain;\n  Then with his captains sat at meat, the wine-cup in his hand,\n  Upon his head the royal crown of all the English land.\n\n  \"Come hither, valiant Taillefer, and drink a cup with me!\n  Full oft thy song has soothed my grief, made merrier my glee;\n  But all my life I still shall hear the battle-shout that pealed\n  Above the noise of clashing arms today on Hastings field!\"\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n  SUABIAN LEGEND[30] (1814)\n\n\n  When Emperor Redbeard with his band\n  Came marching through the Holy Land,\n  He had to lead, the way to seek,\n  His noble force o'er mountains bleak.\n  Of bread there rose a painful need,\n  Though stones were plentiful indeed,\n  And many a German rider fine\n  Forgot the taste of mead and wine.\n  The horses drooped from meagre fare,\n  The rider had to hold his mare.\n  There was a knight from Suabian land\n  Of noble build and mighty hand;\n  His little horse was faint and ill,\n  He dragged it by the bridle still;\n  His steed he never would forsake,\n  Though his own life should be at stake.\n  And so the horseman had to stay\n  Behind the band a little way.\n  Then all at once, right in his course,\n  Pranced fifty Turkish men on horse.\n  And straight a swarm of arrows flew;\n  Their spears as well the riders threw.\n  Our Suabian brave felt no dismay,\n  And calmly marched along his way.\n  His shield was stuck with arrows o'er,\n  He sneered and looked about--no more;\n  Till one, whom all this pastime bored,\n  Above him swung a crooked sword.\n  The German's blood begins to boil,\n  He aims the Turkish steed to foil,\n  And off he knocks with hit so neat\n  The Turkish charger's two fore-feet.\n  And now that he has felled the horse,\n  He grips his sword with double force\n  And swings it on the rider's crown\n  And splits him to the saddle down;\n  He hews the saddle into bits,\n  And e'en the charger's back he splits.\n  See, falling to the right and left,\n  Half of a Turk that has been cleft!\n  The others shudder at the sight\n  And hie away in frantic flight,\n  And each one feels, with gruesome dread,\n  That he is split through trunk and head.\n  A band of Christians, left behind,\n  Came down the road, his work to find;\n  And they admired, one by one,\n  The deed our hero bold had done.\n  From these the Emperor heard it all,\n  And bade his men the Suabian call,\n  Then spake: \"Who taught thee, honored knight,\n  With hits like those you dealt, to fight?\"\n  Our hero said, without delay\n  \"These hits are just the Suabian way.\n  Throughout the realm all men admit,\n  The Suabians always make a hit.\"\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n  THE BLIND KING[31] (1804, 1814)\n\n\n  Why stands uncovered that northern host\n    High on the seaboard there?\n  Why seeks the old blind king the coast,\n    With his white, wild-fluttering hair?\n  He, leaning on his staff the while,\n    His bitter grief outpours,\n  Till across the bay the rocky isle\n    Sounds from its caverned shores.\n\n  \"From the dungeon-rock, thou robber, bring\n    My daughter back again!\n  Her gentle voice, her harp's sweet string\n    Soothed an old father's pain.\n  From the dance along the green shore\n    Thou hast borne her o'er the wave;\n  Eternal shame light on thy head;\n    Mine trembles o'er the grave.\"\n\n  Forth from his cavern, at the word,\n    The robber comes, all steeled,\n  Swings in the air his giant sword,\n    And strikes his sounding shield.\n  \"A goodly guard attends thee there;\n    Why suffered they the wrong?\n  Is there none will be her champion\n    Of all that mighty throng?\"\n\n  Yet from that host there comes no sound;\n    They stand unmoved as stone;\n  The blind king seems to gaze around;\n    Am I all, all alone?\"\n  \"Not all alone!\" His youthful son\n    Grasps his right hand so warm--\n  \"Grant me to meet this vaunting foe!\n    Heaven's might inspires my arm.\"\n\n  \"O son! it is a giant foe;\n    There's none will take thy part;\n  Yet by this hand's warm grasp, I know\n    Thine is a manly heart.\n  Here, take the trusty battle-sword--\n    'Twas the old minstrel's prize;--\n  If thou art slain, far down the flood\n    Thy poor old father dies!\"\n\n  And hark! a skiff glides swiftly o'er,\n    With plashing, spooming sound;\n  The king stands listening on the shore;\n    'Tis silent all around--\n  Till soon across the bay is borne\n    The sound of shield and sword,\n  And battle-cry, and clash, and clang,\n    And crashing blows, are heard.\n\n  With trembling joy then cried the king:\n    \"Warrior! what mark you? Tell!\n  'Twas my good sword; I heard it ring;\n    I know its tone right well.\"\n  \"The robber falls; a bloody meed\n    His daring crime hath won;\n  Hail to thee, first of heroes! hail!\n    Thou monarch's worthy son!\"\n\n  Again 'tis silent all around;\n    Listens the king once more;\n  \"I hear across the bay the sound\n    As of a plashing oar.\"\n  Yes, it is they!--They come!--They come--\n    Thy son, with spear and shield,\n  And thy daughter fair, with golden hair,\n    The sunny-bright Gunild.\"\n\n  \"Welcome!\" exclaims the blind old man,\n    From the rock high o'er the wave;\n  \"Now my old age is blest again;\n    Honored shall be my grave.\n  Thou, son, shalt lay the sword I wore\n    Beside the blind old king.\n  And thou, Gunilda, free once more,\n    My funeral song shalt sing.\"\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n  THE MINSTREL'S CURSE[32] (1814)\n\n\n  Once in olden times was standing\n    A castle, high and grand,\n  Broad glancing in the sunlight,\n    Far over sea and land.\n  And round were fragrant gardens,\n    A rich and blooming crown;\n  And fountains, playing in them,\n    In rainbow brilliance shone.\n\n  There a haughty king was seated,\n    In lands and conquests great;\n  Pale and awful was his countenance,\n    As on his throne he sate;\n  For what he thinks, is terror,\n    And what he looks, is wrath,\n  And what he speaks, is torture,\n    And what he writes, is death.\n  And 'gainst a marble pillar\n    He shiver'd it in twain;\n  And thus his curse he shouted,\n    Till the castle rang again:\n\n  \"Woe, woe, thou haughty castle,\n    With all thy gorgeous halls!\n  Sweet string or song be sounded\n    No more within thy walls.\n  No, sighs alone, and wailing,\n    And the coward steps of slaves!\n  Already round thy towers\n    The avenging spirit raves!\n\n  \"Woe, woe, ye fragrant gardens,\n    With all your fair May light!\n  Look on this ghastly countenance,\n    And wither at the sight!\n  Let all your flowers perish!\n    Be all your fountains dry!\n  Henceforth a horrid wilderness,\n    Deserted, wasted, lie!\n\n  \"Woe, woe, thou wretched murderer,\n    Thou curse of minstrelsy!\n  Thy struggles for a bloody fame,\n    All fruitless shall they be.\n  Thy name shall be forgotten,\n    Lost in eternal death,\n  Dissolving into empty air\n    Like a dying man's last breath!\"\n\n  The old man's curse is utter'd,\n    And Heaven above hath heard.\n  Those walls have fallen prostrate\n    At the minstrel's mighty word.\n  Of all that vanish'd splendor\n    Stands but one column tall;\n  And that, already shatter'd,\n    Ere another night may fall.\n\n  Around, instead of gardens,\n    In a desert heathen land,\n  No tree its shade dispenses,\n    No fountains cool the sand.\n  The king's name, it has vanish'd;\n    His deeds no songs rehearse;\n  Departed and forgotten--\n    This is the minstrel's curse.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n  THE LUCK OF EDENHALL[33] (1834)\n\n\n  Of Edenhall the youthful lord\n    Bids sound the festal trumpets' call;\n  He rises at the banquet board,\n    And cries, 'mid the drunken revelers all,\n  \"Now bring me the Luck of Edenhall!\"\n\n  The butler hears the words with pain--\n    The house's oldest seneschal--\n  Takes slow from its silken cloth again\n    The drinking glass of crystal tall;\n  They call it the Luck of Edenhall.\n\n  Then said the lord, \"This glass to praise,\n    Fill with red wine from Portugal!\"\n  The graybeard with trembling hand obeys;\n    A purple light shines over all;\n  It beams from the Luck of Edenhall.\n\n  Then speaks the lord, and waves it light--\n    \"This glass of flashing crystal tall\n  Gave to my sires the Fountain-Sprite;\n    She wrote in it, 'If this glass doth fall,\n  Farewell then, O Luck of Edenhall!'\"\n\n  \"'Twas right a goblet the fate should be\n    Of the joyous race of Edenhall!\n  We drink deep draughts right willingly;\n    And willingly ring, with merry call,\n  Kling! klang! to the Luck of Edenhall!\"\n\n  First rings it deep, and full, and mild,\n    Like to the song of a nightingale;\n  Then like the roar of a torrent wild;\n    Then mutters, at last, like the thunder's fall,\n  The glorious Luck of Edenhall.\n\n  \"For its keeper, takes a race of might\n    The fragile goblet of crystal tall;\n  It has lasted longer than is right;\n    Kling! klang!--with a harder blow than all\n  We'll try the Luck of Edenhall!\"\n\n  As the goblet, ringing, flies apart,\n    Suddenly cracks the vaulted hall;\n  And through the rift the flames upstart;\n    The guests in dust are scattered all\n  With the breaking Luck of Edenhall!\n\n  In storms the foe with fire and sword!\n    He in the night had scaled the wall;\n  Slain by the sword lies the youthful lord,\n    But holds in his hand the crystal tall,\n  The shattered Luck of Edenhall.\n\n  On the morrow the butler gropes alone,\n    The graybeard, in the desert hall;\n  He seeks his lord's burnt skeleton;\n    He seeks in the dismal ruin's fall\n  The shards of the Luck of Edenhall.\n\n  \"The stone wall,\" saith he, \"doth fall aside;\n    Down must the stately columns fall;\n  Glass is this earth's Luck and Pride;\n    In atoms shall fall this earthly hall,\n  One day, like the Luck of Edenhall!\"\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n  ON THE DEATH OF A CHILD[34] (1859)\n\n\n  You came, you went, as angels go,\n    A fleeting guest within our land.\n  Whence and where to?--We only know:\n    Forth from God's hand into God's hand.\n\n\n\n\n_JOSEPH VON EICHENDORFF_\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n  THE BROKEN RING[35] (1810)\n\n\n  Down in yon cool valley\n    I hear a mill-wheel go:\n  Alas! my love has left me,\n    Who once dwelt there below.\n\n  A ring of gold she gave me,\n    And vowed she would be true;\n  The vow long since was broken,\n    The gold ring snapped in two.\n\n  I would I were a minstrel,\n    To rove the wide world o'er,\n  And sing afar my measures,\n    And rove from door to door;\n\n  Or else a soldier, flying\n    Deep into furious fight,\n  By silent camp-fires lying\n    A-field in gloomy night.\n\n  Hear I the mill-wheel going:\n    I know not what I will;\n  'Twere best if I were dying--\n    Then all were calm and still.\n\n[Illustration: JOSEPH VON EICHENDORFF]\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n  MORNING PRAYER[36] (1833)\n\n\n  O silence, wondrous and profound!\n    O'er earth doth solitude still reign;\n  The woods alone incline their heads,\n    As if the Lord walked o'er the plain.\n\n  I feel new life within me glow;\n    Where now is my distress and care?\n  Here in the blush of waking morn,\n    I blush at yesterday's despair.\n\n  To me, a pilgrim, shall the world,\n    With all its joy and sorrows, be\n  But as a bridge that leads, O Lord,\n    Across the stream of time to Thee.\n\n  And should my song woo worldly gifts,\n    The base rewards of vanity--\n  Dash down my lyre! I'll hold my peace\n    Before thee to eternity.\n\n\n\n\nFROM THE LIFE OF A GOOD-FOR-NOTHING (1826)\n\nBY JOSEPH VON EICHENDORFF TRANSLATED BY MRS. A.L.W. WISTER\n\nCHAPTER I\n\n\nThe wheel of my father's mill was once more turning and whirring\nmerrily, the melting snow trickled steadily from the roof, the\nsparrows chirped and hopped about, as I, taking great delight in the\nwarm sunshine, sat on the door-step and rubbed my eyes to rid them\nof sleep. Then my father made his appearance; he had been busy in the\nmill since daybreak, and his nightcap was all awry as he said to me--\n\nYou Good-for-nothing! There you sit sunning yourself, and stretching\nyourself till your bones crack, leaving me to do all the work alone. I\ncan keep you here no longer. Spring is at hand. Off with you into the\nworld and earn your own bread!\"\n\n\"Well,\" said I, \"all right; if I am a Good-for-nothing, I will go\nforth into the world and make my fortune.\" In fact, I was very glad to\nhave my father speak thus, for I myself had been thinking of starting\non my travels; the yellow-hammer, which all through the autumn and\nwinter had been chirping sadly at our window, \"Farmer, hire me;\nfarmer, hire me,\" was, now that the lovely spring weather had set in,\nonce more piping cheerily from the old tree, \"Farmer, nobody wants\nyour work.\" So I went into the house and took down from the wall my\nfiddle, on which I could play quite skilfully; my father gave me a\nfew pieces of money to set me on my way; and I sauntered off along\nthe village street. I was filled with secret joy as I saw all my old\nacquaintances and comrades right and left going to their work digging\nand ploughing, just as they had done yesterday and the day before,\nand so on, whilst I was roaming out into the wide world. I called\nout \"Good-by!\" to the poor people on all sides, but no one took much\nnotice of me. A perpetual Sabbath seemed to reign in my soul, and when\nI got out among the fields I took out my dear fiddle and played and\nsang, as I walked along the country road--\n\n  \"The favored ones, the loved of Heaven,\n    God sends to roam the world at will;\n  His wonders to their gaze are given\n    By field and forest, stream and hill.\n\n  \"The dullards who at home are staying\n    Are not refreshed by morning's ray;\n  They grovel, earth-born calls obeying,\n    And petty cares beset their day.\n\n  \"The little brooks o'er rocks are springing,\n    The lark's gay carol fills the air;\n  Why should not I with them be singing\n    A joyous anthem free from care?\n\n  \"I wander on, in God confiding,\n    For all are His, wood, field, and fell;\n  O'er earth and skies He, still presiding,\n    For me will order all things well.\"\n\nAs I was looking around, a fine traveling-carriage drove along very\nnear me; it had probably been just behind me for some time without\nmy perceiving it, so filled with melody had I been, for it was going\nquite slowly, and two elegant ladies had their heads out of the\nwindow, listening. One was especially beautiful, and younger than the\nother, but both pleased me extremely. When I stopped singing the elder\nordered the coachman to stop his horses, and accosted me with great\ncondescension: \"Aha, my merry lad, you know how to sing very pretty\nsongs!\" I, nothing loath, replied, \"Please Your Grace, I know some\nfar prettier.\" \"And where are you going so early in the morning?\" she\nasked. I was ashamed to confess that I did not myself know, and so I\nsaid, boldly, \"To Vienna.\" The two ladies then talked together in a\nstrange tongue which I did not understand. The younger shook her head\nseveral times, but the other only laughed, and finally called to me,\n\"Jump up behind; we too are going to Vienna.\" Who more ready than I!\nI made my best bow, and sprang up behind the carriage, the coachman\ncracked his whip, and away we bowled along the smooth road so swiftly\nthat the wind whistled in my ears.\n\nBehind me vanished my native village with its gardens and\nchurch-tower, before me appeared fresh villages, castles, and\nmountains, beneath me on either side the meadows in the tender green\nof spring flew past, and above me countless larks were soaring in the\nblue air. I was ashamed to shout aloud, but I exulted inwardly,\nand shuffled about so on the foot-board behind the carriage that I\nwell-nigh lost my fiddle from under my arm. But when the sun rose\nhigher in the sky, while heavy, white, noonday clouds gathered on the\nhorizon, and the air hung sultry and still above the gently-waving\ngrain, I could not but remember my village and my father, and our\nmill, and how cool and comfortable it was beside the shady mill-pool,\nand how far, far away from me it all was. And the most curious\nsensation overcame me; I felt as if I must turn and run back; but I\nstuck my fiddle between my coat and my vest, settled myself on the\nfoot-board, and went to sleep.\n\nWhen I opened my eyes again, the carriage was standing beneath tall\nlinden-trees, on the other side of which a broad flight of steps led\nbetween columns into a magnificent castle. Through the trees beyond\nI saw the towers of Vienna. The ladies, it appeared, had left the\ncarriage, and the horses had been unharnessed. I was startled to find\nmyself alone, and I hurried into the castle. As I did so I heard some\none at a window above laughing.\n\nAn odd time I had in this castle. First, as soon as I found myself in\nthe cool, spacious vestibule, some one tapped me on the shoulder with\na stick. I turned quickly about, and there stood a tall gentleman in\nstate apparel, with a broad bandolier of silk and gold crossing his\nbreast from his shoulder to his hip, a staff in his hand, gilded at\nthe top, and an extraordinarily large Roman nose; he strutted up to\nme, swelling like a ruled-up turkey-cock, and asked me what I wanted\nthere. I was taken entirely aback, and in my confusion was unable\nto utter a word. Several servants passed, going up and down the\nstaircase; they said nothing, but eyed me superciliously. Then\na lady's-maid appeared; she came up to me, declared that I was a\ncharming young fellow, and that her mistress had sent to ask me if\nI did not want a place as gardener's boy. I put my hand in my\npocket--the few coins I had possessed were gone. They must have been\njerked out by my shuffling on the foot-board behind the carriage. I\nhad nothing to depend upon save my skill with the fiddle, for which\nthe gentleman with the staff, as he informed me in passing, would not\ngive a farthing. Therefore, in my distress, I said \"yes\" to the maid,\nkeeping my eyes fixed the while upon the portentous figure pacing\nthe hall to and fro like the pendulum of a clock in a church-tower,\nappearing from the background with imposing majesty and with unfailing\nregularity. At last a gardener came, muttering something about boors\nand vagabonds, and led me off to the garden, preaching me a long\nsermon on the way about my being diligent and industrious and never\nloitering about the world any more, and how, if I would give up all my\nidle and foolish ways, I might come to some good in the end. There was\na great deal of exhortation in this strain, very good and useful, but\nI have since forgotten it nearly all. In fact, I really hardly know\nhow it all came about; I went on saying \"yes\" to everything, and I\nfelt like a bird with its wings clipped. But, thank God, in the end I\nwas earning my living!\n\nI found life delightful in that garden. I had a hot dinner every day\nand plenty of it, and more money than I needed for my glass of wine,\nonly, unfortunately, I had quite a deal to do. The pavilions, and\narbors, and long green walks delighted me, if I could only have\nsauntered about and talked pleasantly like the gentlemen and ladies\nwho came there every day. Whenever the gardener was away and I was\nalone, I took out my short tobacco-pipe, sat down, and thought of all\nthe beautiful, polite things with which I could have entertained\nthat lovely young lady who had brought me to the castle, had I been a\ncavalier walking beside her. Or on sultry afternoons I lay on my\nback on the grass, when all was so quiet that you could hear the bees\nhumming, and I gazed up at the clouds sailing away toward my native\nvillage, and around me at the waving grass and flowers, and thought of\nthe lovely lady; and it sometimes chanced that I really saw her in the\ndistance walking in the garden, with her guitar or a book, tall and\nbeautiful as an angel, and I was only half conscious whether I were\nawake or dreaming.\n\nThus, once as I was passing a summer-house on my way to work, I was\nsinging to myself--\n\n  \"I gaze around me, going\n    By forest, dale, and lea,\n  O'er heights where streams are flowing,\n  My every thought bestowing,\n    Ah, Lady fair, on thee!\"--\n\nwhen, through the half-opened lattice of the cool, dark summer-house\nburied amid flowers, I saw the sparkle of a pair of beautiful,\nyouthful eyes. I was so startled that I could not finish my song, but\npassed on to my work without looking round.\n\nIn the evening--it was Saturday, and, in joyous anticipation of the\ncoming Sunday, I was standing, fiddle in hand, at the window of\nthe gardener's house, still thinking of the sparkling eyes--the\nlady's-maid came tripping through the twilight--\"The gracious Lady\nfair sends you this to drink her health, and a 'Good-Night' besides!\"\nAnd in a twinkling she put a flask of wine on the window-sill and\nvanished among the flowers and shrubs like a lizard.\n\nI stood looking at the wonderful flask for a long time, not knowing\nwhat to think. And if before I played the fiddle merrily, I now\nplayed it ten times more so, and I sang the song of the Lady fair all\nthrough, and all the other songs that I knew, until the nightingales\nwakened outside and the moon and stars lit up the garden. Ah, that was\na lovely night!\n\nNo cradle-song tells the child's future; a blind hen finds many a\ngrain of wheat; he laughs best who laughs last; the unexpected often\nhappens; man proposes, God disposes: thus did I meditate the next day,\nsitting in the garden with my pipe, and as I looked down at myself I\nseemed to myself to be a downright dunce. Contrary to all my habits\nhitherto, I now rose betimes every day, before the gardener and the\nother assistants were stirring. It was most beautiful then in the\ngarden. The flowers, the fountains, the rose-bushes, the whole place,\nglittered in the morning sunshine like pure gold and jewels. And in\nthe avenues of huge beeches it was as quiet, cool, and solemn as\na church, only the little birds fluttered around and pecked in the\ngravel paths. In front of the castle, just under the windows, there\nwas a large bush in full bloom. Thither I used to go in the early\nmorning, and crouch down beneath the branches where I could watch the\nwindows, for I had not the courage to appear in the open. Thence I\nsometimes saw the Lady fair in a snow-white robe come, still drowsy\nand warm, to the open window. She would stand there braiding her\ndark-brown hair, gazing abroad over the garden and shrubbery, or she\nwould tend and water the flowers upon her window-sill, or would rest\nher guitar upon her white arm and sing out into the clear air so\nwondrously that to this day my heart faints with sadness when one of\nher songs recurs to me. And ah, it was all so long ago!\n\nSo my life passed for a week and more. But once--she was standing at\nthe window and all was quiet around--a confounded fly flew directly\nup my nose, and I was seized with an interminable fit of sneezing.\nShe leaned far out of the window and discovered me cowering in the\nshrubbery. I was overcome with mortification and did not go there\nagain for many a day.\n\nAt last I ventured to return to my post, but the window remained\nclosed. I hid in the bushes for four, five, six mornings, but she did\nnot appear. Then I grew tired of my hiding-place and came out boldly,\nand every morning promenaded bravely beneath all the windows of the\ncastle. But the lovely Lady fair was not to be seen. At a window a\nlittle farther on I saw the other lady standing; I had never before\nseen her so distinctly. She had a fine rosy face, and was plump, and\nas gorgeously attired as a tulip. I always made her a low bow, and she\nacknowledged it, and her eyes twinkled very kindly and courteously.\nOnce only, I thought I saw the Lady fair standing behind the curtain\nat her window, peeping out.\n\nMany days passed and I did not see her, either in the garden or at\nthe window. The gardener scolded me for laziness; I was out of humor,\ntired of myself and of all about me.\n\nI was lying on the grass one Sunday afternoon, watching the blue\nwreaths of smoke from my pipe, and fretting because I had not chosen\nsome other trade which would not have bored me so day after day.\nThe other fellows had all gone off to the dance in the neighboring\nvillage. Every one was strolling about in Sunday attire, the houses\nwere gay, and there was melody in the very air. But I walked off and\nsat solitary, like a bittern among the reeds, by a lonely pond in the\ngarden, rocking myself in a little skiff tied there, while the vesper\nbells sounded faintly from the town and the swans glided to and fro on\nthe placid water. A sadness as of death possessed me.\n\nOn a sudden I heard, in the distance, voices talking gaily, and bursts\nof merry laughter. They sounded nearer and nearer, and red and white\nkerchiefs and hats and feathers were visible through the shrubbery. A\nparty of gentlemen and ladies were coming from the castle, across the\nmeadow, directly toward me, and my two ladies among them. I stood up\nand was about to retire, when the elder perceived me. \"Aha, you are\njust what we want!\" she called to me, smiling. \"Row us across the\npond to the other side.\" The ladies cautiously took their seats in\nthe boat, assisted by the gentlemen, who made quite a parade of their\nfamiliarity with the water. When all the ladies were seated, I pushed\noff from the shore. One of the young gentlemen who stood in the prow\nbegan, unperceived, to rock the boat. The ladies looked frightened,\nand one or two screamed. The Lady fair, who had a lily in her hand,\nand was sitting well in the centre of the skiff, looked down with a\nquiet smile into the clear water, touching the surface of the pond now\nand then with a lily, her image, amid the reflections of the clouds\nand trees, appearing like an angel soaring gently through the deep\nblue skies.\n\nAs I was gazing at her, the other of my two ladies, the plump, merry\none, suddenly took it into her head that I must sing as we glided\nalong. A very elegant young gentleman with an eye-glass, who sat\nbeside her, instantly turned to her, and, as he kissed her hand, said,\n\"Thanks for the poetic idea! A folk-song sung by one of the people in\nthe open air is an Alpine rose, upon the very Alps--the Alpine horns\nare nothing but herbaria--the soul of the national consciousness.\"\nBut I said I did not know anything fine enough to sing to such great\npeople. Then the pert lady's-maid, who was beside me with a basket of\ncups and bottles, and whom I had not perceived before, said, \"He knows\na very pretty little song about a lady fair.\" \"Yes, yes, sing that\none!\" the lady exclaimed. I felt hot all over, and the Lady fair\nlifted her eyes from the water and gave me a look that went to my very\nsoul. So I did not hesitate any longer, but took heart and sang with\nall my might might--\n\n  \"I gaze around me, going\n    By forest, dale, and lea,\n  O'er heights where streams are flowing,\n  My every thought bestowing,\n    Ah, Lady fair, on thee!\n\n  \"And in my garden, finding\n    Bright flowers fresh and rare,\n  While many a wreath I'm binding,\n  Sweet thoughts therein I'm winding\n    Of thee, my Lady fair.\n\n  \"For me 'twould be too daring\n    To lay them at her feet.\n  They'll soon away be wearing,\n  But love beyond comparing\n    Is thine, my Lady sweet.\n\n  \"In early morning waking,\n    I toil with ready smile,\n  And though my heart be breaking,\n  I'll sing to hide its aching,\n    And dig my grave the while.\"\n\nThe boat touched the shore, and all the party got out; many of the\nyoung gentlemen, as I had perceived, had made game of me in whispers\nto the ladies while I was singing. The gentleman with the eye-glass\ntook my hand as he left the boat, and said something to me, I do not\nremember what, and the elder of my two ladies gave me a kindly glance.\nThe Lady fair had never raised her eyes all the time I was singing,\nand she went away without a word. As for me, before my song was ended\nthe tears stood in my eyes; my heart seemed like to burst with shame\nand misery. I understood now for the first time how beautiful she\nwas, and how poor and despised and forsaken I, and when they had all\ndisappeared behind the bushes I could contain myself no longer, but\nthrew myself down on the grass and wept bitterly.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER II\n\n\nThe highroad was close on one side of the castle garden, and separated\nfrom it only by a high wall. A very pretty little toll-house with a\nred-tiled roof stood near, with a gay little flower-garden inclosed by\na picket-fence behind it. A breach in the wall connected this garden\nwith the most secluded and shady part of the castle garden itself. The\ntoll-gate keeper who occupied the cottage died suddenly, and early one\nmorning, when I was still sound asleep, the Secretary from the castle\nwaked me in a great hurry and bade me come immediately to the\nBailiff. I dressed myself as quickly as I could and followed the brisk\nSecretary, who, as we went, plucked a flower here and there and stuck\nit into his button-hole, made scientific lunges in the air with his\ncane, and talked steadily to me all the while, although my eyes and\nears were so filled with sleep that I could not understand anything\nhe said. When we reached the office, where as yet it was hardly light,\nthe Bailiff, behind a huge inkstand and piles of books and papers,\nlooked at me from out of his huge wig like an owl from out its nest,\nand began: \"What's your name? Where do you come from? Can you read,\nwrite, and cipher?\" And when I assented, he went on, \"Well, her\nGrace, in consideration of your good manners and extraordinary merit,\nappoints you to the vacant post of Receiver of Toll.\" I hurriedly\npassed in mental review the conduct and manners that had hitherto\ndistinguished me, and was forced to admit that the Bailiff was right.\nAnd so, before I knew it, I was Receiver of Toll. I took possession of\nmy dwelling, and was soon comfortably established there. The deceased\ntoll-gate keeper had left behind him for his successor various\narticles, which I appropriated, among others a magnificent scarlet\ndressing-gown dotted with yellow, a pair of green slippers, a tasseled\nnightcap, and several long-stemmed pipes. I had often wished for\nthese things at home, where I used to see our village pastor thus\ncomfortably provided. All day long, therefore--I had nothing else to\ndo--I sat on the bench before my house in dressing-gown and nightcap,\nsmoking the longest pipe from the late toll-gate keeper's collection,\nand looking at the people walking, driving, and riding on the\nhigh-road. I only wished that some of the folks from our village, who\nhad always said that I never would be worth anything, might happen to\npass by and see me thus. The dressing-gown became my complexion, and\nsuited me extremely well. So I sat there and pondered many things--the\ndifficulty of all beginnings, the great advantages of an easier mode\nof existence, for example--and privately resolved to give up travel\nfor the future, save money like other people, and in time do something\nreally great in the world. Meanwhile, with all my resolves, anxieties,\nand occupations, I in no wise forgot the Lady fair.\n\nI dug up and threw out of my little garden all the potatoes and\nother vegetables that I found there, and planted it instead with the\nchoicest flowers, which proceeding caused the Porter from the castle\nwith the big Roman nose--who since I had been made Receiver often came\nto see me, and had become my intimate friend--to eye me askance as a\nperson crazed by sudden good fortune. But that did not deter me. For\nfrom my little garden I could often hear feminine voices not far off\nin the castle garden, and among them I thought I could distinguish\nthe voice of my Lady fair, although, because of the thick shrubbery,\nI could see nobody. And so every day I plucked a nosegay of my finest\nflowers, and when it was dark in the evening, I climbed over the wall\nand laid it upon a marble table in an arbor near by, and every time\nthat I brought a fresh nosegay the old one was gone from the table.\n\nOne evening all the castle inmates were away hunting; the sun was just\nsetting, flooding the landscape with flame and color, the Danube wound\ntoward the horizon like a band of gold and fire, and the vine-dressers\non all the hills throughout the country were glad and gay. I was\nsitting with the Porter on the bench before my cottage, enjoying the\nmild air and the gradual fading to twilight of the brilliant day.\nSuddenly the horns of the returning hunting-party sounded on the\nair; the notes were tossed from hill to hill by the echoes. My soul\ndelighted in it all, and I sprang up and exclaimed, in an intoxication\nof joy, \"That is what I ought to follow in life, the huntsman's noble\ncalling!\" But the Porter quietly knocked the ashes out of his pipe and\nsaid, \"You only think so; I've tried it. You hardly earn the shoes you\nwear out, and you're never without a cough or a cold from perpetually\ngetting your feet wet.\" I cannot tell how it was, but upon hearing him\nspeak thus, I was seized with such a fit of foolish rage that I fairly\ntrembled. On a sudden the entire fellow, with his bedizened coat, his\nbig feet, his snuff, his big nose, and everything about him, became\nodious to me. Quite beside myself, I seized him by the breast of his\ncoat and said, \"Home with you, Porter, on the instant, or I'll send\nyou there in a way you won't like!\" At these words the Porter was\nmore than ever convinced that I was crazy. He gazed at me with evident\nfear, extricated himself from my grasp, and went without a word,\nlooking reproachfully back at me, and striding toward the castle,\nwhere he reported me as stark, staring mad.\n\nBut after all I burst into a hearty laugh, glad in fact to be rid of\nthe pompous fellow, for it was just the hour when I was wont to carry\nmy nosegay to the arbor. I clambered over the wall, and was just about\nto place the flowers on the marble table, when I heard the sound of a\nhorse's hoofs at some distance. There was no time for escape; my Lady\nfair was riding slowly along the avenue in a green hunting-habit,\napparently lost in thought. All that I had read in an old book of my\nfather's about the beautiful Magelona came into my head--how she used\nto appear among the tall forest-trees, when horns were echoing and\nevening shadows were flitting through the glades. I could not\nstir from the spot. She started when she perceived me and paused\ninvoluntarily. I was as if intoxicated with intense joy, dread, and\nthe throbbing of my heart, and when I saw that she actually wore at\nher breast the flowers I had left yesterday, I could no longer keep\nsilent, but said in a rapture, \"Fairest Lady fair, accept these\nflowers too, and all the flowers in my garden, and everything I have!\nAh, if I could only brave some danger for you!\" At first she had\nlooked at me so gravely, almost angrily, that I shivered, but then\nshe cast down her eyes, and did not lift them while I was speaking. At\nthat moment voices and the tramp of horses were heard in the distance.\nShe snatched the flowers from my hand, and without saying a word,\nswiftly vanished at the end of the avenue.\n\nAfter this evening I had neither rest nor peace. I felt continually,\nas I had always felt when spring was at hand, restless and merry, and\nas if some great good fortune or something extraordinary were about\nto befall me. My wretched accounts in especial never would come right,\nand when the sunshine, playing among the chestnut boughs before my\nwindow, cast golden-green gleams upon my figures, illuminating \"Bro't\nover\" and \"Total,\" my addition grew sometimes so confused that I\nactually could not count three. The figure \"eight\" always looked to\nme like my stout, tightly-laced lady with the gay head-dress, and\nthe provoking \"seven\" like a finger-post pointing the wrong way, or a\ngallows. The \"nine\" was the queerest, suddenly, before I knew what it\nwas about, standing on its head to look like \"six,\" whilst \"two\" would\nturn into a pert interrogation-point, as if to ask me, \"What in the\nworld is to become of you, you poor zero? Without the others, the\nslender 'one' and all the rest, you never can come to anything!\"\n\nI had no longer any ease in sitting before my door. I took out a stool\nto make myself more comfortable, and put my feet upon it; I patched up\nan old parasol, and held it over me like a Chinese pleasure-dome. But\nall would not do. As I sat smoking and speculating, my legs seemed\nto stretch to twice their size from weariness, and my nose lengthened\nvisibly as I looked down at it for hours. And when sometimes, before\ndaybreak, an express drove up, and I went out, half asleep, into the\ncool air, and a pretty face, but dimly seen in the dawning except for\nits sparkling eyes, looked out at me from the coach window and kindly\nbade me good-morning, while from the villages around the cock's clear\ncrow echoed across the fields of gently-waving grain, and an early\nlark, high in the skies among the flushes of morning, soared here and\nthere, and the Postilion wound his horn and blew, and blew--as the\ncoach drove off, I would stand looking after it, feeling as if I could\nnot but start off with it on the instant into the wide, wide world.\n\nI still took my flowers every day, when the sun had set, to the marble\ntable in the dim arbor. But since that evening all had been over. Not\na soul took any notice of them, and when I went to look after them\nearly the next morning, there they lay as I had left them, gazing\nsadly at me with their heads hanging, and the dew-drops glistening\nupon their fading petals as if they were weeping. This distressed me,\nand I plucked no more flowers. I let the weeds grow in my garden as\nthey pleased, and the flowers stayed on their stalks until the wind\nblew them away. Within me there were the same desolation and neglect.\n\nIn this critical state of affairs it happened once that, as I was\nleaning out of my window gazing dully into vacancy, the lady's-maid\nfrom the castle came tripping across the road. When she saw me she\ncame and stood just outside the window. \"His Grace returned from\nhis travels yesterday,\" she remarked, hurriedly. \"Indeed!\" I said,\nsurprised, for I had taken no interest in anything for several weeks,\nand did not even know that his Grace had been traveling. \"Then his\nlovely daughter will be very glad.\" The maid looked at me with a\nstrange expression of face, so that I began to wonder whether I had\nsaid anything especially stupid. \"He knows absolutely nothing!\" she\nsaid at last, turning up her little nose. \"Well,\" she resumed, \"there\nis to be a ball and masquerade this evening at the castle in honor of\nhis Grace. My lady is to be dressed as a flower-girl--understand, as\na flower-girl. And she has noticed that you have particularly pretty\nflowers in your garden.\" \"That's strange,\" I thought to myself; \"there\nis hardly a flower to be seen there for the weeds!\" But she continued:\n\"And since my lady needs perfectly fresh flowers for her costume, you\nare to bring her some this evening, and wait under the big pear-tree\nin the castle garden when it is dark until she comes for the flowers\nherself.\"\n\nI was completely dazed with joy at this intelligence, and in my\nrapture I leaped out of the window and ran after the maid.\n\n\"Ugh, what an ugly dressing-gown!\" she exclaimed, when she saw me\nwith my fluttering robe in the open air. This vexed me, but, not to be\nbehindhand in gallantry, I capered gaily after her to give her a kiss.\nUnluckily, my feet became entangled in my dressing-gown, which was\nmuch too long for me, and I fell flat on the ground. When I had picked\nmyself up the maid was gone, and I heard her in the distance laughing\nfit to kill herself.\n\nNow I had delightful food for my reflections. After all, she still\nremembered me and my flowers! I went into my garden and hastily tore\nup all the weeds from the beds, throwing them high above my head into\nthe sunlit air, as if with the roots I were eradicating all melancholy\nand annoyance from my life. Once more the roses were like _her_ lips,\nthe sky-blue convolvulus was like _her_ eyes, the snowy lily with its\npensive, drooping head was _her_ very image. I put them all tenderly\nin a little basket; the evening was calm and lovely, not a speck of\na cloud in the sky. Here and there a star appeared; the murmur of\nthe Danube was heard afar over the meadows; in the tall trees of the\ncastle garden countless birds were twittering to one another merrily.\nAh, I was so happy!\n\nWhen at last night came I took my basket on my arm and set out for the\nlarge garden. The flowers in the little basket looked so gay, white,\nred, blue, and smelled so sweet, that my very heart laughed when I\npeeped in at them.\n\nFilled with joyous thoughts, I walked in the lovely moonlight over the\ntrim paths strewn with gravel, across the little white bridge, beneath\nwhich the swans were sleeping on the bosom of the water, and past the\npretty arbors and summer-houses. I soon found the big pear-tree; it\nwas the same under which, while I was gardener's boy, I used to lie on\nsultry afternoons.\n\nAll around me here was dark and lonely. A tall aspen quivered and kept\nwhispering with its silver leaves. The music from the castle was\nheard at intervals, and now and then there were voices in the garden;\nsometimes they passed quite near me, and then all would be still\nagain.\n\nMy heart beat fast. I had a strange uncomfortable sensation as if I\nwere a robber. I stood for a long time stock-still, leaning against\nthe tree and listening; but when no one appeared I could bear it no\nlonger. I hung my basket on my arm and clambered up into the pear-tree\nto breathe a purer air.\n\nThe music of the dance floated up to me over the tree-tops. I\noverlooked the entire garden and gazed directly into the brilliantly\nilluminated windows of the castle. Chandeliers glittered there like\ngalaxies of stars; a multitude of gaily-dressed gentlemen and ladies\nwandered and waltzed and whirled about unrecognizable, like the gay\nfigures of a magic-lantern; at times some of them leaned out of the\nwindows and looked down into the garden. In front of the castle the\nbrilliant light gilded the grass, the shrubbery, and the trees, so\nthat the flowers and the birds seemed to be aroused by it. All around\nand below me, however, the garden lay black and still.\n\n\"_She_ is dancing there now,\" I thought to myself up in the tree,\"\nand has long since forgotten you and your flowers. All are gay; not a\nhuman being cares for you in the least. And thus it is with me, always\nand everywhere. Every one has his little nook marked out for him on\nthis earth, his warm hearth, his cup of coffee, his wife, his glass of\nwine in the evening, and is perfectly happy; even the Porter with his\nbig nose is content. For me there is no place, I seem to be just too\nlate everywhere; the world has not a bit of need of me.\"\n\nAs I was philosophizing thus, I suddenly heard something rustle on the\ngrass below me. Two soft voices were speaking together in a low\ntone. In a moment the foliage of the shrubbery was parted, and the\nlady's-maid's little face appeared among the leaves, peering about\non all sides. The moonlight sparkled in her saucy eyes as they\npeeped out. I held my breath and stared down at her. Before long the\nflower-girl did actually appear among the trees, just as the maid had\ndescribed her to me yesterday. My heart throbbed as if it would burst.\nShe had on a mask, and seemed to be gazing around in surprise. Somehow\nshe did not look to me as slender and graceful as she had been.\nAt last she reached the tree, and took off her mask. It was the\nother--the elder lady!\n\nHow glad I was, when I had recovered from the first shock, that I was\nup here in safety! How in the world did she chance to come here? If\nthe dear, lovely Lady fair should happen to come at this instant\nfor her flowers, there would be a fine to-do! I could have cried for\nvexation at the whole affair.\n\nMeanwhile the disguised flower-girl beneath me began: \"It is so\nstifling hot in the ball-room, I had to come out to cool myself in\nthis lovely open air.\" Thereupon she fanned herself with her mask\nand puffed and blew. In the bright moonlight I could plainly see how\nswollen were the cords of her neck; she looked very angry and quite\nscarlet in the face. The lady's maid was all the while searching\nbehind every bush, as if she were looking for a lost pin.\n\n\"I do so need more fresh flowers for my character,\" the flower-girl\ncontinued. \"Where can he be?\" The maid went on searching, and kept\nchuckling to herself. \"What did you say, Rosetta?\" the flower-girl\nasked, shrewishly. \"I say what I always have said,\" the maid replied,\nputting on a very serious, honest face; \"the Receiver is a lazy\nfellow; of course he is lying behind some bush sound asleep.\"\n\nMy blood tingled with longing to jump down and defend my reputation,\nwhen on a sudden a burst of music and loud shouts were heard from the\ncastle.\n\nThe flower-girl could stay no longer. \"The people are cheering his\nGrace,\" she said passionately. \"Come, we shall be missed!\" And she\nclapped on her mask in a hurry, and ran in a rage with the maid toward\nthe castle. The trees and bushes seemed to point after her with long,\nderisive fingers, the moonlight danced nimbly up and down over her\nstout figure as though over the key-board of a piano, and thus to\nthe sound of trumpets and kettle-drums she made her exit, like many a\nsinger whom I have seen upon the stage.\n\nI, seated above in my tree, was downright bewildered, and gazed\nfixedly at the castle; a circle of tall torches upon the steps of the\nentrance cast a strange glare upon the glittering windows and deep\ninto the garden; the assembled servants were to serenade their master.\nIn the midst of them stood the gorgeous Porter, like a minister of\nstate, before a music-stand, working away busily at a bassoon.\n\nJust as I had settled myself to listen to the beautiful serenade, the\nfolding-doors leading to the balcony above the entrance parted. A tall\ngentleman, very handsome and dignified, in uniform and glittering with\norders, stepped out on the balcony, leading by the hand the lovely\nyoung Lady fair, dressed in white like a lily in the night, or like\nthe moon in the clear skies.\n\nI could not take my eyes from her, and garden, trees, and fields\ndisappeared before me, as she stood there tall and slender, so\nwondrously illuminated by the torch-light, now speaking with such\ngrace to the young officer, and now nodding down kindly to the\nmusicians. The people below were beside themselves with delight,\nand at last I too could restrain myself no longer, and joined in the\ncheers with all my might.\n\nBut when, soon after, she disappeared from the balcony, one after\nanother the torches below were extinguished and the music-stands\ncleared away, and the garden around was once more dark, and the trees\nrustled as before--then it all became clear to me; I saw that it was\nreally only the aunt who had ordered the flowers of me, that the Lady\nfair never thought of me and had been married long ago, and that I\nmyself was a big fool.\n\nAll this plunged me into an abyss of reflection. I rolled myself round\nlike a hedgehog on the prickles of my own thoughts. Snatches of music\nstill reached me now and then from the ball-room--the clouds floated\nlonely away above the dim garden. And there I sat, all through\nthe night, up in the tree, like a night-owl, amid the ruins of my\nhappiness.\n\nThe cool breeze of morning aroused me at last from my dreamings. I was\nstartled as I looked about me. The music and dancing had long since\nceased, and everything around the castle and on the lawn, and the\nmarble steps and columns, all looked quiet, cool, and solemn; the\nfountain alone plashed on before the entrance. Here and there in the\nboughs near me the birds were awaking, shaking their bright feathers,\nand as they stretched their little wings, peering curiously and amazed\nat their strange fellow-sleeper. The joyous rays of morning flashed\nacross my breast and over the garden.\n\nI stood erect in my tree, and for the first time for a long while\nlooked far abroad over the country, to where the ships glided down\nthe Danube among the vineyards, and the high-roads, still deserted,\nstretched like bridges across the gleaming landscape and far over the\ndistant hills and valleys.\n\nI cannot tell how it was, but all at once my former love of travel\ntook possession of me, all the old melancholy, and delight, and ardent\nexpectation. And at the same moment I thought of the Lady fair over in\nthe castle sleeping among flowers, beneath silken coverlets, with an\nangel surely keeping watch beside her bed in the silence of the dawn.\n\"No!\" I cried aloud. \"I must go away from here, far, far away--as far\nas the sky stretches its blue arch!\"\n\nAs I uttered the words I tossed my basket high into the air, so that\nit was beautiful to see how the flowers fell among the branches and\nlay in gay colors on the green sod below. Then I got down as quickly\nas possible, and went through the quiet garden to my dwelling. I\npaused many times at spots where I had seen her pass, or where I had\nlain in the shade and thought of her.\n\nIn and about my cottage all was just as I had left it the day before.\nThe garden was torn up and laid waste, the big account-book lay\nopen on the table in my room, my fiddle, which I had almost clean\nforgotten, hung dusty on the wall; a ray of morning light glittered\nupon the strings. It struck a chord in my heart. \"Yes,\" I said, \"come\nhere, thou faithful instrument! Our kingdom is not of this world!\"\n\nSo I took the fiddle from the wall, and leaving behind me the\naccount-book, dressing-gown, slippers, pipes, and parasol, I walked\nout of my cottage, as poor as when I entered it, and down along the\ngleaming high-road.\n\nI looked back often and often; I felt very strange, sad, and yet\nmerry, like a bird escaping from his cage. And when I had walked some\ndistance I took out my fiddle and sang--\n\n  \"I wander on, in God confiding,\n    For all are His, wood, field, and fell;\n  O'er earth and skies He still presiding,\n    For me will order all things well.\"\n\nThe castle, the garden, and the spires of Vienna vanished behind me\nin the morning mists; far above me countless larks exulted in the air;\nthus, past gay villages and hamlets and over green hills, I wandered\non toward Italy.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER III\n\n\nHere was a puzzle! It had never occurred to me that I did not know my\nway. Not a human being was to be seen in the quiet early morning\nwhom I could question, and right before me the road divided into many\nroads, which went on far, far over the highest mountains, as though to\nthe very end of the world--so that I actually grew giddy as I looked\nalong them.\n\nAt last a peasant appeared, going to church I fancy, as it was Sunday,\nin an old-fashioned coat with large silver buttons, and swinging a\nlong malacca cane with a massive silver head, which sparkled from afar\nin the sunlight. I immediately asked him very politely, \"Can you tell\nme which is the road to Italy?\" The fellow stood still, stared at me,\nthrust out his under lip reflectively, and stared at me again. I began\nonce more: \"To Italy, where oranges grow.\" \"What do I care for your\noranges!\" said the peasant, and walked on sturdily. I should have\ncredited the fellow with more politeness, for he really looked very\nfine.\n\nWhat was to be done? Turn round and go back to my native village? Why,\nthe folks would have jeered me, and the boys would have run after me\ncrying, \"Oh, indeed! you're welcome back from 'out in the world.'\nHow does it look 'out in the world?' Haven't you brought us some\nginger-nuts from 'out in the world?'\" The Porter with the High Roman\nnose, who certainly was familiar with Universal History, used often to\nsay to me, \"Respected Herr Receiver, Italy is a beautiful country; the\ndear God takes care of every one there. You can lie on your back in\nthe sunshine and raisins drop into your mouth; and if a tarantula\nbites you, you dance with the greatest ease, although you never\nin your life before learned to dance.\" \"Ay, to Italy! to Italy!\" I\nshouted with delight, and, heedless of any choice of roads, hurried on\nalong the first that came.\n\nAfter I had gone a little way I saw on the right a most beautiful\norchard, with the morning sun shimmering on the trunks and through the\ntree-tops so brilliantly that it looked as if the ground were spread\nwith golden rugs. As no one was in sight, I clambered over the low\nfence and lay down comfortably on the grass under an apple-tree;\nall my limbs were still aching from camping out in the tree on the\nprevious night. From where I lay I could see far abroad over the\ncountry, and as it was Sunday the sound of the church-bells from\nthe far distance came to me over the quiet fields, and gaily-dressed\npeasants were walking across the meadows and along the lanes to\nchurch. I was glad at heart; the birds sang in the tree overhead;\nI thought of my father's mill, and of the garden of the lovely Lady\nfair, and of how far, far away it all was--until I fell sound asleep.\nI dreamed that the Lady fair came walking, or rather slowly flying,\ntoward me from the lovely landscape to the music of the church-bells,\nin long white robes that waved in the rosy morning. Then again\nit seemed that we were not in a strange country, but in my native\nvillage, in the deep shade beside the mill. But everything was still\nand deserted, as it is when the people are all gone to church and only\nthe solemn sounds of the organ wafted down through the trees break the\nstillness; I was oppressed with melancholy. But the Lady fair was very\nkind and gentle, and put her hand in mine and walked along with me,\nand sang, amid this solitude, the beautiful song that she used to\nsing to her guitar early in the morning at her open window, and in the\nplacid mill-pool I saw her image, lovelier even than herself, except\nthat the eyes were wondrous large and looked at me so strangely that\nI was almost afraid. Then suddenly the mill-wheel began to turn, at\nfirst slowly, then faster and more noisily; the pool became dark and\ntroubled, the Lady fair turned very pale, and her robes grew longer\nand longer, and fluttered wildly in long strips like pennons of\nmist up toward the skies; the roaring of the mill-wheel sounded ever\nlouder, and it seemed as though it were the Porter blowing upon his\nbassoon, so that I waked up with my heart throbbing violently.\n\nIn fact, a breeze had arisen, which was gently stirring the leaves of\nthe apple-tree above me; but the noise and roaring came neither from\nthe mill nor from the Porter's bassoon, but from the same peasant who\nhad before refused to show me the way to Italy. He had taken off\nhis Sunday coat and put on a white smock-frock. \"Oho!\" he said, as I\nrubbed my sleepy eyes, \"do you want to pick your oranges here, that\nyou trample down all my grass instead of going to church, you lazy\nlout, you?\" I was vexed that the boor should have waked me, and I\nstarted up and cried, \"Hold your tongue! I have been a better gardener\nthan you will ever be, and a Receiver, and if you had been driving to\ntown, you would have had to take off your dirty cap to me, sitting at\nmy door in my yellow-dotted, red dressing-gown--\" But the fellow was\nnothing daunted, and, putting his arms akimbo, merely asked, \"What do\nyou want here? eh! eh!\" I saw that he was a short, stubbed, bow-legged\nfellow, with protruding goggle-eyes, and a red, rather crooked nose.\nAnd when he went on saying nothing but \"Eh! eh!\" and kept advancing\ntoward me step by step, I was suddenly seized with so curious a\nsensation of disgust that I hastily jumped to my feet, leaped over the\nfence, and, without looking round, ran across country until my fiddle\nin my pocket twanged again.\n\nWhen at last I stopped to take breath, the orchard and the whole\nvalley were out of sight and I was in a beautiful forest. But I took\nlittle note of it, for I was downright provoked at the peasant's\nimpertinence, and I fumed for a long time, to myself. I walked on\nquickly, going farther and farther from the high-road and in among the\nmountains. The plank-roadway which I had been following ceased, and\nbefore me was only a narrow, unfrequented foot-path. Not a soul was\nto be seen anywhere, and no sound was to be heard. But it was very\npleasant walking; the trees rustled and the birds sang sweetly. I\nresigned myself to the guidance of heaven, and, taking out my violin,\nplayed all my favorite airs. Very joyous they sounded in the lonely\nforest.\n\nI grew tired of playing after a while, for I stumbled every minute\nover the tiresome roots of the trees, and I began to grow very hungry,\nwhile the wood seemed endless. Thus I wandered for the entire day,\nuntil the sun's rays came aslant through the trunks of the trees, when\nat last I emerged on a little grassy vale shut in by the mountains and\ngay with red and yellow flowers, above which myriads of butterflies\nwere fluttering in the golden light of the setting sun. It was as\nsecluded here as though the world had been hundreds of miles away. The\ncrickets chirped, and a shepherd lad lying among the tall grasses blew\nso melancholy an air upon his horn that it was enough to break one's\nheart. \"Yes,\" thought I to myself, \"who has as happy a lot as a lazy\nlout! Some of us, though, have to wander about among strangers, and be\nalways on the go.\" As a lovely, clear stream separated me from him,\nI called to him to ask where the nearest village was. But he did not\ndisturb himself to reply--only stretched his head a little out of the\ngrass, pointed with his horn to the opposite wood, and coolly resumed\nhis piping.\n\nI marched on briskly, for twilight was at hand. The birds, which had\nmade a great clatter while the sun was disappearing on the horizon,\nsuddenly fell silent, and I began to feel almost afraid, so solemn\nwas the perpetual rustling of the lonely forest. At last I heard dogs\nbarking in the distance. I walked more quickly, the forest grew less\nand less dense, and in a little while I saw through the last trees a\nbeautiful village-green, where a crowd of children were frolicking,\nand capering around a huge linden in the centre. Opposite me was an\ninn, and at a table before it were seated some peasants playing cards\nand smoking. On one side a number of lads and lasses were gathered\nin a group, the girls with their arms rolled in their aprons, and all\ngossiping together in the cool of the evening.\n\nI took very little time for consideration, but, drawing my fiddle from\nmy pocket, I played a merry waltz as I came out from the forest. The\ngirls were surprised, and the old folks laughed so that the woods\nreechoed with their merriment. But when I reached the linden, and,\nleaning my back against it, went on playing gay waltzes, a whisper\nwent round among the groups of young people to the right and left; the\nlads laid aside their pipes, each put his arm around his lass's waist,\nand in the twinkling of an eye the young folk were all waltzing around\nme; the dogs barked, skirts and coat-tails fluttered, and the children\nstood around me in a circle gazing curiously into my face and at my\nbriskly-moving fingers.\n\nWhen the first waltz was ended, it was easy to see how good music\nloosens the limbs. The peasant lads, who had before been restlessly\nshuffling about on the benches, with their pipes in their mouths and\ntheir legs stretched out stiffly in front of them, were positively\ntransformed, and, with their gay handkerchiefs hanging from the\nbutton-holes of their coats, capered about with the lasses so that it\nwas a pleasure to look at them. One of them, who evidently thought\na deal of himself, fumbled in his waistcoat-pocket for a long while,\nthat the others might see him, and finally brought out a little silver\ncoin, which he tried to put into my hand. It irritated me, although I\nhad not a stiver in my pocket. I told him to keep his pennies, I was\nplaying only for joy, because I was glad to be among people once more.\nSoon afterward, however, a pretty girl came up to me with a great\ntankard of wine. \"Musicians are thirsty folk,\" she said, with a laugh\nthat displayed her pearls of teeth gleaming so temptingly between her\nred lips that I should have liked to kiss her then and there. She put\nthe tankard to her charming mouth, and her eyes sparkled at me over\nits rim; she then handed it to me; I drained it to the bottom, and\nplayed afresh, till all were spinning merrily about me once more.\n\nBy and by the old peasants finished their game, and the young people\ngrew tired and separated, so that gradually all was quiet and deserted\nin front of the inn. The girl who had brought me the wine also walked\ntoward the village, but she went very slowly, and looked around from\ntime to time as if she had forgotten something. At last she stopped\nand seemed to search for it on the ground, but as she stooped I saw\nher glance toward me from under her arm. I had learned polite manners\nat the castle, so I sprang toward her and said, \"Have you lost\nanything, my pretty ma'amselle?\" She blushed crimson. \"Ah, no,\" she\nsaid; \"it was only a rose; will you have it?\" I thanked her, and stuck\nthe rose in my button-hole. She looked very kindly at me, and said,\n\"You play beautifully.\" \"Yes,\" I replied, \"it is a gift from God.\"\n\"Musicians are very rare in the country about here,\" she began again,\nthen stammered, and cast down her eyes. \"You might earn a deal of\nmoney here. My father plays the fiddle a little, and likes to hear\nabout foreign countries--and my father is very rich.\" Then she\nlaughed, and said, \"If you only would not waggle your head so, when\nyou play.\" \"My dearest girl,\" I said, \"do not blush so--and as for the\ntremoloso motion of the head, we can't help it, great musicians all do\nit.\" \"Oh, indeed!\" rejoined the girl. She was about to say more, when\na terrible racket arose in the inn; the front door was opened with a\nbang, and a tall, lean fellow was shot out of it like a ramrod, after\nwhich it was slammed to behind him.\n\nAt the first sound the girl ran off like a deer and vanished in the\ndarkness. The man picked himself up and began to rave against the\ninn with such volubility that it was a wonder to hear him. \"What!\" he\nyelled, \"I drunk? I not pay the chalk-marks on your smoky door? Rub\nthem out! rub them out! Did I not shave you yesterday over a ladle,\nand cut you just under the nose so that you bit the ladle in two?\nShaving takes off one mark; ladle, another mark; court-plaster on your\nnose, another. How many more of your dirty marks do you want to have\npaid? But all right--all right. I'll let the whole village, the whole\nworld go unshaved. Wear your beards, for all I care, till they are so\nlong that at the judgment-day the Almighty will not know whether you\nare Jews or Christians. Yes, hang yourselves with your beards, shaggy\nbears that you are!\" Here he burst into tears and, in a maudlin,\nfalsetto voice, sobbed out, \"Am I to drink water like a wretched fish?\nIs that loving your neighbor? Am I not a man and a skilled surgeon?\nAh, I am beside myself today; my heart is full of pity, and of love\nfor my fellow-creatures.\" And then, finding that all was quiet in the\nhouse, he began to walk away. When he saw me, he came plunging toward\nme with outstretched arms. I thought the fellow was about to embrace\nme, and sprang aside, letting him stumble on in the darkness, where I\nheard him discoursing to himself for some time.\n\nAll sorts of fancies filled my brain. The girl who had given me the\nrose was young, pretty, and rich. I could make my fortune before one\ncould turn round. And sheep and pigs, turkeys, and fat geese stuffed\nwith apples--verily, I seemed to see the Porter strutting up to me:\n\"Seize your luck, Receiver, seize your luck! 'Marry young, you're\nnever wrong;' take home your bride, live in the country, and live\nwell.\" Plunged in these philosophical reflections, I sat me down on\na stone, for, since I had no money, I did not venture to knock at\nthe inn. The moon shone brilliantly, the forests on the mountain-side\nmurmured in the still night; now and then a dog barked in the village\nwhich lay farther down the valley, buried, as it were, beneath foliage\nand moonlight. I gazed up at the heavens, where a few clouds were\nsailing slowly and now and then a falling star shot down from the\nzenith. Thus this same moon, thought I, is shining down upon my\nfather's mill and upon his Grace's castle. Everything there is quiet\nby this time, the Lady fair is asleep, and the fountains and leaves in\nthe garden are whispering just as they used to whisper, all the same\nwhether I am there, or here, or dead. And the world seemed to me so\nterribly big, and I so utterly alone in it, that I could have wept\nfrom the very depths of my heart.\n\nWhile I was thus sitting there, suddenly I heard the sound of horses'\nhoofs in the forest. I held my breath and listened as the sound\ncame nearer and nearer, until I could hear the horses snorting. Soon\nafterward two horsemen appeared under the trees, but paused at the\nedge of the woods, and talked together in low, very eager tones, as\nI could see by the moving shadows which were thrown across the\nbright village-green, and by their long dark arms pointing in various\ndirections. How often at home, when my mother, now dead, had told me\nof savage forests and fierce robbers, had I privately longed to be a\npart of such a story! I was well paid now for my silly, rash longings.\nI reached up the linden-tree, beneath which I was sitting, as high\nas I could, unobserved, until I clasped the lowest branch, and then I\nswung myself up. But just as I had got my body half across the branch,\nand was about to drag my legs up after it, one of the horsemen trotted\nbriskly across the green toward me. I shut my eyes tight amid the\nthick foliage, and did not stir. \"Who is there?\" a voice called\ndirectly under me. \"Nobody!\" I yelled in terror at being detected,\nalthough I could not but laugh to myself at the thought of how the\nrogues would look when they should turn my empty pockets inside out.\n\"Aha!\" said the robber, \"whose are these legs, then, hanging down\nhere?\" There was no help for it. \"They are,\" I replied, \"only a couple\nof legs of a poor, lost musician.\" And I hastily let myself drop, for\nI was ashamed to hang there any longer like a broken fork.\n\nThe rider's horse shied when I dropped so suddenly from the tree. He\npatted the animal's neck, and said, laughing, \"Well, we too are lost,\nso we are comrades; perhaps you can help us to find the road to B. You\nshall be no loser by it.\" I assured him that I knew nothing about the\nroad to B., and said that I would ask in the inn, or would conduct\nthem to the village. But the man would not listen to reason; he\ndrew from his girdle a pistol, the barrel of which glittered in the\nmoonlight. \"My dear fellow,\" he said in a very friendly tone, as he\nwiped off the glittering barrel and then ran his eye along it--\"my\ndear fellow, you will have the kindness to go yourself before us to\nB.\"\n\nVerily, I was in a scrape. If I chanced to hit the right road, I\nshould certainly get into the midst of the robber band and be beaten\nbecause I had no money; if I did not find the road, I should be beaten\nof course. I wasted very little thought upon the matter, but took\nthe first road at hand, the one past the inn which led away from\nthe village. The horseman galloped back to his companion, and both\nfollowed me slowly at some distance. Thus we wandered on foolishly\nenough at hap-hazard through the moonlit night. The road led through\nforests on the side of a mountain. Sometimes we could see, above the\ntops of the pines stirring darkly beneath us, far abroad into the\ndeep, silent valleys; now and then a nightingale burst into song; the\ndogs bayed in the distant villages. A brook babbled ceaselessly from\nthe depths below us, and here and there glistened in the moonlight.\nThe hush was disturbed by the monotonous tramp of the horses and by\nthe stir and movement of their riders, who talked together incessantly\nin a foreign tongue, and the bright moonlight contrasted sharply with\nthe long shadows of the trees, which swept across the figures of the\nhorsemen, making them appear now black, now light, now dwarfish, and\nanon gigantic. My thoughts grew strangely confused, as though in a\ndream from which I could not waken, but I marched straight ahead. We\ncertainly must reach the end of the forest and of the night too, I\nthought.\n\nAt last long, rosy streaks flushed the horizon here and there but\nfaintly, as when one breathes upon a mirror, and a lark began to sing\nhigh up above the peaceful valley. My heart at once grew perfectly\nlight at the approach of dawn, and all fear left me. The two horsemen\nstretched themselves, looked around, and seemed for the first time\nto suspect that we might not have taken the right road. They chatted\nmuch, and I could perceive that they were talking of me; it even\nseemed to me that one of them began to mistrust me, as though I were\na rogue trying to lead them astray in the forest. This amused me\nmightily, for the lighter it grew the greater grew my courage, until\nwe emerged upon a fine, spacious opening. Here I looked about me quite\nsavagely, and whistled once or twice through my fingers, as scoundrels\nalways do when they wish to signal one another.\n\n\"Halt!\" exclaimed one of the horsemen, so suddenly that I jumped. When\nI looked round I saw that both had alighted and had tied their horses\nto a tree. One of them came up to me rapidly, stared me full in the\nface, and then burst into a fit of immoderate laughter. I must confess\nthis senseless merriment irritated me. But he said, \"Why, it is\nactually the gardener--I should say the Receiver, from the castle!\"\n\nI stared at him in turn, but could not remember who he was; indeed, I\nshould have had enough to do to recognize all the young gentlemen who\ncame and went at the castle. He kept up an eternal laughter, however,\ndeclaring, \"This is magnificent! You're taking a holiday, I see;\nwe are just in want of a servant; stay with us and you will have a\nperpetual holiday.\" I was dumbfounded, and said at last that I was\njust on my way to visit Italy. \"Italy?\" the stranger rejoined. \"That\nis just where we wish to go!\" \"Ah, if that be so!\" I exclaimed, and,\ntaking out my fiddle, I tuned up so that all the birds in the\nwood awaked. The young fellow immediately threw his arm around his\ncompanion, and they waltzed about the meadow like mad.\n\nSuddenly they stood still. \"By heavens,\" exclaimed one, \"I can see the\nchurch-tower of B.! We shall soon be there.\" He took out his watch and\nmade it repeat, then shook his head, and made the watch strike again.\n\"No,\" he said, \"it will not do; we should arrive too early, and that\nmight be very bad.\"\n\nThen they brought out from their saddle-bags cakes, cutlets, and\nbottles of wine, spread a gay cloth on the grass, stretched themselves\nbeside it, and feasted to their hearts' content, sharing all\ngenerously with me, which I greatly enjoyed, seeing that for some days\nI had not had over and above enough to eat. \"And let me tell you,\"\none of them said to me--\"but you do not know us yet?\" I shook my head.\n\"Then let me tell you. I am the painter Lionardo, and my friend here\nis a painter also, called Guido.\"\n\nI could see the two painters more clearly in the dawning morning. Herr\nLionardo was tall, brown, and slender, with merry, ardent eyes. The\nother was much younger, smaller, and more delicate, dressed in antique\nGerman style, as the Porter called it, with a white collar and bare\nthroat, about which hung dark brown curls, which he was often obliged\nto toss aside from his pretty face. When he had breakfasted, he picked\nup my fiddle, which I had laid on the grass beside me, seated himself\nupon the fallen trunk of a tree, and strummed the strings. Then he\nsang in a voice clear as a wood-robin's, so that it went to my very\nheart heart--\n\n  \"When the earliest morning ray\n  Through the valley finds its way,\n  Hill and forest fair awaking,\n  All who can their flight are taking.\n\n  \"And the lad who's free from care\n  Shouts, with cap flung high in air,\n  'Song its flight can aye be winging;\n  Let me, then, be ever singing.'\"\n\nAs he sang, the ruddy rays of morning exquisitely illumined his pale\nface and dark, love-lit eyes. But I was so tired that the words and\nnotes of his song mingled and blended strangely in my ears, until at\nlast I fell sound asleep.\n\nWhen, by and by, I began gradually to awaken, I heard, as in a dream,\nthe two painters talking together beside me, and the birds singing\noverhead, while the morning sun shining through my closed eyelids\nproduced the sensation of looking toward the light through red\ncurtains. \"_Com' \u00e8 bello_!\" I heard some one exclaim close to me. I\nopened my eyes, and saw the younger painter bending over me in the\nclear morning light, so near that I seemed to see only his large black\neyes between his drooping curls.\n\nI sprang up hastily, for it was broad day. Herr Lionardo seemed\ncross--he had two angry furrows on his brow--and hastily made ready to\nmove on. But the other painter shook his curls away from his face and\nquietly hummed an air to himself as he was bridling his steed, until\nat last Lionardo burst into a sudden fit of laughter, picked up a\nbottle standing on the grass, and poured the contents into a couple\nof glasses. \"To our happy arrival!\" he exclaimed, as the two clinked\ntheir glasses melodiously. Whereupon Lionardo tossed the empty bottle\nhigh in the air, and it sparkled brilliantly.\n\nAt last they mounted their horses, and I marched on beside them. Just\nat our feet lay a valley in measureless extent, into which our road\ndescended. How clear and fresh and bright and jubilant were all the\nsights and sounds around! I was so cool, so happy, that I felt as if I\ncould have flown from the mountain out into the glorious landscape.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IV\n\n\nFarewell, mill, and castle, and Porter! We went at such a pace that\nthe wind nearly blew my hat off. Right and left, villages, towns, and\nvineyards flew past in a twinkling; behind me the two painters were\nseated in the carriage, before me were four horses and a gorgeous\npostilion, while I, seated high up on the box, bounced into the air\nfrom time to time.\n\nIt had happened thus: Arrived at B., while we were as yet in the\noutskirts a tall, thin, crusty gentleman in a green plush coat came to\nmeet us, and, with many obeisances to the two painters, conducted\nus into the village, where, beneath the tall linden beside the\npost-station, stood a fine carriage with four post-horses. Herr\nLionardo meanwhile insisted that I had outgrown my clothes, and in a\ntrice he produced another suit from his portmanteau, and I had to put\non a beautiful new dress-coat and vest; very fine to see, but they\nwere too long and too wide for me, and absolutely fluttered about me.\nAnd I also had a brand-new hat, which shone in the sunlight as if it\nhad been smeared with fresh butter. Then the crusty stranger gentleman\ntook the bridles of the two horses which the painters had been riding,\nthe painters themselves got into the carriage, I mounted upon the\nbox, and we started, just as the postmaster poked his head out of the\nwindow, in his nightcap. The postilion blew his horn merrily, and we\nwere off for Italy.\n\nI led a magnificent existence up there, like a bird in the air, except\nthat I did not need to fly. I had absolutely nothing to do but to sit\non the box day and night, and bring out food and drink to the carriage\nfrom the inns, for the painters never alighted, and in the daytime\nthey shut the carriage windows close, as if the sun would have killed\nthem; only now and then Herr Guido put his pretty head out of the\ncarriage window and chatted kindly with me, laughing the while at Herr\nLionardo, who always seemed to dislike these talks. Once or twice I\nnearly fell into disgrace with my master--the first time because on a\nclear starry night I began to play the fiddle up there on my box, and\nthen because of my sleeping. It _was_ strange! I longed to see all\nthat I could of Italy, and opened my eyes wide every fifteen minutes.\nAnd yet, after I had gazed steadily about me for a while, the sixteen\ntrotting feet before me would grow indistinct and dreamy, my eyes\nwould gradually close, and at last I would fall into a slumber so\nprofound and invincible that it was impossible to rouse me. Then day\nor night, rain or sunshine, Tyrol or Italy, it was all the same;\nI swayed first to the right, then to the left, then backward--nay,\nsometimes my head nodded down so low that my hat dropped off, and Herr\nGuido screamed aloud.\n\nThus we had passed, I hardly know how, half through the part of\nItaly that they call Lombardy, when on a fine evening we stopped at\na country inn. The post-horses were to be ready for us at the\nneighboring station in a couple of hours, so the painters left the\ncarriage, and were shown into a special apartment, to rest a little,\nand to write some letters. I was greatly pleased, and betook myself\nto the common room to eat and drink in comfort. Here everything looked\nrather disreputable: the maids were going about with their hair in\ndisorder and their neckerchiefs awry, exposing their sallow skin;\nthe men-servants were at their supper in blue smock-frocks, around a\ncircular table, whence they glowered at me from time to time. They all\nwore their hair tied behind in a short, thick queue which looked quite\ndandified. \"Here you are,\" I said to myself, as I ate my supper, \"here\nyou are in the country from which such queer people used to come to\nthe Herr Pastor's with mouse-traps, and barometers, and pictures. How\nmuch a man learns who makes up his mind not to stick close to his own\nhearth-stone all his life!\"\n\nAs I was thus eating my supper and meditating, a little man, who had\nbeen sitting in a dim corner of the room over a glass of wine, darted\nout of his nook at me like a spider. He was quite short and crooked,\nand he had a big ugly head, with a long hooked nose and sparse red\nwhiskers, while his powdered hair stood on end all over his head as\nif a hurricane had swept over it. He wore an old-fashioned, threadbare\ndress-coat, short, plush breeches, and faded silk stockings. He had\nonce been in Germany, and prided himself upon his knowledge of German.\nHe sat down by me and asked a hundred questions, perpetually taking\nsnuff the while--Was I the _servitore_? When did we arrive? Had we\ngone to Roma? All this I myself did not know, and really I could not\nunderstand his gibberish. \"_Parlez-vous fran\u00e7ais_?\" I asked him at\nlast in my distress. He shook his big head, and I was very glad, for\nneither did I speak French. But it was of no use, he had taken me in\nhand, and went on asking question after question; the more we parleyed\nthe less we understood each other, until at last we both grew angry,\nand I actually thought the Signor would have liked to peck me with his\nhooked beak, until the maids, who had been listening to our confusion\nof tongues, laughed heartily at us. I put down my knife and fork and\nwent out of doors; for in this strange land I, with my German tongue,\nseemed to have sunk down fathoms deep into the sea, where all sorts\nof unfamiliar, crawling creatures were gliding about me, peopling the\nsolitude and glaring and snapping at me.\n\nOutside, the summer night was warm and inviting. From the distant\nvineyards a laborer's song now and then fell on the ear; there was\nlightning low on the horizon, and the landscape seemed to tremble and\nwhisper in the moonlight. Sometimes I thought I perceived a tall,\ndim figure gliding behind the hazel hedge in front of the house and\npeeping through the twigs, and then all would be motionless. Suddenly\nHerr Guido appeared on the balcony above me. He did not see me, and\nbegan to play with great skill on a zither which he must have found in\nthe house, singing to it like a nightingale:\n\n  \"When the yearning heart is stilled\n    As in dreams, the forest sighing,\n    To the listening earth replying,\n  Tells the thoughts with which 'twas filled:\n    Days long vanished, soothing sorrow--\n    From the Past a light they borrow,\n  And the heart is gently thrilled.\"\n\nI do not know whether he sang any more, for I had stretched myself on\na bench outside the door, and I fell asleep in the warm air from sheer\nexhaustion.\n\nA couple of hours must have passed, when I was roused by the winding\nof a post-horn, which sounded merrily in my dreams for a while before\nI fully recovered consciousness. At last I sprang up; day was\nalready dawning on the mountains, and I felt through all my limbs the\nfreshness of the morning. Then it occurred to me that by this time we\nought to be far on our way. \"Aha!\" I thought, \"now it is my turn to\nlaugh. How Herr Guido will shake his sleepy, curly head when he hears\nme outside!\" So I went close beneath the window in the little garden\nat the back of the house, stretched my limbs well in the morning air,\nand sang merrily--\n\n  \"If the cricket's chirp we hear,\n  Then be sure the day is near;\n  When the sun is rising--then\n  'Tis good to go to asleep again.\"\n\nThe window of the room where my masters were stood open, but all\nwithin was quiet; the breeze alone rustled the leaves of the vine that\nclambered into the window itself. \"What does this mean?\" I exclaimed\nin surprise, and ran into the house, and through the silent corridors,\nto the room. But when I opened the door my heart stood still with\ndismay; the room was perfectly empty; not a coat, not a hat, not a\nboot, anywhere. Only the zither upon which Herr Guido had played was\nhanging on the wall, and on the table in the centre of the room lay\na purse full of money, with a card attached to it. I took it to\nthe window, and could scarcely trust my eyes when I read, in large\nletters, \"For the Herr Receiver!\"\n\nBut what good could it all do me if I could not find my dear, merry\nmasters again? I thrust the purse into my deep coat-pocket, where it\nplumped down as into a well and almost pulled me over backward. Then I\nrushed out, and made a great noise, and waked up all the maids and men\nin the house. They could not imagine what was the matter, and thought\nI must have gone crazy. But they were not a little amazed when they\nsaw the empty nest. No one knew anything of my masters. One maid\nonly had observed--so far as I could make out from her signs and\ngesticulations--that Herr Guido, when he was singing on the balcony on\nthe previous evening, had suddenly screamed aloud, and had then rushed\nback into the room to the other gentleman. And once, when she waked\nin the night afterward, she had heard the tramp of a horse. She peeped\nout of the little window of her room, and saw the crooked Signor, who\nhad talked so much to me, on a white horse, galloping so furiously\nacross the field in the moonlight that he bounced high up from his\nsaddle; and the maid crossed herself, for he looked like a ghost\nriding upon a three-legged horse. I did not know what in the world to\ndo.\n\nMeanwhile, however, our carriage was standing before the door ready to\nstart, and the impatient postilion blew his horn fit to burst, for he\nhad to be at the next station at a certain hour, because everything\nhad been ordered with great exactitude in the way of changing horses.\nI ran once more through all the house, calling the painters, but no\none made answer; the inn-people stared at me, the postilion cursed,\nthe horses neighed, and, at last, completely dazed, I sprang into the\ncarriage, the hostler shut the door behind me, the postilion cracked\nhis whip, and away I went into the wide world.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER V\n\n\nWe drove on now over hill and dale, day and night. I had no time for\nreflection, for wherever we arrived the horses were standing ready\nharnessed. I could not talk with the people, and my signs and gestures\nwere of no use; often just in the midst of a fine dinner the postilion\nwound his horn, and I had to drop knife and fork and spring into\nthe carriage again without knowing whither I was going, or why or\nwherefore I was obliged to hurry on at such a rattling pace.\n\nOtherwise the life was not unpleasant. I reclined upon the soft\ncushions first in one corner of the carriage and then in the other,\nand took note of countries and people, and when we drove through\nthe villages I leaned both arms on the window of the carriage, and\nacknowledged the courtesy of the men who took off their hats to me, or\nelse I kissed my hand like an old acquaintance to the young girls at\nthe windows, who looked surprised, and stared after me as long as the\ncarriage was in sight.\n\nBut a day came when I was in a terrible fright. I had never counted\nthe money in the purse left for me, and I had to pay a great deal to\nthe postmasters and innkeepers everywhere, so that before I was aware,\nthe purse was empty. When I first discovered this I had an idea of\njumping out of the carriage and making my escape, the next time we\ndrove through a lonely wood. But I could not make up my mind to give\nup the beautiful carriage and leave it all alone, when, if it were\npossible, I would gladly have driven in it to the end of the world.\n\nSo I sat buried in thought, not knowing what to do, when all at once\nwe turned aside from the highway. I shouted to the postilion to ask\nhim where he was going, but, shout as I would, the fellow never made\nany answer save \"_Si, si, Signore_!\" and on he drove over stock and\nstone till I was jolted from side to side in the carriage.\n\nI was not at all pleased, for the high-road ran through a charming\ncountry, directly toward the setting sun, which was bathing the\nlandscape in a sea of splendor, while before us, when we turned aside,\nlay a dreary hilly region, broken by ravines, where in the gray depths\ndarkness had already set in. The further we drove, the lonelier and\ndrearier grew the road. At last the moon emerged from the clouds, and\nshone through the trees with a weird, unearthly brilliancy. We had\nto go very slowly in the narrow rocky ravines, and the continuous,\nmonotonous rattle of the carriage reechoed from the walls on either\nside, as if we were driving through a vaulted tomb. From the depths\nof the forest came a ceaseless murmur of unseen water-falls, and the\nowlets hooted in the distance \"Come too! come too!\" As I looked at the\ndriver, I noticed for the first time that he wore no uniform and was\nnot a postilion; he seemed to be growing restless, turning his head\nand looking behind him several times. Then he began to drive quicker,\nand as I leaned out of the carriage a horseman came out of the\nshrubbery on one side of the road, crossed it at a bound directly in\nfront of our horses, and vanished in the forest on the other side.\nI felt bewildered; as far as I could see in the bright moonlight the\nrider was that very same crooked little man who had so pecked at me\nwith his hooked nose in the inn, and mounted, too, on the same\nwhite horse. The driver shook his head and laughed aloud at such\nhorsemanship, then quickly turned to me and said a great deal very\neagerly, not a word of which did I understand, and then he drove on\nmore rapidly than ever.\n\nI was rejoiced soon afterward when I perceived a light glimmering in\nthe distance. Gradually more and more lights appeared, and at last we\npassed several smoke-dried huts clinging like swallows' nests to the\nrocks. As the night was warm, the doors stood open, and I could see\ninto the lighted rooms, and all sorts of ragged figures gathered about\nthe hearths. We rattled on through the quiet night, along a steep,\nstony road leading up a high mountain. Soon lofty trees and hanging\nvines arched completely over us, and anon the heavens became visible,\nand we could overlook in the depths a distant circle of mountains,\nforests, and valleys. On the summit of the mountain stood a grand old\ncastle, its many towers gleaming in the brilliant moonlight. \"God\nbe thanked!\" I exclaimed, greatly relieved, and on the tiptoe of\nexpectation as to whither I was being conducted.\n\nA good half-hour passed, however, before we reached the gate-way of\nthe castle. It led under a broad round tower, the summit of which was\nhalf ruined. The driver cracked his whip three times, so that the old\ncastle re\u00ebchoed, and a flock of startled rooks flew forth from every\nsheltered nook and careered wildly overhead with hoarse caws. Then the\ncarriage rolled on through the long, dark gate-way. The iron shoes of\nthe horses struck fire upon the stone pavement, a large dog barked,\nthe wheels thundered along the vaulted passage, the rooks' hoarse\ncries resounded, and amidst all this horrible hubbub we reached a\nsmall, paved courtyard.\n\n\"A queer post-station this,\" I thought, when the coach stopped. The\ncoach door was opened, and a tall old man with a small lantern scanned\nme grimly from beneath his bushy eyebrows. He then took my arm and\nhelped me to alight from the coach as if I had been a person of\nquality. Outside, before the castle door, stood a very ugly old woman\nin a black camisole and petticoat, with a white apron and a black\ncap, the long point of which in front almost touched her nose. A large\nbunch of keys hung on one side of her waist, and she held in her hand\nan old-fashioned candelabrum with two lighted wax candles. As soon as\nshe saw me she began to duck and curtsey and to talk volubly. I did\nnot understand a word, but I scraped innumerable bows, and felt very\nuncomfortable.\n\nMeanwhile, the old man had peered into every corner of the coach with\nhis lantern, and grumbled and shook his head upon finding no trace\nof trunk or luggage. The driver, without asking for the usual\n_pour-boire_, proceeded to put up the coach in an old shed on one side\nof the courtyard, while the old woman by all sorts of courteous signs\ninvited me to follow her. She showed the way with her wax candles\nthrough a long, narrow passage, and up a little stone staircase.\nAs we passed the kitchen a couple of maids poked their heads\ninquisitively through the half-open door, and stared at me, as they\nwinked and nodded furtively to each other, as if they had never in all\ntheir lives seen a man before. At last the old woman opened a door,\nand for a moment I was quite dazed; the apartment was spacious and\nvery handsome, the ceiling decorated with gilded carving and the walls\nhung with magnificent tapestry portraying all sorts of figures and\nflowers. In the centre of the room stood a table spread with cutlets,\ncakes, salad, fruit, wine, and confections, enough to make one's mouth\nwater. Between the windows hung a tall mirror, reaching from the floor\nto the ceiling.\n\nI must say that all this delighted me. I stretched myself once or\ntwice, and paced the room to and fro with much dignity, after which I\ncould not resist looking at myself in such a large mirror. Of a truth\nHerr Lionardo's new clothes became me well, and I had caught an ardent\nexpression of eye from the Italians, but otherwise I was just such\na whey-face as I had been at home, with only a soft down on my upper\nlip.\n\nMeanwhile, the old woman ground away with her toothless jaws, as if\nshe were actually chewing the end of her long nose. She made me sit\ndown, chucked me under the chin with her lean fingers, called me\n\"_poverino_,\" and leered at me so roguishly with her red eyes that one\ncorner of her mouth twitched half-way up her cheek as she at last left\nthe room with a low courtesy.\n\nI sat down at the table, and a young, pretty girl came in to wait on\nme. I made all sorts of gallant speeches to her, which she did not\nunderstand, but watched me curiously while I applied myself to\nthe viands with evident enjoyment; they were delicious. When I had\nfinished and rose from table, she took a candle and conducted me to\nanother room, where were a sofa, a small mirror, and a magnificent bed\nwith green silk curtains. I inquired by signs whether I were to sleep\nthere. She nodded assent, but I could not undress while she stood\nbeside me as if she were rooted to the spot. At last I went and got a\nlarge glass of wine from the table in the next room, drank it off, and\nwished her \"_Felicissima notte_!\" for I had managed to learn that much\nItalian. But while I was emptying the glass at a draught she suddenly\nburst into a fit of suppressed giggling, grew very red, and went into\nthe next room, closing the door behind her. \"What is there to laugh\nat?\" thought I in a puzzle. \"I believe Italians are all crazy.\"\n\nStill in anxiety lest the postilion should begin to blow his horn\nagain, I listened at the window, but all was quiet outside. \"Let him\nblow!\" I thought, undressed myself, and got into the magnificent bed,\nwhere I seemed to be fairly swimming in milk and honey! The old linden\nin the court-yard rustled, a rook now and then flew off the roof, and\nat last, completely happy, I fell asleep.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VI\n\n\nWhen I awoke, the beams of early morning were shining on the green\ncurtains of my bed. At first I could not remember where I was. I\nseemed to be still driving in the coach, where I had been dreaming\nof a castle in the moonlight, and of an old witch and her pale\ndaughter.\n\nI sprang hastily out of bed, dressed myself, and, looking about my\nroom, perceived in the wainscoting a small door, which I had not seen\nthe night before. It was ajar; I opened it, and saw a pretty little\nroom looking very fresh and neat in the early dawn. Some articles of\nfeminine apparel were lying in disorder over the back of a chair, and\nin a bed beside it lay the girl who had waited upon me the evening\nbefore. She was sleeping soundly, her head resting upon her bare white\narm, over which her black curls were straying. \"How mortified she\nwould be if she knew that the door was open!\" I said to myself, and\nI crept back into my room, bolting the door after me, that the girl\nmight not be horrified and ashamed when she awoke.\n\nNot a sound was yet to be heard outside, except from an early robin\nthat was singing his morning song, perched upon a spray growing out of\nthe wall beneath my window. \"No,\" said I, \"you shall not shame me by\nsinging all alone your early hymn of praise to God!\" I hastily fetched\nmy fiddle, which I had laid upon the table the night before, and left\nthe room. Everything in the castle was silent as death, and I was a\nlong while finding my way through the dim corridors out into the open\nair.\n\nThere I found myself in a large garden extending half-way down the\nmountain, its broad terraces lying one beneath the other like huge\nsteps. But the gardening was slovenly. The paths were all grass-grown,\nthe yew figures were not trimmed, but stretched long noses and caps a\nyard high into the air like ghosts, so that really they must have been\nquite fearsome at nightfall. Linen was hanging to dry on the broken\nmarble statues of an unused fountain; here and there in the middle\nof the garden cabbages were planted beside some common flowers;\neverything was neglected, in disorder, and overgrown with tall weeds,\namong which glided varicolored lizards. On all sides through the\ngigantic old trees there was a distant, lonely prospect of range after\nrange of mountains stretching as far as the eye could reach.\n\nAfter I had been sauntering about through this wilderness for a while\nin the dawn, I descried upon the terrace below me, striding to and fro\nwith folded arms, a tall, slender, pale youth in a long brown surtout.\nHe seemed not to perceive me, and shortly seated himself upon a stone\nbench, took a book out of his pocket, read very loud from it, as if he\nwere preaching, looked up to heaven at intervals, and leaned his head\nsadly upon his right hand. I looked at him for a long time, but at\nlast I grew curious to know why he was making such extraordinary\ngestures, and I went hastily toward him. He had just heaved a profound\nsigh, and sprang up startled as I approached. He was completely\nconfused, and so was I; we neither of us knew what to say, and we\nstood there bowing, until he made his escape, striding rapidly through\nthe shrubbery. Meanwhile, the sun had arisen over the forest; I\nmounted on the stone bench, and scraped my fiddle merrily, so that the\nquiet valleys re\u00ebchoed. The old woman with the bunch of keys, who had\nbeen searching anxiously for me all through the castle to call me to\nbreakfast, appeared upon the terrace above me, and was surprised that\nI could play the fiddle so well. The grim old man from the castle came\ntoo, and was as much amazed, and at last the maids came, and they all\nstood up there together agape, while I fingered away, and wielded my\nbow in the most artistic manner, playing cadenzas and variations until\nI was downright tired.\n\nThe castle was a mighty strange place! No one dreamed of journeying\nfurther. It was no inn or post-station, as I learned from one of the\nmaids, but belonged to a wealthy count. When I sometimes questioned\nthe old woman as to the count's name and where he lived, she only\nsmirked as she had done on the evening of my arrival, and slyly\npinched me and winked at me archly as if she were out of her senses.\nIf on a warm day I drank a whole bottle of wine, the maids were sure\nto giggle when they brought me another; and once when I wanted to\nsmoke a pipe, and informed them by signs of my desire, they all burst\ninto a fit of foolish laughter. But most mysterious of all was a\nserenade which often, and always upon the darkest nights, sounded\nbeneath my window. A guitar was played fitfully, soft, low chords\nbeing heard from time to time. Once I imagined I heard some one down\nbelow call up, \"Pst! pst!\" I sprang out of bed and, putting my head\nout of the window, called, \"Holla! who's there?\" But no answer came; I\nonly heard the rustling of the shrubbery, as if some one were hastily\nrunning away. The large dog in the court-yard, roused by my shout,\nbarked a couple of times, and then all was still again. After this the\nserenade was heard no more.\n\nOtherwise my life here was all that mortal could desire. The worthy\nPorter knew well what he was talking about when he was wont to declare\nthat in Italy raisins dropped into one's mouth of themselves. I lived\nin the lonely castle like an enchanted prince. Wherever I went the\nservants treated me with the greatest respect, though they all knew\nthat I had not a farthing in my pocket. I had but to say, \"Table,\nbe spread,\" and lo, I was served with delicious viands, rice, wine,\nmelons, and Parmesan cheese. I lived on the best, slept in the\nmagnificent canopied bed, walked in the garden, played my fiddle, and\nsometimes helped with the gardening. I often lay for hours in the tall\ngrass, and the pale youth in his long surtout--he was a student and a\nrelative of the old woman's, and was spending his vacation here--would\npace around me in a wide circle, muttering from his book like a\nconjurer, which was always sure to send me to sleep. Thus day after\nday passed, until, what with the good eating and drinking, I began\nto grow quite melancholy. My limbs became limp from perpetually doing\nnothing, and I felt as if I should fall to pieces from sheer laziness.\n\nOne sultry afternoon, I was sitting in the boughs of a tall tree that\noverhung the valley, gently rocking myself above its quiet depths. The\nbees were humming among the leaves around me; all else was silent\nas the grave; not a human being was to be seen on the mountains, and\nbelow me on the peaceful meadows the cows were resting in the high\ngrass. But from afar away the note of a post-horn floated across\nthe wooded heights, at first scarcely audible, then clearer and more\ndistinct. On the instant my heart reechoed an old song which I had\nlearned when at home at my father's mill from a traveling journeyman,\nand I sang--\n\n  \"Whenever abroad you are straying,\n    Take with you your dearest one;\n  While others are laughing and playing,\n    A stranger is left all alone.\n\n  \"And what know these trees, with their sighing,\n    Of an older, a lovelier day?\n  Alas, o'er yon blue mountains lying,\n    Thy home is so far, far away!\n\n  \"The stars in their courses I treasure,\n    My pathway to her they shone o'er;\n  The nightingale's song gives me pleasure,\n    It sang nigh my dearest one's door.\n\n  \"When starlight and dawn are contending,\n    I climb to the mountain-tops clear;\n  Thence gazing, my greeting I'm sending\n    To Germany, ever most dear.\"\n\nIt seemed as if the post-horn in the distance would fain accompany\nmy song. While I was singing, it came nearer and nearer among the\nmountains, until at last I heard it in the castle court-yard; I got\ndown from the tree as quickly as possible, in time to meet the old\nwoman with an opened packet coming toward me. \"Here is something too\nfor you,\" she said, and handed me a neat little note. It was without\naddress; I opened it hastily, and on the instant flushed as red as a\npeony, and my heart beat so violently that the old woman observed my\nagitation. The note was from--my Lady fair, whose handwriting I had\noften seen at the bailiff's. It was short: \"All is well once more; all\nobstacles are removed. I take a private opportunity to be the first to\nwrite you the good news. Come, hasten back. It is so lonely here, and\nI can scarcely bear to live since you left us. Aurelia.\"\n\nAs I read, my eyes grew dim with rapture, alarm, and ineffable\ndelight. I was ashamed in presence of the old woman, who began to\nsmirk and wink odiously, and I flew like an arrow to the loneliest\nnook of the garden. There I threw myself on the grass beneath the\nhazel-bushes and read the note again, repeating the words by heart,\nand then re-reading them over and over, while the sunlight danced\nbetween the leaves upon the letters, so that they were blended and\nblurred before my eyes like golden and bright-green and crimson\nblossoms. \"Is she not married, then?\" I thought; \"was that young\nofficer her brother, perhaps, or is he dead, or am I crazy, or--but no\nmatter!\" I exclaimed at last, leaping to my feet. \"It is clear enough,\nshe loves me! she loves me!\"\n\nWhen I crept out of the shrubbery the sun was near its setting. The\nheavens were red, the birds were singing merrily in the woods,\nthe valleys were full of a golden sheen, but in my heart all was a\nthousand times more beautiful and more glad.\n\nI shouted to them in the castle to serve my supper out in the garden.\nThe old woman, the grim old man, the maids--I made them all come and\nsit at table with me under the trees. I brought out my fiddle and\nplayed, and ate and drank between-whiles. Then they all grew merry;\nthe old man smoothed the grim wrinkles out of his face, and emptied\nglass after glass, the old woman chattered away--heaven knows about\nwhat, and the maids began to dance together on the green-sward. At\nlast the pale student approached inquisitively, cast a scornful glance\nat the party, and was about to pass on with great dignity. But I\nsprang up in a twinkling, and, before he knew what I was about,\nseized him by his long surtout and waltzed merrily round with him.\nHe actually began to try to dance after the latest and most approved\nfashion, and footed it so nimbly that the moisture stood in beads upon\nhis forehead, his long coat flew round like a wheel, and he looked\nat me so strangely withal, and his eyes rolled so, that I began to be\nreally afraid of him, and suddenly released him.\n\nThe old woman was very curious to know the contents of the note,\nand why I was so very merry of a sudden. But the matter was far too\nintricate for me to be able to explain it to her. I merely pointed\nto a couple of storks that were sailing through the air far above our\nheads, and said that so must I go, far, far away. At this she opened\nher bleared eyes wide, and cast a sinister glance first at me and then\nat the old man. After that, I noticed as often as I turned away that\nthey put their heads together and talked eagerly, glancing askance\ntoward me from time to time.\n\nThis puzzled me. I pondered upon what scheme they could be hatching,\nand I grew more quiet. The sun had long set, so I wished them all good\nnight and betook myself thoughtfully to my bedroom.\n\nI felt so happy and so restless that for a long while I paced the\napartment to and fro. Outside, the wind was driving black, heavy\nclouds high above the castle-tower; the nearest mountain-summit could\nbe scarcely discerned in the thick darkness. Then I thought I heard\nvoices in the garden below. I put out my candle and sat down at the\nwindow. The voices seemed to come nearer, speaking in low tones, and\nsuddenly a long ray of light shot from a small lantern concealed\nunder the cloak of a dark figure. I instantly recognized the grim old\nsteward and the old housekeeper. The light flashed in the face of the\nold woman, who looked to me more hideous than ever, and upon the blade\nof a long knife which she held in her hand. I could plainly see that\nboth of them were looking up at my window. Then the steward folded his\ncloak more closely, and all was dark and silent.\n\n\"What do they want,\" I thought, \"out in the garden, at this hour?\" I\nshuddered; I could not help recalling all the stories of murders that\nI had ever heard--all the tales of witches and robbers who slaughtered\npeople that they might devour their hearts. Whilst I was filled with\nsuch thoughts, I heard footsteps coming up the stairs softly, then\nvery softly along the narrow passage directly to my door; and at the\nsame time I thought I heard voices whispering together. I ran hastily\nto the other end of the room and behind a large table, which I could\nlift and bang against the door as soon as anything stirred outside.\nBut in the darkness I upset a chair, which made a tremendous crash.\nIn an instant all was profound silence outside. I listened behind the\ntable, staring at the door as if I could pierce it with my eyes, which\nfelt as if they were starting from my head. When I had kept so quiet\nfor a while that the buzzing of a fly could have been plainly heard,\nI distinguished the sound of a key softly put into the keyhole of my\ndoor on the outside. I was just about to make a demonstration with my\ntable, when the key was turned slowly three times round in the lock,\nand then cautiously withdrawn, after which the footsteps retreated\nalong the passage and down the staircase.\n\nI took a long breath. \"Oho!\" I thought, \"they have locked me up that\nall may be easy when I am sound asleep.\" I tried the door, and found\nit locked, as was also the other door, behind which the pale maid\nslept. This had never been so before since I had been at the castle.\n\nHere was I imprisoned in a foreign land! The Lady fair undoubtedly was\neven now standing at her window and looking across the quiet garden\ntoward the high-road, to see if I were not coming from the toll-house\nwith my fiddle. The clouds were scudding across the sky; time was\npassing--and I could not get away. Ah, but my heart was sore; I did\nnot know what to do. And if the leaves rustled outside, or a rat\ngnawed behind the wainscot, I fancied I saw the old woman gliding in\nby a secret door and creeping softly through the room, with that long\nknife in hand.\n\nAs, given over to such fancies, I sat on the side of my bed, I heard,\nthe first time for a long while, the music beneath my window. At the\nfirst twang of the guitar a ray of light darted into my soul. I opened\nthe window, and called down softly, that I was awake. \"Pst, pst!\" was\nthe answer from below. Without more ado, I thrust the note into my\npocket, took my fiddle, got out of the window, and scrambled down the\nruinous old wall, clinging to the vines growing from the crevices.\nOne or two crumbling stones gave way, and I began to slide faster and\nfaster, until at last I came down upon my feet with such a sudden bump\nthat my teeth rattled in my head.\n\nScarcely had I thus reached the garden when I felt myself embraced\nwith such violence that I screamed aloud. My kind friend, however,\nclapped his hand on my mouth, and, taking my arm, led me through the\nshrubbery to the open lawn. Here, to my astonishment, I recognized the\ntall student, who had a guitar slung around his neck by a broad silk\nribbon. I explained to him as quickly as possible that I wished to\nescape from the garden. He seemed perfectly aware of my wishes, and\nconducted me by various covert pathways to the lower door in the high\ngarden wall. But when we reached it, it was fast locked! The student,\nhowever, seemed to be quite prepared for this; he produced a large key\nand cautiously unlocked it.\n\nWhen we found ourselves in the forest, and I was about to inquire of\nhim the best road to the nearest town, he suddenly fell upon one knee\nbefore me, raised a hand aloft, and began to curse and to swear in the\nmost horrible manner. I could not imagine what he wanted; I could\nhear frequent repetitions of \"_Iddio_\" and \"_cuore_\" and \"_amore_\" and\n\"_furore_!\" But when he began hobbling close up to me on both knees,\nI grew positively terrified, I perceived clearly that he had lost his\nwits, and I fled into the depths of the forest without looking back.\n\nI heard the student behind me shouting like one possessed, and soon\nafterward a rough voice from the castle shouting in reply. I was sure\nthey would pursue me. The road was entirely unknown to me; the night\nwas dark; I should probably fall into their hands. Therefore I climbed\nup into a tall tree to await my opportunity to escape.\n\nFrom here I could distinguish one voice after another calling in the\ncastle. Several links appeared in the garden, and cast a weird lurid\nlight over the old walls and down the mountain out into the black\nnight. I commended my soul to the Almighty, for the confused uproar\ngrew louder and nearer. At last the student, bearing aloft a torch,\nran past my tree below me so fast that the skirt of his surtout flew\nout behind him in the wind. After this the tumult gradually retreated\nto the other side of the mountain; the voices sounded more and more\ndistant, and at last the wind alone sighed through the silent forest.\nI then descended from my tree and ran breathless down into the valley\nand out into the night.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VII\n\n\nI hurried on for the rest of the night and the next day, for there was\na din in my ears for a long time, as if all the people from the castle\nwere after me, shouting, waving torches, and brandishing long knives.\nOn the way I learned that I was only five or six miles from Rome,\nwhereat I could have jumped for joy. As a child at home I had heard\nwonderful stories of gorgeous Rome, and as I lay on my back in the\ngrass on Sunday afternoons near the mill, and everything around was so\nquiet, I used to picture Rome out of the clouds sailing above me, with\nwondrous mountains and abysses, around the blue sea, with golden gates\nand lofty gleaming towers, where angels in shining robes were singing.\n\nThe night had come again, and the moon shone brilliantly, when at\nlast I emerged from the forest upon a hilltop, and saw the city lying\nbefore me in the distance. The sea gleamed afar off, the heavens\nglittered with innumerable stars, and beneath them lay the Holy City,\na long strip of mist, like a slumbering lion on the quiet earth,\nwatched and guarded by mountains around like shadowy giants.\n\nI soon reached an extensive, lonely heath, where all was gray and\nsilent as the grave. Here and there a ruined wall was still standing,\nor some strangely-gnarled trunk of a tree; now and then night-birds\nwhirred through the air, and my own shadow glided long and black in\nthe solitude beside me. They say that a primeval city lies buried\nhere, and that Frau Venus makes it her abode, and that sometimes the\nold pagans rise up from their graves and wander about the heath and\nmislead travelers. I cared nothing, however, for such tales, but\nwalked on steadily, for the city arose before me more and more\ndistinct and magnificent, and the high castles and gates and golden\ndomes gleamed wondrously in the moonlight, as if angels in golden\ngarments were actually standing on the roofs and singing in the quiet\nnight.\n\nAt last I passed some humble houses, and then through a gorgeous\ngate-way into the famous city of Rome. The moon shone bright as day\namong the palaces, but the streets were empty, except for some lazy\nfellow lying dead asleep on a marble step in the warm night air.\nThe fountains plashed in the silent squares, and from the gardens\nbordering the street the trees added their murmur, and filled the air\nwith refreshing fragrance.\n\nAs I was sauntering on, not knowing--what with delight, moonlight, and\nfragrance--which way to turn, I heard a guitar touched in the depths\nof a garden. \"Great heavens!\" I thought, \"the crazy student with his\nlong surtout has been secretly following me all this time.\" But in\na moment a lady in the garden began to sing deliciously. I stood\nspellbound; it was the voice of the Lady fair! and the selfsame\nItalian song which she often used to sing at her open window!\n\nThen the dear old time recurred so vividly to my mind that I could\nhave wept bitterly; I saw the quiet garden before the castle in the\nearly dawn, and thought how happy I had been among the shrubbery\nbefore that stupid fly flew up my nose. I could restrain myself no\nlonger, but clambered over the gilded ornaments surmounting the grated\ngate-way and leaped down into the garden whence the song proceeded. As\nI did so I perceived a slender white figure standing in the distance\nbehind a poplar-tree, looking at me in amazement; but in an instant it\nhad turned and fled through the dim garden toward the house so quickly\nthat in the moonlight it seemed to glide. \"It was she, herself!\" I\nexclaimed, and my heart throbbed with delight; I recognized her on the\ninstant by her pretty little fleet feet. It was unfortunate that in\nclambering over the gate I had slightly twisted my ankle, and had to\nlimp along for a minute or two before I could run after her toward\nthe house. In the meanwhile the doors and windows had been closed. I\nknocked modestly, listened, and then knocked again. I seemed to hear\nlow laughter and whispering within the house, and once I was almost\nsure that a pair of bright eyes peeped between the jalousies in the\nmoonlight. But finally all was silent.\n\n\"She does not know that it is I,\" I thought; I took out my fiddle, and\npromenaded to and fro on the path before the house and sang the song\nof the Lady fair and played over all my songs that I had been wont\nto play on lovely summer nights in the castle garden, or on the\nbench before the toll-house so that the sound should reach the castle\nwindows. But it was all of no use; no one stirred in the entire house.\nThen I put away my fiddle sadly, and seated myself upon the door-step,\nfor I was very weary with my long march. The night was warm; the\nflower-beds before the house sent forth a delicious fragrance, and a\nfountain somewhere in the depths of the garden plashed continuously. I\nthought dreamily of azure flowers, of dim, green, lovely, lonely spots\nwhere brooks were rippling and gay birds singing, until at last I fell\nsound asleep.\n\nWhen I awoke the fresh air of morning was playing over me; the birds\nwere already awake and twittering in the trees around, as if they were\nmaking game of me. I started up and looked about; the fountain in\nthe garden was still playing, but nothing was to be heard within the\nhouse. I peeped through the green blinds into one of the rooms, where\nI could see a sofa and a large round table covered with gray linen.\nThe chairs were all standing against the wall in perfect order;\nthe blinds were down at all the windows, as if the house had been\nuninhabited for example, with many a loving thought of my fair,\ndistant home.\n\nMeanwhile, the painter had arranged near the window one of the frames\nupon which a large piece of paper was stretched. An old hovel was\ncleverly drawn in charcoal upon the paper, and within it sat the\nBlessed Virgin with a lovely, happy face, upon which there was withal\na shade of melancholy. At her feet in a little nest of straw lay the\nInfant Jesus--very lovely, with large serious eyes. Without, upon the\nthreshold of the open door were kneeling two shepherd lads with staff\nand wallet. \"You see,\" said the painter, \"I am going to put your head\nupon one of these shepherds, and so people will know your face and,\nplease God, take pleasure in it long after we are both under the sod,\nand are ourselves kneeling happily before the Blessed Mother and her\nSon like those shepherd lads.\" Then he seized an old chair, the back\nof which came off in his hand as he lifted it. He soon fitted it into\nits place again, however, pushed it in front of the frame, and I had\nto sit down on it, and turn my face sideways to him. I sat thus\nfor some minutes perfectly still, without stirring. After a while,\nhowever--I am sure I do not know why--I felt that I could endure it\nno longer; every part of me began to twitch, and besides, there hung\ndirectly in front of me a piece of broken looking-glass into which I\ncould not help glancing perpetually, making all sorts of grimaces from\nsheer weariness. The painter, noticing this, burst into a laugh, and\nwaved his hand to signify that I might leave my chair. My face upon\nthe paper was already finished, and was so exactly like me that I was\nimmensely pleased with it.\n\nThe young man went on painting in the cool morning, singing as he\nworked, and sometimes looking from the open window at the glorious\nlandscape. I, in the meantime, spread myself another piece of bread\nand butter, and walked up and down the room, looking at the pictures\nleaning against the wall. Two of them pleased me especially. \"Did you\npaint these, too?\" I asked the painter. \"Not exactly,\" he replied.\n\"They are by the famous masters Leonardo da Vinci and Guido Reni; but\nyou know nothing about them.\" I was nettled by the conclusion of his\nremark. \"Oh,\" I rejoined very composedly, \"I know those two masters as\nwell as I know myself.\" He opened his eyes at this. \"How so?\" he\nasked hastily. \"Well,\" said I, \"I traveled with them day and night, on\nhorseback, on foot, and driving at a pace that made the wind whistle\nin my ears, and I lost them both at an inn, and then traveled post\nalone in their coach, which went bumping on two wheels over the rocks,\nand--\" \"Oho! oho!\" the painter interrupted me, staring at me as if he\nthought me mad. Then he suddenly burst into a fit of laughter. \"Ah,\"\nhe cried, \"now I begin to understand. You traveled with two painters\ncalled Guido and Lionardo?\" When I assented, he sprang up and looked\nme all over from head to foot. \"I verily believe,\" he said \"that\nactually--Can you play the violin?\" I struck the pocket of my coat so\nthat my fiddle gave forth a tone, and the painter went on: \"There was\na Countess here lately from Germany, who made inquiries in every nook\nand corner of Rome for those two painters and a young musician with a\nfiddle.\" \"A young Countess from Germany!\" I cried in an ecstasy. \"Was\nthe Porter with her?\" \"Ah, that I do not know,\" replied the painter.\n\"I saw her only once or twice at the house of one of her friends,\nwho does not live in the city. Do you know this face?\" he went on,\nsuddenly lifting the covering from a large picture standing in a\ncorner. In an instant I felt as we do when in a dark room the shutters\nare opened and the rising sun flashes in our eyes. It was--the lovely\nLady fair! She was standing in the garden, in a black velvet gown,\nlifting her veil from her face with one hand, and looking abroad\nover a distant and beautiful landscape. The longer I looked the more\nvividly did it seem to be the castle garden, and the flowers and\nboughs waved in the wind, while in the depths of green I could see\nmy little toll-house, and the high-road, and the Danube, and in the\ndistance the blue mountains.\n\n\"'Tis she! 'tis she!\" I exclaimed at last, and, seizing my hat, I\nran out of the door and down the long staircase, while the astonished\npainter called after me to come back toward evening, and we might\nperhaps learn something more.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VIII\n\n\nI ran in a great hurry through the city to present myself immediately\nat the house, in the garden of which the Lady fair had been singing\nyesterday evening. The streets were full of people; gentlemen and\nladies were enjoying the sunshine and exchanging greetings, elegant\ncoaches rolled past, and the bells in all the towers were summoning\nto mass, making wondrous melody in the air above the heads of the\nswarming crowd. I was intoxicated with delight, and with the hubbub,\nand ran on in my joy until at last I had no idea where I was. It was\nlike enchantment; the quiet Square with the fountain, and the garden\nand the house, seemed the fabric of a dream, which had vanished in the\nclear light of day.\n\nI could not make any inquiries, for I did not know the name of the\nSquare. At last it began to be very sultry; the sun's rays darted down\nupon the pavement like burning arrows, people crept into their houses,\nthe blinds everywhere were closed, and the street became once more\nsilent and dead. I threw myself down in despair in front of a fine,\nlarge house with a balcony resting upon pillars and affording a deep\nshade, and surveyed, first the quiet city, which looked absolutely\nweird in its sudden noonday solitude, and anon the deep blue,\nperfectly cloudless sky, until, tired out, I fell asleep. I dreamed\nthat I was lying in a lonely green meadow near my native village; a\nwarm summer rain was falling and glittering in the sun, which was just\nsetting behind the mountains, and whenever the raindrops fell upon the\ngrass they turned into beautiful, bright flowers, so that I was soon\ncovered with them.\n\nWhat was my astonishment when I awoke to find a quantity of beautiful,\nfresh flowers lying upon me and beside me! I sprang up, but could see\nnothing unusual, except that in the house above me there was a window\nfilled with fragrant shrubs and flowers, behind which a parrot talked\nand screamed incessantly. I picked up the scattered flowers, tied them\ntogether, and stuck the nosegay in my button-hole. Then I began to\ndiscourse with the parrot; it amused me to see him get up and down in\nhis gilded cage with all sorts of odd twists and turns of his head,\nand always stepping awkwardly over his own toes. But before I was\naware of it he was scolding me for a _furfante_! Even though it were\nonly a senseless bird, it irritated me. I scolded him back; we both\ngot angry; the more I scolded in German, the more he abused me in\nItalian.\n\nSuddenly I heard some one laughing behind me. I turned quickly, and\nperceived the painter of the morning. \"What nonsense are you at now!\"\nhe said. \"I have been waiting for you for half an hour. The air has\ngrown cooler: we will go to a garden in the suburbs where you will\nfind several fellow-countrymen, and perhaps learn something further of\nthe German Countess.\"\n\nI was charmed with this proposal, and we set out immediately, the\nparrot screaming out abuse of me as I left him.\n\nAfter we had walked for a long while outside of the city, ascending by\na narrow, stony pathway an eminence dotted with villas and vineyards,\nwe reached a small garden very high up, where several young men and\nmaidens were sitting in the open air about a round table. As soon\nas we made our appearance they all signed to us to keep silence,\nand pointed toward the other end of the garden, where in a large,\nvine-wreathed arbor two beautiful ladies were sitting opposite each\nother at a table. One was singing, while the other accompanied her\non the guitar. Between them stood a pleasant-looking gentleman, who\noccasionally beat time with a small baton. The setting sun shone\nthrough the vine-leaves, upon the fruits and flasks of wine with which\nthe table was provided, and upon the plump, white shoulders of the\nlady with the guitar. The other one grimaced so that she looked\nconvulsed, but she sang in Italian in so extremely artistic a manner\nthat the sinews in her neck stood out like cords.\n\nJust as she was executing a long cadenza with her eyes turned up to\nthe skies, while the gentleman beside her held his baton suspended in\nthe air waiting the moment when she would fall into the beat again,\nthe garden gate was flung open, and a girl looking very much heated,\nand a young man with a pale, delicate face, entered, quarreling\nviolently. The conductor, startled, stood with raised baton like a\npetrified conjurer, although the singer had some time before snapped\nshort her long trill and had arisen angrily from the table. All the\nothers turned upon the new arrivals in a rage. \"You savage,\" some one\nat the round table called out, \"you have interrupted the most perfect\ntableau of the description which the late Hoffmann gives on page 347\nof the _Ladies' Annual_ for 1816 of the finest of Hummel's pictures\nexhibited in the autumn of 1814 at the Berlin Art-Exposition!\" But\nit did no good. \"What do I care,\" the young man retorted, \"for your\ntableau of tableaux! My picture any one may have; my sweetheart I\nchoose to keep for myself. Oh, you faithless, false-hearted girl!\" he\nwent on to his poor companion, \"you fine critic to whom a painter is\nnothing but a tradesman, and a poet only a money-maker; you care for\nnothing save flirtation! May you fall to the lot, not of an honest\nartist, but of an old Duke with a diamond-mine and beplastered with\ngold and silver foil! Out with the cursed note that you tried to hide\nfrom me! What have you been scribbling? From whom did it come, or to\nwhom is it going?\"\n\nBut the girl resisted him steadfastly, and the more the other young\nmen present tried to soothe and pacify the angry lover, the more\nhe scolded and threatened; particularly as the girl herself did not\nrestrain her little tongue, until at last she extricated herself,\nweeping aloud, from the confused coil, and unexpectedly threw herself\ninto my arms for protection. I immediately assumed the correct\nattitude; but since the rest paid no attention to us, she suddenly\ncomposed her face and whispered hastily in my ear, \"You odious\nReceiver! it is all on your account. There, stuff the wretched note\ninto your pocket; you will find out from it where we live. When you\napproach the gate, at the appointed hour, turn into the lonely street\non the right hand.\"\n\nI was too much amazed to utter a word, for, now that I looked closely,\nI recognized her at once; actually it was the pert lady's-maid of\nthe Castle who had brought me the flask of wine on that lovely Sunday\nafternoon. She never looked as pretty as now, when, heated by her\nquarrel, she leaned against my shoulder, and her black curls hung down\nover my arm. \"But, dear ma'amselle,\" I said in astonishment, \"how do\nyou come--\" \"For heaven's sake, hush!--be quiet!\" she replied, and in\nan instant, before I could fairly collect myself, she had left me and\nhad fled across the garden.\n\nMeanwhile, the others had almost entirely forgotten the original cause\nof the turmoil, and now took a pleasing interest in proving to the\nyoung man that he was intoxicated--a great disgrace for an honorable\npainter. The stout, smiling gentleman from the arbor, who was--as I\nafterward learned--a great connoisseur and patron of Art, and who was\nalways ready to lend his aid for the love of Science, had thrown aside\nhis baton, and showed his broad face, fairly shining with good humor,\nin the midst of the thickest confusion, zealously striving to restore\npeace and order, but regretting between-whiles the loss of the long\ncadenza, and of the beautiful tableau which he had taken such pains to\narrange.\n\nIn my heart all was as serenely bright as on that blissful Sunday when\nI had played on my fiddle far into the night at the open window where\nstood the flask of wine. Since the rumpus showed no signs of abating,\nI hastily pulled out my violin, and without more ado played an Italian\ndance, popular among the mountains, which I had learned at the old\ncastle in the forest.\n\nAll turned their heads to listen. \"Bravo! Bravissimo! A delicious\nidea!\" cried the merry connoisseur of Art, running from one to another\nto arrange a rustic _divertissement_, as he called it. He made a\nbeginning himself by leading out the lady who had played the guitar\nin the arbor. Thereupon he began to dance with extraordinary artistic\nskill, and describe all sorts of letters on the grass with the points\nof his toes, really trilling with his feet, and now and then jumping\npretty high in the air. But he soon had enough of it, for he was\nrather corpulent. His jumps grew fewer and clumsier, until at last he\nwithdrew from the circle, puffing violently, and mopping the moisture\nfrom his forehead with a snowy pocket-handkerchief. Meanwhile, the\nyoung man, who had regained his composure, brought from the inn some\ncastanets, and before I was aware all were dancing merrily beneath the\ntrees. The sun had set, but the crimson sky in the west cast bright\nreflections among the shadows, and upon the old walls and the\nhalf-buried columns covered with ivy in the depths of the garden,\nwhile below the vineyards we could see the Eternal City bathed in the\nevening glow. The dance in the still, clear air was charming, and\nmy heart within me laughed to see how the slender girls and the\nlady's-maid glided among the trees with arms upraised like heathen\nwood-nymphs, and kept time to the music with their castanets. At last\nI could no longer restrain myself; I joined their ranks, and danced\naway merrily, still fiddling all the time.\n\nI had been hopping about thus for some minutes, not noticing that the\nothers were beginning to be tired and were dropping out of the\ndance, when I felt some one twitch me by the coat-tail. It was the\nlady's-maid. \"Don't be a fool,\" she said under her breath; \"you are\njumping about like a kid! Read your note, and come soon; the beautiful\nyoung Countess awaits you.\" She slipped out of the garden in the\ntwilight and vanished among the vineyards.\n\nMy heart beat fast; I longed to follow her. Fortunately, a waiter was\njust lighting the lantern over the garden gate. I took out my note,\nwhich contained a somewhat rudely penciled plan of the gate and the\nstreets leading to it, just as I had been directed by the lady's-maid,\nand in addition the words \"Eleven o'clock, at the little door.\"\n\nTwo long hours to wait! Nevertheless I should have set out\nimmediately, for I could not stay still, had not the painter, who had\nbrought me hither, rushed up. \"Did you speak to the girl?\" he asked.\n\"I cannot see her now. It was the German Countess's maid.\" \"Hush,\nhush!\" I replied; \"the Countess is still in Rome.\" \"So much the\nbetter,\" said the painter; \"come then and drink her health.\" And in\nspite of all I could say he forced me to return to the garden with\nhim.\n\nIt looked quite deserted. The merry company had departed, and were\nsauntering toward Rome, each lad with his lass upon his arm. We\ncould hear them talking and laughing among the vineyards in the quiet\nevening, until at last their voices died away in the valley below,\nlost in the rustling of the trees and the murmur of the stream. I\nstayed with my painter and Herr Eckbrecht, which was the name of the\nother young painter who had been quarreling with the maid. The moon\nshone brilliantly through the tall, dark evergreens; a candle on the\ntable before us flickered in the breeze and gleamed over the wine\nspilled copiously around it. I had to sit down with my companions, and\nmy painter chatted with me about my native village, my travels, and\nmy plans for the future. Herr Eckbrecht had seated upon his knee the\npretty girl who had brought us our wine, and was teaching her the\naccompaniment of a song on the guitar. Her slender fingers soon picked\nout the correct chords, and they sang together an Italian song;\nfirst he sang a verse, and then the girl sang the next; it sounded\ndeliciously, in the clear, bright evening. When the girl was called\naway, Herr Eckbrecht, taking no further notice of us, leaned back on\nhis bench with his feet on a low stool and played and sang many an\nexquisite song. The stars glittered; the landscape turned to silver in\nthe moonlight; I thought of the Lady fair, and of my far-off home, and\nquite forgot the painter at my side. Herr Eckbrecht had occasionally\nto tune his instrument; whereat he grew downright angry, and at last\nhe screwed a string so tight that it broke, whereupon he tossed aside\nthe guitar and sprang to his feet, noticing for the first time that\nmy painter had laid his head on his arm upon the table and was fast\nasleep. He hastily wrapped around him a white cloak which hung on a\nbough near by, then suddenly paused, glanced keenly at my painter, and\nthen at me several times, then seated himself on the table directly\nin front of me, cleared his throat, settled his cravat, and instantly\nbegan to hold forth to me. \"Beloved hearer and fellow-countryman,\"\nhe said, \"since the bottles are nearly empty, and morality is\nindisputably the first duty of a citizen when the virtues are on the\nwane, I feel myself moved, out of sympathy for a fellow-countryman,\nto present for your consideration a few moral axioms. It might be\nsupposed,\" he went on, \"that you are a mere youth, whereas your coat\nhas evidently seen its best years; it might be supposed that you had\nleaped about like a satyr; nay, some might maintain that you are a\nvagabond, because you are out here in the country and play the fiddle;\nbut I am influenced by no such superficial considerations; I form my\njudgment on your delicately chiseled nose; I take you for a strolling\ngenius.\" His ambiguous phrases irritated me; I was about to retort\nsharply. But he gave me no chance to speak. \"Observe,\" he said, \"how\nyou are puffed up by a modicum of praise. Retire within yourself\nand ponder upon your perilous vocation. We geniuses--for I am one\ntoo--care as little for the world as it cares for us; without any ado,\nin the seven-league boots which we bring into the world with us, we\nstride on directly into eternity. A most lamentable, inconvenient\nstraddling position this--one leg in the future, where nothing is to\nbe discerned but the rosy morn and the faces of future children, the\nother leg still in the middle of Rome, in the Piazza del Popolo,\nwhere the entire present century would fain seize the opportunity to\nadvance, and clings to the boot tight enough to pull the leg off! And\nthen all this restlessness, wine-bibbing, and hunger solely for an\nimmortal eternity! And look you at my comrade there on the bench,\nanother genius; his time hangs heavy on his hands here and now, what\nunder heaven is he to do in eternity? Yes, my highly-esteemed comrade,\nyou and I and the sun rose early together this morning, and have\npondered and painted all day long, and it was all beautiful--and now\nthe drowsy night passes its furred sleeve over the world and wipes\nout all the colors.\" He kept on talking for a long while, his hair all\ndisheveled with dancing and drinking, and his face looking deadly pale\nin the moonlight.\n\nBut I was seized with a horror of him and of his wild talk, and when\nhe turned and addressed the sleeping painter I took advantage of the\nopportunity and slipped round the table, without being perceived\nby him, and out of the garden. Thence, alone and glad at heart, I\ndescended through the vine-trellises into the wide moonlit valley.\n\nThe clocks in the city were striking ten. Behind me, in the quiet\nnight, I still heard an occasional note of the guitar, and at times\nthe voices of the two painters, going home at last, were audible. I\nran on as quickly as possible, that they might not overtake me.\n\nAt the city-gate I turned into the street on the right hand, and\nhurried on with a throbbing heart among the silent houses and gardens.\nTo my amazement, I suddenly found myself in the very Square with the\nfountain, for which, by daylight, I had vainly searched. There stood\nthe solitary summer-house again in the glorious moonlight, and again\nthe Lady fair was singing the same Italian song as on the evening\nbefore. In an ecstasy I tried first the low door, then the house door,\nand at last the big garden gate, but all were locked. Then first it\noccurred to me that eleven had not yet struck. I was irritated by the\nslow flight of time, but good manners forbade my climbing over the\ngarden gate as I had done yesterday. Therefore I paced the lonely\nSquare to and fro for a while, and at last again seated myself upon\nthe basin of the fountain and resigned myself to meditation and calm\nexpectancy.\n\nThe stars twinkled in the skies; the Square was quiet and deserted; I\nlistened with delight to the song of the Lady fair, as it mingled with\nthe ripple of the fountain. All at once I perceived a white figure\napproach from the opposite side of the Square and go directly\ntoward the little garden door. I peered eagerly through the dazzling\nmoonlight--it was the queer painter in his white cloak. He drew forth\na key quickly, unlocked the door, and, before I knew it, was within\nthe garden.\n\nI had from the first entertained a special dislike of this painter on\naccount of his nonsensical talk. But now I fell into a rage with him.\n\"The low fellow is certainly intoxicated again,\" I thought; \"he has\ngot the key from the maid, and intends to surprise, and perhaps to\nassault, the Lady fair.\" And I rushed precipitately through the low\ndoor, which was still open, into the garden.\n\nWhen I entered, all was quiet and lonely. The folding-doors of the\nsummer-house were open, and a ray of lamplight issuing from it played\nupon the grass and flowers near. Even from a distance I could see the\ninterior. In a magnificent apartment, hung with green and partially\nillumined by a lamp with a white shade, the lovely Lady fair with\nher guitar was reclining on a silken lounge, never dreaming, in her\ninnocence, of the danger without.\n\nI had not much time, however, to look, for I perceived the white\nfigure among the shrubbery, stealthily approaching the summer-house\nfrom the opposite side, while the song floating on the air from the\nhouse was so melancholy that it went to my very soul. I therefore took\nno long time for reflection, but broke off a stout bough from a tree,\nand rushed at the white-cloaked figure, shouting \"Murder!\" so that the\ngarden rang again.\n\nThe painter when he beheld me appear thus unexpectedly took to his\nheels, screaming frightfully. I screamed louder still. He ran toward\nthe house, and I after him, and I had very nearly caught him, when I\nbecame entangled in some plaguy trailing vines, and measured my length\nupon the ground just before the front door.\n\n\"So it is you, is it, you fool!\" I heard some one say above me. \"You\nfrightened me nearly to death.\" I picked myself up, and when I had\nwiped my eyes clear of dust, I saw before me the lady's-maid, from\nwhose shoulders the white cloak was just falling. \"But,\" said I, in\nconfusion, \"was not the painter here?\" \"He was,\" she replied, saucily;\n\"at least his cloak was, which he put around me when I met him at the\ngate, because I was cold.\" The Lady fair, hearing the noise, sprang\nup from the lounge and came out to us. My heart beat as if it would\nburst; but what was my dismay when I looked at her, and instead of the\nlovely Lady fair saw an entire stranger!\n\nShe was a rather tall, stout lady, with a haughty, hooked nose and\nhigh-arched black eyebrows, very beautiful and imposing. She looked\nat me so majestically out of her big, glittering eyes that I was\noverwhelmed with awe. So confused was I that I could only make bow\nafter bow, and at last I attempted to kiss her hand. But she snatched\nit from me, and said something in Italian to her maid which I could\nnot understand.\n\nMeanwhile, the racket I had made had aroused the entire neighborhood.\nDogs barked, children screamed, and men's voices were heard,\napproaching the garden. The Lady gave me another glance, as though she\nwould have liked to pierce me through and through with fiery bullets,\nthen turned hastily and went into the room, with a haughty, forced\nlaugh, slamming the door directly in my face. The maid seized me by\nthe sleeve and pulled me toward the garden gate.\n\n\"Your stupidity is beyond belief!\" she said in the most spiteful way\nas we went along. I too was furious. \"What the devil did you mean,\"\nI said, \"by telling me to come here?\" \"That's just it!\" exclaimed\nthe girl. \"My Countess favored you so--first threw flowers out of\nthe window to you, sang songs--and _this_ is her reward! But there is\nabsolutely nothing to be done with you; you positively throw away\nyour luck.\" \"But,\" I rejoined, \"I meant the Countess from Germany,\nthe lovely Lady fair--\" \"Oh,\" she interrupted me, \"she went back to\nGermany long ago, with your crazy passion for her. And you'd better\nrun after her! No doubt she is pining for you, and you can play the\nfiddle together and gaze at the moon, only for pity's sake let me see\nno more of you!\"\n\nAll was confusion about us by this time. People from the next garden\nwere climbing over the fence armed with clubs, others were searching\namong the paths and avenues; frightened faces in nightcaps appeared\nhere and there in the moonlight; it seemed as if the devil had let\nloose upon us a mob of evil spirits. The lady's-maid was nowise\ndaunted. \"There, there goes the thief!\" she called out to the people,\npointing across the garden. Then she pushed me out of the gate and\nclapped it to behind me.\n\nThere I stood once more beneath the stars in the deserted Square,\nas forlorn as when I had seen it first the day before. The fountain,\nwhich had but now seemed to sparkle as merrily in the moonlight as if\ncherubs were flitting up and down in it, plashed on, but all joy and\nhappiness were buried beneath its waters. I determined to turn my back\nforever on treacherous Italy, with its crazy painters, its oranges,\nand its lady's-maids, and that very hour I wandered forth through the\ngate.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IX\n\n  On guard the faithful mountains stand:\n    \"Who wanders o'er the moorland there\n    From other climes, in morning fair?\"\n  And as I look far o'er the land,\n    For very glee my heart laughs out.\n  The joyous \"vivats\" then I shout;\n  Watchword and battle-cry shall be:\n    Austria, for thee!\n\n  The landscape far and near I know;\n    The birds and brooks and forests fair\n    Send me their greetings on the air;\n  The Danube sparkles down below;\n    St. Stephen's spire far in the blue\n    Seems waving me a welcome too.\n  Warm to its core my heart shall be,\n    Austria, for thee!\n\n\nI was standing on the summit of a mountain whence the first view of\nAustria can be had, and I waved my hat joyfully in the air as I sang\nthe last verse, when suddenly from the forest behind me some fine\ninstrumental music joined in. I turned quickly and perceived three\nyoung fellows in long blue cloaks, one playing a hautboy, another a\nclarionet, and the third, who wore an old three-cornered hat, a horn.\nThey played an accompaniment to my song, which made the woods ring\nagain. I, nothing loath, took out my fiddle, and played and sang with\na will. Then one glanced meaningly at the others; he who played the\nhorn stopped puffing out his cheeks and took the instrument down from\nhis mouth; at last they all ceased playing, and stared at me. I ended\nmy performance also, and in turn stared at them. \"We supposed,\" the\ncornetist said at last, \"from the length of the gentleman's coat that\nhe was a traveling Englishman, journeying afoot here to admire the\nbeauties of nature, and we thought we might perhaps earn a trifle for\nour own travels. But the gentleman seems to be a musician himself.\"\n\"Properly speaking, a Receiver,\" I interposed, \"and I come at present\ndirectly from Rome; but, as it is some time since I received anything,\nI have paid my way with my violin.\" \"'Tis not worth much nowadays,\"\nsaid the cornetist, as he betook himself to the woods again, and\nbegan fanning with his cocked hat a fire that they had kindled there.\n\"Wind-instruments are more profitable,\" he continued. \"When a noble\nfamily is seated quietly at their mid-day meal, and we unexpectedly\nenter their vaulted vestibule and all three begin to blow with all our\nmight, a servant is sure to come running out to us with money or food,\njust to get rid of the noise. But will you not share our repast?\"\n\nThe fire in the forest was burning cheerily, the morning was fresh; we\nall sat down on the grass, and two of the musicians took from the fire\na can in which there was coffee with milk. Then they brought forth\nsome bread from the pockets of their cloaks, and each dipped it in the\ncan and drank turn about with such relish that it was a pleasure to\nsee them. But the cornetist said, \"I never could endure the black\nslops,\" and, after handing me a huge slice of bread and butter, he\nbrought out a bottle of wine, from which he offered me a draught. I\ntook a good pull at it, but had to put it down in a hurry with my face\nall of a pucker, for it tasted like \"old Gooseberry.\" \"The wine of\nthe country,\" said the cornetist; \"but Italy has probably spoilt your\nGerman taste.\"\n\nThen he rummaged in his wallet, and finally produced from among all\nsorts of rubbish an old, tattered map of the country, in the corner\nof which the emperor in his royal robes was still to be discerned, a\nsceptre in his right hand, the orb in his left. This map he carefully\nspread out upon the ground; the others drew nearer, and they all\nconsulted together as to their route.\n\n\"The vacation is nearly over,\" said one; \"let us turn to the left as\nsoon as we leave Linz, so as to be in Prague in time.\" \"Upon my word!\"\nexclaimed the cornetist. \"Whom do you propose to pipe to on that road?\nNobody there save wood-choppers and charcoal-burners; no culture nor\ntaste for art--no station where one can spend a night for nothing!\"\n\"Oh, nonsense!\" rejoined the other. \"I like the peasants best;\nthey know where the shoe pinches, and are not so particular if\nyou sometimes blow a false note.\" \"That is, you have no _point\nd'honneur_,\" said the cornetist. \"_Odi profanum vulgus et arceo_, as\nthe Latin has it.\" \"Well, there must be some churches on the road,\"\nstruck in the third; \"we can stop at the Herr Pastors'.\" \"No, I thank\nyou,\" said the cornetist; \"they give little money, but long sermons on\nthe folly of philandering about the world when we might be acquiring\nknowledge, and they wax specially eloquent when they sniff in me a\nfuture member of their fraternity. No, no, _clericus clericum non\ndecimat_. But why be in such a hurry? The Herr Professors are still\nat Carlsbad, and are sure not to be precise about the very day.\" \"Nay,\n_distinguendum est inter et inter_,\" replied the other; \"_quod licet\nJovi, non licet bovi_!\"\n\nI now saw that they were students from Prague, and I conceived a\ngreat respect for them, especially as they spoke Latin like their\nmother-tongue. \"Is the gentleman a student?\" the cornetist asked me. I\nreplied modestly that I had always been very fond of study, but that I\nhad had no money. \"That's of no consequence,\" said the cornetist; \"we\nhave neither money nor rich patrons, but we get along by mother-wit.\n_Aurora musis amica_, which means, being interpreted, 'Do not waste\ntoo much time at breakfast.' But when the bells at noon echo from\ntower to tower, and from mountain to mountain, and the scholars crowd\nout of the old dark lecture-room, and swarm shouting through the\nstreets, we betake us to the Capuchin monastery, to the father who\npresides in the refectory, where there is sure to be a table spread\nfor us, or if not actually spread, there will be at least a dish\napiece, and we fall to, and perfect ourselves at the same time in our\nLatin. So you see we study right ahead from day to day. And when at\nlast the vacation comes, and all the others depart for their homes,\nby coach or on horseback, then we stroll forth through the streets and\nthrough the city gate with our instruments under our cloaks and the\nworld before us.\"\n\nI can't tell how it was, but, while he spoke, the thought that such\nlearned people were so forlorn and forsaken in this world went to\nmy very heart. And then I thought of myself, and how I was not much\nbetter off, and the tears came into my eyes. The cornetist eyed me\naskance. \"I wouldn't give a fig,\" he went on, \"to travel with horses,\nand coffee, and freshly-made beds, and nightcaps and boot-jacks, all\nordered beforehand. It's just the delightful part of it that, when\nwe set out early in the morning, and the birds of passage are winging\ntheir flight high in the air above us, we do not know what chimney is\nsmoking for us today, and can never foresee what special piece of luck\nmay befall us before evening.\" \"Yes,\" said the other, \"and wherever we\ngo, and take out our instruments, people are merry; and when we play\nat noon in the vestibule of some great country-house, the maids will\ndance before the door, and their masters and mistresses will have the\ndrawing-room door opened a little, the better to hear the music, and\nthe clatter of plates and the smell of the roast float out through the\nchink, and the young misses at table well-nigh twist their necks off\nto see the musicians outside.\" \"That's true!\" exclaimed the cornetist,\nwith sparkling eyes. \"Let who will pore over their compendiums, we\nchoose to study in the vast picture-book which the dear God spreads\nopen before us! Yes, the gentleman may believe me, we make the right\nsort of fellows, who know how to preach to the peasants from the\npulpit and to bang the cushion, so that the clodpoles down below are\nready to burst with humiliation and edification.\"\n\nAt hearing them talk thus, I became so pleased and interested that I\nlonged to be a student too. I could have listened forever, for I enjoy\nthe conversation of men of learning, from whom much is to be gained.\nBut we had no real, sensible conversation, for one of the students\nwas worried because the vacation was so nearly at an end. He put his\nclarionet together, set up a sheet of music on his knees, and began to\npractice a difficult passage from a mass which was to be played when\nthey returned to Prague. There he sat and fingered and played away,\nsometimes so false that it fairly pierced your ears and you couldn't\nhear your own voice.\n\nSuddenly the cornetist exclaimed in his bass tones, \"I have it!\" and\ndown came his fist on the map before him. The other stopped practising\nfor a moment, and looked at him in surprise. \"Hark ye,\" said the\ncornetist, \"there is a castle not far from Vienna, and in that\ncastle there is a porter, and that porter is my cousin! Dearest\nfellow-students, that must be our goal; we must pay our respects to\nmy cousin, and he will arrange for our further journey.\" When I heard\nthat, I sprang to my feet. \"Doesn't he play on the bassoon?\" I\ncried. \"Is he not tall and straight, with a big, prominent nose?\" The\ncornetist nodded, upon which I embraced him so enthusiastically that\nhis three-cornered hat fell off, and we all immediately determined\nto take the mail-boat on the Danube to the castle of the beautiful\nCountess.\n\nWhen we arrived at the wharf all was ready for departure. The fat host\nbefore whose inn the ship had lain all night was standing broad and\ncheery in his door-way, which he quite filled, shouting out all sorts\nof jokes and farewell speeches, while from every window a girl's head\nwas poked out nodding to the sailors, who were just carrying the last\npackages aboard. An elderly gentleman with a gray overcoat and a\nblack neckerchief, who was also going in the boat, stood on the shore\ntalking very earnestly with a slim young fellow in leather breeches\nand a trig scarlet jacket, mounted on a magnificent chestnut. To my\ngreat surprise, they seemed to glance at times toward me, and to be\nspeaking of me. At last the old gentleman laughed, and the slim young\nfellow cracked his riding-whip and galloped off through the fresh\nmorning across the shining landscape, with the larks soaring above\nhim.\n\nMeanwhile, the students and I had combined our resources. The\ncaptain laughed and shook his head when the cornetist counted out our\npassage-money to him in coppers, for which we had diligently searched\nevery corner of our pockets. I shouted aloud when I once more saw the\nDanube before me; we hurried aboard, the captain gave the signal, and\naway we glided in the brilliant morning sunshine past the meadows and\nthe mountains.\n\nThe birds in the woods were singing, and the morning bells echoed afar\nfrom the villages on each side of us, while overhead the larks' clear\nnotes were now and then heard. On the boat a canary-bird in its cage\ntrilled and twittered back so that it was a delight to listen to it.\n\nIt belonged to a pretty young girl who was on the boat with us. She\nkept the cage close beside her, and under the other arm she had a\nsmall bundle of linen; she sat by herself, quite still, looking in\ngreat content, now at her new traveling-shoes, which peeped out from\nbeneath her petticoats, and now down at the water, while the morning\nsun shone on her white forehead, above which the hair was neatly\nparted. I noticed that the students would have liked to engage her in\npolite discourse, for they kept passing to and fro before her, and the\ncornetist, whenever he did so, cleared his throat, and settled, first\nhis cravat, and then his three-cornered hat. But their courage failed\nthem, and moreover the girl cast down her eyes as soon as they,\napproached her.\n\nThey seemed, besides, to stand in special awe of the elderly gentleman\nin the gray overcoat, who was now sitting on the other side of the\nboat, and whom they took for a divine. He held an open breviary, in\nwhich he was reading, looking up from it frequently to admire the\nlovely scenery, while the gilt edges of the book and the gay pictures\nof saints laid between its leaves shone brilliantly in the sun light.\nHe was perfectly well aware, too, of what was going on around him,\nand soon recognized the birds by their feathers, for before long he\naddressed one of the students in Latin, whereupon all three approached\nhim, took off their hats, and made answer also in Latin.\n\nMeanwhile, I had seated myself at the prow of the boat, where, highly\ndelighted, I dangled my legs above the water, gazing, while the boat\nglided onward and the waves below me leaped and foamed, constantly\ninto the blue distance, watching towers and castles one after another\nemerge from the dim depths of green, grow and grow upon the sight,\nand finally recede and vanish behind us. \"If I had but wings at this\nmoment!\" I thought; and at last in my impatience I drew forth my dear\nviolin and played all my oldest pieces, which I had learned at home\nand at the castle of the Lady fair.\n\nAll at once some one behind me tapped me on the shoulder. It was\nthe reverend gentleman, who had laid aside his book, and had been\nlistening to me for a while. \"Aha,\" he said laughing, \"aha, my young\n_ludi magister_ is forgetting to eat and drink!\" Whereupon he bade me\nput away my fiddle and take a bit of luncheon with him, and he then\nled me to a pleasant little arbor which the boatmen had erected in\nthe centre of the boat out of young birches and firs. He had a table\nplaced beneath it, and I and the students, and even the young girl,\nwere invited to sit down around it upon the casks and packages.\n\nThe reverend gentleman now produced cold meat and bread and butter,\nwhich had all been carefully wrapped in paper, and took from a case\nseveral bottles of wine and a silver goblet, gilt inside, which he\nfilled, tasted first himself, then smelled, tasted again, and finally\npresented to each of us in turn. The students sat bolt upright on\ntheir casks, and only sipped a little, so great was their awe. The\ngirl, too, just dipped her little beak in the goblet, glancing shyly\nfirst at me and then at the students; but the oftener she looked at us\nthe bolder she grew.\n\nAt last she informed the reverend gentleman that she was leaving her\nhome for the first time, to go into service at a certain castle, and\nas she spoke I blushed all over, for the castle she mentioned was\nthat of the Lady fair. \"Then she is my future lady's maid!\" I thought,\nstaring at her, and feeling almost giddy. \"There is soon to be a grand\nwedding at the castle,\" said his reverence. \"Yes,\" replied the girl,\nwho would have liked to learn more of the matter; \"they say it is an\nold secret attachment, but that the Countess could never be brought to\ngive her consent.\" His reverence replied only by \"hm! hm!\" refilling\nhis goblet, and sipping from it with a thoughtful air. I leaned\nforward with both elbows on the table, that I might lose no word of\nthe conversation. His reverence observed it. \"Let me tell you,\" he\nbegan again, \"that both Countesses sent me forth to discover whether\nthe bridegroom be not in the country hereabouts. A lady wrote from\nRome that he left there some time ago.\" When he began about the\nlady in Rome I blushed again. \"Is your reverence acquainted with the\nbridegroom?\" I asked, in confusion. \"No,\" replied the old gentleman;\n\"but they say he is a gay bird.\" \"Oh, yes,\" said I, hastily, \"a bird\nthat escapes as soon as it can from every cage, and sings gaily when\nit regains its freedom.\" \"And wanders about in foreign countries,\" the\nold gentleman continued, composedly, \"goes everywhere at night,\nand sleeps on door-steps in the daytime.\" That vexed me extremely.\n\"Reverend sir,\" I exclaimed, with some heat, \"you have been falsely\ninformed. The bridegroom is a slender, moral, promising youth, who has\nbeen living in luxury in an old castle in Italy, and has associated\nsolely with Countesses, famous painters, and lady's-maids, who knows\nperfectly well how to take care of his money, if he had any, who--\"\n\"Come, come, I had no idea that you knew him so well,\" the divine here\ninterrupted me, laughing so heartily that he grew quite purple in the\nface and the tears rolled down his cheeks. \"But I heard,\" the girl\ninterposed, \"that the bridegroom was a stout, very wealthy gentleman.\"\n\"Good heavens, yes, yes, to be sure! Confusion worse confounded!\"\nexclaimed his reverence, laughing so that it brought on a fit of\ncoughing. When he had somewhat recovered himself, he raised his goblet\naloft and cried, \"Here's to the bridal pair!\" I did not know what\nto make of the reverend gentleman and his talk, and I was ashamed,\nbecause of my adventures in Rome, to tell him here before all these\npeople that I myself was the missing thrice happy bridegroom.\n\nThe goblet kept passing from hand to hand; the reverend gentleman\nhad a kind word for every one, so that all liked him, and finally the\nentire company chatted gaily together. The students grew more and more\nloquacious, recounting their experiences in the mountains, and at last\nbrought out their instruments and played away merrily. The cool breeze\nfrom the water sighed through the leaves of the arbor, the afternoon\nsun gilded the woods and vales which flew past us, while the shores\nechoed back the notes of the horn. And when the reverend gentleman,\nstimulated by the music, grew more and more genial, and told us\nstories of his youth, how in vacation-time he too had wandered over\nhills and dales, and had been often hungry and thirsty, but always\nhappy, and how, in fact, a student's whole life, from its first day in\nthe narrow, dry lecture-room to its last, is one long vacation, then\nthe students drank all around once more, and struck up a song, that\nreechoed among the distant mountains\n\n  \"The birds are southward winging\n    Their yearly, airy flight,\n  And roving lads are swinging\n    Their caps in morning's light;\n  We students thus are going,\n    And, when the gates are nigh,\n  Our trumpets shall be blowing,\n    In token of good-bye.\n  A long farewell we give thee,\n  O Prague, for we must leave thee,\n  _Et habeat bonam pacem,\n  Qui sedet post fornacem_!\n\n  \"When through the towns we're going\n    At night, the windows shine,\n  Behind their curtains showing\n    Full many a damsel fine.\n  We play at many a gate-way,\n    And when our throats are dry\n  We call mine host, and straightway\n    He treats us generously;\n  And o'er a goblet foaming\n  We rest awhile from roaming.\n  _Venit ex sua domo--\n  Beatus ille homo_!\n\n  \"When roaming through the forest\n    Cold Boreas whistles shrill,\n  'Tis then our need is sorest;\n    Wet through on plain and hill,\n  Our cloaks the winds are tearing,\n    Our shoes are worn and old,\n  Still playing, onward faring,\n    In spite of rain and cold.\n  _Beatus ille homo\n  Qui sedet in sua domo\n  Et sedet post fornacem,\n  Et habeat bonam pacem!\"_\n\nI, the captain, and the girl, although we did not understand Latin,\njoined gaily in the last lines of each verse; but I was the gayest of\nall, for I had caught a glimpse in the distance of my toll-house, and\nsoon afterward the castle shone among the trees in the light of the\nsetting sun.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER X\n\n\nThe boat touched the shore, and we all left it as quickly as possible,\nand scattered about in the meadows, like birds suddenly set free from\nthe cage. The reverend gentleman took a hasty leave of us, and strode\noff toward the castle. The students repaired to a retired dingle,\nwhere they could shake out their cloaks, wash themselves in the brook,\nand shave one another. The new lady's-maid, with her canary-bird and\nher bundle, set out for an inn, the hostess of which I had recommended\nto her as an excellent person, and where she wished to change her\ngown before she presented herself at the castle. As for me--the lovely\nevening shone right into my heart, and as soon as all the rest had\ndisappeared I lost not a moment, but ran directly to the castle\ngarden.\n\nMy toll-house, which I had to pass, was standing on the old spot, the\ntall trees in the castle garden were still murmuring above it, and\na yellow-hammer, which always used to sing at sunset in the\nchestnut-tree before the window, was singing again, as if nothing in\nthe world had happened since I last heard him. The toll-house window\nwas open; I ran up to it with delight and looked in. There was no one\nthere, but the clock in the corner was ticking away, the writing-table\nstood by the window, and the long pipe in the corner as of old. I\ncould not resist the temptation to climb through the window and seat\nmyself at the writing-table before the big account-book. Again the\nsunlight shone golden-green through the chestnut boughs upon the\nfigures in the open book, again the bees buzzed in and out of the\nwindow, and again the yellow-hammer's jocund song sounded from the\ntree outside. All at once the door of the sleeping-room opened, and a\ntall, old Receiver, in my dotted dressing-gown, entered! He paused on\nthe threshold upon beholding me thus unexpectedly, took his spectacles\nquickly from his nose, and looked angrily at me. Not a little alarmed,\nI started up, and, without saying a word, ran out of the door and\nthrough the little garden, where I was very nearly tripped up by the\nconfounded potato-vines which the old Receiver had planted, evidently\nby the Porter's advice, in place of my flowers. I heard him as he\ncame out of the door scolding after me, but I was mounted atop of the\ngarden wall, and gazing with a throbbing heart over into the castle\ngarden.\n\nAh, how the birds were flitting and twittering and singing! The lawns\nand paths were deserted, but the gilded tree-tops nodded a welcome to\nme in the evening breeze, and on one side, up through masses of dark\ngreen foliage, gleamed the Danube.\n\nSuddenly I heard sung from the depths of the garden--\n\n  \"When the yearning heart is stilled\n    As in dreams, the forest sighing,\n    To the listening earth replying,\n  Tells the thoughts with which 'twas filled,\n    Days long vanished, soothing sorrow--\n    From the Past a light they borrow,\n  And the heart is gently thrilled.\"\n\nThe voice and the song were strangely familiar, as if I had heard\nthem somewhere in a dream. I pondered over and over again, and at last\nexclaimed, joyfully, \"It is Herr Guido!\" swinging myself quickly down\ninto the garden. It was the selfsame song that he had sung on the\nbalcony of the Italian inn on that summer evening when I saw him for\nthe last time.\n\nHe went on singing, while I bounded over beds and hedges toward the\nsinger. But as I emerged from between the last clumps of rose-bushes I\nsuddenly paused spellbound. For on the green opening beside the little\nlake with the swans, clearly illuminated in the ruddy evening light,\non a stone bench sat the lovely Lady fair in a beautiful dress, with\na wreath of red and white roses on her dark-brown hair, and downcast\neyes, tracing lines on the green-sward with her riding-whip, just as\nshe had sat in the skiff when I was forced to sing her the song of\nthe Lady fair. Opposite her sat another young lady, with brown curls\nclustering on a plump white neck, which was turned toward me; she was\nsinging to a guitar, while the swans glided in wide circles on the\nplacid water. All at once the Lady fair raised her eyes, and gave\na scream on perceiving me. The other lady turned round toward me so\nquickly that her brown curls fell over her eyes, and when she saw me\nshe burst into a fit of immoderate laughter, sprang up from the bench,\nand clapped her hands thrice. Whereupon a crowd of little girls in\nwhite short skirts with red and green sashes came running out from\namong the rose-bushes, so that I could not imagine where they had all\nbeen hiding. They had long garlands of flowers in their hands, and\nquickly formed a circle around me, dancing and singing--\n\n  \"With ribbons gay of violets blue\n    The bridal wreath we bring thee;\n  The merry dance we lead thee to,\n    And wedding songs we sing thee.\n  Ribbons gay of violets blue,\n    Bridal wreath we bring thee.\"\n\nIt was from _Der Freisch\u00fctz_. I recognized some of the little singers;\nthey were girls from the village. I pinched their cheeks, and tried to\nescape from the circle, but the roguish little things would not let\nme out. I could not tell what to make of it all, and stood there\nperfectly dazed.\n\nSuddenly a young man in hunting costume emerged from the shrubbery.\nHardly could I believe my eyes--it was merry Herr Lionardo! The little\ngirls now opened the circle and stood as if spell-bound on one foot,\nwith the other stretched out, holding the garlands of flowers high\nabove their heads with both hands. Herr Lionardo took the hand of the\nlovely Lady fair, who had risen, and had only now and then glanced at\nme, and, leading her up to me, said--\n\n\"Love--on this point philosophers are unanimous--is one of the most\ncourageous qualities of the human heart; it shatters with a glance of\nfire the barriers of rank and station, the world is too confined for\nit, eternity too brief. It is, so to speak, a poet's robe, in which\nevery dreamer enwraps himself once in this cold world, for a journey\nto Arcadia. And the farther two parted lovers wander from each other,\nthe more beautiful and the richer are the folds of the robe, the more\nsurprising and wonderful is its extent, as it sweeps behind them, so\nthat one really cannot travel far without treading on a couple of such\ntrains. O beloved Herr Receiver, and bridegroom! although wrapped in\nthis robe you reached the shores of the Tiber, the little hands of\nyour present bride held you fast by the extreme end of the train, and,\nhowever you might fiddle and fume, you had to return within the magic\ninfluence of her beautiful eyes. And since this is so, you two dear,\nfoolish people, wrap yourselves both up in this blessed robe, forget\nall the rest of the world, love like turtle-doves, and be happy!\"\n\nHardly had Herr Lionardo finished his speech when the other young lady\nwho had sung the song approached me, crowned me with a wreath of fresh\nmyrtle, and as she was arranging it, with her face close to my own,\narchly sang--\n\n  \"And therefore do I crown thee,\n  And therefore love thee so,\n  Because thou oft hast moved me\n  With the music of thy bow.\"\n\nAs she retreated a step or two, \"Do you remember the robbers who shook\nyou down from the tree at night?\" said she, courtesying, and giving\nme so arch a glance that my heart danced within me. Thereupon, without\nwaiting for an answer, she walked around me. \"Actually just the\nsame, without any Italian affectations! But no! look, look at his fat\npockets!\" she exclaimed suddenly to the lovely Lady fair. \"Violin,\nlinen, razor, portmanteau, everything stuffed together!\" She turned\nme all round as she spoke, and could scarcely say anything more for\nlaughing. Meanwhile, the lovely Lady fair was quite silent, and could\nhardly raise her eyes for shame and confusion. It seemed to me that\nat heart she was provoked at all this jesting talk. At last her eyes\nfilled with tears, and she hid her face on the breast of the other\nlady, who first looked at her in surprise and then clasped her\naffectionately in her arms.\n\nI stood there as in a dream. The longer I looked at the strange lady\nthe more clearly I recognized her; she was in truth no other than--the\nyoung painter, Herr Guido!\n\nI did not know what to say, and was just about to question her, when\nHerr Lionardo approached her and spoke in an undertone. \"Does he not\nknow yet?\" I heard him ask. She shook her head. He reflected for a\nmoment, and then said aloud, \"No, no, he must be told all immediately,\nor there will be all kinds of fresh gossip and confusion.\"\n\n\"Herr Receiver,\" he said, turning to me, \"we have not much time at\npresent, but do me the favor to exhaust your stock of surprise\nand wonder as quickly as possible, that you may not hereafter, by\nquestions, and wonderings, and head-shakings among the people about\nhere, revive old tales and give rise to new rumors and suspicions.\" So\nsaying, he drew me aside into the shrubbery, while Fr\u00e4ulein Guido made\npasses in the air with the Lady fair's riding-whip, and shook all her\ncurls down over her eyes, which did not prevent my seeing that she was\nblushing violently.\n\n\"Well, then,\" said Herr Lionardo, \"Fr\u00e4ulein Flora, who is trying\nto look as if she neither knew nor had heard anything of the whole\naffair, had exchanged hearts in a hurry with somebody. Whereupon\nsomebody else appears, and with sound of trumpet and drum offers her\nhis heart, and wishes for hers in return. But her heart is already\nbestowed upon somebody, and somebody's heart is in her possession, and\nthat somebody will neither take back his heart nor give back hers. All\nthe world exclaims--but have you never read any romances?\" I shook my\nhead. \"Well, then, at all events you have taken part in one. In brief,\nthere was such a jumble with the hearts that somebody--that is, I--had\nto take matters in hand. I sprang on my horse one warm summer night,\nmounted Fr\u00e4ulein Flora as the painter Guido on another, and rode\ntoward the south, to conceal her in one of my lonely castles in Italy\ntill all the fuss about the hearts should be over. But on the way we\nwere tracked, and from the balcony of the Italian inn before which you\nkept, sound asleep, such admirable watch, Flora suddenly caught sight\nof our pursuer.\" \"The crooked Signor, then--\" \"Was a spy. Therefore we\nsecretly took to the woods, and left you to travel post alone over\nour prearranged route. That misled our pursuer, and my people in the\nmountain castle besides; they were hourly expecting the disguised\nFlora, and with more zeal than penetration they took you for the\nFr\u00e4ulein. Even here at the castle they thought Flora was among the\nmountains; they inquired about her, they wrote to her--did you not\nreceive a note?\" In an instant I produced the note from my pocket:\n\"This letter, then--?\" \"Is addressed to me,\" said Fr\u00e4ulein Flora,\nwho up to this point had seemed to be paying no attention to our\nconversation. She snatched the note from me, read it, and put it\ninto her bosom. \"And now,\" said Herr Lionardo, \"we must hasten to the\ncastle, where they are all waiting for us. In conclusion, as a matter\nof course, and as is fitting for every well-bred romance--discovery,\nrepentance, reconciliation; but we are all happy together once more,\nand the wedding takes place the day after tomorrow!\"\n\nJust as he had finished, a terrific racket of drums and trumpets,\nhorns and clarionets, was suddenly heard in the shrubbery; guns were\nfired at intervals, loud cheers were given, the little girls began to\ndance again, and heads appeared among the bushes as if they had grown\nout of the earth. I ran and leaped about in all the hurry and scurry,\nbut as it began to grow dark I only gradually recognized all the\nfaces. The old gardener beat the drum, the students from Prague in\ntheir cloaks played away, and among them the Porter fingered his\nbassoon like mad. When I suddenly perceived him thus unexpectedly, I\nran to him and embraced him with enthusiasm, causing him to play quite\nout of time. \"Upon my word, if he should travel to the ends of\nthe earth he would never be anything but a goose!\" he said to the\nstudents, and then went on blowing away at his bassoon in a fury.\n\nMeanwhile, the lovely Lady fair had privately escaped from all the\nnoise and confusion, and had fled like a startled fawn far into the\ndepths of the garden.\n\nI caught sight of her in time and hurried after her. In their zeal\nthe musicians never noticed us; after a while they thought that we had\ndecamped to the castle, and then the entire band took up the line of\nmarch in that direction.\n\nWe, however, almost at the same moment reached a summer-house on the\nborders of the garden, whence through the open window there was a\nview of the wide, deep valley. The sun had long since set behind the\nmountains, a rosy haze glimmered in the warm fading twilight, through\nwhich the murmur of the Danube ascended clearer and clearer the\nstiller grew the air. I looked long at the lovely Countess, who stood\nbefore me heated with her flight and so close that I could almost hear\nher heart beat. Now that I was alone with her I could find no words to\nspeak, so great was my awe of her. At last I took heart of grace, and\nclasped in mine one of her little white hands--and in one moment her\nhead lay on my breast and my arms were around her.\n\nIn an instant she extricated herself and turned to the window to cool\nher glowing cheeks in the evening air. \"Ah,\" I cried, \"my heart is\nfull to bursting, but it all seems like a dream to me!\" \"And to me\ntoo,\" said the lovely Lady fair. \"When, last summer,\" she went on\nafter a while, \"I came back with the Countess from Rome where we\nfortunately found Fr\u00e4ulein Flora, and had brought her back with us but\ncould hear nothing of you either there or here, I never thought all\nthis would come to pass. It was only at noon today that Jocky, the\ngood, brisk fellow, came breathless into the court-yard and brought\nthe news that you had come by the mail-boat.\" Then she laughed quietly\nto herself. \"Do you remember,\" she said, \"that time when I came out on\nthe balcony? It was just such an evening as this, and there was music\nin the garden.\" \"And he is really dead?\" I asked hastily. \"Whom do\nyou mean?\" replied the Lady fair, looking at me in surprise. \"Your\nladyship's husband,\" said I, \"who was with you on the balcony.\" She\nflushed crimson. \"What strange fancies you have in your head!\" she\nexclaimed. \"That was the Countess's son, who had just returned from\nhis travels, and, since it happened to be my birthday, he led me out\non the balcony with him that I might have a share of the cheers. Was\nthat why you ran away?\" \"Good heavens, yes!\" I cried, striking my\nforehead with my hand. She shook her head and laughed merrily.\n\nI was so happy there beside her while she went on chatting so\nconfidingly, that I could have sat listening until morning. I found in\nmy pocket a handful of almonds which I had brought with me from Italy.\nShe took some, and we sat and cracked them and gazed abroad over the\nquiet country. \"Do you see that little white villa,\" she said after a\nwhile, \"gleaming over there in the moonlight? The Count has given us\nthat, with its garden and vineyard; there is where we are to live. He\nfound out long ago that we cared for each other, and he is very fond\nof you, for if he had not had you with them when he was running\noff with Fr\u00e4ulein Flora they would both have been caught before the\nCountess had become reconciled to him, and everything would have been\nspoiled.\" \"Good heavens! fairest, sweetest Countess,\" I cried out,\n\"my head is fairly spinning with all this unexpected and amazing\ninformation; are you talking of Herr Lionardo?\" \"Yes, yes,\" she\nreplied; \"that is what he called himself in Italy; he owns all that\nproperty over there, and he is going to marry our Countess's daughter,\nthe lovely Flora. But why do you call me Countess?\" I stared at her.\n\"I am no Countess,\" she went on. \"Our Countess took me into the castle\nand had me educated under her care when my uncle, the Porter, brought\nme here a poor little orphan child.\"\n\nAh, what a stone fell from my heart at these words! \"God bless the\nPorter,\" I said in an ecstasy, \"for being our uncle! I always set\ngreat store by him.\" \"And he would be very fond of you,\" she replied,\n\"if you would only comport yourself with more dignity, as he expresses\nit. You must dress with greater elegance.\" \"Oh,\" I exclaimed,\nenchanted, \"an English dress-coat, straw hat, long trousers, and\nspurs! And as soon as we're married we will take a trip to Italy--to\nRome--where lovely fountains are playing, and we'll take with us the\nPrague students, and the Porter!\" She smiled quietly, and gave me a\nhappy glance, while the music echoed in the distance, and rockets flew\nup from the castle above the garden in the quiet night, and the Danube\nkept murmuring on, and everything, everything was delightful!\n\n\n\n\nADALBERT VON CHAMISSO\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n  THE CASTLE OF BONCOURT[37] (1827)\n\n\n  I dream of the days of my childhood,\n    And shake my silvery head.\n  How haunt ye my brain, O visions,\n    Methought ye forgotten and dead!\n\n\n  From the shades of the forest uprises\n    A castle so lofty and great;\n  Well know I the battlements, towers,\n    The arching stone-bridge, and the gate.\n\n  The lions look down from the scutcheon\n    On me with familiar face;\n  I greet the old friends of my boyhood,\n    And speed through the courtyard space.\n\n  There lies the Sphinx by the fountain;\n    The fig-tree's foliage gleams;\n  'Twas there, behind yon windows,\n    I dreamt the first of my dreams.\n\n  I tread the aisle of the chapel,\n    And search for my fathers' graves--\n  Behold them! And there from the pillars\n    Hang down the old armor and glaives.\n\n  Not yet can I read the inscription;\n    A veil hath enveloped my sight,\n  What though through the painted windows\n    Glows brightly the sunbeam's light.\n  Thus gleams, O hall of my fathers,\n    Thy image so bright in my mind,\n  From the earth now vanished, the ploughshare\n    Leaves of thee no vestige behind.\n\n  Be fruitful, lov'd soil, I will bless thee,\n    While anguish o'er-cloudeth my brow;\n  Threefold will I bless him, whoever\n    May guide o'er thy bosom the plough.\n\n  But I will up, up, and be doing;\n    My lyre I'll take in my hand;\n  O'er the wide, wide earth will I wander,\n    And sing from land to land.\n\n[Illustration: ADALBERT VON CHAMISSO]\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n  THE LION'S BRIDE[38]\n\n\n  With myrtle bedecked and in bridal array,\n  Comes the keeper's fair daughter, as blooming as May.\n  She enters the cage of the lion; he lies\n  Calm and still at her feet and looks up in her eyes.\n\n  The terrible beast, of whom men are afraid,\n  Lies peaceful and tame at the feet of the maid,\n  While she, in her tender adorable grace,\n  Is stroking his head as the tears stain her face.\n\n  \"In the days that are gone, we were playmates so true;\n  Like brother and sister we played, I and you.\n  Our love was still constant in joy or in pain--\n  But alas for the days that will ne'er come again!\n\n  \"You learned to toss proudly your glorious head,\n  And roar, as you tossed it, a warning of dread;\n  I grew from a babe to a woman--you see,\n  No longer a light-hearted child I can be.\n\n  \"Oh, would that those days had had never an end,\n  My splendid strong playmate, my noble old friend!\n  But soon I must go, so my parents decree,\n  Away with a stranger--no more am I free.\n\n  \"A man has beheld me, and fancied me fair;\n  He has asked for my hand--and the wreath's in my hair!\n  Dear faithful old comrade, my girlhood is dead;\n  And my sight is bedimmed with the tears I have shed.\n\n  \"Do you know what I mean? Ah, your look is a sign!\n  I have made up my mind, and you need not repine.\n  But yonder he comes who must lead me away--\n  So I'll give the last kiss to my playmate today!\"\n\n  As the last fond farewell with reluctance she took,\n  The huge frame so trembled the bars even shook;\n  But when, drawing near a strange man he espied,\n  A sudden alarm seized the heart of the bride.\n\n  The lion stands guard by the door of the cage--\n  He is lashing his tail, he is roaring with rage.\n  With threats, with entreaties she bids him to cease,\n  But in vain--in his might he denies her release.\n\n  Without are confusion and cries of despair\n  \"Bring a gun!\" shouts the bridegroom; \"our one hope is there!\n  I will snatch her away from his horrible claws * * *\"\n  But the lion defies him with foam-dripping jaws.\n\n  The girl makes a last frenzied dash for the door--\n  But his past love the beast seems to measure no more;\n  The sweet slender body goes down 'neath his might,\n  All bleeding and lifeless, a pitiful sight.\n\n  Then, as if he knew well what a crime he had wrought,\n  He throws himself down by her, caring for naught;\n  He lies all unheeding what dangers remain,\n  Till the bullet avenging speeds swift through his brain.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n  WOMAN'S LOVE AND LIFE[39] (1830)\n\n\n  1\n\n  Since mine eyes beheld him,\n    Blind I seem to be;\n  Wheresoe'er they wander,\n    Him alone they see.\n  Round me glows his image,\n    In a waking dream;\n  From the darkness rising\n    Brighter doth it beam.\n\n  All is drear and gloomy\n    That around me lies;\n  Now my sister's pastimes\n    I no longer prize;\n  In my chamber rather\n    Would I weep alone;\n  Since my eyes beheld him\n    Blind methinks I'm grown.\n\n\n  2\n\n  He, the best of all, the noblest,\n    O how gentle! O how kind\n  Lips of sweetness, eyes of brightness,\n    Steadfast courage, lucid mind.\n\n  As on high, in Heaven's azure,\n    Bright and splendid, beams yon star,\n  Thus he in my heaven beameth,\n    Bright and splendid, high and far.\n\n  Wander, wander where thou listest,\n    I will gaze but on thy beam;\n  With humility behold it,\n    In a sad, yet blissful dream.\n\n  Hear me not thy bliss imploring\n    With prayer's silent eloquence?\n  Know me now, a lowly maiden,\n    Star of proud magnificence!\n\n  May thy choice be rendered happy\n    By the worthiest alone!\n  And I'll call a thousand blessings\n    Down on her exalted throne.\n\n  Then I'll weep with tears of gladness;\n    Happy, happy then my lot!\n  If my heart should rive asunder,\n    Break, O heart--it matters not!\n\n\n  3\n\n  Is it true? O, I cannot believe it;\n    A dream doth my senses enthrall;\n  O can he have made me so happy,\n    And exalted me thus above all?\n\n  Meseems as if he had spoken,\n    \"I am thine, ever faithful and true!\"\n  Meseems--O still am I dreaming--\n    It cannot, it cannot be true!\n\n  O fain would I, rocked on his bosom,\n    In the sleep of eternity lie;\n  That death were indeed the most blissful,\n    In the rapture of weeping to die.\n\n\n  4\n\n  Help me, ye sisters,\n  Kindly to deck me,\n    Me, O the happy one, aid me this morn!\n  Let the light finger\n  Twine the sweet myrtle's\n    Blossoming garland, my brow to adorn!\n\n  As on the bosom\n  Of my loved one,\n    Wrapt in the bliss of contentment, I lay,\n  He, with soft longing\n  In his heart thrilling,\n    Ever impatiently sighed for today.\n\n  Aid me, ye sisters,\n  Aid me to banish\n    Foolish anxieties, timid and coy,\n  That I with sparkling\n  Eye may receive him,\n    Him the bright fountain of rapture and joy.\n\n  Do I behold thee,\n  Thee, my beloved one,\n    Dost thou, O sun, shed thy beam upon me?\n  Let me devoutly,\n  Let me in meekness\n    Bend to my lord and my master the knee!\n\n  Strew, ye fair sisters,\n  Flowers before him,\n    Cast budding roses around at his feet!\n  Joyfully quitting\n  Now your bright circle,\n    You, lovely sisters, with sadness I greet.\n\n\n  5\n\n  Dearest friend, thou lookest\n    On me with surprise,\n  Dost thou wonder wherefore\n    Tears suffuse mine eyes?\n  Let the dewy pearl-drops\n    Like rare gems appear,\n  Trembling, bright with gladness,\n    In their crystal sphere.\n\n  With what anxious raptures\n    Doth my bosom swell!\n  O had I but language\n    What I feel to tell!\n  Come and hide thy face, love,\n    Here upon my breast,\n  In thine ear I'll whisper\n    Why I am so blest.\n\n  Now the tears thou knowest\n    Which my joy confessed,\n  Thou shalt not behold them,\n    Thou, my dearest, best;\n  Linger on my bosom,\n    Feel its throbbing tide;\n  Let me press thee firmly,\n    Firmly, to my side!\n\n  Here may rest the cradle,\n    Close my couch beside,\n  Where it may in silence\n    My sweet vision hide;\n  Soon will come the morning,\n    When my dream will wake,\n  And thy smiling image\n    Will to life awake.\n\n\n  6\n\n  Upon my heart, and upon my breast,\n  Thou joy of all joys, my sweetest, best!\n  Bliss, thou art love; O love, thou art bliss--\n  I've said it, and seal it here with a kiss.\n  I thought no happiness mine could exceed,\n  But now I am happy, O happy indeed!\n  She only, who to her bosom hath pressed\n  The babe who drinketh life at her breast;\n  'Tis only a mother the joys can know\n  Of love, and real happiness here below.\n  How I pity man, whose bosom reveals\n  No joys like that which a mother feels!\n  Thou look'st on me, with a smile on thy brow,\n  Thou dear, dear little angel, thou!\n  Upon my heart, and upon my breast,\n  Thou joy of all joys, my sweetest, best!\n\n\n  7\n\n  Ah, thy first wound hast thou inflicted now!\n    But oh! how deep!\n  Hard-hearted, cruel man, now sleepest thou\n    Death's long, long sleep.\n\n  I gaze upon the void in silent grief,\n    The world is drear;\n  I've lived and loved, but now the verdant leaf\n    Of life is sere.\n\n  I will retire within my soul's recess,\n    The veil shall fall;\n  I'll live with thee and my past happiness,\n    O thou, my all!\n\n[Illustration: _Permission Franz Hanfstaengl, New York_ MORITZ VON\nSCHWIND THE WEDDING JOURNEY]\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n  THE WOMEN OF WEINSBERG[40] (1831)\n\n\n  It was the good King Konrad with all his army lay\n  Before the town of Weinsberg full many a weary day;\n  The Guelph at last was vanquished, but still the town held out;\n  The bold and fearless burghers they fought with courage stout.\n\n  But then came hunger, hunger! That was a grievous guest;\n  They went to ask for favor, but anger met their quest.\n  \"Through you the dust hath bitten full many a worthy knight,\n  And if your gates you open, the sword shall you requite!\"\n\n  Then came the women, praying: \"Let be as thou hast said,\n  Yet give us women quarter, for we no blood have shed!\"\n  At sight of these poor wretches the hero's anger failed,\n  And soft compassion entered and in his heart prevailed.\n\n  \"The women shall be pardoned, and each with her shall bear\n  As much as she can carry of her most precious ware;\n  The women with their burdens unhindered forth shall go,\n  Such is our royal judgment--we swear it shall be so!\"\n\n  At early dawn next morning, ere yet the east was bright,\n  The soldiers saw advancing a strange and wondrous sight;\n  The gate swung slowly open, and from the vanquished town\n  Forth swayed a long procession of women weighted down;\n\n  For perched upon her shoulders each did her husband bear--\n  That was the thing most precious of all her household ware.\n  \"We'll stop the treacherous women!\" cried all with one intent;\n  The chancellor he shouted: \"This was not what we meant!\"\n\n  But when they told King Konrad, the good King laughed aloud;\n  \"If this was not our meaning, they've made it so,\" he vowed,\n  \"A promise is a promise, our loyal word was pledge;\n  It stands, and no Lord Chancellor may quibble or map hedge.\"\n\n  Thus was the royal scutcheon kept free from stain or blot!\n  The story has descended from days now half forgot;\n  'Twas eleven hundred and forty this happened, as I've heard,\n  The flower of German princes thought shame to break his word.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n  THE CRUCIFIX[41] (1830)\n\n\n  In hopeless contemplation of his work\n    The master stood, a frown upon his brow,\n  Where shame and self-contempt appeared to lurk.\n\n  With all his art and knowledge he had now\n    Portrayed the suffering Savior's image there--\n  Yet could the marble not with life endow.\n\n  He could not make it live, for all his care--\n    What is not flesh knows not to suffer pain;\n  Cold stone can none but stone's cold likeness bear.\n\n  Beauty and due proportion though it gain,\n    The chisel's marks will never disappear\n  And nature wake, howe'er his prayer may strain:\n\n  \"Ah, turn not from me, Nature! Thou most dear,\n    I long to raise thee to undreamed of height--\n  But thou art dumb * * * a sorry bungler's here!\"\n\n  There entered then a loyal neophyte,\n    Who looked with reverence on the master's art\n  And stood beside him, flushed with new delight.\n\n  To the same muse was given his young heart,\n    The selfsame quest of beauty filled his days--\n  Yet must his soul with endless failure smart.\n\n  To him the master: \"Scorn is in thy praise!\n    If so this dull, dead stone thy mind can fill,\n  To death, not life, thou must have turned thy face!\"\n\n  Then boldly spoke the youth: \"Admire I will!\n    What though thy Christ for death's repose prepare\n  So strangely silent and so strangely still,\n\n  Yet at a great thing greatly wrought I stare,\n    And long to match the marvel that I see;\n  I see what is, and thou what should be there.\"\n\n  The master looked upon him silently,\n    His youthful strength, his limbs so straight and fine,\n  And deemed there were no model such as he.\n\n  \"A prey thou find'st me to despair malign--\n    How get from lifeless marble life and pain?\n  Here nature fails, whose secrets else are mine.\n\n  To seek a hireling's aid were all in vain;\n    And sought I thine, though partner of my aims,\n  Naught but a cold refusal should I gain.\"\n\n  \"Nay,\" said the youth, \"in art's and God's high names,\n    I would perform unwearied, unafraid,\n  Whate'er of me thy need transcendent claims.\"\n\n  He spoke, and straight his beauty disarrayed,\n    Showing the fair flower of his youthful grace\n  Within the guarded workshop's sacred shade.\n\n  Entranced the master gazed, and could not chase\n    A thought that rose unbidden to his mind--\n  If pain upon that form its lines could trace!\n\n  \"The help thou off'rest if I am to find,\n    Thee too the cross must raise above the ground * * *\"\n  Willing, the youth his gracious limbs resigned.\n\n  With tight cords first his prey the sculptor bound,\n    Then brought the hammer and the piercing nails--\n  A martyr's death must close the destined round!\n\n  The first sharp nail went through, and piteous wails\n    Burst from the youth, but no compassion woke;\n  An eager eye the look of suffering hails.\n\n  With restless haste redoubled, stroke on stroke\n    Achieved the bleeding model that he sought.\n  Calmly to work he went; no word he spoke.\n\n  A hideous joy upon his features wrought--\n    For nature now each shade of anguished woe\n  Upon the expiring lovely form had taught.\n\n  Unceasing worked his hands, above, below;\n    His heart was to all human feeling dead--\n  But in the marble * * * life began to show!\n\n  Whether in prayer the sufferer bowed his head,\n    Or in despairing torment gnashed his teeth,\n  Still on the sculptor's flying fingers sped.\n\n  The pale, exhausted victim, nigh to death,\n    As night the third long day of agony\n  Is ending, murmurs with his last weak breath,\n\n  \"My God, my God, hast Thou forsaken me?\"\n    The eyes, half raised, sink down, the writhings cease,\n  The awful crime has reached its term--and see\n\n  There, in its glory, stands a masterpiece!\n\n\n  II\n\n  \"My God, my God, hast Thou forsaken me?\"\n    At midnight in the minster rang the wail;\n  Who could have raised it? 'Twas a mystery.\n\n  At the high altar, where its radiance pale\n    A tiny lamp threw out, a form was found\n  To move, whence came the faltering accents frail.\n\n  And then it dashed itself upon the ground,\n    Its forehead 'gainst the stones, and wildly wept;\n  The vaulted roof re\u00ebchoed with the sound.\n\n  Long was the vigil that dim figure kept\n    That seemed by tears so strangely comforted;\n  None dared its tottering footsteps intercept.\n\n  At last the night's mysterious hours were sped\n    And day returned; but all was silent now,\n  And with the dawn the ghostly form had fled.\n\n  The faithful came before their God to bow,\n    The canons to the altar reverently.\n  There had been placed above it, none knew how,\n\n  A crucifix whose like none e'er did see;\n    Thus, only thus had God His strength put by,\n  Thus had He looked upon the blood-stained tree.\n\n  To Him whose suffering brought salvation nigh\n    Came sinners for release, a contrite band--\n  And \"Christ have mercy!\" was the general cry.\n\n  It seems not like the work of mortal hand hand--\n    Who can have set the godlike image there?\n  Who in the dead of night such offering planned?\n\n  It is the master's, who with anxious care\n    Has waited, from the public gaze withdrawn,\n  To show the utmost that his art can dare.\n\n  What shall we bring him for his ease foregone\n    And brain o'ertasked? Gold is but sorry meed--\n  His head a crown of laurel shall put on!--\n\n  So soon a great procession was decreed\n    Of priests and laymen; marching in the van\n  Went one who bore the recompense agreed.\n\n  They came where dwelt the venerated man--\n    And found an open door, an empty house;\n  They called his name, and naught but echoes ran.\n\n  The drums and cymbals all the neighbors rouse\n    And trumpets shrill their joy; but none appears\n  To see the grateful people pay their vows.\n\n  He is not there, the grave assemblage hears;\n    A neighbor, waking early, like a ghost\n  Saw him steal forth, a prey to nameless fears.\n\n  From room to room they went--their pains were lost;\n    In all the desolate chambers there was none\n  That answered them, or came to play the host.\n\n  They called aloud, let in the cheerful sun\n    Through opened windows--in their anxious round\n  Into the workshop entrance last they won * * *,\n\n  Ah, speak not of the horror there they found!\n\n\n  III\n\n  They have brought a captive home, and raging told\n    That he is stained with foulest blasphemy,\n  Mocks their false prophet with his insults bold.\n\n  It is the pilgrim we were used to see\n    For penance roaming 'neath our palm-trees' shade,\n  Till at the Holy Grave he might be free.\n\n  Will he, when comes the hangman, unafraid\n    A Christian's courage show in face of wrong?\n  God strengthen him on whom he cries for aid!\n\n  Ah yes--though life is sweet, his will is strong,\n    His mind made up; he yields him to their hands,\n  Content to shed his blood in torment long.\n\n  Nay, look not yonder, where the savage bands\n    And merciless prepare a hideous deed--\n  Perchance a like dread fate before us stands!\n\n  He comes, a victim led * * * yet will he bleed?\n    I see a wondrous radiance in his face,\n  As though unlooked-for safety were decreed!\n\n  Can he have bought it * * *? No! they stride apace\n    Toward the blood-stained spot--it is to be.\n  The martyr's palm his confident brow shall grace.\n\n  \"Weep not! No tears of pity flowed from me\n    When to the cross the tender youth I bound--\n  My heart of stone ignored his misery.\"\n\n  So, hounded by remorse, the sinner found\n    The path of expiation, firmly trod,\n  Cain's brand upon him, all the dreadful round.\n\n  \"Thou who didst die for me, all-pitying God,\n    Wilt Thou vouchsafe my tortures now an end?\n  I have not asked deliverance from Thy rod,\n\n  Nor hoped Thou shouldst to me Thy mercy lend.\n    'Tis life, not death, that is so hard to bear * * *\n  Into Thy hands my spirit I commend!\"\n\n  So when the ruffian captors seized him there\n    And bound him to the cross, he calmly smiled;\n  'Twas they that watched whose brows were lined with care.\n\n  And as his limbs were torn with anguish wild,\n    And he was lifted 'mid the throng on high,\n  White peace came down upon his soul defiled.\n\n  In passionate prayer the faithful watched him die\n    That stood beneath the cross; his lips were still--\n  His suffering was one long atoning cry.\n\n  The day passed, and the night; with dauntless will\n    He yet found strength his torment dire to face.\n  The third day's sun sank down behind the hill;\n\n  And as the glory of its parting rays\n    He strove with glazing eye once more to see,\n  With his last breath he cried in joyful praise\n\n  \"My God, my God, Thou hast not forsaken me!\"\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n  THE OLD SINGER[42] (1833)\n\n\n  Once a strange old man went singing,\n    Words of scornful admonition\n  To the streets and markets bringing:\n      \"In the wilds a voice am I!\n    Slowly, slowly seek your mission;\n  Naught in haste, or rash endeavor--\n  From the work yet ceasing never\n      Slow and sure the hour draws nigh!\n\n  Time's great branches cease from shaking;\n    Blind are ye, devoid of reason,\n  If its fruit ye would be taking\n      When its blossoms have but burst.\n    Let it ripen to its season,\n  Wind within its branches bluster--\n  Of itself the fruits 'twill muster\n      For whose juices ripe ye thirst.\"\n\n  Wild, excited crowds are scorning\n    In their guise the gray old singer,\n  Thus reward him for his warning,\n      Ape his songs in mockery:\n    \"Shall we let the fellow linger\n  To disgrace us? Stone him, beat him,\n  With the scorn he merits treat him--\n      Let the world his folly see!\"\n\n  So the strange old man went singing,\n    To the halls of royal splendor\n  Scornful admonition bringing:\n      \"In the wilds a voice am I!\n    Doubt not, dream not of surrender:\n  Forward, forward, never ceasing,\n  Strength in spite of all increasing--\n      Slow and sure the hour draws nigh!\n\n  With the stream, before the breezes\n    Wouldst thou show thy strength, then teach it\n  Both to conquer as it pleases--\n      Both are weaker than the grave.\n    Choose thy port, and steer to reach it!\n  Threatening rocks? The rudder's master;\n  Turning back is sure disaster,\n      And its end beneath the wave.\"\n\n  One was seen to blench in terror,\n    Flushing first, then sudden paling:\n  \"Who gave entrance--whose the error\n      Let this madman pass along?\n    All things show his wits are failing--\n  Shall he daze our people's senses?\n  Prison him with sure defenses,\n      Silence hold his silly song!\"\n\n  But the strange old man went singing\n    Where within the tower they bound him--\n  Calm and clear his answer ringing:\n      \"In the wilds a voice am I!\n    Though the people's hate surround him,\n  Must the prophet still endeavor,\n  From his mission ceasing never--\n      Slow and sure the hour draws nigh!\"\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n  THE OLD WASHERWOMAN[43] (1833)\n\n\n  Among yon lines her hands have laden,\n    A laundress with white hair appears,\n  Alert as many a youthful maiden,\n    Spite of her five-and-seventy years.\n  Bravely she won those white hairs, still\n    Eating the bread hard toil obtain'd her,\n  And laboring truly to fulfil\n    The duties to which God ordain'd her.\n\n  Once she was young and full of gladness;\n    She loved and hoped, was woo'd and won;\n  Then came the matron's cares, the sadness\n    No loving heart on earth may shun.\n  Three babes she bore her mate; she pray'd\n    Beside his sick-bed; he was taken;\n  She saw him in the churchyard laid,\n    Yet kept her faith and hope unshaken.\n\n  The task her little ones of feeding\n    She met unfaltering from that hour;\n  She taught them thrift and honest breeding,\n    Her virtues were their worldly dower.\n  To seek employment, one by one,\n    Forth with her blessing they departed,\n  And she was in the world alone,\n    Alone and old, but still high-hearted.\n\n  With frugal forethought, self-denying,\n    She gather'd coin and flax she bought,\n  And many a night her spindle plying,\n    Good store of fine-spun thread she wrought.\n  The thread was fashion'd in the loom;\n    She brought it home, and calmly seated\n  To work, with not a thought of gloom,\n    Her decent grave-clothes she completed.\n\n  She looks on them with fond elation,\n    They are her wealth, her treasure rare,\n  Her age's pride and consolation,\n    Hoarded with all a miser's care.\n  She dons the sark each Sabbath day,\n    To hear the Word that faileth never;\n  Well-pleased she lays it then away,\n    Till she shall sleep in it forever.\n\n  Would that my spirit witness bore me\n    That, like this woman, I had done\n  The work my Master put before me,\n    Duly from morn till set of sun.\n  Would that life's cup had been by me\n    Quaff'd in such wise and happy measure,\n  And that I too might finally\n    Look on my shroud with such meek pleasure.\n\n\n\n\nTHE WONDERFUL HISTORY OF PETER SCHLEMIHL (1814)\n\nBy ADALBERT VON CHAMISSO TRANSLATED BY FREDERIC H. HEDGE\n\nCHAPTER I\n\n\nAfter a fortunate, but for me very troublesome voyage, we finally\nreached the port. The instant that I touched land in the boat, I\nloaded myself with my few effects, and passing through the swarming\npeople, I entered the first, and most modest house, before which I saw\na sign hang. I requested a room; the boots measured me with a look,\nand conducted me into the garret. I caused fresh water to be brought,\nand made him exactly describe to me where I should find Mr. Thomas\nJohn. He replied to my inquiry--\"Before the north gate; the first\ncountry-house on the right hand; a large new house of red and white\nmarble, with many columns.\"\n\n\"Good!\" It was still early in the day. I opened at once my bundle;\ntook thence my new black cloth coat; clad myself cleanly in my best\napparel; put my letter of introduction into my pocket, and\nimmediately set out on the way to the man who was to promote my modest\nexpectations.\n\nWhen I had ascended the long North Street, and reached the gate, I\nsoon saw the pillars glimmer through the foliage. \"Here it is, then,\"\nthought I. I wiped the dust from my shoes with my pocket-handkerchief,\nput my neckcloth in order, and in God's name rung the bell. The door\nflew open. In the hall I had an examination to undergo; the porter,\nhowever, permitted me to be announced, and I had the honor to be\ncalled into the park, where Mr. John was walking with a select\nparty. I recognized the man at once by the lustre of his corpulent\nself-complacency. He received me very well--as a rich man receives a\npoor devil--even turned toward me, without turning from the rest of\nthe company, and took the offered letter from my hand. \"So, so, from\nmy brother! I have heard nothing from him for a long time. But he is\nwell? There,\" continued he, addressing the company, without waiting\nfor an answer, and pointing with the letter to a hill, \"there I am\ngoing to erect the new building.\" He broke the seal without breaking\noff the conversation, which turned upon riches.\n\n\"He that is not master of a million, at least,\" he observed,\n\"is--pardon me the word--a wretch!\"\n\n\"O! how true!\" I exclaimed with a rush of overflowing feeling.\n\nThat pleased him. He smiled at me, and said--\"Stay here, my good\nfriend; in a while I shall perhaps have time to tell you what I think\nabout this.\" He pointed to the letter, which he then thrust into his\npocket, and turned again to the company. He offered his arm to a young\nlady; the other gentlemen addressed themselves to other fair\nones; each found what suited him; and all proceeded toward the\nrose-blossomed mound.\n\nI slid into the rear, without troubling any one, for no one troubled\nhimself any further about me. The company was excessively lively;\nthere were dalliance and playfulness; trifles were sometimes discussed\nwith an important tone, but oftener important matters with levity;\nand especially pleasantly flew the wit over absent friends and their\ncircumstances. I was too strange to understand much of all this; too\nanxious and introverted to take an interest in such riddles.\n\nWe had reached the rosary. The lovely Fanny, the belle of the day,\nas it appeared, would, out of obstinacy, herself break off a blooming\nbough. She wounded herself on a thorn, and as if from the dark roses,\nflowed the purple on her tender hand. This circumstance put the whole\nparty into a flutter. English plaster was sought for. A still,\nthin, lanky, longish, oldish man, who stood near, and whom I had\nnot hitherto remarked, put his hand instantly into the close-lying\nbreast-pocket of his old French gray taffetty coat; produced thence\na little pocket-book; opened it; and presented to the lady, with a\nprofound obeisance, the required article. She took it without noticing\nthe giver, and without thanks; the wound was bound up; and we went\nforward over the hill, from whose back the company could enjoy the\nwide prospect over the green labyrinth of the park to the boundless\nocean.\n\nThe view was in reality vast and splendid. A light point appeared\non the horizon between the dark flood and the blue of the heaven.\n\"A telescope here!\" cried John; and already, before the servants who\nappeared at the call were in motion, the gray man, modestly bowing,\nhad thrust his hand into his coat-pocket, and drawn thence a beautiful\nDollond and handed it to John. Bringing it immediately to his eye,\nthe latter informed the company that it was the ship which went out\nyesterday, and was detained in view of port by contrary winds. The\ntelescope passed from hand to hand, but not again into that of its\nowner. I, however, gazed in wonder at the man, and could not conceive\nhow the great machine had come out of the narrow pocket; but this\nseemed to have struck no one else, and nobody troubled himself any\nfarther about the gray man than about myself.\n\nRefreshments were handed round; the choicest fruits of every zone, in\nthe costliest vessels. Mr. John did the honors with an easy grace, and\na second time addressed a word to me. \"Help yourself; you have not had\nthe like at sea.\" I bowed, but he saw it not; he was already speaking\nwith some one else.\n\nThe company would fain have reclined upon the sward on the slope of\nthe hill, opposite to the outstretched landscape, had they not feared\nthe dampness of the earth. \"It were divine,\" observed one of the\nparty, \"had we but a Turkey carpet to spread here.\" The wish was\nscarcely expressed when the man in the gray coat had his hand in\nhis pocket, and was busied in drawing thence, with a modest and even\nhumble deportment, a rich Turkey carpet interwoven with gold. The\nservants received it as a matter of course, and opened it on the\nrequired spot. The company, without ceremony, took their places upon\nit; for myself, I looked again in amazement on the man, at the pocket,\nat the carpet, which measured above twenty paces long and ten\nin breadth, and rubbed my eyes, not knowing what to think of it,\nespecially as nobody saw anything extraordinary in it.\n\nI would fain have had some explanation regarding the man, and have\nasked who he was, but I knew not to whom to address myself, for I\nwas almost more afraid of the gentlemen's servants than of the served\ngentlemen. At length I took courage, and stepped up to a young man who\nappeared to me to be of less consideration than the rest, and who had\noften stood alone. I begged him softly to tell me who the agreeable\nman in the gray coat there was.\n\n\"He there, who looks like an end of thread that has escaped out of a\ntailor's needle?\"\n\n\"Yes, he who stands alone.\"\n\n\"I don't know him,\" he replied, and, as it seemed, in order to avoid\na longer conversation with me he turned away and spoke of indifferent\nmatters to another.\n\nThe sun began now to shine more powerfully, and to inconvenience the\nladies. The lovely Fanny addressed carelessly to the gray man, whom,\nas far as I am aware, no one had yet spoken to, the trifling question,\n\"Whether he had not, perchance, also a tent by him?\" He answered her\nby an obeisance most profound, as if an unmerited honor were done\nhim, and had already his hand in his pocket, out of which I saw come\ncanvas, poles, cordage, iron-work--in short, everything which belongs\nto the most splendid pleasure-tent. The young gentlemen helped to\nexpand it, and it covered the whole extent of the carpet, and nobody\nfound anything remarkable in it.\n\nI had already become uneasy, nay, horrified at heart, but how\ncompletely so, as, at the very next wish expressed, I saw him yet pull\nout of his pocket three roadsters--I tell thee, three beautiful great\nblack horses, with saddle and caparison. Bethink thee! for God's\nsake!--three saddled horses, still out of the same pocket from which\nalready a pocket-book, a telescope, an embroidered carpet, twenty\npaces long and ten broad, a pleasure-tent of equal dimensions, and all\nthe requisite poles and irons, had come forth! If I did not protest to\nthee that I saw it myself with my own eyes, thou couldst not possibly\nbelieve it.\n\nEmbarrassed and obsequious as the man himself appeared to be, little\nas was the attention which had been bestowed upon him, yet to me his\ngrisly aspect, from which I could not turn my eyes, became so fearful\nthat I could bear it no longer.\n\nI resolved to steal away from the company, which from the\ninsignificant part I played in it seemed to me an easy affair. I\nproposed to myself to return to the city, to try my luck again on the\nmorrow with Mr. John, and if I could muster the necessary courage,\nto question him about the singular gray man. Had I only had the good\nfortune to escape so well!\n\nI had already actually succeeded in stealing through the rosary, and,\nin descending the hill, found myself on a piece of lawn, when, fearing\nto be encountered in crossing the grass out of the path, I cast an\ninquiring glance round me. What was my terror to behold the man in the\ngray coat behind me, and making toward me! In the next moment he took\noff his hat before me, and bowed so low as no one had ever yet done to\nme. There was no doubt but that he wished to address me, and, without\nbeing rude, I could not prevent it. I also took off my hat; bowed\nalso; and stood there in the sun with bare head as if rooted to the\nground. I stared at him full of terror, and was like a bird which a\nserpent has fascinated. He himself appeared very much embarrassed.\nHe raised not his eyes; again bowed repeatedly; drew nearer, and\naddressed me with a soft, tremulous voice, almost in a tone of\nsupplication.\n\n\"May I hope, sir, that you will pardon my boldness in venturing in so\nunusual a manner to approach you, but I would ask a favor. Permit me\nmost condescendingly----\"\n\n\"But in God's name!\" exclaimed I in my trepidation, \"what can I do for\na man who--\" we both started, and, as I believe, reddened.\n\nAfter a moment's silence, he again resumed: \"During the short time\nthat I had the happiness to find myself near you, I have, sir,\nmany times--allow me to say it to you--really contemplated with\ninexpressible admiration, the beautiful, beautiful, shadow which, as\nit were, with a certain noble disdain, and without yourself remarking\nit, you cast from you in the sunshine. The noble shadow at your feet\nthere. Pardon me the bold supposition, but possibly you might not be\nindisposed to make this shadow over to me.\"\n\nHe was silent, and a mill-wheel seemed to whirl round in my head. What\nwas I to make of this singular proposition to sell my own shadow?\nHe must be mad, thought I, and with an altered tone which was more\nassimilated to that of his own humility, I answered thus:\n\n\"Ha! ha! good friend, have not you then enough of your own shadow? I\ntake this for a business of a very singular sort--\"\n\nHe hastily interrupted me--\"I have many things in my pocket which,\nsir, might not appear worthless to you, and for this inestimable\nshadow I hold the very highest price too small.\"\n\nIt struck cold through me again as I was reminded of the pocket.\nI knew not how I could have called him good friend. I resumed the\nconversation, and sought, if possible, to set all right again by\nexcessive politeness.\n\n\"But, sir, pardon your most humble servant; I do not understand your\nmeaning. How indeed could my shadow\"--he interrupted me--\n\n\"I beg your permission only here on the spot to be allowed to take up\nthis noble shadow and put it in my pocket; how I shall do that, be my\ncare. On the other hand, as a testimony of my grateful acknowledgment\nto you, I give you the choice of all the treasures which I carry in my\npocket--the genuine Spring-root, the Mandrake-root, the Change-penny,\nthe Rob-dollar, the Napkin of Roland's Page, a Mandrake-man, at your\nown price. But these probably don't interest you--rather Fortunatus'\nWishing-cap newly and stoutly repaired, and a lucky-bag such as he\nhad!\"\n\n\"The Luck-purse of Fortunatus!\" I exclaimed, interrupting him; and\ngreat as my anxiety was, with that one word he had taken my whole mind\ncaptive. A dizziness seized me, and double ducats seemed to glitter\nbefore my eyes.\n\n\"Honored Sir, will you do me the favor to view, and to make trial\nof this purse?\" He thrust his hand into his pocket, and drew out a\ntolerably large, well-sewed purse of stout Corduan leather, with two\nstrong strings, and handed it to me. I plunged my hand into it, and\ndrew out ten gold pieces, and again ten, and again ten, and again ten.\nI extended him eagerly my hand \"Agreed! the business is done; for the\npurse you have my shadow!\"\n\nHe closed with me; kneeled instantly down before me, and I beheld him,\nwith an admirable dexterity, gently loosen my shadow from top to toe\nfrom the grass, lift it up, roll it together, fold it, and, finally,\npocket it. He arose, made me another obeisance, and retreated toward\nthe rosary. I fancied that I heard him there softly laughing to\nhimself; but I held the purse fast by the strings; all round me lay\nthe clear sunshine, and within me was yet no power of reflection.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER II\n\n\nAt length I came to myself, and hastened to quit the place where I had\nnothing more to expect. In the first place I filled my pockets with\ngold; then I secured the strings of the purse fast round my neck, and\nconcealed the purse itself in my bosom. I passed unobserved out of the\npark, reached the highway and took the road to the city. As, sunk\nin thought, I approached the gate, I heard a cry behind me--\"Young\ngentleman! eh! young gentleman! hear you!\" I looked round, an old\nwoman called after me. \"Do take care, sir, you have lost your shadow!\"\n\"Thank you, good mother!\" I threw her a gold piece for her well-meant\ninformation, and stopped under the trees.\n\nAt the city gate I was compelled to hear again from the\nsentinel--\"Where has the gentleman left his shadow?\" And immediately\nagain from some women--\"Jesus Maria! the poor fellow has no shadow!\"\nThat began to irritate me, and I became especially careful not to walk\nin the sun. This could not, however, be accomplished everywhere--for\ninstance, over the broad street which I next must cross, actually, as\nmischief would have it, at the very moment that the boys came out\nof school. A cursed hunch-backed rogue, I see him yet, spied out\ninstantly that I had no shadow. He proclaimed the fact with a loud\noutcry to the whole assembled literary street youth of the suburb,\nwho began forthwith to criticise me, and to pelt me with mud. \"Decent\npeople are accustomed to take their shadows with them, when they go\ninto the sunshine.\" To defend myself from them I threw whole handfuls\nof gold amongst them and sprang into a hackney-coach, which some\ncompassionate soul procured for me.\n\nAs soon as I found myself alone in the rolling carriage I began to\nweep bitterly. The presentiment must already have arisen in me that,\nfar as gold on earth transcends in estimation merit and virtue,\nso much higher than gold itself is the shadow valued; and as I had\nearlier sacrificed wealth to conscience, I had now thrown away the\nshadow for mere gold. What in the world could and would become of me!\n\nI was still greatly discomposed as the carriage stopped before my\nold inn. I was horrified at the bare idea of entering that wretched\ncock-loft. I ordered my things to be brought down; received my\nmiserable bundle with contempt, threw down some gold pieces, and\nordered the coachman to drive to the most fashionable hotel. The house\nfaced the north, and I had not the sun to fear. I dismissed the driver\nwith gold; caused the best front rooms to be assigned me, and shut\nmyself up in them as quickly as I could!\n\nWhat thinkest thou I now began? Oh, my dear Chamisso, to confess it\neven to thee makes me blush. I drew the unlucky purse from my bosom,\nand with a kind of rage which, like a rushing conflagration, grew in\nme with self-increasing growth, I extracted gold, and gold, and gold,\nand ever more gold, and strewed it on the floor, and strode amongst\nit, and made it ring again, and, feeding my poor heart on the splendor\nand the sound, flung continually more metal to metal, till in my\nweariness I sank down on the rich heap, and, rioting thereon, rolled\nand reveled upon it. So passed the day, the evening. I opened not my\ndoor; the night found me lying on my gold, and then sleep overcame me.\n\nI dreamed of thee. I seemed to stand behind the glass-door of thy\nlittle room, and to see thee sitting then at thy work-table, between\na skeleton and a bundle of dried plants. Before thee lay open Haller,\nHumboldt, and Linnaeus; on thy sofa a volume of Goethe and \"The Magic\nRing.\" I regarded thee long, and everything in thy room, and then thee\nagain. Thou didst not move, thou drewest no breath--thou wert dead!\n\nI awoke. It appeared still to be very early. My watch stood. I was\nsore all over; thirsty and hungry too; I had taken nothing since the\nmorning before. I pushed from me with loathing and indignation the\ngold on which I had before sated my foolish heart. In my vexation\nI knew not what I should do with it. It must not lie there. I tried\nwhether the purse would swallow it again--but no! None of my windows\nopened upon the sea. I found myself compelled laboriously to drag it\nto a great cupboard which stood in a cabinet, and there to pile it. I\nleft only some handfuls of it lying. When I had finished the work, I\nthrew myself exhausted into an easy chair, and waited for the stirring\nof the people in the house. As soon as possible I ordered food to be\nbrought, and the landlord to come to me.\n\nI fixed in consultation with this man the future arrangements of\nmy house. He recommended for the services about my person a certain\nBendel, whose honest and intelligent physiognomy immediately\ncaptivated me. He it was whose attachment has since accompanied me\nconsolingly through the wretchedness of life, and has helped me\nto support my gloomy lot. I spent the whole day in my room among\nmasterless servants, shoemakers, tailors, and tradespeople. I fitted\nmyself out, and purchased besides a great many jewels and valuables\nfor the sake of getting rid of some of the vast heap of hoarded-up\ngold; but it seemed to me as if it were impossible to diminish it.\n\nIn the meantime I brooded over my situation in the most agonizing\ndoubts. I dared not venture a step out of my doors, and at evening I\ncaused forty waxlights to be lit in my room before I issued from\nthe shade. I thought with horror on the terrible scene with the\nschoolboys, yet I resolved, much courage as it demanded, once more to\nmake a trial of public opinion. The nights were then moonlight. Late\nin the evening I threw on a wide cloak, pressed my hat over my eyes,\nand stole, trembling like a criminal, out of the house. I stepped\nfirst out of the shade in whose protection I had arrived so far, in\na remote square, into the full moonlight, determined to learn my fate\nout of the mouths of the passers-by.\n\nSpare me, dear friend, the painful repetition of all that I had to\nendure. The women often testified the deepest compassion with which\nI inspired them, declarations which no less transpierced me than the\nmockery of the youth and the proud contempt of the men, especially\nof those fat, well fed fellows, who themselves cast a broad shadow.\nA lovely and sweet girl, who, as it seemed, accompanied her parents,\nwhile these discreetly only looked before their feet, turned by chance\nher flashing eyes upon me. She was obviously terrified; she observed\nmy want of a shadow, let fall her veil over her beautiful countenance,\nand dropping her head, passed in silence.\n\nI could bear it no longer. Briny streams started from my eyes, and,\ncut to the heart, I staggered back into the shade. I was obliged to\nsupport myself against the houses to steady my steps and wearily and\nlate reached my dwelling.\n\nI spent a sleepless night. The next morning it was my first care to\nhave the man in the gray coat everywhere sought after. Possibly I\nmight succeed in finding him again, and how joyful if he repented of\nthe foolish bargain as heartily as I did! I ordered Bendel to me, for\nhe appeared to possess address and tact; I described to him exactly\nthe man in whose possession lay a treasure without which my life was\nonly a misery. I told him the time, the place in which I had seen him;\nI described to him all who had been present, and added, moreover, this\ntoken: he should particularly inquire after a Dollond's telescope;\nafter a gold interwoven Turkish carpet; after a splendid\npleasure-tent; and, finally, after the black chargers, whose story,\nwe knew not how, was connected with that of the mysterious man, who\nseemed of no consideration amongst them, and whose appearance had\ndestroyed the quiet and happiness of my life.\n\nWhen I had done speaking I fetched out gold, such a load that I was\nscarcely able to carry it, and added thereto precious stones and\njewels of a far greater value. \"Bendel,\" said I, \"these level many\nways, and make easy many things which appeared quite impossible; don't\nbe stingy with it, as I am not, but go and rejoice thy master with the\nintelligence on which his only hope depends.\"\n\nHe went. He returned late and sorrowful. None of the people of Mr.\nJohn, none of his guests, and he had spoken with all, were able, in\nthe remotest degree, to recollect the man in the gray coat. The new\ntelescope was there, and no one knew whence it had come; the carpet,\nthe tent were still there spread and pitched on the selfsame hill;\nthe servants boasted of the affluence of their master, and no one\nknew whence these new valuables had come to him. He himself took his\npleasure in them, and did not trouble himself because he did not know\nwhence he had them. The young gentlemen had the horses, which they had\nridden, in their stables, and they praised the liberality of Mr. John\nwho on that day made them a present of them. Thus much was clear from\nthe circumstantial relation of Bendel, whose active zeal and able\nproceeding, although with such fruitless result, received from me\ntheir merited commendation. I gloomily motioned him to leave me alone.\n\n\"I have,\" began he again, \"given my master an account of the matter\nwhich was most important to him. I have yet a message to deliver which\na person gave me whom I met at the door as I went out on the business\nin which I have been so unfortunate. The very words of the man were\nthese: 'Tell Mr. Peter Schlemihl he will not see me here again, as I\nam going over sea, and a favorable wind calls me at this moment to\nthe harbor. But in a year and a day I will have the honor to seek\nhim myself, and then to propose to him another and probably to him\nagreeable transaction. Present my most humble compliments to him,\nand assure him of my thanks.' I asked him who he was, but he replied\nthat your honor knew him already.\"\n\n\"What was the man's appearance?\" cried I, filled with foreboding, and\nBendel sketched me the man in the gray coat, trait by trait, word for\nword, as he had accurately described in his former relation the man\nafter whom he had inquired.\n\n\"Unhappy one!\" I exclaimed, wringing my hands--\"that was the very\nman!\" and there fell, as it were, scales from his eyes.\n\n\"Yes! it was he, it was, positively!\" cried he in horror, \"and\nI, blind and imbecile wretch, have not recognized him, have not\nrecognized him, and have betrayed my master!\"\n\nHe broke out into violent weeping; heaped the bitterest reproaches\non himself, and the despair in which he was inspired even me with\ncompassion. I spoke comfort to him, assured him repeatedly that I\nentertained not the slightest doubt of his fidelity, and sent him\ninstantly to the port, if possible to follow the traces of this\nsingular man. But in the morning a great number of ships which the\ncontrary winds had detained in the harbor, had run out, bound to\ndifferent climes and different shores, and the gray man had vanished\nas tracelessly as a dream.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER III\n\n\nOf what avail are wings to him who is fast bound in iron fetters? He\nis compelled only the more fearfully to despair. I lay, like Faffner\nby his treasure, far from every consolation, starving in the midst\nof my gold. But my heart was not in it; on the contrary, I cursed it,\nbecause I saw myself through it cut off from all life. Brooding over\nmy gloomy secret alone, I trembled before the meanest of my servants,\nwhom at the same time I was forced to envy, for he had a shadow; he\nmight show himself in the sun. I wore away days and nights in solitary\nsorrow in my chamber, and anguish gnawed at my heart.\n\nThere was another who pined away before my eyes; my faithful Bendel\nnever ceased to torture himself with silent reproaches, that he\nhad betrayed the trust reposed in him by his master, and had not\nrecognized him after whom he was dispatched, and with whom he must\nbelieve that my sorrowful fate was intimately interwoven. I could not\nlay the fault to his charge; I recognized in the event the mysterious\nnature of the Unknown.\n\nThat I might leave nothing untried, I one time sent Bendel with a\nvaluable brilliant ring to the most celebrated painter of the city,\nand begged that he would pay me a visit. He came. I ordered my people\nto retire, closed the door, seated myself by the man, and, after I had\npraised his art, I came with a heavy heart to the business, causing\nhim before that to promise the strictest secrecy.\n\n\"Mr. Professor,\" said I, \"could not you, think you, paint a false\nshadow for one who, by the most unlucky chance in the world, has\nbecome deprived of his own?\"\n\n\"You mean a personal shadow?\"\n\n\"That is precisely my meaning\"--\n\n\"But,\" continued he, \"through what awkwardness, through what\nnegligence, could he then lose his proper shadow?\"\n\n\"How it happened,\" replied I, \"is now of very little consequence, but\nthus far I may say,\" added I, lying shamelessly to him; \"in Russia,\nwhither he made a journey last winter, in an extraordinary cold his\nshadow froze so fast to the ground that he could by no means loose it\nagain.\"\n\n\"The false shadow that I could paint him,\" replied the professor,\n\"would only be such a one as by the slightest movement he might lose\nagain, especially a person, who, as appears by your relation, has so\nlittle adhesion to his own native shadow. He who has no shadow, let\nhim keep out of the sunshine--that is the safest and most sensible\nthing for him.\" He arose and withdrew, casting at me a trans-piercing\nglance which mine could not support. I sunk back in my seat, and\ncovered my face with my hands.\n\nThus Bendel found me, as he at length entered. He saw the grief of his\nmaster, and was desirous silently and reverently to withdraw. I looked\nup, I succumbed under the burden of my trouble; I must communicate it.\n\n\"Bendel!\" cried I, \"Bendel, thou only one who seest my affliction and\nrespectest it, seekest not to pry into it, but appearest silently and\nkindly to sympathize, come to me, Bendel, and be the nearest to my\nheart; I have not locked from thee the treasure of my gold, neither\nwill I lock from thee the treasure of my grief. Bendel, forsake me\nnot! Bendel, thou beholdest me rich, liberal, kind. Thou imaginest\nthat the world ought to honor me, and thou seest me fly the world, and\nhide myself from it. Bendel, the world has passed judgment, and cast\nme from it, and perhaps thou too wilt turn from me when thou knowest\nmy fearful secret. Bendel, I am rich, liberal, kind, but--O God!--I\nhave no shadow!\"\n\n\"No shadow!\" cried the good youth with horror, and the bright\ntears gushed from his eyes. \"Woe is me, that I was born to serve a\nshadowless master!\" He was silent, and I held my face buried in my\nhands.\n\n\"Bendel,\" added I, at length, tremblingly--\"now hast thou my\nconfidence, and now canst thou betray it--go forth and testify against\nme?\" He appeared to be in a heavy conflict with himself; at length, he\nflung himself before me and seized my hand, which he bathed with his\ntears.\n\n\"No!\" exclaimed he, \"think the world as it will, I cannot, and will\nnot, on account of a shadow, abandon my kind master; I will act\njustly, and not with policy. I will continue with you, lend you my\nshadow, help you when I can, and when I cannot, weep with you.\" I fell\non his neck, astonished at such unusual sentiment, for I was convinced\nthat he did it not for gold.\n\nFrom that time my fate and my mode of life were in some degree\nchanged. It is indescribable how providently Bendel continued to\nconceal my defect. He was everywhere before me and with me; foreseeing\neverything, hitting on contrivances, and, where unforeseen danger\nthreatened, covering me quickly with his shadow, since he was taller\nand bulkier than I. Thus I ventured myself again among men, and began\nto play a part in the world. I was obliged, it is true, to assume many\npeculiarities and humors, but such become the rich, and, so long\nas the truth continued to be concealed, I enjoyed all the honor and\nrespect which were paid to my wealth. I looked more calmly forward to\nthe promised visit of the mysterious unknown, at the end of the year\nand the day.\n\nI felt, indeed, that I must not remain long in a place where I had\nonce been seen without a shadow, and where I might easily be betrayed.\nPerhaps I yet thought too much of the manner in which I had introduced\nmyself to Thomas John, and it was a mortifying recollection. I would\ntherefore here merely make an experiment, to present myself with more\nease and self-reliance elsewhere, but that now occurred which held me\na long time riveted to my vanity, for there it is in the man that the\nanchor bites the firmest ground.\n\nEven the lovely Fanny, whom I in this place again encountered, honored\nme with some notice without recollecting ever to have seen me before;\nfor I now had wit and sense. As I spoke, people listened, and I could\nnot, for the life of me, comprehend myself how I had arrived at the\nart of maintaining and engrossing so easily the conversation. The\nimpression which I perceived that I had made on the fair one, made\nof me just what she desired--a fool; and I thenceforward followed her\nthrough shade and twilight wherever I could. I was only so far vain\nthat I wished to make her vain of myself, and found it impossible,\neven with the very best intentions, to force the intoxication from my\nhead to my heart.\n\nBut why repeat to thee the absolutely every-day story at length? Thou\nthyself hast often related it to me of other honorable people. To the\nold, well-known play in which I good-naturedly undertook a worn-out\npart, there came in truth to her and me, and everybody, unexpectedly a\nmost peculiarly thought-out catastrophe.\n\nAs, according to my wont, I had assembled on a beautiful evening\na party in a garden, I wandered with the lady, arm in arm, at some\ndistance from the other guests, and exerted myself to strike out\npretty speeches for her. She cast her eyes down modestly, and returned\ngently the pressure of my hand, when suddenly the moon broke through\nthe clouds behind us, and--she saw only her own shadow thrown forward\nbefore her! She started and glanced wildly at me, then again on the\nearth, seeking my shadow with her eyes, and what passed within her\npainted itself so singularly on her countenance that I should have\nburst into a loud laugh if it had not itself run ice-cold over my\nback.\n\nI let her fall from my arms in a swoon, shot like an arrow through the\nterrified guests, reached the door, flung myself into the first chaise\nwhich I saw on the stand, and drove back to the city, where this time,\nto my cost, I had left the circumspect Bendel. He was terrified as\nhe saw me; one word revealed to him all. Post horses were immediately\nfetched. I took only one of my people with me, an arrant knave, called\nRascal, who had contrived to make himself necessary to me by his\ncleverness and who could suspect nothing of today's occurrence. That\nnight I left upward of thirty miles behind me. Bendel remained behind\nme to discharge my establishment, to pay money, and to bring me what\nI most required. When he overtook me next day, I threw myself into his\narms, and swore to him never again to run into the like folly, but in\nfuture to be more cautious. We continued our journey without pause,\nover the frontiers and the mountains, and it was not till we began to\ndescend and had placed those lofty bulwarks between us and our former\nunlucky abode, that I allowed myself to be persuaded to rest from\nthe fatigues I had undergone, in a neighboring and little frequented\nBathing-place.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IV\n\n\nI must pass in my relation hastily over a time in which how gladly\nwould I linger, could I but conjure up the living spirit of it with\nthe recollection. But the color which vivified it, and alone can\nvivify it again, is extinguished in me; and when I seek in my bosom\nwhat then so mightily animated it, the grief and the joy, the innocent\nillusion--then do I vainly smite a rock in which no living spring now\ndwells, and the god is departed from me. How changed does this past\ntime now appear to me! I would act in the watering place an heroic\ncharacter, ill studied, and myself a novice on the boards, and my gaze\nwas lured from my part by a pair of blue eyes. The parents, deluded by\nthe play, offer everything only to make the business quickly secure;\nand the poor farce closes in mockery. And that is all, all! That\npresents itself now to me so absurd and commonplace, and yet it is\nterrible, that that can thus appear to me which then so richly, so\nluxuriantly, swelled my bosom. Mina! as I wept at losing thee, so weep\nI still to have lost thee also in myself. Am I then become so old? Oh,\nmelancholy reason! Oh, but for one pulsation of that time! one moment\nof that illusion! But no! alone on the high waste sea of thy bitter\nflood! and long out of the last cup of champagne the elfin has\nvanished!\n\nI had sent forward Bendel with some purses of gold to procure for\nme in the little town a dwelling adapted to my needs. He had\nthere scattered about much money, and expressed himself somewhat\nindefinitely respecting the distinguished stranger whom he served,\nfor I would not be named, and that filled the good people with\nextraordinary fancies. As soon as my house was ready Bendel returned\nto conduct me thither. We set out.\n\nAbout three miles from the place, on a sunny plain, our progress was\nobstructed by a gay festal throng. The carriage stopped. Music, sound\nof bells, discharge of cannon, were heard; a loud _vivat_! rent the\nair; before the door of the carriage appeared, clad in white, a troop\nof damsels of extraordinary beauty, but who were eclipsed by one in\nparticular, as the stars of night by the sun. She stepped forth\nfrom the midst of her sisters; the tall and delicate figure kneeled\nblushing before me, and presented to me on a silken cushion a garland\nwoven of laurel, olive branches, and roses, while she uttered some\nwords about majesty, veneration and love, which I did not understand,\nbut whose bewitching silver tone intoxicated my ear and heart. It\nseemed as if the heavenly apparition had some time previously passed\nbefore me. The chorus struck in, and sung the praises of a good king\nand the happiness of his people.\n\nAnd this scene, my dear friend, in the face of the sun! She kneeled\nstill only two paces from me, and I, without a shadow, could not\nspring over the gulf, could not also fall on the knee before the\nangel! Oh! what would I then have given for a shadow! I was compelled\nto hide my shame, my anguish, my despair, deep in the bottom of my\ncarriage. At length Bendel recollected himself on my behalf. He leaped\nout of the carriage on the other side. I called him back, and gave\nhim out of my jewel-case, which lay at hand, a splendid diamond crown,\nwhich had been made to adorn the brows of the lovely Fanny! He stepped\nforward and spoke in the name of his master, who could not and would\nnot receive such tokens of homage; there must be some mistake; but the\npeople of the city should be thanked for their good-will. As he said\nthis, he took up the proffered wreath, and laid the brilliant coronet\nin its place. He then respectfully extended his hand to the lovely\nmaiden, that she might arise, and dismissed, with a sign, clergy,\nmagistrates, and all the deputations. No one else was allowed to\napproach. He ordered the throng to divide and make way for the horses,\nsprang again into the carriage, and on we went at full gallop,\nthrough a festive archway of foliage and flowers toward the city. The\ndischarges of cannon continued. The carriage stopped before my house.\nI sprang hastily in at the door, dividing the crowd which the desire\nto see me had collected. The mob hurrahed under my window, and I let\ndouble ducats rain out of it. In the evening the city was voluntarily\nilluminated.\n\nAnd yet I did not at all know what all this could mean, and who I was\nsupposed to be. I sent out Rascal to make inquiry. He brought word to\nthis effect: That the people had received reliable intelligence that\nthe good king of Prussia traveled through the country under the name\nof a count; that my adjutant had been recognized, thus betraying\nhimself and me; and, finally, how great the joy was as they became\ncertain that they really had me in the place. They now, 'tis true,\nsaw clearly that I evidently desired to maintain the strictest\n_incognito_, and how very wrong it had been to attempt so\nimportunately to lift the veil. But I had resented it so graciously,\nso kindly--I should certainly pardon their good-heartedness.\n\nThe thing appeared so amusing to the rogue that he did his best, by\nreproving words, to strengthen, for the present, the good folk in\ntheir belief. He gave a very comical report of all this to me; and\nas he found that it diverted me, he made a joke to me of his own\nwickedness. Shall I confess it? It flattered me, even by such means,\nto be taken for that honored head.\n\nI commanded a feast to be prepared for the evening of the next day\nbeneath the trees which overshadowed the open space before my house,\nand the whole city to be invited to it. The mysterious power of\nmy purse, the exertions of Bendel, and the inventiveness of Rascal\nsucceeded in triumphing over time itself. It is really astonishing how\nrichly and beautifully everything was arranged in those few hours. The\nsplendor and abundance which exhibited themselves, and the ingenious\nlighting up, so admirably contrived that I felt myself quite secure,\nleft me nothing to desire. I could not but praise my servants.\n\nThe evening grew dark; the guests appeared, and were presented to me.\nNothing more was said about Majesty; I was styled with deep reverence\nand obeisance, Count. What was to be done? I allowed the title to\nstand, and remained from that hour Count Peter. In the midst of\nfestive multitudes my soul yearned alone after one. She entered\nlate--she was and wore the crown. She followed modestly her parents,\nand seemed not to know that she was the loveliest of all. They were\npresented to me as Mr. Forest-master, his lady and their daughter.\nI found many agreeable and obliging things to say to the old people;\nbefore the daughter I stood like a rebuked boy, and could not bring\nout one word. I begged her, at length, with a faltering tone, to\nhonor this feast by assuming the office whose insignia she graced. She\nentreated with blushes and a moving look to be excused; but blushing\nstill more than herself in her presence, I paid her as her first\nsubject my homage, with a most profound respect, and the hint of the\nCount became to all the guests a command which every one with emulous\njoy hastened to obey. Majesty, innocence, and grace presided in\nalliance with beauty over a rapturous feast. Mina's happy parents\nbelieved their child thus exalted only in honor of them. I myself was\nin an indescribable intoxication. I caused all the jewels which yet\nremained of those which I had formerly purchased, in order to get rid\nof burthensome gold, all the pearls, all the precious stones, to\nbe laid in two covered dishes, and at the table, in the name of\nthe queen, to be distributed round to her companions and to all\nthe ladies. Gold, in the meantime, was incessantly strewed over the\nencompassing ropes among the exulting people.\n\nBendel, the next morning, revealed to me in confidence that the\nsuspicion which he had long entertained of Rascal's honesty was now\nbecome certainty--that he had yesterday embezzled whole purses of\ngold. \"Let us permit,\" replied I, \"the poor scoundrel to enjoy\nthe petty plunder. I spend willingly on everybody, why not on him?\nYesterday he and all the fresh people you have brought me served me\nhonestly; they helped me joyfully to celebrate a joyful feast.\"\n\nThere was no further mention of it. Rascal remained the first of my\nservants, but Bendel was my friend and my confidant. The latter was\naccustomed to regard my wealth as inexhaustible, and he pried not\nafter its sources; entering into my humor, he assisted me rather to\ndiscover opportunities to exercise it, and to spend my gold. Of that\nunknown one, that pale sneak, he knew only this, that I could alone\nthrough him be absolved from the curse which weighed on me; and that\nI feared him, on whom my sole hope reposed. That, for the rest, I was\nconvinced that he could discover me anywhere; I him nowhere; and that\ntherefore awaiting the promised day, I abandoned every vain inquiry.\n\nThe magnificence of my feast, and my behavior at it, held at first\nthe credulous inhabitants of the city firmly to their preconceived\nopinion. True, it was soon stated in the newspapers that the whole\nstory of the journey of the king of Prussia had been a mere groundless\nrumor: but a king I now was, and must, spite of everything, a king\nremain, and truly one of the most rich and royal who had ever existed;\nonly people did not rightly know what king. The world has never had\nreason to complain of the scarcity of monarchs, at least in our time.\nThe good people who had never seen any of them pitched with equal\ncorrectness first on one and then on another; Count Peter still\nremained who he was.\n\nAt one time appeared amongst the guests at the Bath a tradesman, who\nhad made himself bankrupt in order to enrich himself; and who enjoyed\nuniversal esteem, and had a broad though somewhat pale shadow. The\nproperty which he had scraped together he resolved to lay out in\nostentation, and it even occurred to him to enter into rivalry with\nme. I had recourse to my purse, and soon brought the poor devil to\nsuch a pass that, in order to save his credit, he was obliged to\nbecome bankrupt a second time, and hasten over the frontier. Thus\nI got rid of him. In this neighborhood I made many idlers and\ngood-for-nothing fellows.\n\nWith all the royal splendor and expenditure by which I made all\nsuccumb to me, I still in my own house lived very simply and retired.\nI had established the strictest circumspection as a rule. No one\nexcept Bendel, under any pretence whatever, was allowed to enter the\nrooms which I inhabited. So long as the sun shone I kept myself shut\nup there, and it was said \"the Count is employed with his cabinet.\"\nWith this employment numerous couriers stood in connection, whom I,\nfor every trifle, sent out and received. I received company in the\nevening only under my trees, or in my hall arranged and lighted\naccording to Bendel's plan. When I went out, on which occasions it\nwas necessary that I should be constantly watched by the Argus eyes\nof Bendel, it was only to the Forester's Garden, for the sake of one\nalone; for my love was the innermost heart of my life.\n\nOh, my good Chamisso! I will hope that thou hast not yet forgotten\nwhat love is! I leave much unmentioned here to thee. Mina was really\nan amiable, kind, good child. I had taken her whole imagination\ncaptive. She could not, in her humility, conceive how she could\nbe worthy that I should alone have fixed my regard on her; and she\nreturned love for love with all the youthful power of an innocent\nheart. She loved like a woman, offering herself wholly up;\nself-forgetting; living wholly and solely for him who was her life;\nregardless if she herself perished; that is to say--she really loved.\n\nBut I--oh what terrible hours--terrible and yet worthy that I should\nwish them back again--have I often wept on Bendel's bosom, when,\nafter the first unconscious intoxication, I recollected myself, looked\nsharply into myself--I, without a shadow, with knavish selfishness\ndestroying this angel, this pure soul which I had deceived and stolen.\nThen did I resolve to reveal myself to her; then did I swear with a\nmost passionate oath to tear myself from her, and to fly; then did\nI burst out into tears, and concert with Bendel how in the evening I\nshould visit her in the Forester's garden.\n\nAt other times I flattered myself with great expectations from the\nrapidly approaching visit of the gray man, and wept again when I had\nin vain tried to believe in it. I had calculated the day on which I\nexpected again to see the fearful one; for he had said in a year and a\nday; and I believed his word.\n\nThe parents, good honorable old people, who loved their only child\nextremely, were amazed at the connection, as it already stood, and\nthey knew not what to do in it. Earlier they could not have believed\nthat Count Peter could think only of their child; but now he really\nloved her and was beloved again. The mother was probably vain enough\nto believe in the probability of a union, and to seek for it; the\nsound masculine understanding of the father did not give way to such\noverstretched imaginations. Both were persuaded of the purity of my\nlove; they could do nothing more than pray for their child.\n\nI have laid my hand on a letter from Mina of this date, which I still\nretain. Yes, this is her own writing. I transcribe it for thee:\n\n\"I am a weak silly maiden, and cannot believe that my beloved, because\nI love him dearly, dearly, will make the poor girl unhappy. Ah! thou\nart so kind, so inexpressibly kind, but do not misunderstand me. Thou\nshalt sacrifice nothing for me, desire to sacrifice nothing for me.\nOh God! I should hate myself if thou didst! No--thou hast made me\nimmeasurably happy; hast taught me to love thee. Away! I know my own\nfate. Count Peter belongs not to me, he belongs to the world. I will\nbe proud when I hear--'that was he, and that was he again--and that\nhas he accomplished; there they have worshipped him, and there they\nhave deified him!' See, when I think of this, then am I angry with\nthee that with a simple child thou canst forget thy high destiny.\nAway! or the thought will make me miserable! I--oh! who through thee\nam so happy, so blessed! Have I not woven, too, an olive branch and\na rosebud into thy life, as into the wreath which I was allowed to\npresent to thee? I have thee in my heart, my beloved; fear not to\nleave me. I will die oh! so happy, so ineffably happy through thee!\"\n\nThou canst imagine how the words must cut through my heart. I\nexplained to her that I was not what people believed me, that I was\nonly a rich but infinitely miserable man. That a curse rested on me,\nwhich must be the only secret between us, since I was not yet without\nhope that it should be solved. That this was the poison of my days;\nthat I might drag her down with me into the gulf--she who was the sole\nlight, the sole happiness, the sole heart of my life. Then wept she\nagain, because I was unhappy. Ah, she was so loving, so kind! To spare\nme but one tear, she, and with what transport, would have sacrificed\nherself without reserve!\n\nShe was, however, far from rightly comprehending my words; she\nconceived in me some prince on whom had fallen a heavy ban, some high\nand honored head, and her imagination amidst heroic pictures limned\nforth her lover gloriously.\n\nOnce I said to her--\"Mina, the last day in the next month may change\nmy fate and decide it--if not I must die, for I will not make thee\nunhappy.\" Weeping she hid her head in my bosom. \"If thy fortune\nchanges, let me know that thou art happy. I have no claim on thee. Art\nthou wretched, bind me to thy wretchedness, that I may help thee to\nbear it.\"\n\n\"Maiden! maiden! take it back, that quick word, that foolish word\nwhich escaped thy lips. And knowest thou this wretchedness? Knowest\nthou this curse? Knowest who thy lover--what he? Seest thou not that\nI convulsively shrink together, and have a secret from thee?\" She fell\nsobbing to my feet, and repeated with oaths her entreaty.\n\nI announced to the Forest-master, who entered, that it was my\nintention on the first of the approaching month to solicit the hand of\nhis daughter. I fixed precisely this time, because in the interim many\nthings might occur which might influence my fortunes; but I insisted\nthat I was unchangeable in my love to his daughter.\n\nThe good man was quite startled as he heard such words out of the\nmouth of Count Peter. He fell on my neck, and again became quite\nashamed to have thus forgotten himself. Then he began to doubt, to\nweigh, and to inquire. He spoke of dowry, security, and the future of\nhis beloved child. I thanked him for reminding me of these things. I\ntold him that I desired to settle down in this neighborhood where I\nseemed to be beloved, and to lead a care-free life. I begged him to\npurchase the finest estates that the country had to offer, in the name\nof his daughter, and to charge the cost to me. A father could, in such\nmatter, best serve a lover. It gave him enough to do, for everywhere\na stranger was before him, and he could only purchase for about a\nmillion.\n\nMy thus employing him was, at the bottom, an innocent scheme to remove\nhim to a distance, and I had employed him similarly before; for I\nmust confess that he was rather wearisome. The good mother was, on the\ncontrary, somewhat deaf, and not, like him, jealous of the honor of\nentertaining the Count.\n\nThe mother joined us. The happy people pressed me to stay longer with\nthem that evening--I dared not remain another minute. I saw already\nthe rising moon glimmer on the horizon--my time was up.\n\nThe next evening I went again to the Forester's garden. I had thrown\nmy cloak over my shoulders and pulled my hat over my eyes. I advanced\nto Mina. As she looked up and beheld me, she gave an involuntary\nstart, and there stood again clear before my soul the apparition of\nthat terrible night when I showed myself in the moonlight without a\nshadow. It was actually she! But had she also recognized me again? She\nwas silent and thoughtful; on my bosom lay a hundred-weight pressure.\nI arose from my seat. She threw herself silently weeping on my bosom.\nI went.\n\nI now found her often in tears. It grew darker and darker in my soul;\nthe parents swam only in supreme felicity; the faith-day passed on sad\nand sullen as a thunder-cloud. The eve of the day was come. I could\nscarcely breathe. I had in precaution filled several chests with gold.\nI watched the midnight hour approach--It struck.\n\nI now sat, my eye fixed on the fingers of the clock, counting the\nseconds, the minutes, like dagger-strokes. At every noise which\narose, I started up; the day broke. The leaden hours crowded one upon\nanother. It was noon--evening--night; as the clock fingers sped on,\nhope withered; it struck eleven and nothing appeared; the last minutes\nof the last hour fell, and nothing appeared. It struck the first\nstroke--the last stroke of the twelfth hour, and I sank hopeless\nand in boundless tears upon my bed. On the morrow I should--forever\nshadowless, solicit the hand of my beloved. Toward morning an anxious\nsleep pressed down my eyelids.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER V\n\n\nIt was still early morning when voices, which were raised in my\nante-chamber in violent dispute, awoke me. I listened. Bendel forbade\nentrance; Rascal swore high and hotly that he would receive no\ncommands from his equal, and insisted on forcing his way into my room.\nThe good Bendel warned him that such words, came they to my ear, would\nturn him out of his most advantageous service. Rascal threatened to\nlay hands on him if he any longer obstructed his entrance.\n\nI had half dressed myself. I flung the door wrathfully open, and\nadvanced to Rascal--\"What wantest thou, villain?\" He stepped two\nstrides backward, and replied quite coolly: \"To request you most\nhumbly, Count, for once to allow me to see your shadow--the sun shines\nat this moment so beautifully in the court.\"\n\nI was struck as with thunder. It was some time before I could recover\nmy speech. \"How can a servant toward his master\"--he interrupted very\ncalmly my speech.\n\n\"A servant may be a very honorable man, and not be willing to serve\na shadowless master--I demand my discharge.\" It was necessary to try\nother chords. \"But honest, dear Rascal, who has put the unlucky idea\ninto your head? How canst thou believe--?\"\n\nHe proceeded in the same tone: \"People will assert that you have\nno shadow--and, in short, you show me your shadow, or give me my\ndischarge.\"\n\nBendel, pale and trembling, but more discreet than I, gave me a sign.\nI sought refuge in the all-silencing gold; but that too had lost\nits power. He threw it at my feet. \"From a shadowless man I accept\nnothing!\" He turned his back upon me, and went most deliberately out\nof the room with his hat upon his head, and whistling a tune. I stood\nthere with Bendel as one turned to stone, thoughtless, motionless,\ngazing after him.\n\nHeavily sighing and with death in my heart, I prepared myself at last\nto redeem my promise, and, like a criminal before his judge, to appear\nin the Forest-master's garden. I alighted in the dark arbor, which was\nnamed after me, and where they would be sure also this time to await\nme. The mother met me, care-free and joyous. Mina sat there, pale and\nlovely as the first snow which often in the autumn kisses the\nlast flowers and then instantly dissolves into bitter water. The\nForest-master went agitatedly to and fro, a written paper in his\nhand, and appeared to force down many things in himself which painted\nthemselves with rapidly alternating flushes and paleness on his\notherwise immovable countenance. He came up to me as I entered, and\nwith frequently choked words begged to speak with me alone. The path\nin which he invited me to follow him, led us toward an open, sunny\npart of the garden. I sank speechless on a seat, and then followed a\nlong silence which even the good mother dared not interrupt.\n\nThe Forest-master raged continually with unequal steps to and fro in\nthe arbor, and, suddenly halting before me, glanced on the paper which\nhe held, and demanded of me with a searching look--\n\n\"May not, Count, a certain Peter Schlemihl be not quite unknown\nto you?\" I was silent. \"A man of superior character and singular\nattainments--\" He paused for an answer.\n\n\"And suppose I were the same man?\"\n\n\"Who,\" added he vehemently--\"has, by some means, lost his shadow!\"\n\n\"Oh, my foreboding, my foreboding!\" exclaimed Mina. \"Yes, I have long\nknown it, he has no shadow;\" and she flung herself into the arms of\nher mother, who, terrified, clasped her convulsively, and upbraided\nher that to her own hurt she had kept to herself such a secret. But\nshe, like Arethusa, was changed into a fountain of tears, which at the\nsound of my voice flowed still more copiously and at my approach burst\nforth in torrents.\n\n\"And you,\" again grimly began the Forest-master, \"and you, with\nunparalleled impudence, have made no scruple to deceive these and\nmyself, and you give out that you love her whom you brought into this\npredicament. See, there, how she weeps and writhes! Oh, horrible!\nhorrible!\"\n\nI had to such a degree lost my composure that, talking like one\ncrazed, I began--\"And, after all, a shadow is nothing but a shadow;\none can do very well without that, and it is not worth while to make\nsuch a riot about it.\" But I felt so sharply the baselessness of what\nI was saying that I stopped of myself, without his deigning me an\nanswer, and I then added--\"What one has lost at one time may be found\nagain at another!\"\n\nHe fiercely rebuked me \"Confess to me, sir, confess to me, how became\nyou deprived of your shadow!\"\n\nI was compelled again to lie. \"A rude fellow one day trod so heavily\non my shadow that he rent a great hole in it. I have only sent it to\nbe mended, for money can do much, and I was to have received it back\nyesterday.\"\n\n\"Good, sir, very good!\" replied the Forest-master. \"You solicit my\ndaughter's hand; others do the same. I have, as her father, to care\nfor her. I give you three days in which you may seek for a shadow. If\nyou appear before me within these three days with a good, well-fitting\nshadow, you shall be welcome to me; but on the fourth day--I tell you\nplainly--my daughter is the wife of another.\"\n\nI would yet attempt to speak a word to Mina, but she clung, sobbing\nviolently, only closer to her mother's breast, who silently motioned\nme to withdraw. I reeled away, and the world seemed to close itself\nbehind me.\n\nEscaped from Bendel's affectionate oversight, I traversed in erring\ncourse woods and fields. The perspiration of my agony dropped from my\nbrow, a hollow groaning convulsed my bosom, madness raged within me.\n\nI know not how long this had continued, when, on a sunny heath, I felt\nmyself plucked by the sleeve. I stood still and looked round--it was\nthe man in the gray coat, who seemed to have run himself quite out of\nbreath in pursuit of me. He immediately began:\n\n\"I had announced myself for today, but you could not wait the time.\nThere is nothing amiss, however, yet. You consider the matter, receive\nyour shadow again in exchange, which is at your service, and turn\nimmediately back. You shall be welcome in the Forest-master's garden;\nthe whole has been only a joke. Rascal, who has betrayed you, and who\nseeks the hand of your bride, I will take charge of; the fellow is\nripe.\"\n\nI stood there as if in a dream. \"Announced for today?\" I counted over\nagain the time--he was right. I had constantly miscalculated a day.\nI sought with the right hand in my bosom for my purse; he guessed my\nmeaning, and stepped two paces backwards.\n\n\"No, Count, that is in too good hands, keep you that.\" I stared at\nhim with eyes of inquiring wonder, and he proceeded: \"I request only a\ntrifle, as memento. You be so good as to set your name to this paper.\"\nOn the parchment stood the words:\n\n\"By virtue of this my signature, I make over my soul to the holder of\nthis, after its natural separation from the body.\"\n\nI gazed with speechless amazement, alternately at the writing and the\ngray unknown. Meanwhile, with a new-cut quill he had taken up a\ndrop of blood which flowed from a fresh thorn-scratch on my hand and\npresented it to me.\n\n\"Who are you, after all?\" at length I asked him.\n\n\"What does it matter?\" he replied. \"And is it not plainly written on\nme? A poor devil, a sort of learned man and doctor, who, in return\nfor precious arts, receives from his friends poor thanks, and, for\nhimself, has no other amusement on earth but to make his little\nexperiments.--But, however, sign. To the right there--PETER\nSCHLEMIHL.\"\n\nI shook my head, and said: \"Pardon me, sir, I do not sign that.\"\n\n\"Not?\" replied he, in amaze; \"and why not?\"\n\n\"It seems to me to a certain degree serious to stake my soul on a\nshadow.\"\n\n\"So, so,\" repeated he, \"serious!\" and he laughed almost in my face.\n\"And, if I might venture to ask, what sort of a thing is that soul of\nyours? Have you ever seen it? And what do you think of doing with it\nwhen you are dead? Be glad that you have found an amateur who in your\nlifetime is willing to pay you for the bequest of this _x_, of this\ngalvanic power, or polarized Activity, or what-ever-this silly thing\nmay be, with something actual; that is to say, with your real shadow,\nthrough which you may arrive at the hand of your beloved and at the\naccomplishment of all your desires. Will you rather push forth, and\ndeliver up that poor young creature to that low bred scoundrel Rascal?\nNo, you must witness that with your own eyes. Here, I lend you the\nmagic-cap\"--he drew it from his pocket--\"and we will proceed unseen to\nthe Forester's garden.\"\n\nI must confess that I was excessively ashamed of being derided by this\nman. I detested him from the bottom of my heart; and I believe that\nthis personal antipathy withheld me, more than principle or prejudice,\nfrom purchasing my shadow, essential as it was, by the required\nsignature. The thought also was intolerable to me of making the\nexcursion which he proposed, in his company. To see this abhorred\nsneak, this mocking kobold, step between me and my beloved, two torn\nand bleeding hearts, revolted my innermost feeling. I regarded what\nwas past as predestined, and my wretchedness as unchangeable, and\nturning to the man, I said to him--\n\n\"Sir, I have sold you my shadow for this in itself most excellent\npurse, and I have sufficiently repented of it. If the bargain can be\nbroken off, then in God's name--!\" He shook his head, and made a very\ngloomy face. I continued: \"I will then sell you nothing further of\nmine, even for this offered price of my shadow; and, therefore, I\nshall sign nothing. From this you may understand, that the muffling-up\nto which you invite me must be much more amusing for you than for me.\nExcuse me, therefore; and as it cannot now be otherwise, let us part.\"\n\n\"It grieves me, Monsieur Schlemihl, that you obstinately decline the\nbusiness which I propose to you as a friend. Perhaps another time I\nmay be more fortunate. Till our speedy meeting again!--Apropos: Permit\nme yet to show you that the things which I purchase I by no means\nsuffer to grow moldy, but honorably preserve, and that they are well\ntaken care of by me.\"\n\nWith that he drew my shadow out of his pocket and with a dexterous\nthrow unfolding it on the heath, spread it out on the sunny side of\nhis feet, so that he walked between two attendant shadows, his own\nand mine, for mine must equally obey him and accommodate itself to and\nfollow all his movements.\n\nWhen I once saw my poor shadow again, after so long an absence, and\nbeheld it degraded to so vile a service, whilst I, on its account, was\nin such unspeakable trouble, my heart broke, and I began bitterly to\nweep. The detested wretch swaggered with the plunder snatched from me,\nand impudently renewed his proposal.\n\n\"You can yet have it. A stroke of the pen, and you snatch therewith\nthe poor unhappy Mina from the claws of the villain into the arms of\nthe most honored Count--as observed, only a stroke of the pen.\"\n\nMy tears burst forth with fresh impetuosity, but I turned away and\nmotioned to him to withdraw himself. Bendel, who, filled with anxiety,\nhad traced me to this spot, at this moment arrived. When the kind good\nsoul found me weeping, and saw my shadow, which could not be mistaken,\nin the power of the mysterious gray man, he immediately resolved, was\nit even by force, to restore to me the possession of my property;\nand as he did not understand how to deal with such a tender thing, he\nimmediately assaulted the man with words, and, without much asking,\nordered him bluntly to return my property to me. Instead of an answer,\nhe turned his back to the innocent young fellow and went. But Bendel\nup with his buckthorn cudgel which he carried, and, following on his\nheels, without mercy, and with reiterated commands to give up the\nshadow, made him feel the full force of his vigorous arm. He, as\naccustomed to such handling, ducked his head, rounded his shoulders,\nand with silent and deliberate steps pursued his way over the heath,\nat once going off with my shadow and my faithful servant. I long heard\nthe heavy sounds roll over the waste, till they were finally lost in\nthe distance. I was alone, as before, with my misery.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VI\n\n\nLeft alone on the wild heath, I gave free current to my countless\ntears, relieving my heart from an ineffably weary weight. But I saw no\nbound, no outlet, no end to my intolerable misery, and I drank besides\nwith savage thirst of the fresh poison which the unknown had poured\ninto my wounds. When I called the image of Mina before my soul, and\nthe dear, sweet form appeared pale and in tears, as I saw her last in\nmy shame, then stepped, impudent and mocking, Rascal's shadow between\nher and me; I covered my face and fled through the wild. Yet the\nhideous apparition left me not, but pursued me in my flight, till I\nsank breathless on the ground, and moistened it with a fresh torrent\nof tears.\n\nAnd all for a shadow! And this shadow a pen-stroke could have obtained\nfor me! I thought over the strange proposition and my refusal. All\nwas chaos in me. I had no longer either discernment or faculty of\ncomprehension.\n\nThe day went along. I stilled my hunger with wild fruits, my thirst\nin the nearest mountain stream. The night fell; I lay down beneath a\ntree. The damp morning awoke me out of a heavy sleep in which I heard\nmyself rattle in the throat as in death. Bendel must have lost all\ntrace of me, and it rejoiced me to think so. I would not return again\namongst men before whom I fled in terror, like the timid game of the\nmountains. Thus I lived through three weary days.\n\nOn the fourth morning I found myself on a sandy plain bright with\nthe sun, and sat on a rock in its beams, for I loved now to enjoy its\nlong-withheld countenance. I silently fed my heart with its despair. A\nlight rustle startled me. Ready for flight I threw round me a hurried\nglance; I saw no one, but in the sunny sand there glided past me a\nhuman shadow, not unlike my own, which, wandering there alone,\nseemed to have escaped from its possessor. There awoke in me a mighty\nyearning. \"Shadow,\" said I, \"dost thou seek thy master? I will be he,\"\nand I sprang forward to seize it. I thought that if I succeeded in\ntreading on it so that its feet touched mine, it probably would remain\nhanging there, and in time accommodate itself to me.\n\nThe shadow, on my moving, fled before me, and I was compelled to begin\na strenuous chase of the light fugitive, for which the thought of\nrescuing myself from my fearful condition could alone have endowed me\nwith the requisite vigor. It flew toward a wood, at a great distance,\nin which I must, of necessity, have lost it. I perceived this--a\nhorror convulsed my heart, inflamed my desire, added wings to my\nspeed; I gained evidently on the shadow, I came continually nearer,\nI must certainly reach it. Suddenly it stopped, and turned toward me.\nLike a lion on its prey, I shot with a mighty spring forward to make\nseizure of it--and dashed unexpectedly against a hard and bodily\nobject. Invisibly I received the most unprecedented blows on the ribs\nthat mortal man probably ever received.\n\nThe effect of the terror in me was convulsively to close my arms,\nand firmly to inclose that which stood unseen before me. In the rapid\ntransaction I plunged forward to the ground, but backward and under me\nwas a man whom I had embraced and who now first became visible.\n\nThe whole occurrence then became very naturally explicable to me. The\nman must have carried the invisible bird's nest which renders him who\nholds it, but not his shadow, imperceptible, and had now cast it away.\nI glanced round, soon discovered the shadow of the invisible nest\nitself, leaped up and toward it, and did not miss the precious prize.\nInvisible and shadowless, I held the nest in my hand.\n\nThe man swiftly springing up, gazing round instantly after his\nfortunate conqueror, descried on the wide sunny plain neither him nor\nhis shadow, for which he sought with especial avidity. For that I was\nmyself entirely shadowless he had no leisure to remark, nor could he\nimagine such a thing. Having convinced himself that every trace had\nvanished, he turned his hand against himself and tore his hair in\ngreat despair. To me, however, the acquired treasure had given\nthe power and desire to mix again amongst men. I did not want for\nself-satisfying palliatives for my base robbery, or, rather, I had no\nneed of them; and to escape from every thought of the kind, I hastened\naway, not even looking round at the unhappy one, whose deploring voice\nI long heard resounding behind me. Thus, at least, appeared to me the\ncircumstances at the time.\n\nI was on fire to proceed to the Forester's garden, and there myself\nto discern the truth of what the Detested One had told me. I knew not,\nhowever, where I was. I climbed the next hill, in order to look round\nover the country, and perceived from its summit the near city and the\nForester's garden lying at my feet. My heart beat violently, and tears\nof another kind than what I had till now shed rushed into my eyes. I\nshould see her again! Anxious desire hastened my steps down the most\ndirect path. I passed unseen some peasants who came out of the city.\nThey were talking of me, of Rascal, and the Forest-master; I would\nhear nothing--I hurried past.\n\nI entered the garden, all the tremor of expectation in my bosom. I\nseemed to hear laughter near me. I shuddered, threw a rapid glance\nround me, but could discover nobody. I advanced farther. I seemed to\nperceive a sound as of man's steps near me, but there was nothing to\nbe seen. I believed myself deceived by my ear. It was yet early, no\none in Count Peter's arbor, the garden still empty. I traversed the\nwell-known paths. I penetrated to the very front of the dwelling.\nThe same noise more distinctly followed me. I seated myself with an\nagonized heart on a bench which stood in the sunny space before the\nhouse-door. It seemed as if I had heard the unseen kobold, laughing in\nmockery, seat himself near me. The key turned in the door, it opened,\nand the Forest-master issued forth with papers in his hand. A mist\nseemed to envelop my head. I looked up, and--horror! the man in the\ngray coat sat by me, gazing on me with a satanic leer. He had drawn\nhis magic-cap at once over his head and mine; at his feet lay his\nand my shadow peaceably by each other. He played negligently with\nthe well-known parchment which he held in his hand, and as the\nForest-master, busied with his documents, went to and fro in the\nshadow of the arbor, he stooped familiarly to my ear and whispered\nin it these words--\"So then you have, notwithstanding, accepted my\ninvitation, and here sit we for once, two heads under one cap. All\nright! all right! But now give me my bird's nest again; you have no\nfurther need of it, and are too honest a man to wish to withhold it\nfrom me; but there needs no thanks; I assure you that I have lent it\nyou with the most hearty good will.\" He took it unceremoniously out\nof my hand, put it in his pocket, and laughed at me again, and that so\nloud that the Forest-master himself looked round at the noise. I sat\nthere as if changed to stone.\n\n\"But you must admit,\" continued he, \"that such a cap is much more\nconvenient. It covers not only your person but your shadow at the same\ntime, and as many others as you have a mind to take with you. See you\nagain today. I conduct two of them\"--he laughed again. \"Mark this,\nSchlemihl; what we at first won't do with a good will, that will we\nin the end be compelled to. I still fancy you will buy that thing\nfrom me, take back the bride (for it is yet time), and we leave Rascal\ndangling on the gallows, an easy thing for us so long as rope is to be\nhad. Hear you--I will give you also my cap into the bargain.\"\n\nThe mother came forth, and the conversation began. \"How goes it with\nMina?\"\n\n\"She weeps.\"\n\n\"Silly child! it cannot be altered!\"\n\n\"Certainly not; but to give her to another so soon? Oh, man! thou art\ncruel to thy own child.\"\n\n\"No, mother, that thou quite mistakest. When she, even before she has\nwept out her childish tears, finds herself the wife of a very rich and\nhonorable man, she will awake comforted out of her trouble as out of a\ndream, and thank God and us--that shalt thou see!\"\n\n\"God grant it!\"\n\n\"She possesses now, indeed, a very respectable property; but after the\nstir that this unlucky affair with the adventurer has made, canst\nthou believe that a partner so suitable as Mr. Rascal could be readily\nfound for her? Dost thou know what a fortune Mr. Rascal possesses? He\nhas paid six millions for estates here in the country, free from\nall debts. I have had the title deeds in my own hands! He it was\nwho everywhere had the start of me; and, besides this, has in his\npossession bills on Thomas John for about three and a half millions.\"\n\n\"He must have stolen enormously!\"\n\n\"What talk is that again! He has wisely saved what would otherwise\nhave been lavished away.\"\n\n\"A man that has worn livery--\"\n\n\"Stupid stuff! He has, however, an unblemished shadow.\"\n\n\"Thou art right, but--\"\n\nThe man in the gray coat laughed and looked at me. The door opened and\nMina came forth. She supported herself on the arm of a chambermaid,\nsilent tears rolling down her lovely pale cheeks. She seated herself\non a stool which was placed for her under the lime trees, and her\nfather took a chair by her. He tenderly took her hand, and addressed\nher with tender words, while she began violently to weep.\n\n\"Thou art my good, dear child, and thou wilt be reasonable, wilt not\nwish to distress thy old father, who seeks only thy happiness. I can\nwell conceive it, dear heart, that it has sadly shaken thee. Thou art\nwonderfully escaped from thy misfortunes! Before we discovered the\nscandalous imposition, thou hadst loved this unworthy one greatly;\nsee, Mina, I know it, and upbraid thee not for it. I myself, dear\nchild, also loved him so long as I looked upon him as a great\ngentleman. But now thou seest how different all has turned out. What!\nevery poodle has his own shadow, and should my dear child have a\nhusband--no! thou thinkest, indeed, no more about him. Listen, Mina!\nNow a man solicits thy hand, who does not shun the sunshine, an\nhonorable man, who truly is no prince, but who possesses ten millions,\nten times more than thou; a man who will make my dear child happy.\nAnswer me not, make no opposition, be my good, dutiful daughter, let\nthy loving father care for thee, and dry thy tears. Promise me to give\nthy hand to Mr. Rascal. Say, wilt thou promise me this?\"\n\nShe answered with a faint voice--\"I have no will, no wish further upon\nearth. Happen with me what my father will.\"\n\nAt this moment Mr. Rascal was announced, and stepped impudently into\nthe circle. Mina lay in a swoon. My detested companion glanced angrily\nat me, and whispered in hurried words--\"And that can you endure? What\nthen flows instead of blood in your veins?\" He scratched with a\nhasty movement a slight wound in my hand, blood flowed, and he\ncontinued--\"Actually red blood!--So sign then!\" I had the parchment\nand the pen in my hand.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VII\n\n\nMy wish, dear Chamisso, is merely to submit myself to thy judgment,\nnot to endeavor to bias it. I have long passed the severest sentence\non myself, for I have nourished the tormenting worm in my heart. It\nhovered during this solemn moment of my life incessantly before my\nsoul, and I could only lift my eyes to it with a doubting glance, with\nhumility and contrition. Dear friend, he who in levity only sets his\nfoot out of the right road, is unawares conducted into other paths,\nwhich draw him downward and ever downward; he then sees in vain the\nguiding stars glitter in heaven; there remains to him no choice;\nhe must descend unpausingly the declivity and become a voluntary\nsacrifice to Nemesis. After the hasty false step which had laid the\ncurse upon me, I had, sinning through love, forced myself into the\nfortunes of another being, and what remained for me but that, where\nI had sowed destruction, where speedy salvation was demanded of me, I\nshould blindly rush forward to the rescue?--for the last hour struck!\nThink not so meanly of me, my Adelbert, as to imagine that I should\nhave regarded any price that was demanded as too high, that I should\nhave begrudged anything that was mine even more than my gold. No,\nAdelbert! but my soul was possessed with the most unconquerable\nhatred of this mysterious sneaker along crooked paths. I might do him\ninjustice, but every degree of association with him revolted me. And\nhere stepped forth, as so frequently in my life, and as in general\nso often in the history of the world, an event instead of an action.\nSince then I have achieved reconciliation with myself. I have learned,\nin the first place, to reverence necessity; and what is more than the\naction performed, the event accomplished--her propriety. Then I have\nlearned to venerate this necessity as a wise Providence, which lives\nthrough that great collective machine in which we officiate simply as\nco\u00f6perating, impelling, and impelled wheels. What shall be, must be;\nwhat should be, happened, and not without that Providence, which I\nultimately learned to reverence in my own fate and in the fate of\nthose on whom mine thus impinged.\n\nI know not whether I shall ascribe it to the excitement of my soul\nunder the impulse of such mighty sensations; or to the exhaustion\nof my physical strength, which during the last days such unwonted\nprivations had enfeebled; or whether, finally, to the desolating\ncommotion which the presence of this gray fiend excited in my whole\nnature--be that as it may, as I was on the point of signing I fell\ninto a deep swoon and lay a long time as in the arms of death.\n\nStamping of feet and curses were the first sounds which struck my\near as I returned to consciousness. I opened my eyes; it was dark; my\ndetested attendant was busied scolding me. \"Is not that to behave like\nan old woman? Up with you, man, and complete off-hand what you have\nresolved on, if you have not taken another thought and had rather\nblubber!\" I raised myself with difficulty from the ground and gazed\nin silence around. It was late in the evening; festive music resounded\nfrom the brightly illuminated Forester's house; various groups of\npeople wandered through the garden walks. One couple came near in\nconversation, and seated themselves on the bench which I had just\nquitted. They talked of the union this morning solemnized between the\nrich Mr. Rascal and the daughter of the house. So, then, it had taken\nplace!\n\nI tore the magic-cap of the already vanished unknown from my head, and\nhastened in brooding silence toward the garden gate, plunging myself\ninto the deepest night of the thicket and striking along the path past\nCount Peter's arbor. But invisibly my tormenting spirit accompanied\nme, pursuing me with keenest reproaches. \"These then are one's thanks\nfor the pains which one has taken to support Monsieur, who has weak\nnerves, through the long precious day. And one shall act the fool in\nthe play. Good, Mr. Wronghead, fly you from me if you please, but we\nare, nevertheless, inseparable. You have my gold and I your shadow,\nand this will allow us no repose. Did anybody ever hear of a shadow\nforsaking its master? Your's draws me after you till you take it back\nagain graciously, and I get rid of it. What you have hesitated to do\nout of fresh pleasure, will you, only too late, be compelled to seek\nthrough new weariness and disgust. One cannot escape one's fate.\" He\ncontinued speaking in the same tone. I fled in vain; he relaxed not,\nbut, ever present, mockingly talked of gold and shadow. I could come\nto no single thought of my own.\n\nI struck through empty streets toward my house. When I stood before\nit, and gazed at it, I could scarcely recognize it. No light shone\nthrough the dashed-in windows. The doors were closed; no throng of\nservants was moving therein. There was a laugh near me. \"Ha! ha! so\ngoes it! But you'll probably find your Bendel at home, for he was the\nother day providently sent back so weary that he has most likely kept\nhis bed since.\" He laughed again. \"He will have a story to tell! Well\nthen, for the present, good night! We meet again speedily!\"\n\nI had rung the bell repeatedly; light appeared; Bendel demanded from\nwithin who rung. When the good man recognized my voice, he could\nscarcely restrain his joy. The door flew open and we stood weeping in\neach other's arms. I found him greatly changed, weak and ill; but for\nme--my hair had become quite gray!\n\nHe conducted me through the desolated rooms to an inner apartment\nwhich had been spared. He brought food and wine, and we seated\nourselves, and he again began to weep. He related to me that he the\nother day had cudgeled the gray-clad man whom he had encountered with\nmy shadow, so long and so far that he had lost all trace of me and had\nsunk to the earth in utter fatigue; that after this, as he could not\nfind me, he returned home, whither presently the mob, at Rascal's\ninstigation, came rushing in fury, dashed in the windows, and\ngave full play to their lust of demolition. Thus did they to their\nbenefactor. The servants had fled various ways. The police had ordered\nme, as a suspicious person, to quit the city, and had allowed only\nfour-and-twenty hours in which to evacuate their jurisdiction. To that\nwhich I already knew of Rascal's affluence and marriage, he had yet\nmuch to add. This scoundrel, from whom all had proceeded that had been\ndone against me, must, from the beginning, have been in possession of\nmy secret. It appeared that, attracted by gold, he had contrived to\nthrust himself upon me, and at the very first had procured a key to\nthe gold cupboard, where he had laid the foundation of that fortune\nwhose augmentation he could now afford to despise.\n\nAll this Bendel narrated to me with abundant tears, and then wept for\njoy that he again beheld me, again had me; and that after he had long\ndoubted whither this misfortune might have led me, he saw me bear it\nso calmly and collectedly; for such an aspect had despair now assumed\nin me. My misery stood before me in its enormity and unchangeableness.\nI had wept my last tear; not another cry could be extorted from my\nheart; I presented to my fate my bare head with chill indifference.\n\n\"Bendel,\" I said, \"thou knowest my lot. Not without earlier blame has\nmy heavy punishment befallen me. Thou, innocent man, shalt no longer\nbind thy destiny to mine. I do not desire it. I leave this very night;\nsaddle me a horse; I ride alone; thou remainest; it is my will. Here\nstill must remain some chests of gold; that retain thou; but I will\nalone wander unsteadily through the world. But if ever a happier hour\nshould smile upon me, and fortune look on me with reconciled eyes,\nthen will I remember thee, for I have wept upon thy firmly faithful\nbosom in heavy and agonizing hours.\"\n\nWith a broken heart was this honest man compelled to obey this last\ncommand of his master, at which his soul shrunk with terror. I was\ndeaf to his prayers, to his representations; blind to his tears. He\nbrought me out my steed. Once more I pressed the weeping man to my\nbosom, sprang into the saddle, and under the shroud of night hastened\nfrom the grave of my existence, regardless which way my horse\nconducted me, since I had longer on earth no aim, no wish, no hope.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VIII\n\n\nA pedestrian soon joined me, who begged, after he had walked for some\ntime by the side of my horse, that, as we went the same way, he might\nbe allowed to lay a cloak which he carried, on the steed behind me.\nI permitted it in silence. He thanked me with easy politeness for the\ntrifling service; praised my horse; and thence took occasion to extol\nthe happiness and power of the rich, and let himself, I know not how,\nfall into a kind of monologue, in which he had me now merely for a\nlistener.\n\nHe unfolded his views of life and of the world, and came very soon\nupon metaphysics, whose task is to discover the Word that should solve\nall riddles. He stated his thesis with great clearness and proceeded\nonward to the proofs.\n\nThou knowest, my friend, that I have clearly discovered, since I have\nrun through the schools of the philosophers, that I have by no means a\nturn for philosophical speculations, and that I have totally\nrenounced for myself this field. Since then I have left many things\nto themselves; abandoned the desire to know and to comprehend many\nthings; and as thou thyself advised me, have, trusting to my common\nsense, followed as far as I was able the voice within me in my own\nway. Now this rhetorician seemed to me to raise with great talent\na firmly constructed fabric, which was at once self-based and\nself-supported, and stood as by an innate necessity. I missed in it\ncompletely, however, what most of all I was desirous to find, and so\nit became for me merely a work of art, whose elegant compactness and\ncompleteness served to charm the eye only; nevertheless I listened\nwillingly to the eloquent man who drew my attention from my grief to\nhim; and I would have gladly yielded myself wholly up to him, had he\ncaptivated my heart as much as my understanding.\n\nMeanwhile the time had passed, and unobserved the dawn had already\nenlightened the heaven. I was horrified as I looked up suddenly, and\nsaw the glory of colors unfold itself in the east, which announced\nthe approach of the sun; while at this hour in which the shadows\nostentatiously display themselves in their greatest extent, there was\nno protection from it; no refuge in the open country to be descried.\nAnd I was not alone! I cast a glance at my companion, and was again\nterror-stricken. It was no other than the man in the gray coat!\n\nHe smiled at my alarm, and went on without allowing me a single word.\n\"Let, however, as is the way of the world, our mutual advantage for\nawhile unite us. It is all in good time for separating. The road here\nalong the mountain-range, though you have not yet thought of it, is,\nnevertheless, the only one into which you could logically have struck.\nDown into the valley you cannot venture; and still less will you\ndesire to return again over the heights whence you came; and this\nalso happens to be my way. I see that you already turn pale before\nthe rising sun. I will, for the time we keep company, lend you your\nshadow, and you, in exchange, tolerate me in your society. You have\nno longer your Bendel with you, I will do you good service. You do not\nlike me, and I am sorry for it; but, notwithstanding, you can make use\nof me. The devil is not so black as he is painted. Yesterday you\nvexed me, it is true; I will not upbraid you with it today; and I have\nalready shortened the way hither for you; that you must admit. Only\njust take your shadow again awhile on trial.\"\n\nThe sun had ascended; people appeared on the road; I accepted, though\nwith internal repugnance, the proposal. Smiling he let my shadow glide\nto the ground, which immediately took its place on that of the horse,\nand trotted gaily by my side. I was in the strangest state of mind.\nI rode past a group of country-people, who made way for a man of\nconsequence, reverently, and with bared heads. I rode on, and gazed\nwith greedy eyes and a palpitating; heart on this my quondam shadow\nwhich I had now borrowed from a stranger, yes, from an enemy.\n\nThe man went carelessly near me, and even whistled a tune--he on foot,\nI on horseback; a dizziness seized me; the temptation was too great;\nI suddenly turned the reins, clapped spurs to the horse, and struck at\nfull speed into a side-path. But I carried not off the shadow, which\nat the turning glided from the horse and awaited its lawful possessor\non the high road. I was compelled with shame to turn back. The man in\nthe gray coat, when he had calmly finished his tune, laughed at me,\nset the shadow right again for me and informed me that it would\nhang fast and remain with me only when I was disposed to become the\nrightful proprietor. \"I hold you,\" continued he, \"fast by the shadow,\nand you cannot escape me. A rich man, like you, needs a shadow;\nit cannot be otherwise, and you only are to blame that you did not\nperceive that sooner.\"\n\nI continued my journey on the same road; the comforts and the splendor\nof life again surrounded me; I could move about free and conveniently,\nsince I possessed a shadow, although only a borrowed one; and I\neverywhere inspired the respect which riches command. But I carried\ndeath in my heart. My strange companion, who gave himself out as\nthe unworthy servant of the richest man in the world, possessed\nan extraordinary professional readiness, prompt and clever beyond\ncomparison, the very model of a valet for a rich man, but he stirred\nnot from my side, perpetually debating with me and ever manifesting\nhis confidence that, at length, were it only to be rid of him, I\nwould resolve to settle the affair of the shadow. He had become as\nburdensome to me as he was hateful. I was even in fear of him. He had\nmade me dependent on him. He held me, after he had conducted me\nback into the glory of the world from which I had fled. I was almost\nobliged to tolerate his eloquence, and felt that he was in the right.\nA rich man must have a shadow, and, as I desired to command the rank\nwhich he had contrived again to make necessary to me, I saw but one\nissue. By this, however, I stood fast: after having sacrificed my\nlove, after my life had been blighted, I would never sign away my soul\nto this creature, for all the shadows in the world. I knew not how it\nwould end.\n\nWe sat, one day, before a cave which the strangers who frequent\nthese mountains are accustomed to visit. One hears there the rush\nof subterranean streams roaring up from immeasurable depths, and the\nstone cast in seemed, in its resounding fall, to find no bottom. He\npainted to me, as he often did, with a vivid power of imagination\nand in the lustrous charms of the most brilliant colors, the most\ncarefully finished pictures of what I might achieve in the world\nby virtue of my purse, if I had but once again my shadow in my\npossession. With my elbows resting on my knees, I kept my face\nconcealed in my hands and listened to the false one, my heart divided\nbetween his seduction and my own strong will. I could not longer stand\nsuch an inward conflict, and the deciding strife began.\n\n\"You appear, sir, to forget that I have indeed allowed you, upon\ncertain conditions, to remain in my company, but that I have reserved\nmy perfect freedom.\"\n\n\"If you command it, I pack up.\"\n\nHe was accustomed to this menace. I was silent. He began immediately\nto roll up my shadow. I turned pale, but I let it proceed. There\nfollowed a long pause; he first broke it.\n\n\"You cannot bear me, sir. You hate me; I know it; yet why do you\nhate me? Is it because you attacked me on the highway, and sought to\ndeprive me by violence of my bird's nest? Or is it because you have\nendeavored, in a thievish manner, to cheat me out of my property, the\nshadow, which was intrusted to you entirely on your honor? I, for my\npart, do not hate you in spite of all this. I find it quite natural\nthat you should seek to avail yourself of all your advantages,\ncunning, and power. Neither do I object to your very strict principles\nand to your fancy to think like honesty itself. In fact, I think not\nso strictly as you; I merely act as you think. Or have I at any time\npressed my finger on your throat in order to bring to me your most\nprecious soul, for which I have a fancy? Have I, on account of my\nbartered purse, let a servant loose on you? Have I sought to swindle\nyou out of it?\" I had nothing to oppose to this, and he proceeded:\n\"Very good, sir! very good! You cannot endure me; I know that very\nwell, and am by no means angry with you for it. We must part, that is\nclear, and, in fact, you begin to be very wearisome to me. In order,\nthen, to rid you of my continued, shame-inspiring presence, I counsel\nyou once more to purchase this thing from me.\" I extended to him the\npurse: \"At that price?\"--\"No!\"\n\nI sighed deeply, and added, \"Be it so, then. I insist, sir, that we\npart, and that you no longer obstruct my path in a world which, it\nis to be hoped, has room enough in it for us both.\" He smiled, and\nreplied: \"I go, sir; but first let me instruct you how you may ring\nfor me when you desire to see again your most devoted servant. You\nhave only to shake your purse, so that the eternal gold pieces therein\njingle, and the sound will instantly attract me. Every one thinks of\nhis own advantage in this world. You see that I at the same time\nam thoughtful of yours, since I reveal to you a new power. Oh! this\npurse!--had the moths already devoured your shadow, that would still\nconstitute a strong bond between us. Enough, you have me in my gold.\nShould you have any commands, even when far off, for your servant, you\nknow that I can show myself very active in the service of my friends,\nand the rich stand particularly well with me. You have seen it\nyourself. Only your shadow, sir--allow me to tell you that--never\nagain, except on one sole condition.\"\n\nForms of the past time swept before my soul. I demanded hastily--\"Had\nyou a signature from Mr. John?\" He smiled. \"With so good a friend it\nwas by no means necessary.\" \"Where is he? By God, I wish to know it!\"\nHe hesitatingly plunged his hand into his pocket, and, dragged thence\nby the hair, appeared Thomas John's ghastly disfigured form, and the\nblue death-lips moved themselves with heavy words: \"_Justo judicio Dei\njudicatus sum; justo judicio Dei condemnatus sum_.\" I shuddered with\nhorror, and dashing the ringing purse into the abyss, I spoke to him\nthe last words--\"I adjure thee, horrible one, in the name of God, take\nthyself hence, and never again show thyself in my sight!\"\n\nHe arose gloomily, and instantly vanished behind the masses of rock\nwhich bounded this wild, overgrown spot.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IX\n\n\nI sat there without shadow and without money, but a heavy weight was\ntaken from my bosom. I was calm. Had I not also lost my love, or had I\nin that loss felt myself free from blame, I believe that I should have\nbeen happy; but I knew not what I should do. I examined my pockets; I\nfound yet several gold pieces there; I counted them and laughed. I\nhad my horses below at the inn; I was ashamed of returning thither; I\nmust, at least, wait till the sun was gone down; it stood yet high in\nthe heavens. I laid myself down in the shade of the nearest trees, and\ncalmly fell asleep.\n\nLovely shapes blended themselves before me in charming dance into a\npleasing dream. Mina with a flower-wreath in her hair floated by me,\nand smiled kindly upon me. The noble Bendel also was crowned with\nflowers, and went past with a friendly greeting. I saw many besides,\nand I believe thee too, Chamisso, in the distant throng. A bright\nlight appeared, but no one had a shadow, and, what was stranger, it\nhad by no means a bad effect. Flowers and songs, love and joy, under\ngroves of palm! I could neither hold fast nor interpret the moving,\nlightly floating, lovable forms; but I knew that I dreamed such a\ndream with joy, and was careful to avoid waking. I was already awake,\nbut still kept my eyes closed in order to retain the fading apparition\nlonger before my soul.\n\nI finally opened my eyes; the sun stood still high in the heavens, but\nin the east; I had slept through the night. I took it for a sign that\nI should not return to the inn. I gave up readily as lost what I yet\npossessed there, and determined to strike on foot into a branch road,\nwhich led along the wood-grown feet of the mountains, leaving it to\nfate to fulfil what it had yet in store for me. I looked not behind\nme, and thought not even of applying to Bendel, whom I left rich\nbehind me, and which I could readily have done. I considered the\nnew character which I should support in the world. My dress was very\nmodest. I had on an old black polonaise, which I had already worn in\nBerlin, and which, I know not how, had first come again into my hands\nfor this journey. I had also a traveling cap on my head, a pair of old\nboots on my feet. I arose, and cut me on the spot a knotty stick as a\nmemorial, and pursued my wandering.\n\nI met in the wood an old peasant who, friendly, greeted me, and with\nwhom I entered into conversation. I inquired, like an inquisitive\ntraveler, first the way, then about the country and its inhabitants,\nthe productions of the mountains, and many such things. He answered my\nquestions sensibly and loquaciously. We came to the bed of a mountain\ntorrent, which had spread its devastations over a wide tract of the\nforest. I shuddered involuntarily at the sun-bright space, and allowed\nthe countryman to go first; but in the midst of this dangerous\nspot, he stood still, and turned to relate to me the history of this\ndesolation. He saw immediately my defect, and paused in the midst of\nhis discourse.\n\n\"But how does that happen--the gentleman has actually no shadow!\"\n\n\"Alas! alas!\" replied I, sighing, \"during a long and severe illness,\nmy hair, nails, and shadow fell off. See, father, at my age, my hair,\nwhich is renewed again, is quite white, the nails very short, and the\nshadow--that will not grow again.\"\n\n\"Ay! ay!\" responded the old man, shaking his head--\"no shadow, that\nis bad! That was a bad illness that the gentleman had.\" But he did\nnot continue his narrative, and at the next cross-way which presented\nitself left me without saying a word. Bitter tears trembled anew upon\nmy cheeks, and my cheerfulness was gone.\n\nI pursued my way with a sorrowful heart, and sought no further the\nsociety of men. I kept myself in the darkest wood, and was many a time\ncompelled, in order to pass over a space where the sun shone, to wait\nfor whole hours, lest some human eye should forbid me the transit. In\nthe evening I sought shelter in the villages. I went particularly in\nquest of a mine in the mountains where I hoped to get work under the\nearth; since, besides that my present situation made it imperative\nthat I should provide for my support, I had discovered that the most\nactive labor alone could protect me from my own annihilating thoughts.\n\nA few rainy days advanced me well on the way, but at the expense of\nmy boots, whose soles had been calculated for Count Peter, and not for\nthe pedestrian laborer. I was already barefoot and had to procure a\npair of new boots. The next morning I transacted this business with\nmuch gravity in a village where a wake was being held, and where in\na booth old and new boots were sold. I selected and bargained long. I\nwas forced to deny myself a new pair, which I would gladly have had,\nfor the extravagant price frightened me. I therefore contented myself\nwith an old pair, which were yet good and strong, and which the\nhandsome, blond-haired boy who kept the stall, for present cash\npayment handed to me with a friendly smile and wished me good luck on\nmy journey. I put them on at once, and left the place by the northern\ngate.\n\nI was deeply absorbed in my thoughts and scarcely saw where I set\nmy feet, for I was pondering on the mine which I hoped to reach by\nevening, and where I hardly knew how I should introduce myself. I had\nnot advanced two hundred strides when I observed that I had gone out\nof the way. I therefore looked round me, and found myself in a wild\nand ancient forest, where the axe appeared never to have been wielded.\nI still pressed forward a few steps, and beheld myself in the midst\nof desert rocks which were overgrown only with moss and lichens, and\nbetween which lay fields of snow and ice. The air was intensely cold;\nI looked round--the wood had vanished behind me. I took a few strides\nmore--and around me reigned the silence of death; the ice whereon I\nstood boundlessly extended itself, and on it rested a thick, heavy\nfog. The sun stood blood-red on the edge of the horizon. The cold was\ninsupportable.\n\nI knew not what had happened to me. The benumbing frost compelled me\nto hasten my steps; I heard only the roar of distant waters; a step,\nand I was on the icy margin of an ocean. Innumerable herds of seals\nplunged rushing before me in the flood. I pursued this shore; I saw\nnaked rocks, land, birch and pine forests; I now advanced for a few\nminutes right onward. It became stifling hot. I looked around--I\nstood amongst beautifully cultivated rice-fields, and beneath\nmulberry-trees. I seated myself in their shade; I looked at my watch;\nI had left the market town only a quarter of an hour before. I fancied\nthat I dreamed; I bit my tongue to awake myself, but I was really\nawake. I closed my eyes in order to collect my thoughts. I heard\nbefore me singular accents pronounced through the nose. I looked up.\nTwo Chinese, unmistakable from their Asiatic physiognomy, if indeed\nI would have given no credit to their costume, addressed me in their\nspeech with the accustomed salutations of their country. I arose and\nstepped two paces backward; I saw them no more. The landscape\nwas totally changed--trees and forests instead of rice-fields. I\ncontemplated these trees and the plants which bloomed around me, which\nI recognized as the growth of southeastern Asia. I wished to approach\none of these trees--one step, and again all was changed. I marched\nnow like a recruit who is drilled, and strode slowly and with measured\nsteps. Wonderfully diversified lands, rivers, meadows, mountain\nchains, steppes, deserts of sand, unrolled themselves before my\nastonished eyes. There was no doubt of it--I had seven-league boots on\nmy feet.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER X\n\n\nI fell in speechless adoration on my knees and shed tears of\nthankfulness, for suddenly my future stood clear before my soul. For\nearly offense thrust out from the society of men, I was cast, for\ncompensation, upon Nature, which I ever loved; the earth was given me\nas a rich garden, study for the object and strength of my life, and\nscience for its goal. It was no resolution which I adopted. I only\nhave since, with severe, unremitted diligence, striven faithfully\nto represent what then stood clear and perfect before my eye, and my\nsatisfaction has depended on the agreement of the representation with\nthe original.\n\nI roused myself in order, without delay, and with a hasty survey, to\ntake possession of the field where I should hereafter reap. I stood on\nthe heights of Tibet, and the sun, which had risen upon me only a few\nhours before, now already stooped to the evening sky. I wandered over\nAsia from east to west, overtaking him in his course, and entered\nAfrica. I gazed about me with eager curiosity, as I repeatedly\ntraversed it in all directions. As I surveyed the ancient pyramids\nand temples in passing through Egypt, I descried in the desert not far\nfrom hundred-gated Thebes, the caves where the Christian anchorites\nonce dwelt. It was suddenly firm and clear in me--here is thy home!\nI selected one of the most concealed which was at the same time\nspacious, convenient, and inaccessible to the jackals, for my future\nabode, and again went forward.\n\nI passed, at the pillars of Hercules, over to Europe, and when I\nreviewed the southern and northern provinces, I crossed from northern\nAsia over the polar glaciers to Greenland and America, traversed both\nparts of that continent, and the winter which already reigned in the\nsouth drove me speedily back northward from Cape Horn.\n\nI tarried awhile till it was day in eastern Asia, and, after some\nrepose, continued my wandering. I traced through both Americas the\nmountain chain which constitutes the highest known acclivities on our\nglobe. I stalked slowly and cautiously from summit to summit, now\nover flaming volcanoes, now snow-crowned peaks, often breathing\nwith difficulty, when, reaching Mount Saint Elias, I sprang across\nBehring's Straits to Asia. I followed the western shores in their\nmanifold windings, and examined with especial care to ascertain which\nof the islands were accessible to me. From the peninsula of Malacca my\nboots carried me to Sumatra, Java, Bali and Lamboc. I attempted often\nwith danger, and always in vain, a northwest passage over the lesser\nislet and rocks with which this sea is studded, to Borneo and the\nother islands of this Archipelago. I was compelled to abandon the\nhope. At length I seated myself on the extreme portion of Lamboc, and\ngazing toward the south and east, wept, as at the fast closed bars\nof my prison, that I had so soon discovered my limits. New Holland so\nextraordinary and so essentially necessary to the comprehension of the\nearth and its sun-woven garment, the vegetable and the animal world,\nwith the South Sea and its Zoophyte islands, was interdicted to me,\nand thus, at the very outset, all that I should gather and build up\nwas destined to remain a mere fragment! Oh, my Adelbert, what, after\nall, are the endeavors of men!\n\nOften did I in the severest winter of the southern hemisphere,\nendeavor, passing the polar glaciers westward, to leave behind me\nthose two hundred strides out from Cape Horn, which sundered me\nprobably from Van Diemen's Land and New Holland, regardless of my\nreturn or whether this dismal region should close upon me as my\ncoffin-lid--making desperate leaps from ice-drift to ice-drift, and\nbidding defiance to the cold and the sea. In vain! I never reached New\nHolland, but, every time, I came back to Lamboc, seated myself on its\nfarthest peak, and wept again, with my face turned toward the south\nand east, as at the fast closed bars of my prison.\n\nI tore myself at length from this spot, and returned with a sorrowful\nheart into inner Asia. I traversed that farther, pursuing the morning\ndawn westward, and came, yet in the night, to my proposed home in the\nThebais, which I had touched upon in the afternoon of the day before.\n\nAs soon as I was somewhat rested, and when it was day again in Europe,\nI made it my first care to procure everything which I wanted. First of\nall, stop-shoes; for I had experienced how inconvenient it was when\nI wished to examine near objects, not to be able to slacken my stride\nexcept by pulling off my boots. A pair of slippers drawn over them had\ncompletely the effect which I anticipated, and later I always carried\ntwo pairs, since I sometimes threw them from my feet, without having\ntime to pick them up again, when lions, men, or hyenas startled\nme from my botanizing. My very excellent watch was, for the short\nduration of my passage, a capital chronometer. Besides this I needed a\nsextant, some scientific instruments, and books.\n\nTo procure all this, I made several anxious journeys to London and\nParis, which, auspiciously for me, a mist just then overshadowed.\nAs the remains of my enchanted gold was now exhausted, I easily\naccomplished the payment by gathering African ivory, in which,\nhowever, I was obliged to select only the smallest tusks, as not too\nheavy for me. I was soon furnished and equipped with all these, and\ncommenced immediately, as private philosopher, my new course of life.\n\nI roamed about the earth, now determining the altitudes of mountains;\nnow the temperature of its springs and the air; now contemplating the\nanimal, now inquiring into the vegetable tribes. I hastened from the\nequator to the pole, from one world to the other, comparing facts with\nfacts. The eggs of the African ostrich or the northern sea-fowl, and\nfruits, especially of the tropical palms and bananas, were even\nmy ordinary food. In lieu of happiness I had tobacco, and of human\nsociety and the ties of love, one faithful poodle, which guarded my\ncave in the Thebais, and, when I returned home with fresh treasures,\nsprang joyfully toward me and gave me still a human feeling that I was\nnot alone on the earth. An adventure was yet destined to conduct me\nback amongst mankind.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XI\n\n\nAs I once scotched my boots on the shores of the north and gathered\nlichens and sea-weed, an ice-bear came unawares upon me round the\ncorner of a rock. Flinging off my slippers, I would step over to an\nopposite island, to which a naked crag which protruded midway from\nthe waves offered me a passage. I stepped with one foot firmly on\nthe rock, and plunged over on the other side into the sea, one of my\nslippers having unobserved remained fast on the foot.\n\nThe excessive cold seized on me; I with difficulty rescued my life\nfrom this danger; and the moment I reached land, I ran with the utmost\nspeed to the Lybyan desert in order to dry myself in the sun, but,\nas I was here exposed, it burned me so furiously on the head that I\nstaggered back again very ill toward the north. I sought to relieve\nmyself by rapid motion, and ran with swift, uncertain steps, from west\nto east, from east to west. I found myself now in the day, now in the\nnight; now in summer, now in the winter's cold.\n\nI know not how long I thus reeled about on the earth. A burning fever\nglowed in my veins; with deepest distress I felt my senses forsaking\nme. As mischief would have it, in my incautious career, I now trod on\nsome one's foot; I must have hurt him; I received a heavy blow, and\nfell to the ground.\n\nWhen I again returned to consciousness, I lay comfortably in a good\nbed, which stood amongst many other beds in a handsome hall. Some one\nsat at my head; people went through the hall from one bed to another.\nThey came to mine, and spoke together about me. They styled me _Number\nTwelve_; and on the wall at my feet stood--yes, certainly it was no\ndelusion, I could distinctly read on a black tablet of marble in great\ngolden letters, quite correctly written, my name--\n\n  PETER SCHLEMIHL.\n\nOn the tablet beneath my name were two other rows of letters, but I\nwas too weak to put them together. I again closed my eyes.\n\nI heard something of which the subject was Peter Schlemihl read aloud,\nand articulately, but I could not collect the sense. I saw a friendly\nman, and a very lovely woman in black dress appear at my bedside. The\nforms were not strange to me, and yet I could not recognize them.\n\nSome time went on, and I recovered my strength. I was called _Number\nTwelve_; and _Number Twelve_, on account of his long beard, passed for\na Jew, on which account, however, he was not at all the less carefully\ntreated. That he had no shadow appeared to have been unobserved. My\nboots, as I was assured, were, with all that I had brought hither, in\ngood keeping, in order to be restored to me on my recovery. The place\nin which I lay was called the SCHLEMIHLIUM. What was daily read aloud\nconcerning Peter Schlemihl was an exhortation to pray for him as the\nFounder and Benefactor of this institution. The friendly man whom I\nhad seen by my bed was Bendel; the lovely woman was Mina.\n\nI recovered unrecognized in the Schlemihlium; and learned yet further\nthat I was in Bendel's native city, where, with the remains of my\notherwise unblessed gold, he had in my name founded this\nHospital, where the unhappy blessed me, and himself maintained its\nsuperintendence. Mina was a widow. An unhappy criminal process had\ncost Mr. Rascal his life, and her the greater part of her property.\nHer parents were no more. She lived here as a pious widow, and\npractised works of mercy.\n\nOnce she conversed with Mr. Bendel at the bedside of _Number Twelve_.\n\"Why, noble lady, will you so often expose yourself to the bad\natmosphere which prevails here? Does fate then deal so hardly with you\nthat you wish to die?\"\n\n\"No, Mr. Bendel, since I have dreamed out my long dream, and have\nawoke in myself, all is well with me; since then I crave not, and fear\nnot, death. Since then, I reflect calmly on the past and the future.\nIs it not also with a still inward happiness that you now, in so\ndevout a manner, serve your master and friend?\"\n\n\"Thank God, yes, noble lady. But we have seen wonderful things; we\nhave unwarily drunk much good, and bitter woes, out of the full cup.\nNow it is empty, and we may believe that the whole has been only a\ntrial, and, armed with wise discernment, awaits the real beginning.\nThe real beginning is of another fashion; and we wish not back the\nfirst jugglery, and are on the whole glad, such as it was, to have\nlived through it. I feel also within me a confidence that it must now\nbe better than formerly with our old friend.\"\n\n\"Within me too,\" replied the lovely widow, and then passed on.\n\nThe conversation left a deep impression upon me, but I was undecided\nin myself whether I should make myself known or depart hence\nunrecognized. I took my resolve. I requested paper and pencil, and\nwrote these words--\"It is indeed better with your old friend now than\nformerly, and if he does penance it is the penance of reconciliation.\"\n\nHereupon I desired to dress myself, as I found myself stronger. The\nkey of the small wardrobe which stood near my bed was brought, and I\nfound therein all that belonged to me. I put on my clothes, suspended\nmy botanical case, in which I rejoiced still to find my northern\nlichens, round my black polonaise, drew on my boots, laid the written\npaper on my bed, and, as the door opened, I was already far on the way\nto the Thebais.\n\nAs I took the way along the Syrian coast, on which I for the last time\nhad wandered from home, I perceived my poor Figaro coming toward me.\nThis excellent poodle, which had long expected his master at home,\nseemed to desire to trace him out. I stood still and called to him.\nHe sprang barking toward me, with a thousand moving assurances of his\ninmost and most extravagant joy. I took him up under my arm, for in\ntruth he could not follow me, and brought him with me home again.\n\nI found all in its old order, and returned gradually, as my strength\nwas recruited, to my former employment and mode of life, except that\nI kept myself for a whole year out of the, to me, wholly insupportable\npolar cold. And thus, my dear Chamisso, I live to this day. My boots\nare no worse for the wear, as that very learned work of the celebrated\nTieckius, _De Rebus Gestis Pollicilli_, at first led me to fear. Their\nforce remains unimpaired, my strength only decays; yet I have the\ncomfort to have exerted it in a continuous and not fruitless pursuit\nof one object. I have, so far as my boots could carry me, become more\nfundamentally acquainted than any man before me with the earth,\nits shape, its elevations, its temperatures, the changes of its\natmosphere, the exhibitions of its magnetic power, and the life upon\nit, especially in the vegetable world. The facts I have recorded with\nthe greatest possible exactness and in perspicuous order in several\nworks, and stated my deductions and views briefly in several\ntreatises. I have settled the geography of the interior of Africa,\nand of the northern polar regions; of the interior of Asia, and its\neastern shores. My _Historia Stirpium Plantarum Utriusque Orbis_\nstands as a grand fragment of the _Flora Universalis Terrae_, and as\na branch of my _Systema Naturae_. I believe that I have therein not\nmerely augmented, at a moderate calculation, the amount of known\nspecies, more than one-third, but have done something for the _Natural\nSystem_, and for the _Geography of Plants_. I shall labor diligently\nat my _Fauna_. I shall take care that, before my death, my works shall\nbe deposited in the Berlin University.\n\nAnd thee, my dear Chamisso, have I selected as the preserver of my\nsingular history, which, perhaps, when I have vanished from the earth,\nmay afford valuable instruction to many of its inhabitants. But thou,\nmy friend, if thou wilt live among men, learn before all things to\nreverence the shadow, and then the gold. Wishest thou to live only for\nthyself and for thy better self--oh, then!--thou needest no counsel.\n\n\n\n\nERNST THEODOR AMADEUS HOFFMANN\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nTHE GOLDEN POT[44] (1814)\n\nTRANSLATED BY FREDERIC H. HEDGE\n\nFIRST VIGIL\n\n    The mishaps of the student Anselmus. Conrector Paulmann's sanitary\n    canaster and the gold-green snakes.\n\n\nOn Ascension-day, at three o'clock in the afternoon, a young man in\nDresden came running through the Black Gate, falling right into a\nbasket of apples and cakes, which an old and very ugly woman was\nthere exposing to sale. All that escaped being smashed to pieces was\nscattered away, and the street-urchins joyfully divided the booty\nwhich this quick gentleman had thrown in the way. At the murder-shriek\nwhich the crone set up, her gossips, leaving their cake and\nbrandy-tables, encircled the young man, and with plebeian violence\nstormfully scolded him, so that, for shame and vexation, he uttered\nno word, but merely held out his small and by no means particularly\nwell-filled purse, which the crone eagerly clutched and stuck into her\npocket. The firm ring now opened; but as the young man started off,\nthe crone called after him: \"Ay, run, run thy ways, thou Devil's bird!\nTo the crystal run--to the crystal!\" The squealing, creaking voice\nof the woman had something unearthly in it, so that the promenaders\npaused in amazement, and the laugh, which at first had been universal,\ninstantly died away. The student Anselmus, for the young man was no\nother, felt himself, though he did not in the least understand these\nsingular phrases, nevertheless seized with a certain involuntary\nhorror; and he quickened his steps still more, to escape the curious\nlooks of the multitude, which were all turned toward him. As he\nworked his way through the crowd of well-dressed people, he heard them\nmurmuring on all sides: \"Poor young fellow! Ha! what a cursed bedlam\nit is!\" The mysterious words of the crone had, oddly enough, given\nthis ludicrous adventure a sort of tragic turn; and the youth, before\nunobserved, was now looked after with a certain sympathy. The ladies,\nfor his fine shape and handsome face, which the glow of inward anger\nwas rendering still more expressive, forgave him this awkward step, as\nwell as the dress he wore, though it was utterly at variance with all\nmode. His pike-gray frock was shaped as if the tailor had known the\nmodern form only by hearsay; and his well-kept black satin lower\nhabiliments gave the whole a certain pedagogic air, to which the gait\nand gesture of the wearer did not at all correspond.\n\nThe student had almost reached the end of the alley which leads out to\nthe Linke Bath; but his breath could stand such a rate no longer. From\nrunning, he took to walking; but scarcely did he yet dare to lift an\neye from the ground; for he still saw apples and cakes dancing round\nhim, and every kind look from this or that fair damsel was to him but\nthe reflex of the mocking laughter at the Black Gate. In this mood, he\nhad got to the entrance of the bath; one group of holiday people after\nthe other were moving in. Music of wind-instruments resounded from the\nplace, and the din of merry guests was growing louder and louder. The\npoor student Anselmus was almost on the point of weeping; for he too\nhad expected, Ascension-day having always been a family-festival with\nhim, to participate in the felicities of the Linkean paradise; nay, he\nhad purposed even to go the length of a half \"portion\" of coffee with\nrum, and a whole bottle of double beer, and, that he might carouse\nat his ease, had put more money in his purse than was properly\npermissible and feasible. And now, by this fatal step into the\napple-basket, all that he had about him had been swept away. Of\ncoffee, of double beer, of music, of looking at the bright damsels--in\na word, of all his fancied enjoyments, there was now nothing more to\nbe said. He glided slowly past, and at last turned down the Elbe road,\nwhich at that time happened to be quite solitary.\n\n[Illustration: Permission Berlin Photo Co., New York. HENSEL\nERNST THEODOR AMADEUS HOFFMANN]\n\nBeneath an elder-tree, which had grown out through the wall, he found\na kind green resting-place; here he sat down, and filled a pipe from\nthe _Sanit\u00e4tsknaster_ or Health-tobacco, of which his friend the\nConrector Paulmann had lately made him a present. Close before him\nrolled and chafed the gold-dyed waves of the fair Elbe-stream; behind\nhim rose lordly Dresden, stretching, bold and proud, its light towers\ninto the airy sky; which again, farther off, bent itself down toward\nflowery meads and fresh springing woods; and in the dim distance, a\nrange of azure peaks gave notice of remote Bohemia. But, heedless of\nthis, the student Anselmus, looking gloomily before him, blew forth\nhis smoky clouds into the air. His chagrin at length became audible,\nand he said: \"Of a truth, I am born to losses and crosses for my life\nlong! That in boyhood I never could become the King on Twelfthnight,\nthat at Odds or Evens I could never once guess the right way, that\nmy bread and butter always fell on the buttered side--of all these\nsorrows I will not speak; but is it not a frightful destiny, that now,\nwhen, in spite of Satan, I have become a student, I must still be a\njolthead as before? Do I ever put a new coat on, without the first day\nsmearing it with tallow, or on some ill-fastened nail or other tearing\na cursed hole in it? Do I ever bow to any Councilor or any lady,\nwithout pitching the hat out of my hands, or even slipping on the\npavement, and shamefully going heels-over-head? Had I not, every\nmarket-day, while in Halle, a regular sum of from three to four\ngroschen to pay for broken pottery, the Devil putting it into my head\nto walk straight forward, like a leming-rat? Have I ever once got to\nmy college, or any place I was appointed to, at the right time? What\navailed it that I set out half an hour before, and planted myself at\nthe door, with the knocker in my hand? Just as the clock is going to\nstrike, souse! some Devil pours a wash-basin down on me, or I bolt\nagainst some fellow coming out, and get myself engaged in endless\nquarrels till the time is clean gone.\n\n\"Ah! well-a-day! whither are ye fled, ye blissful dreams of coming\nfortune, when I proudly thought that here I might even reach the\nheight of Privy Secretary? And has not my evil star estranged from me\nmy best patrons? I learn, for instance, that the Councilor, to whom I\nhave a letter, cannot suffer cropped hair; with immensity of trouble,\nthe barber fastens me a little cue to my hindhead; but at the first\nbow his unblessed knot gives way, and a little shock-dog, running\nsnuffling about me, frisks off to the Privy Councilor with the cue in\nhis mouth. I spring after it in terror, and stumble against the\ntable, where he has been working while at breakfast; and cups, plates,\nink-glass, sand-box, rush jingling to the floor, and a flood of\nchocolate and ink overflows the \"Relation\" he has just been writing.\n'Is the Devil in the man?' bellows the furious Privy Councilor, and\nshoves me out of the room.\n\n\"What avails it that Corrector Paulmann gave me hopes of a writership:\nwill my malignant fate allow it, which everywhere pursues me?\nToday even! Do but think of it! I was purposing to hold my good old\nAscension-day with right cheerfulness of soul; I would stretch a point\nfor once; I might have gone, as well as any other guest, into Linke's\nBath, and called out proudly: 'Marqueur! a bottle of double beer; best\nsort, if you please!' I might have sat till far in the evening, and,\nmoreover, close by this or that fine party of well-dressed ladies. I\nknow it, I feel it! heart would have come into me and I should have\nbeen quite another man; nay, I might have carried it so far that when\none or other of them asked, `What o'clock may it be?' or 'What is\nit they are playing?' I should have started up with light grace, and\nwithout overturning my glass or stumbling over the bench, but in a\ncurved posture, moving one step and a half forward, I should have\nanswered: 'Give me leave, Mademoiselle! it is the overture of the\n_Donauweibchen_;' or, 'It is just going to strike six.' Could any\nmortal in the world have taken it ill of me? No! I say; the girls\nwould have looked over, smiling so roguishly, as they always do when\nI pluck up heart to show them that I too understand the light tone of\nsociety, and know how ladies should be spoken to. But here--the Devil\nleads me into that cursed apple-basket, and now must I sit moping\nin solitude, with nothing but a poor pipe of----\" Here the student\nAnselmus was interrupted in his soliloquy by a strange rustling and\nwhisking, which rose close by him in the grass, but soon glided up\ninto the twigs and leaves of the elder-tree that stretched out over\nhis head. It was as if the evening wind were shaking the leaves; as if\nlittle birds were twittering among the branches, moving their little\nwings in capricious flutter to and fro. Then he heard a whispering and\nlisping; and it seemed as if the blossoms were sounding like\nlittle crystal bells. Anselmus listened and listened. Ere long, the\nwhispering, and lisping, and tinkling, he himself knew not how, grew\nto faint and half-scattered words:\n\n\"'Twixt this way, 'twixt that; 'twixt branches, 'twixt blossoms, come\nshoot, come twist and twirl we! Sisterkin, sisterkin! up to the shine;\nup, down, through and through, quick! Sun-rays yellow; evening-wind\nwhispering; dew-drops pattering; blossoms all singing: sing we with\nbranches and blossoms! Stars soon glitter; must down: 'twixt this way,\n'twixt that, come shoot, come twist, come twirl we, sisterkin!\"\n\nAnd so it went along, in confused and confusing speech. The student\nAnselmus thought: \"Well, it is but the evening-wind, which tonight\ntruly is whispering distinctly enough.\" But at that moment there\nsounded over his head, as it were, a triple harmony of clear crystal\nbells: he looked up, and perceived three little snakes, glittering\nwith green and gold, twisted round the branches, and stretching out\ntheir heads to the evening sun. Then, again, began a whispering and\ntwittering in the same words as before, and the little snakes went\ngliding and caressing up and down through the twigs; and while they\nmoved so rapidly, it was as if the elder-bush were scattering a\nthousand glittering emeralds through the dark leaves.\n\n\"It is the evening sun which sports so in the elder-bush,\" thought the\nstudent Anselmus; but the bells sounded again, and Anselmus observed\nthat one Snake held out its little head to him. Through all his limbs\nthere went a shock like electricity; he quivered in his inmost heart;\nhe kept gazing up, and a pair of glorious dark-blue eyes were looking\nat him with unspeakable longing; and an unknown feeling of highest\nblessedness and deepest sorrow was like to rend his heart asunder.\nAnd as he looked, and still looked, full of warm desire, into these\ncharming eyes, the crystal bells sounded louder in harmonious accord,\nand the glittering emeralds fell down and encircled him, flickering\nround him in thousand sparkles, and sporting in resplendent threads\nof gold. The Elder-bush moved and spoke: \"Thou layest in my shadow; my\nperfume flowed round thee, but thou understoodst me not. The perfume\nis my speech, when Love kindles it.\" The Evening-Wind came gliding\npast, and said: \"I played round thy temples, but thou understoodst me\nnot. Breath is my speech, when Love kindles it.\" The sunbeams broke\nthrough the clouds, and the sheen of it burnt, as in words: \"I\noverflowed thee with glowing gold, but thou understoodst me not. Glow\nis my speech, when Love kindles it.\"\n\nAnd, still deeper and deeper sunk in the view of these glorious eyes,\nhis longing grew keener, his desire more warm. And all rose and moved\naround him, as if awakening to joyous life. Flowers and blossoms shed\ntheir odors round him; and their odor was like the lordly singing of\na thousand softest voices; and what they sung was borne, like an\necho, on the golden evening clouds, as they flitted away, into far-off\nlands. But as the last sunbeam abruptly sank behind the hills, and\nthe twilight threw its veil over the scene, there came a hoarse deep\nvoice, as from a great distance:\n\n\"Hey! hey! what chattering and jingling is that up there? Hey! hey!\nwho catches me the ray behind the hills? Sunned enough, sung enough.\nHey! hey! through bush and grass, through grass and stream! Hey! hey!\nCome dow-w-n, dow-w-w-n!\"\n\nSo faded the voice away, as in murmurs of a distant thunder; but the\ncrystal bells broke off in sharp discords. All became mute; and\nthe student Anselmus observed how the three snakes, glittering and\nsparkling, glided through the grass toward the river; rustling and\nhustling, they rushed into the Elbe; and over the waves where they\nvanished, there crackled up a green flame, which, gleaming forward\nobliquely, vanished in the direction of the city.\n\n\n\n\nSECOND VIGIL\n\n    How the student Anselmus was looked upon as drunk and mad. The\n    crossing of the Elbe. Bandmaster Graun's Bravura. Conradi's\n    Stomachic Liqueur, and the bronzed Apple-Woman.\n\n\n\"The gentleman seems not to be in his right wits!\" said a respectable\nburgher's wife, who, returning from a walk with her family, had paused\nhere, and, with crossed arms, was looking at the mad pranks of the\nstudent Anselmus. Anselmus had clasped the trunk of the elder-tree,\nand was calling incessantly up to the branches and leaves: \"O glitter\nand shine once more, ye dear gold snakes; let me hear your little\nbell-voices once more! Look on me once more, ye kind eyes; O once, or\nI must die in pain and ardent longing!\" And with this, he was sighing\nand sobbing from the bottom of his heart most pitifully, and, in his\neagerness and impatience, shaking the elder-tree to and fro; which,\nhowever, instead of any reply, rustled quite gloomily and inaudibly\nwith its leaves, and so rather seemed, as it were, to make sport of\nthe student Anselmus and his sorrows.\n\n\"The gentleman seemingly is not in his right wits!\" said the burgher's\nwife; and Anselmus felt as if you had shaken him out of a deep dream,\nor poured ice-cold water on him, that he might awaken without loss\nof time. He now first saw clearly where he was and recollected what a\nstrange apparition had teased him, nay, so beguiled his senses as to\nmake him break forth into loud talk with himself. In astonishment,\nhe gazed at the woman; and at last, snatching up his hat, which had\nfallen to the ground in his transport, was for making off in all\nspeed. The burgher himself had come forward in the meanwhile; and,\nsetting down the child from his arm on the grass, had been leaning on\nhis staff, and with amazement listening and looking at the student.\nHe now picked up the pipe and tobacco-pouch which the student had let\nfall, and, holding them out to him, said: \"Don't take on so dreadfully\nin the dark, my worthy sir, or alarm people, when nothing is the\nmatter, after all, but having taken a sip too much; go home, like a\npretty man, and take a nap of sleep on it.\"\n\nThe student Anselmus felt exceedingly ashamed; he uttered nothing but\na most lamentable Ah!\n\n\"Pooh! Pooh!\" said the burgher, \"never mind it a jot; such a thing\nwill happen to the best; on good old Ascension-day a man may readily\nenough forget himself in his joy, and gulp down a thought too much.\nA clergyman himself is no worse for it: I presume, my worthy sir, you\nare a _Candidatus_.--But, with your leave, sir, I shall fill my pipe\nwith your tobacco; mine went out a little while ago.\"\n\nThis last sentence the burgher uttered while the student Anselmus was\nabout putting up his pipe and pouch; and now the burgher slowly and\ndeliberately cleaned his pipe, and began as slowly to fill it. Several\nburgher girls had come up; they were speaking secretly with the woman\nand one another, and tittering as they looked at Anselmus. The student\nfelt as if he were standing on prickly thorns and burning needles. No\nsooner had he recovered his pipe and tobacco-pouch, than he darted off\nat the height of his speed.\n\nAll the strange things he had seen were clean gone from his memory; he\nsimply recollected having babbled all manner of foolish stuff beneath\nthe elder-tree. This was the more shocking to him, as he entertained\nfrom of old an inward horror against all soliloquists. It is Satan\nthat chatters out of them, said his Rector; and Anselmus shared\nhonestly his belief. To be regarded as a _Candidatus Theologiae_,\novertaken with drink on Ascension-day! The thought was intolerable.\n\nHe was just about turning up the Poplar Alley, by the Kosel Garden,\nwhen a voice behind him called out: \"Herr Anselmus! Herr Anselmus!\nfor the love of Heaven, whither are you running in such haste?\" The\nstudent paused, as if rooted to the ground; for he was convinced that\nnow some new mischance would befall him. The voice rose again: \"Herr\nAnselmus, come back, then; we are waiting for you here at the water!\"\nAnd now the student perceived that it was his friend Conrector\nPaulmann's voice; he went back to the Elbe, and found the Conrector,\nwith his two daughters, as well as Registrator Heerbrand, all on the\npoint of stepping into their gondola. Conrector Paulmann invited the\nstudent to go with them across the Elbe, and then to pass the evening\nat his house in the Pirna suburb. The student Anselmus very gladly\naccepted this proposal, thinking thereby to escape the malignant\ndestiny which had ruled over him all day.\n\nNow, as they were crossing the river, it chanced that, on the farther\nbank, near the Anton Garden, fireworks were just going off. Sputtering\nand hissing, the rockets went aloft, and their blazing stars flew\nto pieces in the air, scattering a thousand vague shoots and flashes\nround them. The student Anselmus was sitting by the steersman, sunk in\ndeep thought; but when he noticed in the water the reflection of\nthese darting and wavering sparks and flames, he felt as if it was the\nlittle golden snakes that were sporting in the flood. All the strange\nthings he had seen at the elder-tree again started forth into his\nheart and thoughts; and again that unspeakable longing, that glowing\ndesire, laid hold of him here, which had before agitated his bosom in\npainful spasms of rapture.\n\n\"Ah! is it you again, my little golden snakes? Sing now, O sing! In\nyour song let the kind, dear, dark-blue eyes again appear to me.--Ah?\nare ye under the waves, then?\"\n\nSo cried the student Anselmus, and at the same time made a violent\nmovement, as if he were for plunging from the gondola into the river.\n\n\"Is the Devil in you, sir?\" exclaimed the steersman, and clutched\nhim by the coat-tail. The girls, who were sitting by him, shrieked\nin terror, and fled to the other side of the gondola. Registrator\nHeerbrand whispered something in Conrector Paulmann's ear, to\nwhich the latter answered, but in so low a tone that Anselmus could\ndistinguish nothing but the words: \"Such attacks--never noticed them\nbefore?\" Directly after this, Conrector Paulmann also rose, and then\nsat down, with a certain earnest, grave, official mien, beside the\nstudent Anselmus, taking his hand, and saying: \"How are you, Herr\nAnselmus?\" The student Anselmus was like to lose his wits, for in his\nmind there was a mad distraction, which he strove in vain to soothe.\nHe now saw plainly that what he had taken for the gleaming of the\ngolden snakes was nothing but the reflection of the fireworks in\nAnton's Garden: but a feeling unexperienced till now, he himself knew\nnot whether it was rapture or pain, cramped his breast together; and\nwhen the steersman struck through the water with his helm, so that the\nwaves, curling as in anger, gurgled and chafed, he heard in their din\na soft whispering: \"Anselmus! Anselmus! seest thou not how we still\nskim along before thee? Sisterkin looks at thee again; believe,\nbelieve, believe in us!\" And he thought he saw in the reflected light\nthree green-glowing streaks; but then, when he gazed, full of fond\nsadness, into the water, to see whether these gentle eyes would not\nagain look up to him, he perceived too well that the shine proceeded\nonly from the windows in the neighboring houses. He was sitting mute\nin his place, and inwardly battling with himself, when Conrector\nPaulman repeated, with still greater emphasis: \"How are you, Herr\nAnselmus?\"\n\nWith the most rueful tone, Anselmus replied: \"Ah! Herr Conrector, if\nyou knew what strange things I have been dreaming, quite awake,\nwith open eyes, just now, under an elder-tree at the wall of Linke's\ngarden, you would not take it amiss of me that I am a little absent,\nor so.\"\n\n\"Ey, ey, Herr Anselmus!\" interrupted Conrector Paulmann, \"I have\nalways taken you for a solid young man; but to dream, to dream with\nyour eyes wide open, and then, all at once, to start up for leaping\ninto the water! This, begging your pardon, is what only fools or\nmadmen could do.\"\n\nThe student Anselmus was deeply affected at his friend's hard saying;\nthen Veronica, Paulmann's eldest daughter, a most pretty blooming\ngirl of sixteen, addressed her father: \"But, dear father, something\nsingular must have befallen Herr Anselmus; and perhaps he only thinks\nhe was awake, while he may really have been asleep, and so all\nmanner of wild stuff has come into his head and is still lying in his\nthoughts.\"\n\n\"And, dearest Mademoiselle! Worthy Conrector!\" interrupted Registrator\nHeerbrand, \"may one not, even when awake, sometimes sink into a sort\nof dreaming state? I myself have had such fits. One afternoon, for\ninstance, during coffee, in a sort of brown study like this, in the\nvery moment of corporeal and spiritual digestion, the place where a\nlost document was lying occurred to me, as if by inspiration; and last\nnight, no further gone, there came glorious large Latin WRIT tripping\nout before my open eyes, in the very same way.\"\n\n\"Ah! most honored Registrator,\" answered Conrector Paulmann, \"you\nhave always had a tendency to the _Poetica_; and thus one falls into\nfantasies and romantic humors.\"\n\nThe student Anselmus, however, was particularly gratified that in this\nmost troublous situation, while in danger of being considered drunk or\ncrazy, any one should take his part; and though it was already fairly\ndark, he thought he noticed, for the first time, that Veronica had\nreally very fine dark-blue eyes, and this too without remembering the\nstrange pair which he had looked at in the elder-bush. On the whole,\nthe adventure under the elder-bush had once more entirely vanished\nfrom the thoughts of the student Anselmus; he felt himself at ease and\nlight of heart; nay, in the capriciousness of joy, he carried it so\nfar that he offered a helping hand to his fair advocate, Veronica, as\nshe was stepping from the gondola; and without more ado, as she put\nher arm in his, escorted her home with so much dexterity and good luck\nthat he missed his footing only once, and this being the only wet spot\nin the whole road, spattered Veronica's white gown only a very little\nby the incident.\n\nConrector Paulmann failed not to observe this happy change in\nthe student Anselmus; he resumed his liking for him, and begged\nforgiveness for the hard words which he had let fall before. \"Yes,\"\nadded he, \"we have many examples to show that certain phantasms may\nrise before a man and pester and plague him not a little; but this is\nbodily disease, and leeches are good for it, if applied to the right\npart, as a certain learned physician, now deceased, has directed.\" The\nstudent Anselmus knew not whether he had been drunk, crazy, or sick;\nbut at all events the leeches seemed entirely superfluous, as these\nsupposed phantasms had utterly vanished, and the student himself was\ngrowing happier and happier, the more he prospered in serving the\npretty Veronica with all sorts of dainty attentions.\n\nAs usual, after the frugal meal, came music; the student Anselmus had\nto take his seat before the harpsichord, and Veronica accompanied\nhis playing with her pure clear voice. \"Dear Mademoiselle,\" said\nRegistrator Heerbrand, \"you have a voice like a crystal bell!\"\n\n\"That she has not!\" ejaculated the student Anselmus, he scarcely\nknew how. \"Crystal bells in elder-trees sound strangely, strangely!\"\ncontinued the student Anselmus, murmuring half aloud.\n\nVeronica laid her hand on his shoulder, and asked: \"What are you\nsaying now, Herr Anselmus?\"\n\nInstantly Anselmus recovered his cheerfulness, and began playing.\nConrector Paulmann gave a grim look at him; but Registrator Heerbrand\nlaid a music-leaf on the frame, and sang with ravishing grace one\nof Bandmaster Graun's bravura airs. The student Anselmus accompanied\nthis, and much more; and a fantasy duet, which Veronica and he now\nfingered, and Conrector Paulmann had himself composed, again brought\nall into the gayest humor.\n\nIt was now quite late, and Registrator Heerbrand was taking up his hat\nand stick, when Conrector Paulmann went up to him with a mysterious\nair, and said: \"Hem!--Would not you, honored Registrator, mention to\nthe good Herr Anselmus himself--Hem! what we were speaking of before?\"\n\n\"With all the pleasure in nature,\" said Registrator Heerbrand; and\nafter all were seated in a circle, he began, without farther preamble,\nas follows:\n\n\"In this city is an old, strange, remarkable man; people say he\nfollows all manner of secret sciences; but as there are no such\nsciences, I rather take him for an antiquary, and, along with\nthis, for an experimental chemist. I mean no other than our Privy\nArchivarius Lindhorst. He lives, as you know, by himself, in his old\nsequestered house; and when disengaged from his office he is to\nbe found in his library, or in his chemical laboratory, to which,\nhowever, he admits no stranger. Besides many curious books, he\npossesses a number of manuscripts, partly Arabic, Coptic, and some of\nthem in strange characters which belong not to any known tongue. These\nhe wishes to have copied properly; and for this purpose he requires\na man who can draw with the pen, and so transfer these marks to\nparchment, in Indian ink, with the highest strictness and fidelity.\nThe work is carried on in a separate chamber of his house, under his\nown oversight; and besides free board during the time of business, he\npays his man a specie-dollar, daily, and promises a handsome present\nwhen the copying is rightly finished. The hours of work are from\ntwelve to six. From three to four, you take rest and dinner.\n\n\"Herr Archivarius Lindhorst having in vain tried one or two young\npeople for copying these manuscripts, has at last applied to me to\nfind him an expert drawer; and so I have been thinking of you,\ndear Herr Anselmus, for I know that you both write very neatly, and\nlikewise draw with the pen to great perfection. Now, if in these bad\ntimes, and till your future establishment, you would like to earn a\nspeziesthaler in the day, and this present over and above, you can go\ntomorrow precisely at noon, and call upon the Archivarius, whose house\nno doubt you know. But be on your guard against any blot! If such a\nthing falls on your copy, you must begin it again; if it falls on the\noriginal, the Archivarius will think nothing of throwing you out of\nthe window, for he is a hot-tempered gentleman.\"\n\nThe student Anselmus was filled with joy at Registrator Heerbrand's\nproposal; for not only could the student write well and draw well\nwith the pen, but this copying with laborious calligraphic pains was\na thing he delighted in beyond aught else. So he thanked his patron in\nthe most grateful terms, and promised not to fail at noon tomorrow.\n\nAll night the student Anselmus saw nothing but clear speziesthalers,\nand heard nothing but their lovely clink. Who could blame the poor\nyouth, cheated of so many hopes by capricious destiny, obliged to take\ncounsel about every farthing, and to forego so many joys which a young\nheart requires! Early in the morning he brought out his black-lead\npencils, his crow-quills, his Indian ink; for better materials,\nthought he, the Archivarius can find nowhere. Above all, he mustered\nand arranged his calligraphic masterpieces and his drawings, to show\nthem to the Archivarius, in proof of his ability to do what he wished.\nAll prospered with the student; a peculiar happy star seemed to be\npresiding over him; his neckcloth sat right at the very first trial;\nno tack burst; no loop gave way in his black silk stockings; his hat\ndid not once fall to the dust after he had trimmed it. In a word,\nprecisely at half-past eleven, the student Anselmus, in his pike-gray\nfrock, and black satin lower habiliments, with a roll of calligraphics\nand pen-drawings in his pocket, was standing in the Schlossgasse, in\nConradi's shop, and drinking one--two glasses of the best stomachic\nliqueur; for here, thought he, slapping on the still empty pocket, for\nhere speziesthalers will be clinking soon.\n\nNotwithstanding the distance of the solitary street where the\nArchivarius Lindhorst's very ancient residence lay, the student\nAnselmus was at the front door before the stroke of twelve. He stood\nhere, and was looking at the large fine bronze knocker; but now when,\nas the last stroke tingled through the air with loud clang from the\nsteeple-clock of the Kreuzkirche, he lifted his hand to grasp this\nsame knocker, the metal visage twisted itself, with horrid rolling\nof its blue-gleaming eyes, into a grinning smile. Alas, it was the\nApple-woman of the Black Gate! The pointed teeth gnashed together in\nthe loose jaws, and in their chattering through the skinny lips\nthere was a growl of: \"Thou fool, fool, fool!--Wait, wait!--Why\ndidst run!--Fool!\" Horror-struck, the student Anselmus flew back;\nhe clutched at the door-post, but his hand caught the bell-rope and\npulled it, and in piercing discords it rung stronger and stronger, and\nthrough the whole empty house the echo repeated, as in mockery: \"To\nthe crystal fall!\" An unearthly terror seized the student Anselmus,\nand quivered through all his limbs. The bell-rope lengthened downward,\nand became a white, transparent, gigantic serpent, which encircled and\ncrushed him, and girded him straiter and straiter in its coils, till\nhis brittle, paralyzed limbs went crashing in pieces, and the blood\nspouted from his veins, penetrating into the transparent body of the\nserpent, and dyeing it red. \"Kill me! Kill me!\" he would have cried,\nin his horrible agony; but the cry was only a stifled gurgle in his\nthroat. The serpent lifted its head, and laid its long peaked tongue\nof glowing brass on the breast of Anselmus; then a fierce pang\nsuddenly cut asunder the artery of life, and thought fled away\nfrom him. On returning to his senses, he was lying on his own poor\ntruckle-bed; Conrector Paulmann was standing before him, and saying:\n\"For Heaven's sake, what mad stuff is this, dear Herr Anselmus?\"\n\n\n\n\nSIXTH VIGIL\n\n    Archivarius Lindhorst's Garden, with some Mocking birds. The Golden\n    Pot. English current-hand. Pot-hooks. The Prince of the Spirits.\n\n\n\"It may be, after all,\" said the student Anselmus to himself, \"that\nthe superfine, strong, stomachic liqueur, which I took somewhat freely\nat Monsieur Conradi's, might really be the cause of all these shocking\nphantasms which so tortured me at Archivarius Lindhorst's door.\nTherefore, I will go quite sober today, and so bid defiance to\nwhatever further mischief may assail me.\" On this occasion, as before,\nwhen equipping himself for his first call on Archivarius Lindhorst,\nthe student Anselmus put his pen-drawings and calligraphic\nmasterpieces, his bars of Indian ink, and his well-pointed crow-pens,\ninto his pockets; and was just turning to go out, when his eye lighted\non the vial with the yellow liqueur, which he had received from\nArchivarius Lindhorst. All the strange adventures he had met with\nagain rose on his mind in glowing colors; and a nameless emotion\nof rapture and pain thrilled through his breast. Involuntarily he\nexclaimed, with a most piteous voice: \"Ah, am I not going to\nthe Archivarius solely for a sight of thee, thou gentle lovely\nSerpentina!\" At that moment he felt as if Serpentina's love might be\nthe prize of some laborious perilous task which he had to undertake,\nand as if this task were no other than the copying of the Lindhorst\nmanuscripts. That at his very entrance into the house, or, more\nproperly, before his entrance, all manner of mysterious things might\nhappen, as of late, was no more than he anticipated. He thought no\nmore of Conradi's strong water, but hastily put the vial of liqueur\nin his waistcoat-pocket that he might act strictly by the Archivarius'\ndirections, should the bronzed Apple-woman again take it upon her to\nmake faces at him.\n\nAnd did not the hawk-nose actually peak itself, did not the cat-eyes\nactually glare from the knocker, as he raised his hand to it, at the\nstroke of twelve? But now, without further ceremony, he dribbled his\nliqueur into the pestilent visage; and it folded and molded itself,\nthat instant, down to a glittering bowl-round knocker. The door went\nup; the bells sounded beautifully over all the house: \"Klingling,\nyoungling, in, in, spring, spring, klingling.\" In good heart he\nmounted the fine broad stair and feasted on the odors of some strange\nperfumery that was floating through the house. In doubt, he paused on\nthe lobby; for he knew not at which of these many fine doors he was to\nknock. But Archivarius Lindhorst, in a white damask nightgown, stepped\nforth to him, and said: \"Well, it is a real pleasure to me, Herr\nAnselmus, that you have kept your word at last. Come this way, if you\nplease; I must take you straight into the Laboratory;\" and with this\nhe stepped rapidly through the lobby, and opened a little side-door\nwhich led into a long passage. Anselmus walked on in high spirits,\nbehind the Archivarius; they passed from this corridor into a hall,\nor rather into a lordly green-house: for on both sides, up to the\nceiling, stood all manner of rare wondrous flowers, nay, great trees\nwith strangely-formed leaves and blossoms. A magic dazzling light\nshone over the whole, though you could not discover whence it came,\nfor no window whatever was to be seen. As the student Anselmus looked\nin through the bushes and trees, long avenues appeared to open\nin remote distance. In the deep shade of thick cypress groves lay\nglittering marble fountains, out of which rose wondrous figures,\nspouting crystal jets that fell with pattering spray into gleaming\nlily-cups; strange voices cooed and rustled through the wood of\ncurious trees; and sweetest perfumes streamed up and down.\n\nThe Archivarius had vanished, and Anselmus saw nothing but a huge bush\nof glowing fire-lilies before him. Intoxicated with the sight and the\nfine odors of this fairy-garden, Anselmus stood fixed to the spot.\nThen began on all sides of him a giggling and laughing; and light\nlittle voices railed and mocked him: \"Herr Studiosus! Herr Studiosus!\nWhere are you coming from? Why are you dressed so bravely, Herr\nAnselmus? Will you chat with us for a minute, how grandmammy sat\nsquatting down upon the egg, and young master got a stain on his\nSunday waistcoat?--Can you play the new tune, now, which you learned\nfrom Daddy Cocka-doodle, Herr Anselmus?--You look very fine in your\nglass periwig, and post-paper boots.\" So cried and chattered and\nsniggered the little voices, out of every corner, nay, close by the\nstudent himself, who but now observed that all sorts of party-colored\nbirds were fluttering above him and jeering him in hearty laughter.\nAt that moment the bush of fire-lilies advanced toward him; and he\nperceived that it was Archivarius Lindhorst, whose flowered nightgown,\nglittering in red and yellow, had so far deceived his eyes.\n\n\"I beg your pardon, worthy Herr Anselmus,\" said the Archivarius, \"for\nleaving you alone; I wished, in passing, to take a peep at my fine\ncactus, which is to blossom tonight. But how like you my little\nhouse-garden?\"\n\n\"Ah, Heaven! Immeasurably pretty it is, most valued Herr Archivarius,\"\nreplied the student; \"but those party-colored birds have been\nbantering me a little.\"\n\n\"What wishy-washy is this?\" cried the Archivarius angrily into the\nbushes. Then a huge gray parrot came fluttering out, and perched\nitself beside the Archivarius on a myrtle-bough; and looking at him\nwith an uncommon earnestness and gravity through a pair of spectacles\nthat stuck on his hooked bill, it shrilled out: \"Don't take it amiss,\nHerr Archivarius; my wild boys have been a little free or so; but the\nHerr Studiosus has himself to blame in the matter, for----\"\n\n\"Hush! hush!\" interrupted Archivarius Lindhorst; \"I know the varlets;\nbut thou must keep them in better discipline, my friend!--Now, come\nalong, Herr Anselmus.\"\n\nAnd the Archivarius again stepped forth, through many a\nstrangely-decorated chamber; so that the student Anselmus, in\nfollowing him, could scarcely give a glance at all the glittering\nwondrous furniture, and other unknown things, with which the whole of\nthem were filled. At last they entered a large apartment, where the\nArchivarius, casting his eyes aloft, stood still; and Anselmus\ngot time to feast himself on the glorious sight which the simple\ndecoration of this hall afforded. Jutting from the azure-colored walls\nrose gold-bronze trunks of high palm-trees, which wove their colossal\nleaves, glittering like bright emeralds, into a ceiling far up; in the\nmiddle of the chamber, and resting on three Egyptian lions, cast\nout of dark bronze, lay a porphyry plate; and on this stood a simple\nGolden Pot, from which, so soon as he beheld it, Anselmus could not\nturn away an eye. It was as if, in a thousand gleaming reflections,\nall sorts of shapes were sporting on the bright polished gold; often\nhe perceived his own form, with arms stretched out in longing--ah!\nbeneath the elder-bush--and Serpentina was winding and shooting up and\ndown, and again looking at him with her kind eyes. Anselmus was beside\nhimself with frantic rapture.\n\n\"Serpentina! Serpentina!\" cried he aloud; and Archivarius Lindhorst\nwhirled round abruptly, and said: \"How now, worthy Herr Anselmus? If\nI mistake not, you were pleased to call for my daughter; she is way\nin the other side of the house at present, and indeed just taking her\nlesson on the harpsichord. Let us go over.\"\n\nAnselmus, scarcely knowing what he did, followed his conductor; he saw\nor heard nothing more, till Archivarius Lindhorst suddenly grasped his\nhand, and said: \"Here is the place!\" Anselmus awoke as from a dream,\nand now perceived that he was in a high room, all lined on every side\nwith book-shelves, and nowise differing from a common library and\nstudy. In the middle stood a large writing-table, with a stuffed\narm-chair before it. \"This,\" said Archivarius Lindhorst, \"is your\nwork-room for the present: whether you may work, some other time, in\nthe blue library, also where you so suddenly called out my daughter's\nname, I yet know not. But now I could wish to convince myself of your\nability to execute this task appointed to you, in the way I wish it\nand need it.\" The student here gathered full courage; and not without\ninternal self-complacence in the certainty of highly gratifying\nArchivarius Lindhorst through his extraordinary talents, pulled out\nhis drawings and specimens of penmanship from his pocket. But no\nsooner had the Archivarius cast his eye on the first leaf, a piece of\nwriting in the finest English style, than he smiled very oddly, and\nshook his head. These motions he repeated at every following leaf, so\nthat the student Anselmus felt the blood mounting to his face; and at\nlast, when the smile became quite sarcastic and contemptuous, he\nbroke out in downright vexation: \"The Herr Archivarius does not seem\ncontented with my poor talents.\"\n\n\"Dear Herr Anselmus,\" said Archivarius Lindhorst, \"you have indeed\nfine capacities for the art of calligraphy; but, in the meanwhile, it\nis clear enough, I must reckon more on your diligence and good-will\nthan on your capacity.\"\n\nThe student Anselmus spoke largely of his often-acknowledged\nperfection in this art, of his fine Chinese ink, and most select\ncrow-quills. But Archivarius Lindhorst handed him the English sheet,\nand said: \"Be judge yourself!\" Anselmus felt as if struck by a\nthunderbolt, to see his handwriting look so: it was miserable, beyond\nmeasure. There was no rounding in the turns, no hair-stroke where it\nshould be; no proportion between the capital and single letters; nay,\nvillainous school-boy pot-hooks often spoiled the best lines. \"And\nthen,\" continued Archivarius Lindhorst, \"your ink will not stand.\" He\ndipped his finger in a glass of water, and as he just skimmed it over\nthe lines they vanished without vestige. The student Anselmus felt as\nif some monster were throttling him; he could not utter a word. There\nstood he with the unlucky sheet in his hand; but Archivarius Lindhorst\nlaughed aloud, and said: \"Never mind it, dearest Herr Anselmus; what\nyou could not accomplish before, will perhaps do better here. At any\nrate, you shall have better materials than you have been accustomed\nto. Begin, in Heaven's name!\"\n\nFrom a locked press Archivarius Lindhorst now brought out a black\nfluid substance, which diffused a most peculiar odor; also pens,\nsharply pointed and of strange color, together with a sheet of\nespecial whiteness and smoothness; then at last an Arabic manuscript;\nand as Anselmus sat down to work, the Archivarius left the room. The\nstudent Anselmus had often before copied Arabic manuscripts; the first\nproblem, therefore, seemed to him not so very difficult to solve. \"How\nthese pot-hooks came into my fine English current-hand, Heaven and\nArchivarius Lindhorst know best,\" said he; \"but that they are not from\n_my_ hand, I will testify to the death!\" At every new word that stood\nfair and perfect on the parchment, his courage increased, and with it\nhis adroitness. In truth, these pens wrote exquisitely well; and the\nmysterious ink flowed pliantly and black as jet, on the bright white\nparchment. And as he worked along so diligently and with such strained\nattention, he began to feel more and more at home in the solitary\nroom; and already he had quite fitted himself into his task, which he\nnow hoped to finish well, when at the stroke of three the Archivarius\ncalled him into the side-room to a savory dinner. At table,\nArchivarius Lindhorst was in special gaiety of heart; he inquired\nabout the student Anselmus' friends, Conrector Paulmann, and\nRegistrator Heerbrand, and of the latter especially he had a store\nof merry anecdotes to tell. The good old Rhenish was particularly\ngrateful to the student Anselmus, and made him more talkative than he\nwas wont to be. At the stroke of four he rose to resume his labor; and\nthis punctuality appeared to please the Archivarius.\n\nIf the copying of these Arabic manuscripts had prospered in his hands\nbefore dinner, the task now went forward much better; nay, he could\nnot himself comprehend the rapidity and ease with which he succeeded\nin transcribing the twisted strokes of this foreign character. But\nit was as if, in his inmost soul, a voice were whispering in audible\nwords: \"Ah! couldst thou accomplish it wert thou not thinking of\n_her_, didst thou not believe in _her_ and in her love?\" Then there\nfloated whispers, as in low, low, waving crystal tones, through the\nroom: \"I am near, near, near! I help thee; be bold, be steadfast, dear\nAnselmus! I toil with thee, that thou mayest be mine!\" And as, in\nthe fulness of secret rapture, he caught these sounds, the unknown\ncharacters grew clearer and clearer to him; he scarcely required\nto look on the original at all; nay, it was as if the letters were\nalready standing in pale ink on the parchment, and he had nothing more\nto do than mark them black. So did he labor on, encompassed with dear,\nconsoling tones as with soft, sweet breath, till the clock struck six,\nand Archivarius Lindhorst entered the room. He came forward to\nthe table, with a singular smile; Anselmus rose in silence; the\nArchivarius still looked at him, with that mocking smile; but no\nsooner had he glanced over the copy than the smile passed into deep,\nsolemn earnestness, which every feature of his face adapted itself to\nexpress. He seemed no longer the same. His eyes, which usually gleamed\nwith sparkling fire, now looked with unutterable mildness at Anselmus;\na soft red tinted the pale cheeks; and instead of the irony which at\nother times compressed the mouth, the softly-curved, graceful lips now\nseemed to be opening for wise and soul-persuading speech. The whole\nform was higher, statelier; the wide nightgown spread itself like a\nroyal mantle in broad folds over his breast and shoulders; and through\nthe white locks, which lay on his high open brow, there was wound a\nthin band of gold.\n\n\"Young man,\" began the Archivarius in solemn tone, \"before thou\nthoughtest of it, I knew thee, and all the secret relations which\nbind thee to the dearest and holiest I have on earth! Serpentina loves\nthee; a singular destiny, whose fateful threads were spun by hostile\npowers, is fulfilled should she be thine and thou obtain, as an\nessential dowry, the Golden Pot, which of right belongs to her. But\nonly from effort and contest can thy happiness in the higher life\narise; hostile Principles assail thee; and only the interior force\nwith which thou shalt withstand these assaults can save thee from\ndisgrace and ruin. Whilst laboring here thou art passing your\napprenticeship; belief and full knowledge will lead thee to the near\ngoal, if thou but hold fast what thou hast well begun. Bear _her_\nalways and truly in thy thoughts, her who loves thee; then shalt thou\nsee the marvels of the Golden Pot, and be happy forevermore. Fare\nthee well! Archivarius Lindhorst expects thee tomorrow at noon in\nthy cabinet. Fare thee well!\" With these words Archivarius Lindhorst\nsoftly pushed the student Anselmus out of the door, which he then\nlocked; and Anselmus found himself in the chamber where he had dined,\nthe single door of which led out to the lobby.\n\nAltogether stupified with these strange phenomena, the student\nAnselmus stood lingering at the street-door; he heard a window open\nabove him, and looked up: it was Archivarius Lindhorst, quite the\nold man again, in his light-gray gown, as he usually appeared. The\nArchivarius called to him: \"Hey, worthy Herr Anselmus, what are\nyou studying over there? Tush, the Arabic is still in your head.\nMy compliments to Herr Conrector Paulmann, if you see him; and come\ntomorrow precisely at noon. The fee for this day is lying in your\nright waistcoat-pocket.\" The student Anselmus actually found the clear\nspeziesthaler in the pocket indicated; but he took no joy in it. \"What\nis to come of all this,\" said he to himself, \"I know not; but if it\nbe some mad delusion and conjuring work that has laid hold of me, the\ndear Serpentina still lives and moves in my inward heart, and rather\nthan leave her I will perish altogether; for I know that the thought\nin me is eternal, and no hostile Principle can take it from me; and\nwhat else is this thought but Serpentina's love?\"\n\n\n\n\nEIGHTH VIGIL\n\n    The Library of the Palm-trees. Fortunes of an unhappy Salamander.\n    How the Black Quill caressed a Parsnip, and Registrator Heerbrand\n    was much overcome with Liqueur.\n\n\nThe student Anselmus had now worked several days with Archivarius\nLindhorst; these working hours were for him the happiest of his life;\never encircled with the lovely tone of Serpentina's encouraging words,\nhe was filled and overflowed with a pure delight, which often rose\nto highest rapture. Every strait, every little care of his needy\nexistence, had vanished from his thoughts; and in the new life which\nhad risen on him as in serene sunny splendor, he comprehended all\nthe wonders of a higher world, which before had filled him with\nastonishment, nay, with dread. His copying proceeded rapidly and\nlightly, for he felt more and more as if he were writing characters\nlong known to him; and he scarcely needed to cast his eye upon the\nmanuscript, while copying it all with the greatest exactness.\n\nExcept at the hour of dinner, Archivarius Lindhorst seldom made his\nappearance, and this always precisely at the moment when Anselmus\nhad finished the last letter of some manuscript; then the Archivarius\nwould hand him another, and, directly after, leave him without\nuttering a word, having first stirred the ink with a little black rod\nand changed the old pens with new sharp-pointed ones. One day, when\nAnselmus, at the stroke of twelve, had as usual mounted the stairs, he\nfound the door through which he commonly entered, standing locked; and\nArchivarius Lindhorst came forward from the other side, dressed in his\nstrange flower-figured nightgown. He called aloud: \"Today come this\nway, dear Anselmus; for we must to the chamber where Bhogovotgita's\nmasters are waiting for us.\"\n\nHe stepped along the corridor, and led Anselmus through the same\nchambers and halls as at the first visit. The student Anselmus again\nfelt astonished at the marvelous beauty of the garden; but he now\nperceived that many of the strange flowers, hanging on the dark\nbushes, were in truth insects gleaming with lordly colors, hovering\nup and down with their little wings as they danced and whirled in\nclusters, caressing one another with their antennae. On the other hand\nagain, the rose and azure-colored birds were odoriferous flowers;\nand the perfume which they scattered mounted from their cups in low,\nlovely tones, which, with the gurgling of distant fountains, and the\nsighing of the high shrubs and trees, melted into mysterious harmonies\nof a deep unutterable longing. The mocking-birds, which had so jeered\nand flouted him before, were again fluttering to and fro over his\nhead and crying incessantly with their sharp, small voices: \"Herr\nStudiosus, Herr Studiosus, don't be in such a hurry! Don't peep into\nthe clouds so! You may fall on your nose--He, he! Herr Studiosus, put\nyour powder-mantle on; cousin Screech-Owl will frizzle your toupee.\"\nAnd so it went along, in all manner of stupid chatter, till Anselmus\nleft the garden.\n\nArchivarius Lindhorst at last stepped into the azure chamber; the\nporphyry, with the Golden Pot, was gone; instead of it, in the middle\nof the room, stood a table overhung with violet-colored satin, upon\nwhich lay the writing-materials already known to Anselmus; and a\nstuffed arm-chair, covered with the same sort of cloth, was placed\nbefore it.\n\n\"Dear Herr Anselmus,\" said Archivarius Lindhorst, \"you have now copied\nme a number of manuscripts, rapidly and correctly, to my no small\ncontentment: you have gained my confidence; but the hardest is yet to\ncome; and that is the transcribing or rather painting of certain works\nafter the original, composed of peculiar signs; I keep them in this\nroom, and they can be copied only on the spot. You will, therefore, in\nfuture, work here; but I must recommend to you the greatest foresight\nand attention; a false stroke, or, which may Heaven forefend, a blot\nlet fall on the original, will plunge you into misfortune.\"\n\nAnselmus observed that from the golden trunks of the palm-trees,\nlittle emerald leaves projected: one of these leaves the Archivarius\ntook hold of; and Anselmus could not but perceive that the leaf was in\ntruth a roll of parchment, which the Archivarius unfolded and spread\nout before the student on the table. Anselmus wondered not a little\nat these strangely intertwisted characters; and as he looked over\nthe many points, strokes, dashes, and twirls in the manuscript, which\nseemed to represent either plants or mosses or animal figures, he\nalmost lost hope of ever copying it. He fell into deep thought on the\nsubject.\n\n\"Be of courage, young man!\" cried the Archivarius; \"if thou hast\nsterling faith and true love, Serpentina will help thee.\"\n\nHis voice sounded like ringing metal; and as Anselmus looked up in\nutter terror, Archivarius Lindhorst was standing before him in the\nkingly form, which, during the first visit, he had assumed in the\nlibrary. Anselmus felt as if in his deep reverence he could not\nbut sink on his knee; but the Archivarius stepped up the trunk of a\npalm-tree, and vanished aloft among the emerald leaves. The student\nAnselmus understood that the Prince of the Spirits had been speaking\nwith him, and was now gone up to his study; perhaps intending to\nadvise with the beams which some of the planets had dispatched to him\nas envoys, on what was to become of Anselmus and Serpentina.\n\n\"It may be too,\" thought he further, \"that he is expecting news from\nthe Springs of the Nile; or that some magician from Lapland is paying\nhim a visit; me it behooves to set diligently about my task.\" And\nwith this, he began studying the foreign characters in the roll of\nparchment.\n\nThe strange music of the garden sounded over to him and encircled him\nwith sweet lovely odors; the mocking-birds too he still heard chirping\nand twittering, but could not distinguish their words--a thing which\ngreatly pleased him. At times also it was as if the emerald leaves of\nthe palm-trees were rustling, and as if the clear crystal tones, which\nAnselmus on that fateful Ascension-day had heard under the elder-bush,\nwere beaming and flitting through the room. Wonderfully strengthened\nby this shining and tinkling, the student Anselmus directed his eyes\nand thoughts more and more intensely on the superscription of the\nparchment roll; and ere long he felt, as it were from his inmost soul,\nthat the characters could denote nothing else than these words: _Of\nthe marriage of the Salamander with the green Snake_. Then resounded\na louder triphony of clear crystal bells; \"Anselmus! dear Anselmus!\"\nfloated to him from the leaves; and, O wonder! on the trunk of the\npalm-tree the green Snake came winding down.\n\n\"Serpentina! Serpentina!\" cried Anselmus, in the madness of highest\nrapture; for as he gazed more earnestly, it was in truth a lovely,\nglorious maiden that, looking at him with those dark-blue eyes, full\nof inexpressible longing, as they lived in his heart, was hovering\ndown to meet him. The leaves seemed to jut out and expand; on every\nhand were prickles sprouting from the trunks; but Serpentina twisted\nand wound herself deftly through them; and so drew her fluttering\nrobe, framing her as if in changeful colors, along with her, that,\nplaying round the dainty form, it nowhere caught on the projecting\npoints and prickles of the palm-trees. She sat down by Anselmus on the\nsame chair, clasping him with her arm, and pressing him toward her,\nso that he felt the breath which came from her lips, and the electric\nwarmth of her frame.\n\n\"Dear Anselmus!\" began Serpentina, \"thou shalt now soon be wholly\nmine; by thy faith, by thy Love thou shalt obtain me, and I will bring\nthee the Golden Pot, which shall make us both happy forevermore.\"\n\n\"O thou kind, lovely Serpentina!\" said Anselmus. \"If I have but thee,\nwhat care I for all else! If thou art but mine, I will joyfully give\nin to all the wondrous mysteries that have beset me ever since the\nmoment when I first saw thee.\"\n\n\"I know,\" continued Serpentina, \"that the strange and mysterious\nthings with which my father, often merely in the sport of his humor,\nhas surrounded thee, have raised horror and dread in thy mind; but\nnow, I hope, it shall be so no more; for I came now only to tell thee,\ndear Anselmus, from the bottom of my heart and soul, all and sundry to\na tittle that thou needest to know for understanding my father, and so\nlearn the real condition of both of us.\"\n\nAnselmus felt as if he were so wholly clasped and encircled by the\ngentle, lovely form, that only with her could he move and stir, and\nas if it were but the beating of her pulse that throbbed through\nhis nerves and fibres; he listened to each one of her words which\npenetrated his inmost heart, and, like a burning ray, kindled in him\nthe rapture of Heaven. He had put his arm round that daintier than\ndainty waist; but the changeful glistering cloth of her robe was\nso smooth and slippery that it seemed to him as if she could at any\nmoment wind herself from his arms, and glide away. He trembled at the\nthought.\n\n\"Ah, do not leave me, sweet Serpentina!\" cried he involuntarily; \"thou\nalone art my life.\"\n\n\"Not now,\" said Serpentina, \"till I have told thee all that in thy\nlove of me thou canst comprehend.\"\n\n\"Know then, dearest, that my father is sprung from the wondrous race\nof the Salamanders; and that I owe my existence to his love for the\ngreen Snake. In primeval times, in the Fairyland Atlantis, the potent\nSpirit-prince Phosphorus bore rule; and to him the Salamanders, and\nother Spirits of the Elements, were plighted. Once on a time, the\nSalamander, whom he loved before all others (it was my father),\nchanced to be walking in the stately garden, which Phosphorus' mother\nhad decked in the lordliest fashion with her best gifts; and the\nSalamander heard a tall Lily singing in low tones: `Press down thy\nlittle eyelids, till my Lover, the Morning-wind, awake thee.' He\nstepped toward it: touched by his glowing breath, the Lily opened her\nleaves; and he saw the Lily's daughter, the green Snake, lying asleep\nin the hollow of the flower. Then was the Salamander inflamed with\nwarm love for the fair Snake; and he carried her away from the Lily,\nwhose perfumes in nameless lamentation vainly called for her beloved\ndaughter throughout all the garden. For the Salamander had borne her\ninto the palace of Phosphorus, and was there beseeching him: 'Wed me\nwith my beloved, for she shall be mine forevermore.' 'Madman, what\naskest thou!' said the Prince of the Spirits; 'know that once the Lily\nwas my mistress, and bore rule with me; but the Spark, which I cast\ninto her, threatened to annihilate the fair Lily; and only my victory\nover the black Dragon, whom now the Spirits of the Earth hold in\nfetters, maintains her, that her leaves continue strong enough to\ninclose this Spark and preserve it within them. But when thou claspest\nthe green Snake, thy fire will consume her frame; and a new Being,\nrapidly arising from her dust, will soar away and leave thee.'\n\n\"The Salamander heeded not the warning of the Spirit-prince: full of\nlonging ardor he folded the green Snake in his arms; she crumbled into\nashes; a winged Being, born from her dust, soared away through the\nsky. Then the madness of desperation caught the Salamander, and he ran\nthrough the garden, throwing forth fire and flames, and wasted it\nin his wild fury, till its fairest flowers and blossoms hung down,\nblackened and scathed, and their lamentation filled the air. The\nindignant Prince of the Spirits, in his wrath, laid hold of the\nSalamander, and said: 'Thy fire has burnt out, thy flames are\nextinguished, thy rays darkened; sink down to the Spirits of the\nEarth; let these mock and jeer thee, and keep thee captive, till the\nFire-element shall again kindle and beam up with thee as with a new\nbeing from the Earth.' The poor Salamander sank down extinguished;\nbut now the testy old Earth-spirit, who was Phosphorus' gardener,\ncame forth and said: 'Master! who has greater cause to complain of the\nSalamander than I? Had not all the fair flowers, which he has burnt,\nbeen decorated with my gayest metals; had I not stoutly nursed and\ntended their seeds, and spent many a fair hue on their leaves? And yet\nI must pity the poor Salamander; for it was but love, in which thou, O\nMaster, hast full often been entangled, that drove him to despair\nand made him desolate the garden. Remit him the too harsh\npunishment!'--'His fire is for the present extinguished,' said the\nPrince of the Spirits; 'but in the hapless time, when the Speech of\nNature shall no longer be intelligible to degenerate man; when the\nSpirits of the Elements, banished into their own regions, shall speak\nto him only from afar, in faint, spent echoes; when, displaced from\nthe harmonious circle, an infinite longing alone shall give him\ntidings of the Land of Marvels, which he once might inhabit while\nFaith and Love still dwelt in his soul--in this hapless time the fire\nof the Salamander shall again kindle; but only to manhood shall he\nbe permitted to rise, and, entering wholly into man's necessitous\nexistence, he shall learn to endure its wants and oppressions. Yet not\nonly shall the remembrance of his first state continue with him, but\nhe shall again rise into the sacred harmony of all Nature; he shall\nunderstand its wonders, and the power of his fellow-spirits shall\nstand at his behest. Then, too, in a Lily-bush, shall he find the\ngreen Snake again, and the fruit of his marriage with her shall be\nthree daughters, which, to men, shall appear in the form of their\nmother. In the spring season these shall disport them in the dark\nElder-bush, and sound with their lovely crystal voices. And then if,\nin that needy and mean age of inward obduracy, there shall be found\na youth who understands their song; nay, if one of the little Snakes\nlook at him with her kind eyes; if the look awaken in him forecastings\nof the distant, wondrous Land, to which, having cast away the burden\nof the Common, he can courageously soar; if, with love to the Snake,\nthere rise in him belief in the Wonders of Nature, nay, in his own\nexistence amid these Wonders--then the Snake shall be his. But not\ntill three youths of this sort have been found and wedded to the three\ndaughters, may the Salamander cast away his heavy burden, and return\nto his brothers.'--'Permit me, Master,' said the Earth-spirit, 'to\nmake these three daughters a present, which may glorify their life\nwith the husbands they shall find. Let each of them receive from me\na Pot, of the fairest metal which I have; I will polish it with\nbeams borrowed from the diamond; in its glitter shall our Kingdom\nof Wonders, as it now exists in the Harmony of universal Nature, be\nmirrored in glorious dazzling reflection; and from its interior, on\nthe day of marriage, shall spring forth a Fire-lily, whose eternal\nblossom shall encircle the youth that is found worthy, with sweet\nwafting odors. Soon too shall he learn its speech, and understand\nthe wonders of our kingdom, and dwell with his beloved in Atlantis\nitself.'\n\n\"Thou perceivest well, dear Anselmus, that the Salamander of whom I\nspeak is no other than my father. Spite of his higher nature, he was\nforced to subject himself to the paltriest afflictions of common life;\nand hence, indeed, often comes the mischievous humor with which he\nvexes many. He has told me now and then, that, for the inward make of\nmind, which the Spirit-prince Phosphorus required as a condition of\nmarriage with me and my sisters, men have a name at present, which,\nin truth, they frequently enough misapply: they call it a childlike\npoetic mind. This mind, he says, is often found in youths, who, by\nreason of their high simplicity of manners and their total want of\nwhat is called knowledge of the world, are mocked by the populace. Ah,\ndear Anselmus, beneath the Elder-bush thou understoodest my song, my\nlook; thou lovest the green Snake, thou believest in me, and wilt be\nmine forevermore! The fair Lily will bloom forth from the Golden\nPot; and we shall dwell, happy, and united, and blessed, in Atlantis\ntogether!\n\n\"Yet I must not hide from thee that in its deadly battle with the\nSalamanders and Spirits of the Earth, the black Dragon burst from\ntheir grasp and hurried off through the air. Phosphorus, indeed,\nagain holds him in fetters; but from the black Quills, which, in the\nstruggle, rained down on the ground, there sprung up hostile Spirits,\nwhich on all hands set themselves against the Salamanders and Spirits\nof the Earth. That woman who so hates thee, dear Anselmus, and who,\nas my father knows full well, is striving for possession of the\nGolden Pot; that woman owes her existence to the love of such a Quill\n(plucked in battle from the Dragon's wing) for a certain Parsnip\nbeside which it dropped. She knows her origin and her power; for, in\nthe moans and convulsions of the captive Dragon, the secrets of many a\nmysterious constellation are revealed to her; and she uses every means\nand effort to work from the Outward into the Inward and unseen; while\nmy father, with the beams which shoot forth from the spirit of the\nSalamander, withstands and subdues her. All the baneful principles\nwhich lurk in deadly herbs and poisonous beasts, she collects; and,\nmixing them under favorable constellations, raises therewith many\na wicked spell, which overwhelms the soul of man with fear and\ntrembling, and subjects him to the power of those Demons, produced\nfrom the Dragon when it yielded in battle. Beware of that old woman,\ndear Anselmus! She hates thee because thy childlike, pious character\nhas annihilated many of her wicked charms. Keep true, true to me; soon\nart thou at the goal!\"\n\n\"O my Serpentina! my own Serpentina!\" cried the student Anselmus, \"how\ncould I leave thee, how should I not love thee forever!\" A kiss was\nburning on his lips; he awoke as from a deep dream; Serpentina had\nvanished; six o'clock was striking, and it fell heavy on his heart\nthat today he had not copied a single stroke. Full of anxiety, and\ndreading reproaches from the Archivarius, he looked into the sheet;\nand, O wonder! the copy of the mysterious manuscript was fairly\nconcluded; and he thought, on viewing the characters more narrowly,\nthat the writing was nothing else but Serpentina's story of her\nfather, the favorite of the Spirit-prince Phosphorus, in Atlantis,\nthe Land of Marvels. And now entered Archivarius Lindhorst, in his\nlight-gray surtout, with hat and staff; he looked into the parchment\non which Anselmus had been writing, took a large pinch of snuff, and\nsaid with a smile \"Just as I thought!--Well, Herr Anselmus, here is\nyour speziesthaler; we will now to the Linke Bath; do but follow me!\"\nThe Archivarius stepped rapidly through the garden, in which there was\nsuch a din of singing, whistling, talking, that the student Anselmus\nwas quite deafened with it and thanked Heaven when he found himself on\nthe street.\n\nScarcely had they walked a few paces when they met Registrator\nHeerbrand, who companionably joined them. At the Gate, they filled\ntheir pipes, which they had about them; Registrator Heerbrand\ncomplained that he had left his tinder-box behind, and could not\nstrike fire. \"Fire!\" cried Archivarius Lindhorst, scornfully; \"here is\nfire enough, and to spare!\" And with this he snapped his fingers, out\nof which came streams of sparks and directly kindled the pipes.--\"Do\nbut observe the chemical knack of some men!\" said Registrator\nHeerbrand; but the student Anselmus thought, not without internal awe,\nof the Salamander and his history.\n\nIn the Linke Bath, Registrator Heerbrand drank so much strong double\nbeer that at last, though usually a good-natured, quiet man, he began\nsinging student songs in squeaking tenor; he asked every one sharply\nwhether he was his friend or not; and at last had to be taken home by\nthe student Anselmus, long after Archivarius had gone his way.\n\n\n\n\nNINTH VIGIL\n\n    How the student Anselmus attained to some Sense. The Punch Parts.\n    How the student Anselmus took Conrector Paulmann for a Screech-Owl,\n    and the latter felt much hurt at it. The Ink-blot, and its\n    Consequences.\n\n\nThe strange and mysterious things which day by day befell the student\nAnselmus had entirely withdrawn him from every-day life. He no longer\nvisited any of his friends, and waited every morning with impatience\nfor the hour of noon, which was to unlock his paradise. And yet while\nhis whole soul was turned to the sweet Serpentina and the wonders of\nArchivarius Lindhorst's fairy kingdom, he could not help now and then\nthinking of Veronica; nay, often it seemed as if she came before him\nand confessed with blushes how heartily she loved him, how much\nshe longed to rescue him from the phantoms which were mocking and\nbefooling him. At times he felt as if a foreign power, suddenly\nbreaking in on his mind, were drawing him with resistless force to the\nforgotten Veronica; as if he must needs follow her whither she pleased\nto lead him, nay, as if he were bound to her by ties that would not\nbreak. That very night after Serpentina had first appeared to him\nin the form of a lovely maiden, after the wondrous secret of the\nSalamander's nuptials with the green Snake had been disclosed,\nVeronica, came before him more vividly than ever. Nay, not till he\nawoke was he clearly aware that he had been but dreaming; for he had\nfelt persuaded that Veronica was actually beside him, complaining with\nan expression of keen sorrow, which pierced through his inmost soul,\nthat he should sacrifice her deep, true love to fantastic visions,\nwhich only the distemper of his mind called into being, and which,\nmoreover, would at last prove his ruin. Veronica was lovelier than he\nhad ever seen her; he could not drive her from his thoughts: and in\nthis perplexed and contradictory mood he hastened out, hoping to get\nrid of it by a morning walk.\n\nA secret magic influence led him on to the Pirna gate; he was just\nturning into a cross street, when Conrector Paulmann, coming after\nhim, cried out: \"Ey! Ey!--Dear Herr Anselmus!--_Amice! Amice_! Where,\nin Heaven's name, have you been buried so long? We never see you at\nall. Do you know, Veronica is longing very much to have another song\nwith you! So come along; you were just on the road to me, at any\nrate.\"\n\nThe student Anselmus, constrained by this friendly violence, went\nalong with the Conrector. On entering the house they were met by\nVeronica, attired with such neatness and attention that Conrector\nPaulmann, full of amazement, asked her: \"Why so decked, Mam'sell? Were\nyou expecting visitors? Well, here I bring you Herr Anselmus.\" The\nstudent Anselmus, in daintily and elegantly kissing Veronica's hand\nfelt a small soft pressure from it, which shot like a stream of fire\nover all his frame. Veronica was cheerfulness, was grace itself; and\nwhen Paulmann left them for his study, she contrived, by all manner of\nrogueries and waggeries, so to uplift the student Anselmus that he at\nlast quite forgot his bashfulness, and jigged round the room with the\nlight-headed maiden. But here again the Demon of Awkwardness got hold\nof him; he jolted a table, and Veronica's pretty little work-box fell\nto the floor. Anselmus picked it up; the lid had sprung, and a little\nround metallic mirror was glittering on him, into which he looked with\npeculiar delight. Veronica glided softly up to him, laid her hand on\nhis arm, and, pressing close to him, looked over his shoulder into the\nmirror also. And now Anselmus felt as if a battle were beginning\nin his soul; thoughts, images flashed out--Archivarius\nLindhorst--Serpentina--the green Snake--at last the tumult abated, and\nall this chaos arranged and shaped itself into distinct consciousness.\nIt was now clear to him that he had always thought of Veronica alone;\nnay, that the form which had yesterday appeared to him in the blue\nchamber had been no other than Veronica; and that the wild legend of\nthe Salamander's marriage with the green Snake had merely been written\ndown by him from the manuscript, but nowise related in his hearing. He\nwondered not a little at all these dreams and ascribed them solely to\nthe heated state of mind into which Veronica's love had brought him,\nas well as to his working with Archivarius Lindhorst, in whose rooms\nthere were, besides, so many strangely intoxicating odors. He could\nnot but laugh heartily at the mad whim of falling in love with a\nlittle green Snake and taking a well-fed Privy Archivarius for a\nSalamander: \"Yes, Yes! It is Veronica!\" cried he aloud; but on turning\nhis head around he looked right into Veronica's blue eyes, from which\nwarmest love was beaming. A faint soft Ah! escaped her lips, which at\nthat moment were burning on his.\n\n\"O happy I!\" sighed the enraptured student: \"What I yesternight but\ndreamed, is in very deed mine today.\"\n\n\"But wilt thou really wed me, then, when thou art Hofrat?\" said\nVeronica.\n\n\"That I will,\" replied the student Anselmus; and just then the door\ncreaked, and Conrector Paulmann entered with the words:\n\n\"Now, dear Herr Anselmus, I will not let you go today. You will put up\nwith a bad dinner; then Veronica will make us delightful coffee, which\nwe shall drink with Registrator Heerbrand, for he promised to come\nhither.\"\n\n\"All, best Herr Conrector!\" answered the student Anselmus, \"are you\nnot aware that I must go to Archivarius Lindhorst's and copy?\"\n\n\"Look you, Amice!\" said Conrector Paulmann, holding up his watch,\nwhich pointed to half-past twelve.\n\nThe student Anselmus saw clearly that he was much too late for\nArchivarius Lindhorst; and he complied with the Corrector's wishes the\nmore readily as he might now hope to look at Veronica the whole day\nlong, to obtain many a stolen glance and little squeeze of the hand,\nnay, even to succeed in conquering a kiss--so high had the student\nAnselmus' desires now mounted; he felt more and more contented in\nsoul, the more fully he convinced himself that he should soon be\ndelivered from all the fantastic imaginations, which really might have\nmade a sheer idiot of him.\n\nRegistrator Heerbrand came, as he had promised, after dinner; and\ncoffee being over, and the dusk come on, the Registrator, his face\npuckering up to a smile and gaily rubbing his hands, signified that he\nhad something about him which, if mingled and reduced to form, as it\nwere paged and titled, by Veronica's fair hands, might be pleasant to\nthem all, on this October evening.\n\n\"Come out, then, with this mysterious substance which you carry\nwith, you, most valued Registrator,\" cried Conrector Paulmann. Then\nRegistrator Heerbrand shoved his hand into his deep pocket, and at\nthree journeys brought out a bottle of arrack, some citrons, and a\nquantity of sugar. Before half an hour had passed, a savory bowl of\npunch was smoking on Paulmann's table. Veronica served the beverage;\nand ere long there was plenty of gay, good-natured chat among the\nfriends. But the student Anselmus, as the spirit of the punch mounted\ninto his head, felt all the images of those wondrous things, which for\nsome time he had experienced, again coming through his mind. He\nsaw the Archivarius in his damask nightgown, which glittered like\nphosphorus; he saw the azure room, the golden palm-trees; nay, it now\nseemed to him as if he must still believe in Serpentina; there was a\nfermentation, a conflicting tumult in his soul. Veronica handed him\na glass of punch; and in taking it, he gently touched her hand.\n\"Serpentina! Veronica!\" sighed he to himself. He sank into deep\ndreams; but Registrator Heerbrand cried quite aloud: \"A strange old\ngentleman, whom nobody can fathom, he is and will be, this Archivarius\nLindhorst. Well, long life to him! Your glass, Herr Anselmus!\"\n\nThen the student Anselmus awoke from his dreams, and said, as he\ntouched glasses with Registrator Heerbrand \"That proceeds, respected\nHerr Registrator, from the circumstance that Archivarius Lindhorst\nis in reality a Salamander, who wasted in his fury the Spirit-prince\nPhosphorus' garden, because the green Snake had flown away from him.\"\n\n\"How? What?\" inquired Conrector Paulmann.\n\n\"Yes,\" continued the student Anselmus; \"and for this reason he is now\nforced to be a Royal Archivarius, and to keep house here in Dresden\nwith his three daughters, who, after all, are nothing more than little\ngold-green Snakes, that bask in elder-bushes, and traitorously sing,\nand seduce away young people, like so many sirens.\"\n\n\"Herr Anselmus! Herr Anselmus!\" cried Conrector Paulmann, \"is there\na crack in your brain? In Heaven's name, what monstrous stuff is this\nyou are babbling?\"\n\n\"He is right,\" interrupted Registrator Heerbrand; \"that fellow, that\nArchivarius, is a cursed Salamander, and strikes you fiery snips from\nhis fingers, which burn holes in your surtout like red-hot tinder. Ay,\nay, thou art in the right, brotherkin Anselmus; and whoever says No,\nis saying No to me!\" And at these words Registrator Heerbrand struck\nthe table with his fist, till the glasses rattled.\n\n\"Registrator! Are you crazy?\" cried the angry Conrector. \"Herr\nStudiosus, Herr Studiosus! What is this you are about again?\"\n\n\"Ah!\" said the student, \"you too are nothing but a bird, a\nscreech-owl, that frizzles toupees, Herr Conrector!\" \"What!--I\na bird?--screech-owl, a frizzler?\" cried the Conrector, full of\nindignation; \"Sir, you are mad, born mad!\"\n\n\"But the crone will get a clutch of him,\" cried Registrator Heerbrand.\n\n\"Yes, the crone is potent,\" interrupted the student Anselmus, \"though\nshe is but of mean descent; for her father was nothing but a ragged\nwing-feather, and her mother a dirty parsnip; but the most of her\npower she owes to all sorts of baneful creatures, poisonous vermin\nwhich she keeps about her.\"\n\n\"That is a horrid calumny,\" cried Veronica, with eyes all glowing in\nanger; \"old Liese is a wise woman; and the black Cat is no baneful\ncreature, but a polished young gentleman of elegant manners, and her\ncousin german.\"\n\n\"Can _he_ eat Salamanders without singeing his whiskers, and dying\nlike a candle-snuff?\" cried Registrator Heerbrand.\n\n\"No! no!\" shouted the student Anselmus, \"that he never can in this\nworld; and the green Snake loves me, for I have a childlike mien, and\nI have looked into Serpentina's eyes.\"\n\n\"The Cat will scratch them out,\" cried Veronica.\n\n\"Salamander, Salamander masters them all, all!\" hallooed Conrector\nPaulmann, in the highest fury. \"But am I in a madhouse? Am I mad\nmyself? What crazy stuff am I chattering? Yes, I am mad too! mad too!\"\nAnd with this, Conrector Paulmann started up, tore the peruke from his\nhead and dashed it against the ceiling of the room, till the battered\nlocks whizzed, and, tangled into utter disorder, rained down the\npowder far and wide. Then the student Anselmus and Registrator\nHeerbrand seized the punch-bowl and the glasses, and, hallooing and\nhuzzaing, pitched them against the ceiling also, and the sherds fell\njingling and tingling about their ears.\n\n\"_Vivat_ the Salamander!--_Pereat, pereat_ the crone!--Break the\nmetal mirror!--Dig the cat's eyes out!--Bird, little Bird, from the\nair--_Eheu--Eheu--Evoe--Evoe_, Salamander!\" So shrieked and shouted\nand bellowed the three, like utter maniacs. With loud weeping,\nFr\u00e4nzchen ran out; but Veronica lay whimpering for pain and sorrow on\nthe sofa.\n\nAt this moment the door opened; all was instantly still; and a little\nman, in a small gray cloak, came stepping in. His countenance had\na singular air of gravity; and especially the round hooked nose, on\nwhich was a huge pair of spectacles, distinguished itself from all the\nnoses ever seen. He wore a strange peruke too--more like a feather-cap\nthan a wig.\n\n\"Ey, many good evenings!\" grated and cackled the little comical\nmannikin. \"Is the student Herr Anselmus among you, gentlemen?--Best\ncompliments from Archivarius Lindhorst; he has waited today in vain\nfor Herr Anselmus; but tomorrow he begs most respectfully to request\nthat Herr Anselmus would not forget the hour.\"\n\nAnd with this he went out again; and all of them now saw clearly\nthat the grave little mannikin was in fact a gray Parrot. Conrector\nPaulmann and Registrator Heerbrand raised a horse-laugh, which\nreverberated through the room, and, in the intervals, Veronica was\nmoaning and whimpering, as if torn by nameless sorrow; but as to the\nstudent Anselmus, the madness of inward horror was darting through\nhim, and unconsciously he ran out of the door, into the street.\nInstinctively he reached his house, his garret. Ere long Veronica came\nin to him, with a peaceful and friendly look, and asked him why, in\nhis intoxication, he had so alarmed her; and desired him to be on\nhis guard against new imaginations, while working at Archivarius\nLindhorst's. \"Good night, good night, my beloved friend!\" whispered\nVeronica, scarce audibly, and breathed a kiss on his lips. He\nstretched out his arms to clasp her, but the dreamy shape had\nvanished, and he awoke cheerful and refreshed. He could not but laugh\nheartily at the effects of the punch; but in thinking of Veronica, he\nfelt pervaded by a most delightful feeling. \"To her alone,\" said he\nwithin himself, \"do I owe this return from my insane whims. In good\nsooth, I was little better than the man who believed himself to be of\nglass; or he who durst not leave his room for fear the hens should eat\nhim, as he imagined himself to be a barleycorn. But as soon as I am\nHofrat I will marry Mademoiselle Paulmann and be happy, and there's an\nend of it.\"\n\nAt noon, as he walked through Archivarius Lindhorst's garden, he\ncould not help wondering how all this had once appeared so strange and\nmarvelous to him. He now saw nothing but common, earthen flowerpots,\nquantities of geraniums, myrtles, and the like. Instead of the\nglittering party-colored birds which used to flout him, there were\nonly a few sparrows fluttering hither and thither, which raised an\nunpleasant, unintelligible cry at sight of Anselmus. The azure room\nalso had quite a different look; and he could not understand how that\nglaring blue, and those unnatural golden trunks of palm-trees, with\ntheir shapeless glistening leaves, should ever have pleased him for a\nmoment. The Archivarius looked at him with a most peculiar, ironical\nsmile, and asked: \"Well, how did you like the punch last night, good\nAnselmus?\"\n\n\"Ah, doubtless you have heard from the gray Parrot how--\" answered the\nstudent Anselmus, quite ashamed; but he stopped short, bethinking him\nthat this appearance of the Parrot was all a piece of jugglery of the\nconfused senses.\n\n\"I was there myself,\" said Archivarius Lindhorst; \"did you not see me?\nBut, among the mad pranks you were playing, I had nigh got lamed; for\nI was sitting in the punch-bowl, at the very moment when Registrator\nHeerbrand laid hands on it, to dash it against the ceiling; and I had\nto make a quick retreat into the Conrector's pipehead. Now, adieu,\nHerr Anselmus! Be diligent at your task; for the lost day also you\nshall have a speziesthaler, because you worked so well before.\"\n\n\"How can the Archivarius babble such mad stuff?\" thought the student\nAnselmus, sitting down at the table to begin the copying of the\nmanuscript, which Archivarius Lindhorst had as usual spread out before\nhim. But on the parchment roll he perceived so many strange crabbed\nstrokes and twirls all twisted together in inexplicable confusion,\noffering no resting-point for the eye, that it seemed to him well-nigh\nimpossible to copy all this exactly. Nay, in glancing over the whole,\nyou might have thought the parchment was nothing but a piece of\nthickly veined marble, or a stone sprinkled over with lichens.\nNevertheless he determined to do his utmost, and boldly dipped in\nhis pen; but the ink would not run, do what he would; impatiently\nhe spirted the point of his pen against his nail, and--Heaven and\nEarth!--a huge blot fell on the out-spread original! Hissing and\nfoaming, a blue flash rose from the blot, and, crackling and wavering,\nshot through the room to the ceiling. Then a thick vapor rolled from\nthe walls; the leaves began to rustle, as if shaken by a tempest; and\ndown out of them darted glaring basilisks in sparkling fire; these\nkindled the vapor, and the bickering masses of flame rolled round\nAnselmus. The golden trunks of the palm-trees became gigantic snakes,\nwhich knocked their frightful heads together with piercing metallic\nclang and wound their scaly bodies round Anselmus.\n\n\"Madman I suffer now the punishment of what, in insolent sacrilege,\nthou hast done!\" So cried the frightful voice of the crowned\nSalamander, who appeared above the snakes like a glittering beam in\nthe midst of the flame; and now the yawning jaws of the snakes poured\nforth cataracts of fire on Anselmus; and it was as if the fire-streams\nwere congealing about his body and changing into a firm ice-cold\nmass. But while Anselmus' limbs, more and more pressed together and\ncontracted, stiffened into powerlessness, his senses passed away.\nOn returning to himself, he could not stir a joint; he was as if\nsurrounded with a glistening brightness, on which he struck if he but\ntried to lift his hand or move otherwise.--Alas! He was sitting in a\nwell-corked crystal bottle, on a shelf, in the library of Archivarius\nLindhorst.\n\n\n\n\nTENTH VIGIL\n\n    Sorrows of the student Anselmus in the Glass Bottle. Happy Life of\n    the Cross Church Scholars and Law Clerks. The Battle in the Library\n    of Archivarius Lindhorst. Victory of the Salamander, and Deliverance\n    of the student Anselmus.\n\n\nJustly may I doubt whether thou, kind reader, wert ever sealed up in\na glass bottle; or even that any vivid tormenting dream ever oppressed\nthee with such a demon from fairyland. If such were the case, thou\nwouldst keenly enough figure out the poor student Anselmus' woe; but\nshouldst thou never have even dreamed such things, then will thy quick\nfancy, for Anselmus' sake and mine, be obliging enough to inclose\nitself for a few moments in the crystal. Thou art drowned in dazzling\nsplendor; all objects about thee appear illuminated and begirt with\nbeaming rainbow hues; all quivers and wavers, and clangs and drones,\nin the sheen; thou art floating motionless as in a firmly congealed\nether, which so presses thee together that the spirit in vain gives\norders to the dead and stiffened body. Weightier and weightier the\nmountain burden lies on thee; more and more does every breath exhaust\nthe little handful of air, that still plays up and down in the narrow\nspace; thy pulse throbs madly; and, cut through with horrid anguish,\nevery nerve is quivering and bleeding in this deadly agony. Have\npity, kind reader, on the student Anselmus of whom this inexpressible\ntorture laid hold in his glass prison; but he felt too well that death\ncould not relieve him; for did he not awake from the deep swoon\ninto which the excess of pain had cast him, and open his eyes to new\nwretchedness, when the morning sun shone clear into the room? He could\nmove no limb; but his thoughts struck against the glass, stupefying\nhim with discordant clang; and instead of the words, which the spirit\nused to speak from within him, he now heard only the stifled din of\nmadness. Then he exclaimed in his despair \"O Serpentina! Serpentina!\nsave me from this agony of Hell!\" And it was as if faint sighs\nbreathed around him, which spread like green transparent elder-leaves\nover the glass; the clanging ceased; the dazzling, perplexing glitter\nwas gone, and he breathed more freely.\n\n\"Have not I myself solely to blame for my misery? Ah! Have not I\nsinned against thee, thou kind, beloved Serpentina? Have not I raised\nvile doubts of thee? Have not I lost my faith, and, with it, all,\nall that was to make me so blessed? Ah! Thou wilt now never, never\nbe mine; for me the Golden Pot is lost, and I shall not behold its\nwonders any more. Ah, but once could I see thee, but once hear thy\ngentle sweet voice, thou lovely Serpentina!\"\n\nSo wailed the student Anselmus, caught with deep piercing sorrow; then\nspoke a voice close by him: \"What the devil ails you Herr Studiosus?\nWhat makes you lament so, out of all compass and measure?\"\n\nThe student Anselmus now noticed that on the same shelf with him were\nfive other bottles, in which he perceived three Cross Church Scholars,\nand two Law Clerks.\n\n\"Ah, gentlemen, my fellows in misery,\" cried he, \"how is it possible\nfor you to be so calm, nay so happy, as I read in your cheerful looks?\nYou are sitting here corked up in glass bottles, as well as I, and\ncannot move a finger, nay, not think a reasonable thought but there\nrises such a murder-tumult of clanging and droning and in your head\nitself a tumbling and rumbling enough to drive one mad. But doubtless\nyou do not believe in the Salamander, or the green Snake.\"\n\n\"You are pleased to jest, Mein Herr Studiosus,\" replied a Cross Church\nScholar; \"we have never been better off than at present; for the\nspeziesthalers which the mad Archivarius gave us for all manner of\npot-hook copies, are clinking in our pockets; we have now no Italian\nchoruses to learn by heart; we go every day to Joseph's or other inns,\nwhere we do justice to the double-beer, we even look pretty girls in\ntheir faces; and we sing, like real students, _Gaudeamus igitur_, and\nare contented in spirit!\"\n\n\"The gentlemen are quite right,\" added a Law Clerk; \"I too am well\nfurnished with speziesthalers, like my dearest colleague beside me\nhere; and we now diligently walk about on the Weinberg, instead of\nscurvy Act-writing within four walls.\"\n\n\"But, my best, worthiest gentlemen!\" said the student Anselmus, \"do\nyou not feel, then, that you are all and sundry corked up in glass\nbottles, and cannot for your hearts walk a hair's-breadth?\"\n\nHere the Cross Church Scholars and the Law Clerks set up a loud laugh,\nand cried: \"The student is mad; he fancies himself to be sitting in\na glass bottle, and is standing on the Elbe-bridge and looking right\ndown into the water. Let us go along!\"\n\n\"Ah!\" sighed the student, \"they have never seen the sweet Serpentina;\nthey know not what Freedom, and life in Love, and Faith, signify;\nand so by reason of their folly and low-mindedness, they feel not\nthe oppression of the imprisonment into which the Salamander has cast\nthem. But I, unhappy I, must perish in want and woe, if she, whom I so\ninexpressibly love, do not deliver me!\"\n\nThen, waving in faint tinkles, Serpentina's voice flitted through\nthe room: \"Anselmus! believe, love, hope!\" And every tone beamed\ninto Anselmus' prison; and the crystal yielded to his pressure, and\nexpanded, till the breast of the captive could move and heave.\n\nThe torment of his situation became less and less, and he saw clearly\nthat Serpentina still loved him, and that it was she alone, who\nhad rendered his confinement in the crystal tolerable. He disturbed\nhimself no more about his frivolous companions in misfortune, but\ndirected all his thoughts and meditations on the gentle Serpentina.\nSuddenly, however, there arose on the other side a dull, croaking,\nrepulsive murmur. Ere long he could observe that it proceeded from an\nold coffee-pot, with half-broken lid, standing over against him on a\nlittle shelf. As he looked at it more narrowly, the ugly features of\na wrinkled old woman by degrees unfolded themselves; and in a few\nmoments, the Apple-wife of the Black Gate stood before him. She\ngrinned and laughed at him, and cried with screeching voice: \"Ey, Ey,\nmy pretty boy, must thou lie in limbo now? To the crystal thou hast\nrun; did I not tell thee long ago?\"\n\n\"Mock and jeer me; do, thou cursed witch!\" said the student Anselmus.\n\"Thou art to blame for it all; but the Salamander will catch thee,\nthou vile Parsnip!\"\n\n\"Ho, ho!\" replied the crone, \"not so proud, good ready-writer! Thou\nhast smashed my little sons to pieces, thou hast burnt my nose; but I\nmust still like thee, thou knave, for once thou wert a pretty fellow;\nand my little daughter likes thee too. Out of the crystal thou wilt\nnever come unless I help thee; up thither I cannot clamber; but my\ncousin gossip the Rat, that lives close above thee, will gnaw in two\nthe shelf on which thou standest; thou shalt jingle down, and I catch\nthee in my apron, that thy nose be not broken, or thy fine sleek face\nat all injured; then I will carry thee to Mam'sell Veronica, and thou\nshalt marry her when thou art Hofrat.\"\n\n\"Avaunt, thou devil's brood!\" cried the student Anselmus, full of\nfury; \"it was thou alone and thy hellish arts that brought me to the\nsin which I must now expiate. But I bear it all patiently; for only\nhere can I be, where the kind Serpentina encircles me with love and\nconsolation. Hear it, thou beldam, and despair! I bid defiance to\nthy power; I love Serpentina, and none but her forever; I will not\nbe Hofrat, will not look at Veronica, who by thy means entices me\nto evil. Can the green Snake not be mine, I will die in sorrow and\nlonging. Take thyself away, thou vile rook! Take thyself away!\"\n\nThe crone laughed till the chamber rung: \"Sit and die then,\" cried\nshe, \"but now it is time to set to work; for I have other trade to\nfollow here.\" She threw off her black cloak, and so stood in hideous\nnakedness; then she ran round in circles, and large folios came\ntumbling down to her; out of these she tore parchment leaves, and,\nrapidly patching them together in artful combination and fixing\nthem on her body, in a few instants she was dressed as if in strange\nparty-colored scale harness. Spitting fire, the black Cat darted out\nof the ink-glass, which was standing on the table, and ran mewing\ntoward the crone, who shrieked in loud triumph and along with him\nvanished through the door.\n\nAnselmus observed that she went toward the azure chamber, and directly\nhe heard a hissing and storming in the distance; the birds in the\ngarden were crying; the Parrot creaked out: \"Help! help! Thieves!\nthieves!\" That moment the crone returned with a bound into the room,\ncarrying the Golden Pot on her arm, and, with hideous gestures,\nshrieking wildly through the air; \"Joy! joy, little son!--Kill the\ngreen Snake! To her, son! To her!\"\n\nAnselmus thought he heard a deep moaning, heard Serpentina's voice.\nThen horror and despair took hold of him; he gathered all his force,\nhe dashed violently, as if nerve and artery were bursting, against the\ncrystal; a piercing clang went through the room, and the Archivarius\nin his bright damask nightgown was standing in the door.\n\n\"Hey, hey! vermin!--Mad spell!--Witchwork!--Hither, holla!\" So shouted\nhe; then the black hair of the crone started up like bristles; her\nred eyes glanced with infernal fire, and clenching together the peaked\nfangs of her ample jaws, she hissed: \"Hiss, at him! Hiss, at him!\nHiss!\" and laughed and haw-hawed in scorn and mockery, and pressed\nthe Golden Pot firmly toward her, and threw out of it handfuls of\nglittering earth on the Archivarius; but as it touched the nightgown\nthe earth changed into flowers, which rained down on the ground.\nThen the lilies of the nightgown flickered and flamed up; and the\nArchivarius caught these lilies blazing in sparky fire and dashed them\non the witch; she howled for agony, but still as she leapt aloft and\nshook her harness of parchment the lilies went out and fell away into\nashes.\n\n\"To her, my lad!\" creaked the crone; then the black Cat darted through\nthe air, and plunged over the Archivarius' head toward the door; but\nthe gray Parrot fluttered out against him and caught him with his\ncrooked bill by the nape, till red fiery blood burst down over his\nneck; and Serpentina's voice cried: \"Saved! Saved!\" Then the crone,\nfoaming with rage and desperation, darted out upon the Archivarius;\nshe threw the Golden Pot behind her, and holding up the long talons of\nher skinny fists, was for clutching the Archivarius by the throat; but\nhe instantly doffed his nightgown, and hurled it against her. Then,\nhissing, and sputtering, and bursting, shot blue flames from the\nparchment leaves, and the crone rolled round in howling agony, and\nstrove to get fresh earth from the Pot, fresh parchment leaves from\nthe books, that she might stifle the blazing flames; and whenever any\nearth or leaves came down on her the flames went out. But now, as\nif coming from the interior of the Archivarius, there issued fiery\ncrackling beams, and darted on the crone.\n\n\"Hey, hey! To it again! Salamander! Victory!\" clanged the Archivarius'\nvoice through the chamber; and a hundred bolts whirled forth in fiery\ncircles round the shrieking crone. Whizzing and buzzing flew Cat\nand Parrot in their furious battle; but at last the Parrot, with\nhis strong wing, dashed the Cat to the ground; and with his talons\ntransfixing and holding fast his adversary, which, in deadly agony,\nuttered horrid mews and howls, he, with his sharp bill, picked out\nhis glowing eyes, and the burning froth spouted from them. Then thick\nvapor streamed up from the spot where the crone, hurled to the ground,\nwas lying under the nightgown; her howling, her terrific, piercing cry\nof lamentation died away in the remote distance. The smoke, which had\nspread abroad with irresistible smell, cleared off; the Archivarius\npicked up his nightgown, and under it lay an ugly Parsnip.\n\n\"Honored Herr Archivarius, here, let me offer you the vanquished foe,\"\nsaid the Parrot, holding out a black hair in his beak to Archivarius\nLindhorst.\n\n\"Very well, my worthy friend,\" replied the Archivarius; \"here lies\nmy vanquished foe too; be so good now as to manage what remains. This\nvery day, as a small douceur, you shall have six cocoanuts, and a new\npair of spectacles also, for I see the Cat has villainously broken\nyour glasses.\n\n\"Yours forever, most honored friend and patron!\" answered the Parrot,\nmuch delighted; then took the Parsnip in his bill, and fluttered out\nwith it by the window which Archivarius Lindhorst had opened for him.\n\nThe Archivarius now lifted the Golden Pot, and cried, with a strong\nvoice, \"Serpentina! Serpentina!\" But as the student Anselmus, joying\nin the destruction of the vile beldam who had hurried him into\nmisfortune, cast his eyes on the Archivarius, behold, here stood once\nmore the high majestic form of the Spirit-prince, looking up to\nhim with indescribable dignity and grace. \"Anselmus,\" said the\nSpirit-prince, \"not thou, but a hostile Principle, which strove\ndestructively to penetrate into thy nature and divide thee\nagainst thyself, was to blame for thy unbelief. Thou hast kept thy\nfaithfulness; be free and happy.\" A bright flash quivered through the\nspirit of Anselmus; the royal triphony of the crystal bells sounded\nstronger and louder than he had ever heard it; his nerves and fibres\nthrilled; but, swelling higher and higher, the melodious tones rang\nthrough the room; the glass which inclosed Anselmus broke; and he\nrushed into the arms of his dear and gentle Serpentina.\n\n\n\n\nELEVENTH VIGIL\n\n    Conrector Paulmann's anger at the madness which had broken out in\n    his Family. How Registrator Heerbrand became Hofrat; and, in the\n    keenest Frost, walked about in Shoes and silk Stockings. Veronica's\n    Confessions. Betrothment over the steaming Soup-dish.\n\n\n\"But tell me, best Registrator, how the cursed punch last night could\nso mount into our heads, and drive us to all manner of _allotria_?\"\nSo said Conrector Paulmann, as he next morning entered his room,\nwhich still lay full of broken sherds, and in whose midst his hapless\nperuke, dissolved into its original elements, was floating in the\npunch-bowl. After the student Anselmus ran out of doors, Conrector\nPaulmann and Registrator Heerbrand had still kept trotting and\nhobbling up and down the room, shouting like maniacs, and butting\ntheir heads together; till Fr\u00e4nzchen, with much labor, carried her\nvertiginous papa to bed, and Registrator Heerbrand, in the deepest\nexhaustion, sank on the sofa, which Veronica had left, taking refuge\nin her bedroom. Registrator Heerbrand had his blue handkerchief tied\nabout his head; he looked quite pale and melancholic, and moaned out:\n\"Ah, worthy Conrector, not the punch which Mam'sell Veronica most\nadmirably brewed, no! but simply that cursed student is to blame for\nall the mischief. Do you not observe that he has long been _mente\ncaphis_? And are you not aware that madness is infectious? One fool\nmakes twenty; pardon me, it is an old proverb; especially when you\nhave drunk a glass or two, you fall into madness quite readily, and\nthen involuntarily you manoeuvre, and go through your exercise, just\nas the crack-brained fugleman makes the motion. Would you believe it,\nConrector? I am still giddy when I think of that gray Parrot!\"\n\n\"Gray fiddlesticks!\" interrupted the Conrector; \"it was nothing but\nArchivarius Lindhorst's little old Famulus, who had thrown a gray\ncloak over him and was seeking the student Anselmus.\"\n\n\"It may be,\" answered Registrator Heerbrand, \"but, I must confess, I\nam quite downcast in spirit; the whole night through there was such a\npiping and organing.\"\n\n\"That was I,\" said the Conrector, \"for I snore loud.\"\n\n\"Well, maybe,\" answered the Registrator; \"but Conrector, Conrector!\nAh, not without cause did I wish to raise some cheerfulness among\nus last night--But that Anselmus has spoiled all! You know not--O\nConrector, Conrector!\" And with this, Registrator Heerbrand started\nup, plucked the cloth from his head, embraced the Conrector, warmly\npressed his hand, and again cried, in quite heart-breaking tones: \"O\nConrector, Conrector!\" and, snatching his hat and staff, rushed out of\ndoors.\n\n\"This Anselmus comes not over my threshold again,\" said Conrector\nPaulmann; \"for I see very well that, with this obdurate madness of\nhis, he robs the best people of their senses. The Registrator is\nnow over with it too; I have hitherto kept safe; but the Devil, who\nknocked hard last night in our carousal, may get in at last and play\nhis tricks with me. So _Apage, Satanas_! Off with thee, Anselmus!\"\nVeronica had grown quite pensive; she spoke no word; only smiled now\nand then very oddly, and liked best to be alone. \"Also of her distress\nAnselmus is the cause,\" said the Conrector, full of malice; \"but it\nis well that he does not show himself here; I know he fears me, this\nAnselmus, and so he never comes.\"\n\nThese concluding words Conrector Paulmann spoke aloud; then the tears\nrushed into Veronica's eyes, and she said, sobbing: \"Ah! how can\nAnselmus come? He has long been corked up in the glass bottle.\"\n\n\"How? What?\" cried Conrector Paulmann. \"Ah Heaven! Ah Heaven! she is\ndoting too, like the Registrator; the loud fit will soon come!\nAh, thou cursed, abominable, thrice-cursed Anselmus!\" He ran forth\ndirectly to Doctor Eckstein, who smiled, and again said: \"Ey! Ey!\"\nThis time, however, he prescribed nothing; but added, to the little\nhe had uttered, the following words, as he walked away: \"Nerves! Come\nround of itself. Take the air; walks; amusements; theatre; playing\n_Sonntagskind, Schwestern von Prag_. Come round of itself.\"\n\n\"So eloquent I have seldom seen the Doctor,\" thought Conrector\nPaulmann; \"really talkative, I declare!\"\n\nSeveral days and weeks and months were gone; Anselmus had vanished;\nbut Registrator Heerbrand also did not make his appearance--not till\nthe fourth of February, when the Registrator, in a new fashionable\ncoat of the finest cloth, in shoes and silk stockings, notwithstanding\nthe keen frost, and with a large nosegay of fresh flowers in his hand,\ndid enter precisely at noon into the parlor of Conrector Paulmann, who\nwondered not a little to see his friend so dizened. With a solemn air,\nRegistrator Heerbrand stepped forward to Conrector Paulmann; embraced\nhim with the finest elegance, and then said: \"Now at last, on the\nSaint's-day of your beloved and most honored Mam'sell Veronica, I will\ntell you out, straightforward, what I have long had lying at my heart.\nThat evening, that unfortunate evening, when I put the ingredients of\nthat cursed punch in my pocket, I purposed imparting to you a piece of\ngood news, and celebrating the happy day in convivial joys. Already I\nhad learned that I was to be made Hofrat, for which promotion I have\nnow the patent, _cum nomine et sigillo Principis_, in my pocket.\"\n\n\"Ah! Herr Registr--Herr Hofrat Heerbrand, I meant to say,\" stammered\nthe Conrector.\n\n\"But it is you, most honored Conrector,\" continued the new Hofrat; \"it\nis you alone that can complete my happiness. For a long time I have in\nsecret loved your daughter, Mam'sell Veronica; and I can boast of many\na kind look which she has given me, evidently showing that she would\nnot cast me away. In one word, honored Conrector! I, Hofrat Heerbrand,\ndo now entreat of you the hand of your most amiable Mam'sell Veronica,\nwhom I, if you have nothing against it, purpose shortly to take home\nas my wife.\"\n\nConrector Paulmann, full of astonishment, clapped his hands\nrepeatedly, crying: \"Ey, Ey, Ey! Herr Registr--Herr Hofrat, I meant\nto say--who would have thought it? Well, if Veronica does really\nlove you, I for my share cannot object; nay, perhaps, her present\nmelancholy is nothing but concealed love for you, most honored Hofrat!\nYou know what freaks they have!\"\n\nAt this moment Veronica entered, pale and agitated as she now commonly\nwas. Then Hofrat Heerbrand stepped toward her; mentioned in a neat\nspeech her Saint's-day and handed her the odorous nosegay, along\nwith a little packet; out of which, when she opened it, a pair of\nglittering ear-rings beamed up at her. A rapid flying blush tinted her\ncheeks; her eyes sparkled in joy, and she cried: \"O Heaven! These are\nthe very ear-rings which I wore some weeks ago, and thought so much\nof.\"\n\n\"How can this be, dearest Mam'sell,\" interrupted Hofrat Heerbrand,\nsomewhat alarmed and hurt, \"when I bought these jewels not an hour ago\nin the Schlossgasse, for current money?\"\n\nBut Veronica heeded him not; she was standing before the mirror to\nwitness the effect of the trinkets, which she had already suspended\nin her pretty little ears. Conrector Paulmann disclosed to her, with\ngrave countenance and solemn tone, his friend Heerbrand's preferment\nand present proposal. Veronica looked at the Hofrat with a searching\nlook, and said: \"I have long known that you wished to marry me. Well,\nbe it so! I promise you my heart and hand; but I must now unfold to\nyou, to both of you, I mean, my father and my bridegroom, much that\nis lying heavy on my heart; yes, even now, though the soup should get\ncold, which I see Fr\u00e4nzchen is just putting on the table.\"\n\nWithout waiting for the Conrector's or the Hofrat's reply, though the\nwords were visibly hovering on the lips of both, Veronica continued:\n\"You may believe me, best father, I loved Anselmus from my heart, and\nwhen Registrator Heerbrand, who is now become Hofrat himself, assured\nus that Anselmus might probably reach that position, I resolved that\nhe and no other should be my husband. But then it seemed as if alien\nhostile beings were for snatching him away from me; I had recourse to\nold Liese, who was once my nurse, but is now a wise woman, and a great\nenchantress. She promised to help me and give Anselmus wholly into\nmy hands. We went at midnight on the Equinox to the crossing of the\nroads; she conjured certain hellish spirits, and by aid of the black\nCat we manufactured a little metallic mirror, in which I, directing my\nthoughts on Anselmus, had but to look in order to rule him wholly in\nheart and mind. But now I heartily repent having done all this, and\nhere abjure all Satanic arts. The Salamander has conquered old Liese;\nI heard her shrieks; but there was no help to be given; so soon as the\nParrot had eaten the Parsnip my metallic mirror broke in two with a\npiercing clang.\" Veronica took out both the pieces of the mirror,\nand a lock of hair from her work-box, and handing them to Hofrat\nHeerbrand, she proceeded: \"Here, take the fragments of the mirror,\ndear Hofrat; throw them down, tonight, at twelve o'clock, over the\nElbe-bridge, from the place where the Cross stands; the stream is not\nfrozen there; the lock, however, do you wear on your faithful breast.\nI again abjure all magic; and heartily wish Anselmus joy of his\ngood fortune, seeing he is wedded with the green Snake, who is\nmuch prettier and richer than I. You, dear Hofrat, I will love and\nreverence as becomes a true honest wife.\"\n\n\"Alack! Alack!\" cried Conrector Paulmann, full of sorrow; \"she is\ncracked, she is cracked; she can never be Frau Hofr\u00e4tin; she is\ncracked!\"\n\n\"Not in the least,\" interrupted Hofrat Heerbrand; \"I know well that\nMam'sell Veronica has felt kindly toward the loutish Anselmus; and it\nmay be that in some fit of passion, she has had recourse to the wise\nwoman, who, as I perceive, can be no other than the card-caster and\ncoffee-pourer of the Seetor--in a word, old Rauerin. Nor can it be\ndenied that there are secret arts, which exert their influence on\nmen but too balefully; we read of such in the Ancients, and doubtless\nthere are still such; but as to what Mam'sell Veronica is pleased to\nsay about the victory of the Salamander, and the marriage of Anselmus\nwith the green Snake, this, in reality, I take for nothing but a\npoetic allegory; a sort of poem, wherein she sings her entire farewell\nto the Student.\"\n\n\"Take it for what you will, best Hofrat!\" cried Veronica; \"perhaps for\na very stupid dream.\"\n\n\"That I nowise do,\" replied Hofrat Heerbrand; \"for I know well that\nAnselmus himself is possessed by secret powers, which vex him and\ndrive him on to all imaginable mad freaks.\"\n\nConrector Paulmann could stand it no longer; he broke loose: \"Hold!\nFor the love of Heaven, hold! Are we again overtaken with the cursed\npunch, or has Anselmus' madness come over us too? Herr Hofrat, what\nstuff is this you are talking? I will suppose, however, that it is\nlove which haunts your brain; this soon comes to rights in marriage;\notherwise I should be apprehensive that you too had fallen into some\nshade of madness, most honored Herr Hofrat; then what would become\nof the future branches of the family, inheriting the _malum_ of their\nparents? But now I give my paternal blessing to this happy union, and\npermit you as bride and bridegroom to take a kiss.\"\n\nThis happened forthwith; and thus before the presented soup had\ngrown cold, was a formal betrothment concluded. In a few weeks, Frau\nHofr\u00e4tin Heerbrand was actually, as she had been in vision, sitting in\nthe balcony of a fine house in the Neumarkt, and looking down with a\nsmile on the beaux, who, passing by, turned their glasses up to her,\nand said: \"She is a heavenly woman, the Hofr\u00e4tin Heerbrand.\"\n\n\n\n\nTWELFTH VIGIL\n\n    Account of the Freehold Property to which Anselmus removed, as\n    son-in-law of Archivarius Lindhorst; and how he lives there with\n    Serpentina. Conclusion.\n\n\nHow deeply did I feel, in the depth of my heart, the blessedness of\nthe student Anselmus, who now, indissolubly united with his gentle\nSerpentina, has withdrawn to the mysterious Land of Wonders,\nrecognized by him as the home toward which his bosom, filled with\nstrange forecastings, had always longed. But in vain was all my\nstriving to set before thee, kind reader, those glories with which\nAnselmus is encompassed, or even in the faintest degree to shadow them\nforth to thee in words. Reluctantly I could not but acknowledge the\nfeebleness of my every expression. I felt myself enthralled amid\nthe paltriness of every-day life; I sickened in tormenting\ndissatisfaction; I glided about like a dreamer; in brief, I fell into\nthat condition of the student Anselmus, which, in the Fourth Vigil, I\nhave endeavored to set before thee. It grieved me to the heart, when I\nglanced over the Eleven Vigils, now happily accomplished, and thought\nthat to insert the Twelfth, the keystone of the whole, would never be\nvouchsafed me. For whensoever, in the night season, I set myself to\ncomplete the work, it was as if mischievous Spirits (they might be\nrelations, perhaps cousins german, of the slain witch) held a polished\nglittering piece of metal before me, in which I beheld my own mean\nSelf, pale, overwatched, and melancholic, like Registrator Heerbrand\nafter his bout of punch. Then I threw down my pen, and hastened to\nbed, that I might behold the happy Anselmus and the fair Serpentina,\nat least in my dreams. This had lasted for several days and nights,\nwhen at length quite unexpectedly I received a note from Archivarius\nLindhorst, in which he addressed me as follows:\n\n\"Respected Sir--It is well known to me that you have written down, in\nEleven Vigils, the singular fortunes of my good son-in-law Anselmus,\nwhilom student, now poet; and are at present cudgeling your brains\nvery sore, that in the Twelfth and Last Vigil you may tell somewhat of\nhis happy life in Atlantis, where he now lives with my daughter on\nthe pleasant Freehold which I possess in that country. Now,\nnotwithstanding I much regret that hereby my own peculiar nature is\nunfolded to the reading world; seeing it may, in my office as Privy\nArchivarius, expose me to a thousand inconveniences; nay, in the\nCollegium even give rise to the question: How far a Salamander can\njustly, and with binding consequences, plight himself by oath, as a\nServant of the State, and how far, on the whole, important affairs may\nbe intrusted to him, since, according to Gabalis and Swedenborg,\nthe Spirits of the Elements are not to be trusted at\nall?--notwithstanding, my best friends must now avoid my embrace;\nfearing lest, in some sudden exuberance, I dart out a flash or two,\nand singe their hair-curls, and Sunday frocks; notwithstanding all\nthis, I say, it is still my purpose to assist you in the completion of\nthe Work, since much good of me and of my dear married daughter (would\nthe other two were off my hands also!) has therein been said. Would\nyou write your Twelfth Vigil, therefore, then descend your cursed five\npair of stairs, leave your garret, and come over to me. In the blue\npalm-tree room, which you already know, you will find fit writing\nmaterials; and you can then, in a few words, specify to your readers\nwhat you have seen--a better plan for you than any long-winded\ndescription of a life which you know only by hearsay.\n\nWith esteem, your obedient servant,\n\nTHE SALAMANDER LINDHORST,\n\nP.T. Royal Privy Archivarius.\"\n\nThis truly somewhat rough, yet on the whole friendly note from\nArchivarius Lindhorst, gave me high pleasure. Clear enough it\nseemed, indeed, that the singular manner in which the fortunes of his\nson-in-law had been revealed to me, and which I, bound to silence,\nmust conceal even from thee, kind reader, was well known to this\npeculiar old gentleman; yet he had not taken it so ill as I might\nreadily have apprehended. Nay, here was he offering me his helpful\nhand in the completion of my work; and from this I might justly\nconclude that at bottom he was not averse to have his marvelous\nexistence in the world of spirits thus divulged through the press.\n\n\"It may be,\" thought I, \"that he himself expects from this measure,\nperhaps, to get his two other daughters the sooner married; for who\nknows but a spark may fall in this or that young man's breast, and\nkindle a longing for the green Snake; whom, on Ascension-day, under\nthe elder-bush, he will forthwith seek and find? From the woe which\nbefell Anselmus, when inclosed in the glass bottle, he will take\nwarning to be doubly and trebly on his guard against all doubt and\nunbelief.\"\n\nPrecisely at eleven o'clock I extinguished my study-lamp and glided\nforth to Archivarius Lindhorst, who was already waiting for me in the\nlobby.\n\n\"Are you there, my worthy friend? Well, this is what I like, that you\nhave not mistaken my good intentions; do but follow me!\"\n\nAnd with this he led the way through the garden, now filled with\ndazzling brightness, into the azure chamber, where I observed the same\nviolet table at which Anselmus had been writing.\n\nArchivarius Lindhorst disappeared, but soon came back, carrying in his\nhand a fair golden goblet out of which a high blue flame was sparkling\nup. \"Here,\" said he, \"I bring you the favorite drink of your friend\nthe Bandmaster, Johannes Kreisler.[45] It is burning arrack, into\nwhich I have thrown a little sugar. Sip a touch or two of it; I will\ndoff my nightgown, and, to amuse myself and enjoy your worthy company\nwhile you sit looking and writing, shall just bob up and down a little\nin the goblet.\"\n\n\"As you please, honored Herr Archivarius,\" answered I: \"but if I am to\nply the liqueur, you will get none.\"\n\n\"Don't fear that, my good fellow,\" cried the Archivarius; then hastily\nthrew off his nightgown, mounted, to my no small amazement, into the\ngoblet, and vanished in the blaze. Without fear, softly blowing black\nthe flame, I partook of the drink; it was truly delicious!\n\nStir not the emerald leaves of the palm-trees in soft sighing and\nrustling, as if kissed by the breath of the morning wind? Awakened\nfrom their sleep, they move and mysteriously whisper of the wonders\nwhich, from the far distance, approach like tones of melodious harps!\nThe azure rolls from the walls, and floats like airy vapor to and\nfro; but dazzling beams shoot through the perfume which, whirling\nand dancing, as in jubilee of childlike sport, mounts and mounts to\nimmeasurable heights, and vaults over the palm-trees. But brighter and\nbrighter shoots beam on beam, till in bright sunshine and boundless\nexpanse opens the grove where I behold Anselmus. Here glowing\nhyacinths, and tulips, and roses, lift their fair heads; and their\nperfumes, in loveliest sound, call to the happy youth: \"Wander, wander\namong us, our beloved; for thou understandest us! Our perfume is the\nLonging of Love; we love thee, and are thine forevermore!\" The golden\nrays burn in glowing tones: \"We are Fire, kindled by Love. Perfume is\nLonging; but Fire is Desire: and dwell we not in thy bosom? We are thy\nown!\" The dark bushes, the high trees, rustle and sound: \"Come to\nus, thou loved, thou happy one! Fire is Desire; but Hope is our cool\nShadow. Lovingly we rustle round thy head; for thou understandest us,\nbecause Love dwells in thy breast!\" The fountains and brooks murmur\nand patter. \"Loved one, walk not so quickly by; look into our crystal!\nThy image dwells in us, which we preserve with Love, for thou hast\nunderstood us.\" In the triumphal choir, bright birds are singing:\n\"Hear us! Hear us! We are Joy, we are Delight, the rapture of Love!\"\nBut longingly Anselmus turns his eyes to the Glorious Temple, which\nrises behind him in the distance. The artful pillars seem trees; and\nthe capitals and friezes acanthus leaves, which in wondrous wreaths\nand figures form splendid decorations. Anselmus walks to the Temple;\nhe views with inward delight the variegated marble, the steps with\ntheir strange veins of moss. \"Ah, no!\" cries he, as if in the excess\nof rapture, \"she is not far from me now; she is near!\" Then advances\nSerpentina, in the fulness of beauty and grace, from the Temple;\nshe bears the Golden Pot, from which a bright Lily has sprung. The\nnameless rapture of infinite longing glows in her bright eyes; she\nlooks at Anselmus, and says: \"Ah! Dearest, the Lily has sent forth her\nbowl; what we longed for is fulfilled; is there a happiness to equal\nours?\" Anselmus clasps her with the tenderness of warmest ardor; the\nLily burns in flaming beams over his head. And louder move the trees\nand bushes; clearer and gladder play the brooks; the birds, the\nshining insects dance in the waves of perfume; a gay, bright rejoicing\ntumult, in the air, in the water, in the earth, is holding the\nfestival of Love! Now rush sparkling streaks, gleaming over all the\nbushes; diamonds look from the ground like shining eyes; high gushes\nspurt from the wells; strange perfumes are wafted hither on sounding\nwings; they are the Spirits of the Elements, who do homage to the\nLily, and proclaim the happiness of Anselmus. Then Anselmus raises his\nhead, as if encircled with a beamy glory. Is it looks? Is it words?\nIs it song? You hear the sound: \"Serpentina! Belief in thee, Love of\nthee, has unfolded to my soul the inmost spirit of Nature! Thou hast\nbrought me the Lily, which sprung from Gold, from the primeval Force\nof the earth, before Phosphorus had kindled the spark of Thought; this\nLily is Knowledge of the sacred Harmony of all Beings; and in this do\nI live in highest blessedness forevermore. Yes, I, thrice happy,\nhave perceived what was highest; I must indeed love thee forever, O\nSerpentina! Never shall the golden blossoms of the Lily grow pale;\nfor, like Belief and Love, Knowledge is eternal.\"\n\nFor the vision, in which I had now beheld Anselmus bodily, in his\nFreehold of Atlantis, I stand indebted to the arts of the Salamander;\nand most fortunate was it that, when all had melted into air, I found\na paper lying on the violet table, with the foregoing statement of the\nmatter, written fairly and distinctly by my own hand. But now I felt\nmyself as if transpierced and torn in pieces by sharp sorrow. \"Ah,\nhappy Anselmus, who hast cast away the burden of week-day life, who\nin the love of thy kind Serpentina fliest with bold pinion, and now\nlivest in rapture and joy on thy Freehold in Atlantis! while I--poor\nI!--must soon, nay, in a few moments, leave even this fair hall, which\nitself is far from a Freehold in Atlantis, and again be transplanted\nto my garret, where, enthralled among the pettinesses of necessitous\nexistence, my heart and my sight are so bedimmed with thousand\nmischiefs, as with thick fog, that the fair Lily will never, never be\nbeheld by me.\"\n\nThen Archivarius Lindhorst patted me gently on the shoulder, and said:\n\"Soft, soft, my honored friend! Lament not so! Were you not even now\nin Atlantis, and have you not at least a pretty little copyhold Farm\nthere, as the poetical possession of your inward sense? And is the\nblessedness of Anselmus aught else but a Living in Poesy? Can aught\nelse but Poesy reveal itself as the sacred Harmony of all Beings, as\nthe deepest secret of Nature?\"\n\n\n\n\n_FRIEDRICH BARON DE LA MOTTE FOUQU\u00c9_\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n\nSELECTIONS FROM UNDINE[46] (1811)\n\nTRANSLATED BY F.E. BUNNETT\n\nCHAPTER VIII\n\nThe Day after the wedding\n\n\nThe fresh light of the morning awoke the young married pair. Undine\nhid bashfully beneath her covers while Huldbrand lay still, absorbed\nin deep meditation. Wonderful and horrible dreams had disturbed\nHuldbrand's rest; he had been haunted by spectres, who, grinning at\nhim by stealth, had tried to disguise themselves as beautiful women,\nand from beautiful women they all at once assumed the faces of\ndragons, and when he started up from these hideous visions the\nmoonlight shone pale and cold into the room; terrified he looked at\nUndine on whose bosom he fell asleep and who still lay in unaltered\nbeauty and grace. Then he would press a light kiss upon her rosy lips\nand would fall asleep again only to be awakened by new terrors.\nAfter he had reflected on all this, now that he was fully awake, he\nreproached himself for any doubt that could have led him into error\nwith regard to his beautiful wife. He begged her to forgive him for\nthe injustice he had done her, but she only held out to him her fair\nhand, sighed deeply, and remained silent. But a glance of exquisite\nfervor, such as he had never seen before, beamed from her eyes,\ncarrying with it the full assurance that Undine bore him no ill-will.\nHe then rose cheerfully and left her, to join his friends in the\ncommon apartment.\n\nHe found the three sitting round the hearth with an air of anxiety,\nas if they dared not venture to speak aloud. The priest seemed to be\npraying in his inmost spirit that all evil might be averted. When,\nhowever, they saw the young husband come forth so cheerfully, the\ncareworn expression of their faces vanished.\n\nThe old fisherman even began to tease the knight, but in so chaste and\nmodest a manner that the aged wife herself smiled good-humoredly as\nshe listened to them. Undine at length made her appearance. All rose\nto meet her and all stood still with surprise, for the young wife\nseemed so strange to them and yet the same. The priest was the first\nto advance toward her, with paternal affection beaming in his face,\nand, as he raised his hand to bless her, the beautiful woman sank\nreverently on her knees before him. With a few humble and gracious\nwords she begged him to forgive her for any foolish things she might\nhave said the evening before, and entreated him in an agitated tone\nto pray for the welfare of her soul. She then rose, kissed her\nfoster-parents, and thanking them for all the goodness they had shown\nher, she exclaimed, \"Oh, I now feel in my innermost heart, how much,\nhow infinitely much, you have done for me, dear, kind people!\" She\ncould not at first desist from her caresses, but scarcely had she\nperceived that the old woman was busy in preparing breakfast than she\nwent to the hearth, cooked and arranged the meal, and would not suffer\nthe good old mother to take the least trouble.\n\nShe continued thus throughout the whole day, quiet, kind, and\nattentive--at once a little matron and a tender bashful girl. The\nthree who had known her longest expected every moment to see some\nwhimsical vagary of her capricious spirit burst forth; but they waited\nin vain for it. Undine remained as mild and gentle as an angel. The\nholy father could not take his eyes from her, and he said repeatedly\nto the bridegroom, \"The goodness of heaven, sir, has intrusted a\ntreasure to you yesterday through me, unworthy as I am; cherish it as\nyou ought, and it will promote your temporal and eternal welfare.\"\n\n[Illustration: FRIEDRICH BARON DE LA MOTTE-FOUQU\u00c9.]\n\nToward evening Undine was hanging on the knight's arm with humble\ntenderness, and drew him gently out of the door where the declining\nsun was shining pleasantly on the fresh grass and upon the tall\nslender stems of the trees. The eyes of the young wife were moist,\nas with the dew of sadness and love, and a tender and fearful secret\nseemed hovering on her lips--which, however, was disclosed only by\nscarcely audible sighs. She led her husband onward and onward in\nsilence; when he spoke she answered him only with looks, in which,\nit is true, there lay no direct reply to his inquiries, but a whole\nheaven of love and timid devotion. Thus they reached the edge of\nthe swollen forest-stream, and the knight was astonished to see it\nrippling along in gentle waves, without a trace of its former wildness\nand swell. \"By the morning, it will be quite dry,\" said the beautiful\nwife, in a regretful tone, \"and you can then travel away wherever you\nwill, without anything to hinder you.\"\n\n\"Not without you, my little Undine,\" replied the knight, laughing;\n\"remember, even if I wished to desert you, the church, and the\nspiritual powers, and the emperor, and the empire, would interpose and\nbring the fugitive back again.\"\n\n\"All depends upon you, all depends upon you,\" whispered his wife, half\nweeping and half smiling. \"I think, however, nevertheless, that you\nwill keep me with you; I love you so heartily. Now carry me across to\nthat little island that lies before us. The matter shall be decided\nthere. I could easily indeed glide through the rippling waves, but it\nis so restful in your arms, and, if you are to cast me off, I shall\nhave sweetly rested in them once more for the last time.\" Huldbrand,\nfull as he was of strange fear and emotion, knew not what to reply. He\ntook her in his arms and carried her across, remembering now for the\nfirst time that this was the same little island from which he had\nborne her back to the old fisherman on that first night. On the\nfarther side he put her down on the soft grass, and was on the point\nof placing himself lovingly near his beautiful burden when she said,\n\"No, there, opposite to me! I will read my sentence in your eyes,\nbefore your lips speak; now, listen attentively to what I will relate\nto you!\" And she began:\n\n\"You must know, my loved one, that there are beings in the elements\nwhich appear almost like you mortals, and which rarely allow\nthemselves to become visible to your race. Wonderful salamanders\nglitter and sport in the flames; lean and malicious gnomes dwell deep\nwithin the earth; spirits, belonging to the air, wander through the\nforests; and a vast family of water spirits live in the lakes and\nstreams and brooks. In resounding domes of crystal, through which the\nsky looks in with its sun and stars, these latter spirits find their\nbeautiful abode; lofty trees of coral, with blue and crimson fruits,\ngleam in the gardens; they wander over the pure sand of the sea, and\namong lovely variegated shells, and amid all exquisite treasures of\nthe old world, which the present is no longer worthy to enjoy; all\nthese the floods have covered with their secret veils of silver, and\nthe noble monuments sparkle below, stately and solemn, and bedewed by\nthe loving waters which allure from them many a beautiful moss-flower\nand entwining cluster of sea-grass. Those, however, who dwell there,\nare very fair and lovely to behold, and for the most part are more\nbeautiful than human beings. Many a fisherman has been so fortunate\nas to surprise some tender mermaid, as she rose above the waters and\nsang. He would then tell afar of her beauty, and such wonderful beings\nhave been given the name of Undines. You, moreover, are now actually\nbeholding an Undine.\"\n\nThe knight tried to persuade himself that his beautiful wife was\nunder the spell of one of her strange humors and that she was taking\npleasure in teasing him with one of her extravagant inventions. But\nrepeatedly as he said this to himself, he could not believe it for a\nmoment; a strange shudder passed through him; unable to utter a word,\nhe stared at the beautiful narrator with an immovable gaze. Undine\nshook her head sorrowfully, drew a deep sigh, and then proceeded.\n\n\"Our condition would be far superior to that of you human beings--for\nhuman beings we call ourselves, being similar to them in form and\nculture--but there is one evil peculiar to us. We and our like in the\nother elements vanish into dust and pass away, body and spirit,\nso that not a vestige of us remains behind; and when you mortals\nhereafter awake to a purer life we remain with the sand and the sparks\nand the wind and the waves. Hence we have also no souls; the element\nmoves us and is often obedient to us while we live, though it scatters\nus to dust when we die; and we are merry, without having aught to\ngrieve us--merry as the nightingales and little gold-fishes and other\npretty children of nature. But all beings aspire to be higher than\nthey are. Thus my father, who is a powerful water-prince in the\nMediterranean Sea, desired that his only daughter should become\npossessed of a soul, even though she must then endure many of the\nsufferings of those thus endowed. Such as we, however, can obtain a\nsoul only by the closest union of love with one of your human race.\nI am now possessed of a soul, and my soul I owe you, my inexpressibly\nbeloved one, and it will ever thank you if you do not make my whole\nlife miserable. For what is to become of me if you avoid and reject\nme? Still I would not retain you by deceit. And if you mean to reject\nme do so now, and return alone to the shore. I will dive into this\nbrook, which is my uncle; and here in the forest, far removed from\nother friends, he passes his strange and solitary life. He is,\nhowever, powerful, and is esteemed and beloved by many great streams;\nand as he brought me hither to the fisherman, a light-hearted,\nlaughing child, he will take me back again to my parents, a loving,\nsuffering, and soul-endowed woman.\"\n\nShe was about to say still more, but Huldbrand embraced her with the\nmost heartfelt emotion and love, and bore her back again to the shore.\nIt was not till he reached it that he swore, amid tears and kisses,\nnever to forsake his sweet wife, calling himself more happy than the\nGreek sculptor Pygmalion, whose beautiful statue received life from\nVenus and became his loved one. In endearing confidence Undine walked\nback to the cottage, leaning on his arm, and feeling now for the first\ntime with all her heart how little she ought to regret the forsaken\ncrystal palaces of her mysterious father.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIII\n\nHow they lived at Castle Ringstetten\n\n\nThe writer of this story, both because it moves his own heart and\nbecause he wishes it to move that of others, begs you, dear reader, to\npardon him if he now briefly passes over a considerable space of time,\nonly cursorily mentioning the events that marked it. He knows well\nthat he might portray according to the rules of art, step by step, how\nHuldbrand's heart began to turn from Undine to Bertalda; how Bertalda\nmore and more responded with ardent love to the young knight, and how\nthey both looked upon the poor wife as a mysterious being rather to\nbe feared than pitied; how Undine wept, and how her tears stung the\nknight's heart with remorse without awakening his former love, so that\nthough he at times was kind and endearing to her, a cold shudder\nwould soon draw him from her and he would turn to his fellow-mortal,\nBertalda. All this the writer knows might be fully detailed, and\nperhaps ought to have been so; but such a task would have been too\npainful, for similar things have been known to him by sad experience,\nand he shrinks from their shadow even in remembrance. You know\nprobably a like feeling, dear reader, for such is the lot of mortal\nman. Happy are you if you have received rather than inflicted the\npain, for in such things it is more blessed to receive than to give.\nIf it be so, such recollections will bring only a feeling of sorrow\nto your mind, and perhaps a tear will trickle down your cheek over\nthe faded flowers that once caused you such delight. But let that be\nenough. We will not pierce our hearts with a thousand separate things,\nbut only briefly state, as I have just said, how matters were.\n\nPoor Undine was very sad, and the other two were not to be called\nhappy. Bertalda, especially, thought that she could trace the effect\nof jealousy on the part of the injured wife whenever her wishes\nwere in any way thwarted. She had therefore habituated herself to an\nimperious demeanor, to which Undine yielded in sorrowful submission,\nand the now blinded Huldbrand usually encouraged this arrogant\nbehavior in the strongest manner. But the circumstance that most of\nall disturbed the inmates of the castle was a variety of wonderful\napparitions which met Huldbrand and Bertalda in the vaulted galleries\nof the castle, and which had never been heard of before as haunting\nthe locality. The tall white man, in whom Huldbrand recognized only\ntoo plainly Uncle K\u00fchleborn, and Bertalda the spectral master of the\nfountain, often passed before them with a threatening aspect, and\nespecially before Bertalda, on so many occasions that she had several\ntimes been made ill with terror and had frequently thought of quitting\nthe castle. But still she stayed there, partly because Huldbrand was\nso dear to her, and she relied on her innocence, no words of love\nhaving ever passed between them, and partly also because she knew\nnot whither to direct her steps. The old fisherman, on receiving the\nmessage from the lord of Ringstetten that Bertalda was his guest, had\nwritten a few lines in an almost illegible hand but as well as his\nadvanced age and long disuse would admit of. \"I have now become,\" he\nwrote, \"a poor old widower, for my dear and faithful wife is dead.\nHowever lonely I now sit in my cottage, Bertalda is better with you\nthan with me. Only let her do nothing to harm my beloved Undine!\nShe will have my curse if it be so.\" The last words of this letter\nBertalda flung to the winds, but she carefully retained the part\nrespecting her absence from her father--just as we are all wont to do\nin similar circumstances.\n\nOne day, when Huldbrand had just ridden out, Undine summoned the\ndomestics of the family and ordered them to bring a large stone and\ncarefully to cover with it the magnificent fountain which stood in the\nmiddle of the castle-yard. The servants objected that it would oblige\nthem to bring water from the valley below. Undine smiled sadly. \"I am\nsorry, my people,\" she replied, \"to increase your work. I would\nrather myself fetch up the pitchers, but this fountain must be closed.\nBelieve me that it cannot be otherwise, and that it is only by so\ndoing that we can avoid a greater evil.\"\n\nThe whole household were glad to be able to please their gentle\nmistress; they made no further inquiry, but seized the enormous stone.\nThey were just raising it in their hands and were already poising it\nover the fountain, when Bertalda came running up and called out to\nthem to stop, as it was from this fountain that the water was brought\nwhich was so good for her complexion and she would never consent to\nits being closed. Undine, however, although gentle as usual, was this\ntime more than usually firm. She told Bertalda that it was her due, as\nmistress of the house, to arrange her household as she thought best,\nand that, in this, she was accountable to no one but her lord and\nhusband. \"See, oh, pray see,\" exclaimed Bertalda, in an angry yet\nuneasy tone, \"how the poor beautiful water is curling and writhing at\nbeing shut out from the bright sunshine and from the cheerful sight\nof the human face, for whose mirror it was created!\" The water in the\nfountain was indeed wonderfully agitated and hissing; it seemed as if\nsomething within were struggling to free itself, but Undine only the\nmore earnestly urged the fulfilment of her orders. The earnestness was\nscarcely needed. The servants of the castle were as happy in obeying\ntheir gentle mistress as in opposing Bertalda's haughty defiance; and\nin spite of all the rude scolding and threatening of the latter, the\nstone was soon firmly lying over the opening of the fountain. Undine\nleaned thoughtfully over it and wrote with her beautiful fingers on\nits surface. She must, however, have had something very sharp and\ncorrosive in her hand, for when she turned away and the servants\ndrew near to examine the stone, they perceived all sorts of strange\ncharacters upon it, which none of them had seen there before.\n\nBertalda received the knight, on his return home in the evening, with\ntears and complaints of Undine's conduct. He cast a serious look at\nhis poor wife, and she looked down in great distress; yet she said\nwith great composure, \"My lord and husband does not reprove even a\nbond-slave without a hearing, how much less, then, his wedded wife?\"\n\n\"Speak,\" said the knight with a gloomy countenance, \"what induced you\nto act so strangely?\"\n\n\"I should like to tell you when we are quite alone,\" sighed Undine.\n\n\"You can tell me just as well in Bertalda's presence,\" was the\nrejoinder.\n\n\"Yes, if you command me,\" said Undine; \"but command it not. Oh pray,\npray command it not!\" She looked so humble, so sweet, so obedient,\nthat the knight's heart felt a passing gleam from better times. He\nkindly placed her arm within his own and led her to his apartment,\nwhen she began to speak as follows:\n\n\"You already know, my beloved lord, something of my evil uncle,\nK\u00fchleborn, and you have frequently been displeased at meeting him in\nthe galleries of this castle. He has several times frightened Bertalda\ninto illness. This is because he is devoid of soul, a mere elemental\nmirror of the outward world, without the power of reflecting the world\nwithin. He sees, too, sometimes, that you are dissatisfied with me;\nthat I, in my childishness, am weeping at this, and that Bertalda\nperhaps is at the very same moment laughing. Hence he imagines various\ndiscrepancies in our home life, and in many ways mixes unbidden with\nour circle. What is the good of my reproving him? What is the use of\nmy sending him angrily away? He does not believe a word I say. His\npoor nature has no idea that the joys and sorrows of love have so\nsweet a resemblance, and are so closely linked that no power can\nseparate them. Amid tears a smile shines forth, and a smile allures\ntears from their secret chambers.\"\n\nShe looked up at Huldbrand, smiling and weeping; and he again\nexperienced within his heart all the charm of his old love. She felt\nthis, and, pressing him more tenderly to her, she continued amid tears\nof joy, \"As the disturber of our peace was not to be dismissed with\nwords, I have been obliged to shut the door upon him. And the only\ndoor by which he obtains access to us, is that fountain. He is at odds\nwith the other water-spirits in the neighborhood, counting from the\nadjacent valleys, and his kingdom only recommences further off on the\nDanube, into which some of his good friends direct their course. For\nthis reason I had the stone placed over the opening of the fountain,\nand I inscribed characters upon it which cripple all my uncle's power,\nso that he can now neither intrude upon you, nor upon me, nor upon\nBertalda. Human beings, it is true, can raise the stone again with\nordinary effort, in spite of the characters inscribed on it; the\ninscription does not hinder them. If you wish, therefore, follow\nBertalda's desire, but, truly, she knows not what she asks! The\nill-bred K\u00fchleborn has set his mark especially upon her; and if this\nor that came to pass which he has predicted to me and which might\nindeed happen without your meaning any evil--ah! dear one, even you\nwould then be exposed to danger!\"\n\nHuldbrand felt deeply the generosity of his sweet wife, in her\neagerness to shut up her formidable protector while she had even been\nchided for it by Bertalda. He pressed her therefore in his arms with\nthe utmost affection, and said with emotion, \"The stone shall remain,\nand all shall remain, now and ever, as you wish to have it, my sweet\nlittle Undine.\"\n\nShe caressed him with humble delight as she heard the expressions\nof love so long withheld, and then at length she said, \"My dearest\nfriend, since you are so gentle and kind today, may I venture to ask\na favor of you? See now, it is just the same with you as it is with\nsummer. In the height of its glory summer puts on the flaming and\nthundering crown of mighty storms and assumes the air of a king over\nthe earth. You too sometimes let your fury rise, and your eyes flash,\nand your voice is angry, and this becomes you well, though I in my\nfolly may sometimes weep at it. But never, I pray you, behave thus\ntoward me on the water, or even when we are near it. You see, my\nrelatives would then acquire a right over me. They would unrelentingly\ntear me from you in their rage because they would imagine that one of\ntheir race was injured, and I should be compelled all my life to dwell\nbelow in the crystal palaces, and should never be permitted to ascend\nto you again; or they would send me up to you--and that, oh God, would\nbe infinitely worse. No, no, my beloved friend, do not let it come to\nthat, however dear poor Undine be to you.\" He promised solemnly to do\nas she desired, and husband and wife returned from the apartment, full\nof happiness and affection.\n\nAt that moment Bertalda appeared with some workmen to whom she had\nalready given orders, and said in the sullen tone which she had\nassumed of late, \"I suppose the secret conference is at an end, and\nnow the stone may be removed. Go out, workmen, and attend to it.\"\nBut the knight, angry at her impertinence, directed in short and very\ndecisive words that the stone should be left; he reproved Bertalda,\ntoo, for her violence toward his wife. Whereupon the workmen withdrew,\nsmiling with secret satisfaction; while Bertalda, pale with rage,\nhurried away to her rooms.\n\nThe hour for the evening repast arrived, and Bertalda was waited for\nin vain. They sent after her, but the domestic found her apartments\nempty, and only brought back with him a sealed letter addressed to the\nknight. He opened it with alarm, and read: \"I feel with shame that\nI am only a poor fisher-girl. I will expiate my fault in having\nforgotten this for a moment, by returning to the miserable cottage of\nmy parents. Farewell to you and your beautiful wife.\"\n\nUndine was heartily distressed. She earnestly entreated Huldbrand to\nhasten after their friend and bring her back again. Alas! she had no\nneed to urge him. His affection for Bertalda burst forth again with\nvehemence. He hurried round the castle, inquiring if any one had seen\nwhich way the beautiful fugitive had gone. He could learn nothing of\nher and was already on his horse in the castle-yard, resolved to take\nat a venture the road by which he had brought Bertalda hither. Just\nthen a page appeared, who assured him that he had met the lady on the\npath to the Black Valley. Like an arrow the knight sprang through the\ngate-way in the direction indicated, without hearing Undine's voice of\nagony as she called to him from the window: \"To the Black Valley! Oh,\nnot there! Huldbrand, don't go there! or, for Heaven's sake, take me\nwith you!\" But when she perceived that all her calling was in vain,\nshe ordered her white palfrey to be saddled immediately and rode after\nthe knight without allowing any servant to accompany her.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIV\n\nHow Bertalda returned home with the Knight\n\n\nThe Black Valley lies deep within the mountains. What it is now called\nwe do not know. At that time the people of the country gave it this\nappellation on account of the deep obscurity in which the low land\nlay, owing to the shadows of the lofty trees, and especially firs,\nthat grew there. Even the brook which bubbled between the rocks wore\nthe same dark hue, and dashed along with none of that gladness with\nwhich streams are wont to flow that have the blue sky immediately\nabove them. Now, in the growing twilight of evening, it looked\naltogether wild and gloomy between the heights. The knight trotted\nanxiously along the edge of the brook, fearful at one moment that\nby delay he might allow the fugitive to advance too far, and, at the\nnext, that by too great rapidity he might overlook her in case she\nwere concealing herself from him. Meanwhile he had already penetrated\nquite a ways into the valley, and might soon hope to overtake the\nmaiden if he were on the right track, but the fear that this might not\nbe the case made his heart beat with anxiety. Where would the tender\nBertalda tarry through the stormy night, which was so fearful in the\nvalley, should he fail to find her? At length he saw something white\ngleaming through the branches on the slope of the mountain. He\nthought he recognized Bertalda's dress, and turned his course in that\ndirection. But his horse refused to go forward; it reared impatiently;\nand its master, unwilling to lose a moment, and seeing moreover that\nthe copse was impassable on horseback, dismounted; then, fastening his\nsnorting steed to an elm-tree, he worked his way cautiously through\nthe bushes. The branches sprinkled his forehead and cheeks with the\ncold drops of the evening dew; a distant roll of thunder was heard\nmurmuring from the other side of the mountains; everything looked so\nstrange that he began to feel a dread of the white figure which now\nlay only a short distance from him on the ground. Still he could\nplainly see that it was a woman, either asleep or in a swoon, and that\nshe was attired in long white garments such as Bertalda had worn\non that day. He stepped close up to her, made a rustling with the\nbranches, and let his sword clatter, but she moved not. \"Bertalda!\"\nhe exclaimed, at first in a low voice, and then louder and louder--but\nstill she heard not. At last, when he uttered the dear name with a\nmore powerful effort, a hollow echo from the mountain-caverns of the\nvalley indistinctly reverberated \"Bertalda!\" but still the sleeper\nwoke not. He bent down over her; the gloom of the valley and the\nobscurity of approaching night would not allow him to distinguish her\nfeatures.\n\nJust as he was stooping closer over her with a feeling of painful\ndoubt, a flash of lightning shot across the valley, he saw before him\na frightfully distorted countenance, and a hollow voice exclaimed,\n\"Give me a kiss, you enamoured swain!\" Huldbrand sprang up with a\ncry of horror, and the hideous figure rose with him. \"Go home!\" it\nmurmured; \"wizards are on the watch. Go home, or I will have you!\" and\nit stretched out its long white arms toward him.\n\n\"Malicious K\u00fchleborn!\" cried the knight, recovering himself. \"Hey,\n'tis you, you goblin? There, take your kiss!\" And he furiously hurled\nhis sword at the figure. But it vanished like vapor, and a gush of\nwater which wetted him through left the knight in no doubt as to the\nfoe with whom he had been engaged. \"He wishes to frighten me back from\nBertalda,\" said he aloud to himself; \"he thinks to terrify me with his\nfoolish tricks, and to make me give up the poor distressed girl to him\nso that he can wreak his vengeance on her. But he shall not do\nthat, weak spirit of the elements as he is. No powerless phantom\nmay understand what a human heart can do when its best energies are\naroused.\" He felt the truth of his words, and that the very expression\nof them had inspired his heart with fresh courage.\n\nIt seemed too as if fortune were on his side, for he had not reached\nhis fastened horse when he distinctly heard Bertalda's plaintive voice\nnot far distant, and could catch her weeping accents through the ever\nincreasing tumult of the thunder and tempest. He hurried swiftly\nin the direction of the sound, and found the trembling girl just\nattempting to climb the steep in order to escape in any way from the\ndreadful gloom of the valley. He stepped, however, lovingly in her\npath, and, bold and proud as her resolve had been before, she now felt\nonly too keenly the delight that the friend whom she so passionately\nloved should rescue her from this frightful solitude, and that the\njoyous life in the castle should be again open to her. She followed\nalmost unresisting, but so exhausted with fatigue that the knight\nwas glad to lead her to his horse, which he now hastily unfastened in\norder to lift the fair fugitive upon it; and then, cautiously holding\nthe reins, he hoped to proceed through the uncertain shades of the\nvalley.\n\nBut the horse had become quite unmanageable from the wild apparition\nof K\u00fchleborn. Even the knight would have had difficulty in mounting\nthe rearing and snorting animal, but to place the trembling Bertalda\non its back was perfectly impossible. They determined therefore to\nreturn home on foot. Leading the horse after him by the bridle, the\nknight supported the tottering girl with his other hand. Bertalda\nexerted all her strength to pass quickly through the fearful valley,\nbut weariness weighed her down like lead and every limb trembled,\npartly from the terror she had endured when K\u00fchleborn had pursued her,\nand partly from her continued alarm at the howling of the storm and\nthe pealing of the thunder through the wooded mountain.\n\nAt last she slid from the supporting arm of her protector, and,\nsinking down on the moss, exclaimed, \"Let me lie here, my noble lord;\nI suffer the punishment due to my folly, and I must now perish here\nanyhow through weariness and dread.\"\n\n\"No, sweet friend, I will never leave you!\" cried Huldbrand, vainly\nendeavoring to restrain his furious steed; for, worse than before, it\nnow began to foam and rear with excitement, till at last the knight\nwas glad to keep the animal at a sufficient distance from the\nexhausted maiden to save her from increasing fear. But scarcely had he\nwithdrawn a few paces with the wild steed than she began to call after\nhim in the most pitiful manner, believing that he was really going to\nleave her in this horrible wilderness. He was utterly at a loss what\ncourse to take. Gladly would he have given the excited beast its\nliberty and have allowed it to rush away into the night and spend\nits fury, had he not feared that in this narrow defile it might come\nthundering with its iron-shod hoofs over the very spot where Bertalda\nlay.\n\nIn the midst of this extreme perplexity and distress he heard with\ndelight the sound of a vehicle driving slowly down the stony road\nbehind them. He called out for help, and a man's voice replied,\npromising assistance, but bidding him have patience; and, soon after,\ntwo gray horses appeared through the bushes, and beside them the\ndriver in the white smock of a carter; a great white linen cloth was\nnext visible, covering the goods apparently contained in the wagon. At\na loud shout from their master the obedient horses halted. The driver\nthen came toward the knight and helped him restrain his foaming\nanimal. \"I see well,\" said he, \"what ails the beast. When I first\ntraveled this way my horses acted no better. The fact is, there is\nan evil water-spirit haunting the place, and he takes delight in\nthis sort of mischief. But I have learned a charm; if you will let me\nwhisper it in your horse's ear he will stand at once just as quiet as\nmy gray beasts are doing there.\"\n\n\"Try your luck then, only help us quickly!\" exclaimed the impatient\nknight.\n\nThe wagoner then drew down the head of the rearing charger close to\nhis own, and whispered something in his ear. In a moment the animal\nstood still and quiet, and his quick panting and reeking condition\nwere all that remained of his previous unmanageableness. Huldbrand had\nno time to inquire how all this had been effected. He agreed with the\ncarter that he should take Bertalda on his wagon, where, as the man\nassured him, there was a quantity of soft cotton bales upon which\nshe could be conveyed to Castle Ringstetten, and the knight was to\naccompany them on horseback. But the horse appeared too much exhausted\nby its past fury to be able to carry its master so far, so the Carter\npersuaded Huldbrand to get into the wagon with Bertalda. The horse\ncould be tethered on behind. \"We are going down hill,\" said he, \"and\nthat will make it light for my gray beasts.\" The knight accepted\nthe offer and entered the wagon with Bertalda; the horse followed\npatiently behind, and the wagoner, steady and attentive, walked by the\nside.\n\nIn the stillness of the night, as its darkness deepened and the\nsubsiding tempest sounded more and more remote, encouraged by\nthe sense of security and their fortunate escape a confidential\nconversation arose between Huldbrand and Bertalda. With flattering\nwords he reproached her for her daring flight; she excused herself\nwith humility and emotion, and from every word she said a gleam shone\nforth which disclosed distinctly to the lover that the beloved was\nhis. The knight felt the sense of her words far more than he regarded\ntheir meaning, and it was the sense alone to which he replied.\nPresently the wagoner suddenly shouted with a loud voice. \"Up, my\ngrays, up with your feet, keep together! Remember who you are!\" The\nknight leaned out of the wagon and saw that the horses were stepping\ninto the midst of a foaming stream or were already almost swimming,\nwhile the wheels of the wagon were rushing round and gleaming like\nmill-wheels, and the wagoner had climbed up in front in consequence of\nthe increasing waters.\n\n\"What sort of a road is this? It goes into the very middle of the\nstream,\" cried Huldbrand to his guide.\n\n\"Not at all, sir,\" returned the other laughing, \"it is just the\nreverse; the stream goes into the very middle of our road. Look round\nand see how every thing is covered by the water.\"\n\nThe whole valley indeed was suddenly filled with the surging flood,\nthat visibly increased. \"It is K\u00fchleborn, the evil water-spirit, who\nwishes to drown us!\" exclaimed the knight. \"Have you no charm against\nhim, my friend?\"\n\n\"I know indeed of one,\" returned the wagoner, \"but I cannot and may\nnot use it until you know who I am.\"\n\n\"Is this a time for riddles?\" cried the knight. \"The flood is ever\nrising higher, and what does it matter to me to know who you are?\"\n\n\"It does matter to you, though,\" said the wagoner, \"for I am\nK\u00fchleborn.\" So saying, he thrust his distorted face into the wagon\nwith a grin, but the wagon was a wagon no longer, the horses were not\nhorses--all was transformed to foam and vanished in the hissing waves,\nand even the wagoner himself, rising as a gigantic billow, drew down\nthe vainly struggling horse beneath the waters, and then, swelling\nhigher and higher, swept over the heads of the floating pair, like\nsome liquid tower, threatening to bury them irrecoverably.\n\nJust then the soft voice of Undine sounded through the uproar, the\nmoon emerged from the clouds, and by its light Undine was seen on\nthe heights above the valley. She rebuked, she threatened the floods\nbelow; the menacing tower-like wave vanished, muttering and murmuring,\nthe waters flowed gently away in the moonlight, and, like a white\ndove, Undine flew down from the height, seized the knight and\nBertalda, and bore them with her to a fresh, green, turfy spot on the\nhill, where with choice refreshing restoratives she dispelled their\nterrors and weariness; then she assisted Bertalda to mount the white\npalfrey, on which she had herself ridden here, and thus all three\nreturned to Castle Ringstetten.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XV\n\nThe Journey to Vienna\n\n\nAfter this last adventure they lived quietly and happily at the\ncastle. The knight more and more clearly perceived the heavenly\ngoodness of his wife, which had been so nobly exhibited by her pursuit\nand her rescue in the Black Valley, where K\u00fchleborn's power again\ncommenced; Undine herself felt that peace and security which is never\nlacking to a mind so long as it is distinctly conscious of being on\nthe right path, and, besides, in the newly-awakened love and esteem of\nher husband many a gleam of hope and joy shone upon her. Bertalda, on\nthe other hand, showed herself grateful, humble, and timid, without\nregarding her conduct as anything meritorious. Whenever Huldbrand or\nUndine were about to give her any explanation regarding the covering\nof the fountain or the adventure in the Black Valley, she would\nearnestly entreat them to spare her the recital, as she felt too much\nshame at the recollection of the fountain and too much fear at the\nremembrance of the Black Valley. She learned therefore nothing further\nof either; and for what end was such knowledge necessary? Peace and\njoy had visibly taken up their abode at Castle Ringstetten. They felt\nsecure on this point, and imagined that life could now produce nothing\nbut pleasant flowers and fruits.\n\nIn this happy condition of things winter had come and passed away, and\nspring with its fresh green shoots and its blue sky was gladdening\nthe joyous inmates of the castle. Spring was in harmony with them,\nand they with spring; what wonder then that its storks and swallows\ninspired them also with a desire to travel? One day when they were\ntaking a pleasant walk to one of the sources of the Danube, Huldbrand\nspoke of the magnificence of the noble river, how it widened as it\nflowed through countries fertilized by its waters, how the charming\ncity of Vienna shone forth on its banks, and how with every step of\nits course it increased in power and loveliness. \"It must be glorious\nto go down the river as far as Vienna!\" exclaimed Bertalda, but\nimmediately relapsing into her present modesty and humility she paused\nand blushed deeply.\n\nThis touched Undine deeply, and with the liveliest desire to give\npleasure to her friend she asked, \"What hinders us from starting on\nthe little voyage?\" Bertalda exhibited the greatest delight, and both\nshe and Undine began at once to picture in the brightest colors the\ntour of the Danube. Huldbrand also gladly agreed to the prospect; only\nhe once whispered anxiously in Undine's ear, \"But K\u00fchleborn becomes\npossessed of his power again out there!\"\n\n\"Let him come,\" she replied with a smile; \"I shall be there, and he\nventures upon none of his mischief before me.\" The last impediment was\nthus removed; they prepared for the journey, and soon after set out\nupon it with fresh spirits and the brightest hopes.\n\nBut wonder not, O man, if events always turn out different from what\nwe have intended! That malicious power, lurking for our destruction,\ngladly lulls its chosen victim to sleep with sweet songs and golden\nfairy tales; while on the other hand the rescuing messenger from\nHeaven often knocks sharply and alarmingly at our door.\n\nDuring the first few days of their voyage down the Danube they were\nextremely happy. Everything grew more and more beautiful, as they\nsailed further and further down the proudly flowing stream. But in a\nregion, otherwise so pleasant, and in the enjoyment of which they had\npromised themselves the purest delight, the ungovernable K\u00fchleborn\nbegan, undisguisedly, to exhibit his power, which started again at\nthis point. This was indeed manifested in mere teasing tricks, for\nUndine often rebuked the agitated waves or the contrary winds, and\nthen the violence of the enemy would be immediately submissive; but\nagain the attacks would be renewed, and again Undine's reproofs\nwould become necessary, so that the pleasure of the little party was\ncompletely destroyed. The boatmen too were continually whispering to\none another in dismay and looking with distrust at the three strangers\nwhose servants even began more and more to forebode something uncanny\nand to watch their masters with suspicious glances. Huldbrand often\nsaid to himself, \"This comes from like not being linked with like,\nfrom a man uniting himself with a mermaid!\" Excusing himself, as we\nall love to do, he would often think indeed as he said this, \"I did\nnot really know that she was a sea-maiden. Mine is the misfortune that\nevery step I take is disturbed and haunted by the wild caprices of her\nrace; but mine is not the guilt.\" By such thoughts as these he felt\nhimself in some measure strengthened, but, on the other hand, he felt\nincreasing ill-humor and almost animosity toward Undine. He would look\nat her with an expression of anger, the meaning of which the poor\nwife understood well. Wearied with this exhibition of displeasure and\nexhausted by the constant effort to frustrate K\u00fchleborn's artifices,\nshe sank one evening into a deep slumber, rocked soothingly by the\nsoftly gliding bark.\n\nScarcely, however, had she closed her eyes when every one in the\nvessel imagined he saw, in whatever direction he turned, a most\nhorrible human head; it rose out of the waves, not like that of a\nperson swimming, but perfectly perpendicular as if invisibly supported\nupright on the watery surface and floating along in the same course\nwith the bark. Each wanted to point out to the other the cause of his\nalarm, but each found the same expression of horror depicted on the\nface of his neighbor, only that his hands and eyes were directed to a\ndifferent point where the monster, half laughing and half threatening,\nrose before him. When, however, they all wished to make one another\nunderstand what each saw, and all were crying out, \"Look there--!\nNo--there!\" the horrible heads all appeared simultaneously to their\nview, and the whole river around the vessel swarmed with the most\nhideous apparitions. The universal cry raised at the sight awoke\nUndine. As she opened her eyes the wild crowd of distorted visages\ndisappeared. But Huldbrand was indignant at such unsightly jugglery.\nHe would have burst forth in uncontrolled imprecations had not Undine\nsaid to him with a humble manner and a softly imploring tone, \"For\nGod's sake, my husband, we are on the water; do not be angry with me\nnow.\" The knight was silent, and sat down absorbed in reverie. Undine\nwhispered in his ear, \"Would it not be better, my love, if we gave up\nthis foolish journey and returned to Castle Ringstetten in peace?\"\n\nBut Huldbrand murmured moodily, \"So I must be a prisoner in my own\ncastle and be able to breathe only so long as the fountain is closed!\nI would your mad kindred--\" Undine lovingly pressed her fair hand upon\nhis lips. He paused, pondering in silence over much that Undine had\nbefore said to him.\n\nBertalda had meanwhile given herself up to a variety of strange\nthoughts. She knew a good deal of Undine's origin, and yet not the\nwhole, and the fearful K\u00fchleborn especially had remained to her a\nterrible but wholly unrevealed mystery. She had indeed never even\nheard his name. Musing on these strange things, she unclasped,\nscarcely conscious of the act; a gold necklace, which Huldbrand had\nlately purchased for her of a traveling trader; half dreamingly she\ndrew it along the surface of the water, enjoying the light glimmer\nit cast upon the evening-tinted stream. Suddenly a huge hand was\nstretched out of the Danube, seizing the necklace and vanishing with\nit beneath the waters. Bertalda screamed aloud, and a scornful laugh\nresounded from the depths of the stream. The knight could now restrain\nhis anger no longer. Starting up, he inveighed against the river; he\ncursed all who ventured to intrude upon his family and his life, and\nchallenged them, be they spirits or sirens, to show themselves before\nhis avenging sword.\n\nBertalda wept meanwhile for her lost ornament, which was so precious\nto her, and her tears added fuel to the flame of the knight's anger,\nwhile Undine held her hand over the side of the vessel, dipping it\ninto the water, softly murmuring to herself, and only now and then\ninterrupting her strange mysterious whisper, as she entreated her\nhusband, \"My dearly loved one, do not scold me here; reprove others\nif you will, but not me here. You know why!\" And indeed, he restrained\nthe words of anger that were trembling on his tongue.\n\nPresently in her wet hand which she had been holding under the waves\nshe brought up a beautiful coral necklace of so much brilliancy that\nthe eyes of all were dazzled by it. \"Take this,\" said she, holding it\nout kindly to Bertalda; \"I have ordered this to be brought for you as\na compensation, and don't be grieved any more, my poor child.\"\n\nBut the knight sprang between them. He tore the beautiful ornament\nfrom Undine's hand, hurled it again into the river, exclaiming in\npassionate rage, \"Have you then still a connection with them? In the\nname of all the witches, remain among them with your presents and\nleave us mortals in peace, you sorceress!\" Poor Undine gazed at him\nwith fixed but tearful eyes, her hand still stretched out as when she\nhad offered her beautiful present so lovingly to Bertalda. She then\nbegan to weep more and more violently, like a dear innocent child,\nbitterly afflicted. At last, wearied out, she said: \"Alas, sweet\nfriend, alas! farewell! They shall do you no harm; only remain true,\nso that I may be able to keep them from you. I must, alas, go away; I\nmust go hence at this early stage of life. Oh woe, woe! What have you\ndone! Oh woe, woe!\"\n\nShe vanished over the side of the vessel. Whether she plunged into the\nstream or flowed away with it, they knew not; her disappearance was\nlike both and neither. Soon, however, she was completely lost sight of\nin the Danube; only a few little waves kept whispering, as if sobbing,\nround the boat, and they almost seemed to be saying: \"Oh woe, woe! Oh,\nremain true! Oh, woe!\"\n\nHuldbrand lay on the deck of the vessel, bathed in hot tears, and a\ndeep swoon presently cast its veil of forgetfulness over the unhappy\nman.\n\n\n\n\n_WILHELM HAUFF_\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n  CAVALRYMAN'S MORNING SONG[47] (1826)\n\n\n    Crimson morn,\n  Shalt thou light me o'er Death's bourn?\n  Soon will ring the trumpet's call;\n  Then may I be marked to fall,\n  I and many a comrade brave!\n    Scarce enjoyed,\n  Pleasure drops into the void.\n  Yesterday on champing stallion;\n  Picked today for Death's battalion;\n  Couched tomorrow in the grave!\n\n    Ah! how soon\n  Fleeth grace and beauty's noon!\n  Hast thou pride in cheeks aglow,\n  Whereon cream and carmine flow?\n  Ah! the loveliest rose turns sere!\n    Therefore still\n  I respond to God's high will.\n  To the last stern fight I'll fit me;\n  If to Death I must submit me,\n  Dies a dauntless cavalier!\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n  THE SENTINEL[48] (1827)\n\n\n  Lonely at night my watch I keep,\n  While all the world is hush'd in sleep.\n  Then tow'rd my home my thoughts will rove;\n  I think upon my distant love.\n\n[Illustration: WILHELM HAUFF]\n\n  When to the wars I march'd away,\n  My hat she deck'd with ribbons gay;\n  She fondly press'd me to her heart,\n  And wept to think that we must part.\n\n[Illustration: THE SENTINAL]\n\n  Truly she loves me, I am sure,\n  So ev'ry hardship I endure;\n  My heart beats warm, though cold's the night;\n  Her image makes the darkness bright.\n\n  Now by the twinkling taper's gleam,\n  Her bed she seeks, of me to dream,\n  But ere she sleeps she kneels to pray\n  For one who loves her far away.\n\n  For me those tears thou needst not shed;\n  No danger fills my heart with dread;\n  The pow'rs who dwell in heav'n above\n  Are ever watchful o'er thy love.\n\n  The bell peals forth from yon watch-tower;\n  The guard it changes at this hour.\n  Sleep well! sleep well! my heart's with thee;\n  And in your dreams remember me.\n\n\n\n\nFRIEDRICH R\u00dcCKERT\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n  BARBAROSSA[49] (Between 1814 and 1817)\n\n\n  The ancient Barbarossa,\n    Friedrich, the Kaiser great,\n  Within the castle-cavern\n    Sits in enchanted state.\n\n  He did not die; but ever\n    Waits in the chamber deep,\n  Where hidden under the castle\n    He sat himself to sleep.\n\n  The splendor of the Empire\n    He took with him away,\n  And back to earth will bring it\n    When dawns the promised day.\n\n  The chair is ivory purest\n    Whereof he makes his bed;\n  The table is of marble\n    Whereon he props his head.\n\n  His beard, not flax, but burning\n    With fierce and fiery glow,\n  Right through the marble table\n    Beneath his chair does grow.\n\n  He nods in dreams and winketh\n    With dull, half-open eyes,\n  And once a page he beckons beckons--\n    A page that standeth by.\n\n[Illustration: FRIEDRICH R\u00dcCKERT]\n\n  He bids the boy in slumber\n    \"O dwarf, go up this hour,\n  And see if still the ravens\n    Are flying round the tower;\n\n  And if the ancient ravens\n    Still wheel above us here,\n  Then must I sleep enchanted\n    For many a hundred year.\"\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n  FROM MY CHILDHOOD DAYS[50] (1817, 1818)\n\n\n  From my childhood days, from my childhood days,\n    Rings an old song's plaintive tone--\n  Oh, how long the ways, oh, how long the ways\n    I since have gone!\n\n  What the swallow sang, what the swallow sang,\n    In spring or in autumn warm--\n  Do its echoes hang, do its echoes hang\n    About the farm?\n\n  \"When I went away, when I went away,\n    Full coffers and chests were there;\n  When I came today, when I came today,\n    All, all was bare!\"\n\n  Childish lips so wise, childish lips so wise,\n    With a lore as rich as gold,\n  Knowing all birds' cries, knowing all birds' cries,\n    Like the sage of old!\n\n  Ah, the dear old place--ah, the dear old place * * *\n    May its sweet consoling gleam\n  Shine upon my face, shine upon my face,\n    Once in a dream!\n\n  When I went away, when I went away,\n    Full of joy the world lay there;\n  When I came today, when I came today,\n    All, all was bare.\n\n  Still the swallows come, still the swallows come,\n    And the empty chest is filled--\n  But this longing dumb, but this longing dumb\n    Shall ne'er be stilled.\n\n  Nay, no swallow brings, nay, no swallow brings\n    Thee again where thou wast before--\n  Though the swallow sings, though the swallow sings,\n    Still as of yore.\n\n  \"When I went away, when I went away,\n    Full coffers and chests were there;\n  When I came today, when I came today,\n    All, all was bare!\"\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n  THE SPRING OF LOVE[51] (1821)\n\n\n  Dearest, thy discourses steal\n    From my bosom's deep, my heart\n  How can I from thee conceal\n    My delight, my sorrow's smart?\n\n  Dearest, when I hear thy lyre\n    From its chains my soul is free.\n  To the holy angel quire\n    From the earth, O let us flee!\n\n[Illustration: MEMORIES OF YOUTH]\n\n  Dearest, how thy music's charms\n    Waft me dancing through the sky!\n  Let me round thee clasp my arms,\n    Lest in glory I should die!\n\n  Dearest, sunny wreaths I wear,\n    Twined around me by thy lay.\n  For thy garlands, rich and rare,\n    O how can I thank thee? Say!\n\n  Like the angels I would be\n    Without mortal frame,\n  Whose sweet converse is like thought,\n    Sounding with acclaim;\n\n  Or like flowers in the dale;\n    Like the stars that glow,\n  Whose love-song's a beam, whose words\n    Like sweet odors flow;\n\n  Or like to the breeze of morn,\n    Waving round its rose,\n  In love's dallying caress\n    Melting as it blows.\n\n  But the love-lorn nightingale\n    Melteth not away;\n  She doth but with longing tones\n    Chant her plaintive lay.\n\n  I am, too, a nightingale,\n    Songless though I sing;\n  'Tis my pen that speaks, though ne'er\n    In the ear it ring.\n\n  Beaming images of thought\n    Doth the pen portray;\n  But without thy gentle smile\n    Lifeless e'er are they.\n\n  As thy look falls on the leaf,\n    It begins to sing,\n  And the prize that's due to love\n    In her ear doth ring.\n\n  Like a Memmon's statue now\n    Every letter seems,\n  Which in music wakes, when kissed\n    By the morning's beams.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n  \"HE CAME TO MEET ME\"[52] (1821)\n\n\n  He came to meet me\n    In rain and thunder;\n  My heart 'gan beating\n    In timid wonder.\n  Could I guess whither\n  Thenceforth together\n    Our path should run, so long asunder?\n\n  He came to meet me\n    In rain and thunder,\n  With guile to cheat me--\n    My heart to plunder.\n  Was't mine he captured?\n  Or his I raptured?\n    Half-way both met, in bliss and wonder!\n\n  He came to meet me\n    In rain and thunder;\n  Spring-blessings greet me\n    Spring-blossoms under.\n  What though he leave me?\n  No partings grieve me--\n    No path can lead our hearts asunder.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n  THE INVITATION[53] (1821)\n\n\n  Thou, thou art rest\n    And peace of soul--\n  Thou woundst the breast\n    And makst it whole.\n\n  To thee I vow\n    'Mid joy or pain\n  My heart, where thou\n    Mayst aye remain.\n\n  Then enter free,\n    And bar the door\n  To all but thee\n    Forevermore.\n\n  All other woes\n    Thy charms shall lull;\n  Of sweet repose\n    This heart be full.\n\n  My worshipping eyes\n    Thy presence bright\n  Shall still suffice,\n    Their only light.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n  MURMUR NOT[54]\n\n\n  Murmur not and say thou art in fetters holden,\n    Murmur not that thou earth's heavy yoke must bear.\n  Say not that a prison is this world so golden--\n    'Tis thy murmurs only set its harsh walls there.\n\n  Question not how shall this riddle find its reading;\n    It will solve itself full soon without thine aid.\n  Say not love hath turned his back, and left thee bleeding--\n    Whom hath love deserted, hast thou heard it said?\n\n  If death tries to fright thee, fear not beyond measure;\n    He will flee from those who boldly face his frown.\n  Hunt not thou the fleeting deer of worldly pleasure--\n    Lion it will turn, and hunt the hunter down.\n  Chain thyself no longer, heart, to any treasure;\n    Then thou shalt not say thou art into fetters thrown.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n  A PARABLE[55] (1822)\n\n\n  In Syria walked a man one day\n  And led a camel on the way.\n  A sudden wildness seized the beast,\n  And as they strove its rage increased.\n  So fearsome grew its savagery\n  That for his life the man must flee.\n  And as he ran, he spied a cave\n  That one last chance of safety gave.\n  He heard the snorting beast behind\n  Come nearer--with distracted mind\n  Leaped where the cooling fountain sprang,\n  Yet not to fall, but catch and hang;\n  By lucky hap a bramble wild\n  Grew where the o'erhanging rocks were piled.\n  He saved himself by this alone,\n  And did his hapless state bemoan.\n  He looked above, and there was yet\n  Too close the furious camel's threat\n  That still of fearful rage was full.\n  He dropped his eyes toward the pool,\n  And saw within the shadows dim\n  A dragon's jaws agape for him--\n  A still more fierce and dangerous foe\n  If he should slip and fall below.\n  So, hanging midway of the two,\n  He spied a cause of terror new:\n  Where to the rock's deep crevice clung\n  The slender root on which he swung,\n  A little pair of mice he spied,\n  A black and white one side by side--\n  First one and then the other saw\n  The slender stem alternate gnaw.\n  They gnawed and bit with ceaseless toil,\n  And from the roots they tossed the soil.\n  As down it ran in trickling stream,\n  The dragon's eyes shot forth a gleam\n  Of hungry expectation, gazed\n  Where o'er him still the man was raised,\n  To see how soon the bush would fall,\n  The burden that it bore, and all.\n  That man in utmost fear and dread\n  Surrounded, threatened, hard bested,\n  In such a state of dire suspense\n  Looked vainly round for some defense.\n  And as he cast his bloodshot eye\n  First here, then there, saw hanging nigh\n  A branch with berries ripe and red;\n  Then longing mastered all his dread;\n  No more the camel's rage he saw,\n  Nor yet the lurking dragon's maw,\n  Nor malice of the gnawing mice,\n  When once the berries caught his eyes.\n  The furious beast might rage above,\n  The dragon watch his every move,\n  The mice gnaw on--naught heeded he,\n  But seized the berries greedily--\n  In pleasing of his appetite\n  The furious beast forgotten quite.\n\n  You ask, \"What man could ever yet,\n  So foolish, all his fears forget?\"\n  Then know, my friend, that man are you--\n  And see the meaning plain to view.\n  The dragon in the pool beneath\n  Sets forth the yawning jaws of death;\n  The beast from which you helpless flee\n  Is life and all its misery.\n  There you must hang 'twixt life and death\n  While in this world you draw your breath.\n  The mice, whose pitiless gnawing teeth\n  Will let you to the pool beneath\n  Fall down, a hopeless castaway,\n  Are but the change of night and day.\n  The black one gnaws concealed from sight\n  Till comes again the morning light;\n  From dawn until the eve is gray,\n  Ceaseless the white one gnaws away.\n  And, 'midst this dreadful choice of ills,\n  Pleasure of sense your spirit fills\n  Till you forget the terrors grim\n  That wait to tear you limb from limb,\n  The gnawing mice of day and night,\n  And pay no heed to aught in sight\n  Except to fill your mouth with fruit\n  That in the grave-clefts has its root.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n  EVENING SONG[56] (1823)\n\n\n  I stood on the mountain summit,\n    At the hour when the sun did set;\n  I mark'd how it hung o'er the woodland\n    The evening's golden net.\n\n  And, with the dew descending,\n    A peace on the earth there fell--\n  And nature lay hushed in quiet,\n    At the voice of the evening bell.\n\n  I said, \"O heart, consider\n    What silence all things keep,\n  And with each child of the meadow\n    Prepare thyself to sleep!\n\n  \"For every flower is closing\n    In silence its little eye;\n  And every wave in the brooklet\n    More softly murmureth by.\n\n  \"The weary caterpillar\n    Hath nestled beneath the weeds;\n  All wet with dew now slumbers\n    The dragon-fly in the reeds.\n\n  \"The golden beetle hath laid him\n    In a rose-leaf cradle to rock;\n  Now went to their nightly shelter\n    The shepherd and his flock.\n\n  \"The lark from on high is seeking\n    In the moistened grass her nest;\n  The hart and the hind have laid them\n    In their woodland haunt to rest.\n\n  \"And whoso owneth a cottage\n    To slumber hath laid him down;\n  And he that roams among strangers\n    In dreams shall behold his own.\"\n\n  And now doth a yearning seize me,\n    At this hour of peace and love,\n  That I cannot reach the dwelling,\n    The home that is mine, above.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n  CHIDHER[57] (1824)\n\n\n  Chidher, the ever youthful, told:\n    I passed a city, bright to see;\n  A man was culling fruits of gold,\n    I asked him how old this town might be.\n  He answered, culling as before\n  \"This town stood ever in days of yore,\n  And will stand on forevermore!\"\n    Five hundred years from yonder day\n    I passed again the selfsame way,\n\n  And of the town I found no trace;\n    A shepherd blew on a reed instead;\n  His herd was grazing on the place.\n    \"How long,\" I asked, \"is the city dead?\"\n  He answered, blowing as before\n  \"The new crop grows the old one o'er,\n  This was my pasture evermore!\"\n    Five hundred years from yonder day\n    I passed again the selfsame way.\n\n  A sea I found, the tide was full,\n    A sailor emptied nets with cheer;\n  And when he rested from his pull,\n    I asked how long that sea was here.\n  Then laughed he with a hearty roar\n  \"As long as waves have washed this shore\n  They fished here ever in days of yore.\"\n    Five hundred years from yonder day\n    I passed again the selfsame way.\n\n  I found a forest settlement,\n    And o'er his axe, a tree to fell,\n  I saw a man in labor bent.\n    How old this wood I bade him tell.\n  \"'Tis everlasting, long before\n  I lived it stood in days of yore,\"\n  He quoth; \"and shall grow evermore.\"\n    Five hundred years from yonder day\n    I passed again the selfsame way.\n\n  I saw a town; the market-square\n    Was swarming with a noisy throng.\n  \"How long,\" I asked, \"has this town been there?\n    Where are wood and sea and shepherd's song?\"\n  They cried, nor heard among the roar\n  \"This town was ever so before,\n  And so will live forevermore!\"\n    \"Five hundred years from yonder day\n    I want to pass the selfsame way.\"\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n  AT FORTY YEARS[58] (1832)\n\n\n  When for forty years we've climbed the rugged mountain,\n    We stop and backward gaze;\n  Yonder still we see our childhood's peaceful fountain,\n    And youth exulting strays.\n\n  One more glance behind, and then, new strength acquiring,\n    Staff grasped, no longer stay;\n  See, a further slope, a long one, still aspiring\n    Ere downward turns the way!\n\n  Take a brave long breath and toward the summit hie thee--\n    The goal shall draw thee on;\n  When thou think'st it least, the destined end is nigh thee--\n    Sudden, the journey's done!\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n  BEFORE THE DOORS[59]\n\n\n  I went to knock at Riches' door;\n  They threw me a farthing the threshold o'er.\n\n  To the door of Love did I then repair--\n  But fifteen others already were there.\n\n  To Honor's castle I took my flight--\n  They opened to none but to belted knight.\n\n  The house of Labor I sought to win--\n  But I heard a wailing sound within.\n\n  To the house of Content I sought the way--\n  But none could tell me where it lay.\n\n  One quiet house I yet could name,\n  Where last of all, I'll admittance claim;\n\n  Many the guests that have knocked before,\n  But still--in the grave--there's room for more.\n\n[Illustration: AUGUST GRAF VON PLATEN-HALLERMUND]\n\n\n\n\n\n_AUGUST VON PLATEN-HALLERMUND_\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n  THE PILGRIM BEFORE ST. JUST'S[60] (1819)\n\n\n  'Tis night, and tempests whistle o'er the moor;\n  Oh, Spanish father, ope the door!\n  Deny me not the little boon I crave,\n  Thine order's vesture, and a grave!\n  Grant me a cell within thy convent-shrine--\n  Half of this world, and more, was mine;\n  The head that to the tonsure now stoops down\n  Was circled once by many a crown;\n  The shoulders fretted now with shirt of hair\n  Did once the imperial ermine wear.\n  Now am I as the dead, e'er death is come,\n  And sink in ruins like old Rome.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n  THE GRAVE OF ALARIC[61] (1820)\n\n\n  On Busento's grassy banks a muffled chorus echoes nightly,\n  While the swirling eddies answer and the wavelets ripple lightly.\n\n  Up and down the river, shades of Gothic warriors watch are keeping,\n  For they mourn their people's hero, Alaric, with sobs of weeping.\n\n  All too soon and far from home and kindred here to rest they laid him,\n  While in youthful beauty still his flowing golden curls arrayed him.\n\n  And along the river's bank a thousand hands with eager striving\n  Labored long, another channel for Busento's tide contriving.\n\n  Then a cavern deep they hollowed in the river-bed depleted,\n  Placed therein the dead king, clad in proof, upon his charger seated.\n\n  O'er him and his proud array the earth they filled, and covered loosely,\n  So that on their hero's grave the water-plants would grow profusely.\n\n  And again the course they altered of Busento's waters troubled;\n  In its ancient channel rushed the current--foamed, and hissed, and bubbled.\n\n  And the Goths in chorus chanted: \"Hero, sleep! Tiny fame immortal\n  Roman greed shall ne'er insult, nor break thy tomb's most sacred portal!\"\n\n  Thus they sang, and paeans sounded high above the fight's commotion;\n  Onward roll, Busento's waves, and bear them to the farthest ocean!\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n  REMORSE[62] (1820)\n\n\n  How I started up in the night, in the night,\n    Drawn on without rest or reprieval!\n  The streets with their watchmen were lost to my sight,\n        As I wandered so light\n        In the night, in the night,\n    Through the gate with the arch medieval.\n\n[Illustration: THE MORNING HOUR]\n\n  The mill-brook rushed from its rocky height;\n    I leaned o'er the bridge in my yearning;\n  Deep under me watched I the waves in their flight,\n        As they glided so light\n        In the night, in the night,\n    Yet backward not one was returning.\n\n  O'erhead were revolving, so countless and bright,\n    The stars in melodious existence;\n  And with them the moon, more serenely bedight;\n        They sparkled so light\n        In the night, in the night,\n    Through the magical, measureless distance.\n\n  And upward I gazed in the night, in the night,\n    And again on the waves in their fleeting;\n  Ah woe! thou hast wasted thy days in delight;\n        Now silence, thou light,\n        In the night, in the night,\n    The remorse in thy heart that is beating.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n  WOULD I WERE FREE AS ARE MY DREAMS[63] (1822)\n\n\n  Would I were free as are my dreams,\n    Sequestered from the garish crowd\n  To glide by banks of quiet streams\n    Cooled by the shadow-drifting cloud!\n\n  Free to shake off this weary weight\n    Of human sin, and rest instead\n  On nature's heart inviolate--\n    All summer singing o'er my head!\n\n  There would I never disembark,\n    Nay, only graze the flowery shore\n  To pluck a rose beneath the lark,\n    Then go my liquid way once more,\n\n  And watch, far off, the drowsy lines\n    Of herded cattle crop and pass,\n  The vintagers among the vines,\n    The mowers in the dewy grass;\n\n  And nothing would I drink or eat\n    Save heaven's clear sunlight and the spring\n  Of earth's own welling waters sweet,\n    That never make the pulses sting.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n  SONNET[64] (1822)\n\n\n  Oh, he whose pain means life, whose life means pain,\n    May feel again what I have felt before;\n    Who has beheld his bliss above him soar\n  And, when he sought it, fly away again;\n  Who in a labyrinth has tried in vain,\n    When he has lost his way, to find a door;\n    Whom love has singled out for nothing more\n  Than with despondency his soul to bane;\n  Who begs each lightning for a deadly stroke,\n    Each stream to drown the heart that cannot heal\n  From all the cruel stabs by which it broke;\n    Who does begrudge the dead their beds like steel\n  Where they are safe from love's beguiling yoke--\n    He knows me quite, and feels what I must feel.\n\n\n\n\nFOOTNOTES:\n\n\n[Footnote 1: From Addresses on Religion (Discourse IV).]\n\n[Footnote 2: This refers to the second book, which takes the form of a\ndialogue between the inquirer and a Spirit.]\n\n[Footnote 3: An allusion to the second book.]\n\n[Footnote 4: The audience gathered in the building of the Royal\nAcademy at Berlin.--ED.]\n\n[Footnote 5: J.G. Hamann. _Hellenistische Briefe_ I, 189.]\n\n[Footnote 6: Goethe. _Werke_ (1840) xxx., 352. Mr. Ward's translation\nof Goethe's \"Essays on Art,\" p. 76.]\n\n[Footnote 7: Selections translated by Margarete M\u00fcnsterberg.]\n\n[Footnote 8: Permission George Bell & Son, London.]\n\n[Footnote 9: Translator: H.W. Dulcken. Permission Ward, Lock & Company,\nLtd., London.]\n\n[Footnote 10: Translator: Margarete M\u00fcnsterberg.]\n\n[Footnote 11: Translator: C.T. Brooks.]\n\n[Footnote 12: Translator: Herman Montagu Donner.]\n\n[Footnote 13: Translator: C.T. Brooks.]\n\n[Footnote 14: Translator: Margarete M\u00fcnsterberg.]\n\n[Footnote 15: Translator: Margarete M\u00fcnsterberg.]\n\n[Footnote 16: Translator: Margarete M\u00fcnsterberg.]\n\n[Footnote 17: Translator: C.T. Brooks.]\n\n[Footnote 18: Translator: W.W. Skeat.]\n\n[Footnote 19: Translator: Henry W. Longfellow.]\n\n[Footnote 20: Translator: C.T. Brooks.]\n\n[Footnote 21: Translator: Percy Mackaye.]\n\n[Footnote 22: Translator: Alfred Baskerville.]\n\n[Footnote 23: Translator: W.W. Skeat. From _Representative German\nPoems_, Henry Holt & Co., New York.]\n\n[Footnote 24: Translator: W.W. Skeat. From _Representative German\nPoems_, Henry Holt & Co., New York.]\n\n[Footnote 25: Translator: H.W. Dulcken. Permission Ward, Lock &\nCompany, Ltd., London.]\n\n[Footnote 26: Translator: W.H. Furness.]\n\n[Footnote 27: Translator: Margarete M\u00fcnsterberg]\n\n[Footnote 28: Translator: Margarete M\u00fcnsterberg.]\n\n[Footnote 29: Translator: A.I. du P. Coleman.]\n\n[Footnote 30: Translator: Margarete M\u00fcnsterberg.]\n\n[Footnote 31: Translator: C.T. Brooks.]\n\n[Footnote 32: Translator: W.H. Furness.]\n\n[Footnote 33: Translator: Henry W. Longfellow. From _Representative\nGerman Poems_, Henry Holt & Co., New York.]\n\n[Footnote 34: Translator: Kate Freiligrath-Kroeker. Permission William\nHeinemann, London.]\n\n[Footnote 35: Translator: C.G. Leland. From _Representative German\nPoems_, Henry Holt & Co., New York.]\n\n[Footnote 36: Translator: Alfred Baskerville.]\n\n[Footnote 37: Translator: Alfred Baskerville.]\n\n[Footnote 38: Translator: A.I. du P. Coleman]\n\n[Footnote 39: Translator: Alfred Baskerville]\n\n[Footnote 40: Translators: Bayard Taylor and Lilian Bayard Taylor\nKiliani. From _A Sheaf of Poems_, permission R.G. Badger, Boston.]\n\n[Footnote 41: Translator: A.I. du P. Coleman.]\n\n[Footnote 42: Translator: A.I. du P. Coleman.]\n\n[Footnote 43: From the _Foreign Quarterly_]\n\n[Footnote 44: Chapters 2, 6, 8.]\n\n[Footnote 45: An imaginary musical enthusiast of whom Hoffmann has\nwritten much; under the fiery, sensitive, wayward character of this\ncrazy bandmaster, presenting, it would seem, a shadowy likeness\nof himself. The _Kreisleriana_ occupy a large space among these\n_Fantasy-pieces_; and Johannes Kreisler is the main figure in _Kater\nMurr_, Hoffmann's favorite but unfinished work. In the third and last\nvolume, Kreisler was to end, not in composure and illumination, as the\ncritics would have required, but in utter madness: a sketch of a wild,\nflail-like scarecrow, dancing vehemently and blowing soap-bubbles, and\nwhich had been intended to front the last title-page, was found\namong Hoffmann's papers, and engraved and published in his _Life and\nRemains_.]\n\n[Footnote 46: Permission Bernhard Tauchnitz, Leipzig.]\n\n[Footnote 47: Translator: Herman Montagu Donner.]\n\n[Footnote 48: Translator: John Oxenford. From _Representative German\nPoems_, Henry Holt & Co., New York.]\n\n[Footnote 49: Translators: Bayard Taylor and Lilian Bayard Taylor\nKiliani.\n\nFrom _A Sheaf of Poems_, permission R.G. Badger, Boston.]\n\n[Footnote 50: Translator: A.I. du P. Coleman.\n\nThis is a working-over of an old popular song in imitation of the\nswallow's cry, found in various dialect-forms in different parts of\nGermany. The most widespread version is:\n\n  Wenn ich wegzieh', wenn ich wegzieh',\n    Sind Kisten and Kasten voll!'\n  Wann ich wiederkomm', wann ich wiederkomm',\n    Ist alles verzehrt.]\n\n[Footnote 51: Translator: Alfred Baskerville.]\n\n[Footnote 52: Translator: Bayard Taylor. From _Representative German\nPoems_, Henry Holt & Co., New York.]\n\n[Footnote 53: Translator: A.I. du P. Coleman.]\n\n[Footnote 54: Translator: A.I. du P. Coleman.]\n\n[Footnote 55: Translator: A.I. du P. Coleman.]\n\n[Footnote 56: Translator: H.W. Dulcken. From _Book of German Songs_,\npermission Ward, Lock & Company, Ltd., London.]\n\n[Footnote 57: Translator: Margarete M\u00fcnsterberg.]\n\n[Footnote 58: Translator: A.I. du P. Coleman.]\n\n[Footnote 59: Translator: H.W. Dulcken. Permission Ward, Lock & Company,\nLtd., London.]\n\n[Footnote 60: Translator: Lord Lindsay. From _Ballads, Songs and\nPoems_.]\n\n[Footnote 61: Translators: Bayard Taylor and Lilian Bayard Taylor\nKiliani. From _A Sheaf of Poems_, permission R.G. Badger, Boston.]\n\n[Footnote 62: Translator: Henry W. Longfellow. From _Representative\nGerman Poems_, Henry Holt & Co., New York.]\n\n[Footnote 63: Translator: Percy MacKaye.]\n\n[Footnote 64: Translator: Margarete M\u00fcnsterberg.]","title":"The German Classics of the Nineteenth and Twentieth Centuries, Volume 05: Masterpieces of German Literature Translated into English","tradition":"philosophy-ethics","translated_text":null,"word_count":164031}