Part 12

There’s a widow in Eppan With glance like a dart, A terrible weapon, Which strikes every heart, With the softest of laughter, The sweetest of smiles, Lord knows what comes after, When once she beguiles! And this lady of Eppan Is charmingly dressed. She feeds upon capon, With wine of the best. Though whence she derived all her food and the clothes, Or how she got these things, or came to have those, Is what she did never to any disclose, Which kept people talking as all may suppose Either “over the pumpkin”[7] or “under the rose!”

Now when people before them have always a curtain, There’s something behind it, not right, _that_ is certain. And all were assured that this beautiful widow Hung out what the French call a very large _rideau_; [In German Gardine; a kind of a pun; Since in dialect, girl and a curtain are one.] But Hermann von Valk, A chivalric young blade, Who was not of talk Or of scandal afraid, Was all the more taken, Enchanted and shaken, Enraptured and mashed, Bèglamoured and smashed, By the beautiful eyes and the wonderful mystery That seemed to envelop this Lamia’s history. And one day when in sport the fair widow would task him He swore he would do anything she might ask him, He cared not a straw, if ’twere that or were this, If she only would give him one rapturous kiss!

With the winsomest smile, That would fetch you a mile, And a soft in her voice That would give you no choice, But to do as she wanted. “My dearest,” said she, “I can only ask something chivalric of thee, Such as noble young gentlemen ever perform When their hearts and their heads are courageous and warm. And that which I want, you can easily grant-- It isn’t a matter of shall I? or shan’t-- In fact ’tis as easy as jumping a hurdle. Just climb a church-steeple while bearing this girdle, The steeple of Kaltern--you know it full well-- And binding--you _shall_ turn this belt round the bell: Bind it and wind it, when you have twined it-- When this is done and my love is returnéd, he May kiss, if he like, to the end of Eternity.”

Now as you may have guessed, This young Hermann von Valk Was not--truly confessed-- A man easy to balk; So as soon as the widow her yarn had spun He jumped to his feet and cried eagerly--_done_! “For such a reward I here swear, by my soul! I’d belt all the bells in the land of Tyrol! Give me the girdle! I’ll tell you what, I’ll return this evening”--and off he shot.

Now though this Hermann had no scrupulosity, Yet, as a German, he’d great curiosity, Which thing is the mother of all suspicion, So he turned it all over with great precision, And he said to himself, “I wish I could tell What it is that she means by a-belting the bell? It’s very mysterious--hem!--let me see! Suppose I first try it a bit on a tree! There is nothing at all in the way to prevent Such a little and harmless experiment.” So half-unthinking and half in joke He bound the girdle about an oak.

It was a grand tremendous tree, As vast as man did ever see, Standing alone so grave and solemn, With trunk as tall as the highest column; But scarce that girdle was brought around, And scarce the belt on the bark was bound, When a crash like a thousand thunders came, And before his eyes all swam in flame, As if hell had broke loose in very fact, And from top to bottom the oak-tree cracked, And the fragments flew afar and wide: While Hermann von Valk lay stunned aside.

The bells, in time, had rung several tenses, Before the young gentleman came to his senses, And, when he got there--“My life!” said he: “I am glad that I tried that belt on a tree, For if I had bound it round the bell, Which the witches all fear, like poison and hell----”

When having said this, he suddenly stopped As if an _idea_ on his senses had dropped, And he roared “_Donnerwetter mit Hagel und pitch!_ Now may I be shot! but the widow’s a witch! _Es leuchtet mir ein!_ I behold it clear As I see yon moon in her silver sphere; That was a nice little task the “widder” Gave me to do, now I come to consider! Suppose instead of a tree, I had placed That elegant article round my waist! _That_ were a beautiful change of scene? The devil take her--where would _I_ have been? So sure as Bohemians drink _slivovitz_, Burst to pieces and blown to bits, So now I will go to my home, alone, Beautiful Madame--with you I’ve done I can stand a great deal,” he said with a sigh “But not the devil--and so good-bye.”

By this adventure you plainly see, That two of a trade can never agree, What one had tolled, the other can’t tell, And a belle, if a witch, is afraid of a bell!’

‘Well sung, Herr Breitmann,’ exclaimed Flaxius. ‘And the tones were as sweet as the story is strange.’

‘Vot do you really dink of it?’ inquired the singer with some interest. ‘Can it pe true?’

‘H’m! very likely. You must know, friend Breitmann, that from much strange but little thought of proof, I believe that from the Etruscan and Roman priesthood, the witches and wizards of a later time inherited much knowledge, and many strange secrets regarding electricity; and this granted, we can explain many of the most remarkable miracles attributed to them. Now, admitting that they were up to producing a spark by a small charge and making an explosive, the widow’s belt becomes intelligible. In fact, a few ounces of dynamite----’

‘Vould pe a mighty crate power, when a woman wanted to plow a man oop,’ laughed the minstrel. ‘And denn dere was poison, vitch dey understanded petter still. As is set fort in a pallad of de town of Munich.’

‘I would like to hear it,’ replied Flaxius.

‘_We_ would like to hear it,’ sopranoed the nightingales.

‘_I_ would like to hear it,’ chirped a sparrow on the wall in _contralto_.

‘And we also,’ cooed the baritone spirits of the evening breeze, as they stole through the dense foliage, rustling overhead.

The Breitmann tuned his lute, and sang the ballad of

NARR HANS’L[8]

‘Oh! Munich is a merry town, ’tis writ by many a pen, And all its city counsellors are wondrous merry men, And when they meet for banqueting, to revel or to sing, From the Rathshaus to the Frauenkirch you hear the music ring.

And every master hath a squire that on his lord must wait, To fill his goblet up with wine or change or fill his plate, And it always was expected, like the chorus to a song, He must laugh at all his master’s jokes and help the fun along.

Now one of these attendants was an odd fantastic wight-- You could see it in his features that something wasn’t right-- An anxious, solemn countenance with sorrow interwrought, Like one who knows that he is mad, and trembles at the thought!

And if cruel people vexed him when his heart was stirred with drink, He would rave and cry the maddest things that any one could think, And scream and weep and beg them all for mercy in his pain, Which made them roar with laughter and begin to tease again.

They called him the Narr Hans’l, that is Jack Lunatic. And all the lords resolved one day to play this man a trick. So they made him eat a herring till he almost died with thirst; And then gave him wine to quench it, but that was not the worst.

For the wine had all been mingled with pepper for a trick, And a subtle drug or medicine, which made him sadly sick, So that he ran about in pain, with many a mad grimace: It made the noble gentlemen all roar to see his face.

Well, well! the fun was over and the jest was half forgot: When again there was a banquet in that ever merry spot, And since Narr Hans’l made such sport for every guest--to dine, They chose him for the Kellner, or Master of the Wine.

The music pealed so merrily, there all was _Saus und Braus_, Till the chairman gave the word “Schenk’ein!” and then the sign “Trink aus!” And this was at the Ending, when every gentleman Must drink the _Supernaculum_--drain to the last his can.

To a drop upon the thumb-nail, nor leave behind a “rest.” And the wine for this last drinking was of the very best; Every cupful cost a florin--of that there was no doubt, It glowed like golden sunlight when Hans’l poured it out.

Ha! What can be the matter with the noble President, That he looks as pale as ashes and extremely discontent? And now he’s falling backwards in deadly agony: And now--O Lord! the others are all as ill as he!

Ha! What can be the matter with Narr Hans’l through it all? He is laughing, he is screaming, he is dancing in the hall. He is changed into a devil--he gave a comic sigh, And played upon his _Cithern_ as he saw the _Herren_ die!

There are four-and-twenty dead men a-lying in the room, The tapers burning lowly, all fading into gloom; The waiters with the music have all in terror fled: There sits alone Narr Hans’l, a-singing to the Dead!

A-singing wailing ditties, all in the saddest strain: How they poisoned him with pepper, and he poisoned them again. Till he screams: “It all is over--and the wine is of the best!” He drank a flowing goblet, and is lying with the rest.’

‘It is a sad song!’ murmured Breitmann, as he struck the last chorus.

‘Very sad,’ replied the nightingales.

‘It makes me cry,’ chirped the sparrow.

‘Mournful, indeed,’ sang the evening breeze.

‘Well, away! There’s a lesson in it for all,’ concluded Flaxius.

* * * * *

_Comment by the Editor._--If there are any readers who would prefer these ballads of Hans Breitmann in the original German English, he or she may find them, and many more quite as good or better--or even worse--in a little book entitled _Hans Breitmann in Germany_, published by T. Fisher Unwin. Of which book, several critics remarked that there was so much German in it as to render it unintelligible, which, as elsewhere remarked, was much like declaring that there is too much Latin in the poems of Virgil or Horace, or, in truth, of Merlinus Coccaius, or the bard who sang the Polemo-Middiana. So reflecting on him who proposed to make a translation of Carlyle’s _Sartor Resartus_ into English, the editor has ventured to clothe these two Breitmann ballads in so much of our current tongue as his humble means permitted.

Which reminds him of a little story.

There was once a French artist who found a picturesque old beggar on the Pont Neuf.

The beggar was striking.

_Il sautait aux yeux_, he leapt to your eyes.

He was seventy years of age.

He had a long white beard.

He was clad in a long, picturesque, ragged gabardine.

A gabardine is a dressing-gown.

For ladies it is a _peignoir_.

Short sentences make long copy.

Copy is paid for by the page.

To return to our sheep.

The beggar held a long, rude staff.

Like Esculapius.

Or a Chinese barber.

The artist was charmed with his appearance.

He asked the beggar to come next day to his studio.

The beggar assented.

Now as he had never had his portrait taken before,

The beggar supposed that he must come in his best.

That is to say _endimanché_, that is to say in Sunday togs.

So he removed his beard,

And appeared in a shabby steel-pen or tail-coat.

With a cane with a glass head,

And his shoes blacked,

And a red waistcoat.

When the artist beheld him,

He exclaimed with horror,

‘_Oh, mon Dieu!_

You are spoiled, you are spoiled!’

Now if this artist had been a Leonardo da Vinci, who could make a beautiful Madonna out of an old man as a model, he would have copied the beggar all the same, seeing the Reality which was in him.

But he did not see it.

[7] ‘Over the pumpkin’ (also the sun-flower) _i.e._ openly, these being very visible objects.

[8] Jack-fool.

FLAXIUS IN INDIA

THE STORY OF SAKHARA AND ARJUN, WITH THE WONDERFUL TRANSMIGRATIONS OF DSCHIM CROW.

‘Gli Indiani e i Persiani e in generale tutti gli Orientali ammettevano la Metempsicosi come un dogma particolare al quale erano molto affezionati.’

_Gran Dizionario Infernale da Francesco Pique._

NOW it befel once in the golden time, meaning the good-olden or aureate age, which Hesiod and other poets write of, that Flaxius having seen the dragon world, with all its thousand brazen eyes of glittering cities, and looked bravely at them, and read their meaning, found himself in north-western India, in a then famous city called Chotahazripoora. As for the date, it was somewhere the other side of the year One, which is tolerably accurate chronology for Indian records, which were not very well kept by the Sanskrit Civil Service about that time, or any other, with all their wisdom.

And in this particular _poora_, which is in Greek and Gypsy _foros_, whence _forum_, so called from its great wealth, Flaxius became a great man at court, because he despised riches and was a sage, being, of course, greatly honoured and admired and coloured up as an incongruity, and inexpensive at that. And at last the king consulted with him on all matters, social, familiar, or financial, from taxing a province down to buying a new bayadere. In all of which the Immortal displayed singular sagacity and exquisite good taste.

This monarch had, of course, three sons, by which ye may know that I have started on a fairy tale, the head of which is, as usual, the part which comes last, or the youngest. This third became very dear to Flaxius, because he was a brave, frank, innocent, clever youth, worth looking after and loving. And his name was Arjūn.

Now in the gust and whirlwind, and flit and flow of hailstones and rain-drops which make the pelting incidents of court-life, there being little rest or peace in it, Flaxius began to note that a cloud was coming over the soul of Arjūn, and from this ante-chamber of the dream, he soon passed to the bright hall of perception, that his pupil or friend was in love. And ere long the expected confidence came in these words:

‘Thou knowest, O wise among men, that I have never set my heart on love of woman. For the article in its best quality has ever been so exceeding cheap and abundant about our court, and I have had so freely my pick and choice of _primeurs_, that it was unto me only as my meals. Moreover, all the books which I have studied have taught me that the preferring one girl to another is mere idle fancy, even as tastes in food are simply the result of caprice and custom, and that female nature is all, in fact, folly. This I did steadfastly believe, till it chanced that one day in the woods far beyond the city I met with a maid of exceeding beauty, who, as I found by conversation, was so witty and wise, original and good, that it soon appeared to me that I had all along been in ignorance and error as to what Woman might be. And, in short, all my philosophy went to the Seven Hells, where it may remain for ever for all I care, being in love through and through--dyed in the grain.

‘And this girl, Sakhára, is the daughter of a Brahmin of kingly race, but exceeding poor. So when I told my father of my love----’

‘Why then,’ interposed Flaxius,

‘“Fire flashed from the monarch’s eyes, And high his wrath began to rise.”’

‘Yea,’ replied Arjūn, ‘and, in short, he swore by the Cow that I should never marry her unless it were shown to be the special will of the gods.’

‘H’m!’ observed Flaxius, ‘I have noticed that the special will of the gods is generally manifest in anything to which we agree, and could the king be brought to assent to this, in any way, the divine sanction would soon be perceptible. Therefore, my son, fret not thy soul, but go and amuse thyself, for in love-troubles, as in all others, he who is least uneasy comes the soonest to ease. I will see what can be done.’

It came to pass that the next day, Flaxius, while walking in the forest and listening to the chattering of the holy monkeys in the trees o’erhead--whose conversation was, however, of a most frivolous and unholy character--met with a man who was evidently a poor devil on general principles, but who appeared to be a decidedly superior person, when one investigated the particulars, for he had a very intelligent face of dark hue, a keen, shrewd eye, and a goodly mien. He was clad in black.

‘I beg you, great sir,’ he said to Flaxius, ‘to take heed how you speak to me or even look at me or let my shadow fall on you, else you will find yourself in for hell or a long penance, for I am a pariah, and my name is Dschim Crow.’

‘And I,’ replied Flaxius, ‘not being a fool, and having travelled in many lands, and seen the vanity of all things human, would probably be ranked with you, could the Brahmins read my soul.’

‘Ay,’ answered the outcast, ‘’tis one of the precepts of our philosophy, that mankind are all divisible into the found-out and the not-found-out.’

‘A good saying,’ replied Flaxius. ‘Have ye then a philosophy?’

‘We are the only true philosophers,’ answered the Pariah, ‘for ours is the sole system that teaches the error of excess of wisdom, law, and goodness. As is shown by our literature, which comprises every work of true humour ever written in India.’

‘Better and better,’ said Flaxius; ‘and I believe you the more, because such a literature is the natural result of such a principle. And what are some of the works to which you refer?’

‘There is, firstly,’ answered the outlaw, ‘the story of “Vikram and the Vampire,” in which the _Baital_ teaches the sage in a series of twenty-five lessons how to show himself a fool just two dozen times, by being over wise.

‘Secondly, the “Life of the Gūrū Simple,” by which we may learn that a good man may be a great goose.

‘Thirdly, the “Marvellous Tale,” showing how Boorum-bunder Pop, the Buddhist, broke open a poultry-house and stole all the fowls, by virtue of the holy fourteen formulas of Sakhya Mūni.

‘Fourthly, how Ah-Sin the Chinese sage, who had been converted to the true religion, and came to the Gate of Nirvana, descended to earth, and meeting Brahma on a pilgrimage in human form, cheated him out of all his money at cards.

‘Fifthly, how the holy Brahmin, Baro Chor, pilfered from the divine cow of Waschischta a pint of the milk of experience, from which he churned the butter of wisdom, which is in twenty thousand _slokas_ or verses.

‘_Parraco tute_,’ replied Flaxius in Prakrit, ‘I had rather thou wouldst read it than I. Any more?’

‘There is the divine legend how Krishna, the chastest of the gods, made love, in extreme, to twenty thousand milk-maids all at once, with the moral of “Be virtuous and you will be happy.” After which he was always blue in the face.’

‘Truly, I do not wonder at it,’ remarked Flaxius. ‘I have seen a man look blue for less than that. Any more?’

‘Well there is the Thieves’ Bible teaching the divine worship of Kàli, which they study devoutly in spirit and in truth, all the more because it teaches them how to commit burglary, personal theft, and murder.

‘And with this the _Bāro Lil_, or Scripture of the Trablūs Dom, who call themselves the Rom or Romany, teaching the sanctity of stealing shirts from clothes-lines, the piety of pilfering hens, the holy art of passing off bad horses for good, and the divineness of telling fortunes.’

‘A goodly library!’ remarked Flaxius. ‘Dost thou know aught of magic?’

‘I have picked up a few tricks,’ replied the Pariah, ‘which I learned from a Mahatma, such as the three card game, thimble-rig, floating in the air, putting cigarettes under cushions, and sending letters from a distance. My one great game is, however, to turn a girl into a tree, or the reverse. But with all my fine accomplishments I could never conjure up my wife or a dinner, and I need a meal now, most deucedly.’

‘Friend,’ said Flaxius, ‘I will conjure thee up a good dinner and teach thee the art of doing it, if thou wilt impart to me those tricks of thine.’

‘By Yamen!’ cried the jovial Bohemian, ‘thou art generous, for I deem thy secret worth forty of mine any day. He who hath a woman may have nothing to eat, but devil the place was I ever in where, if I had a bountiful dinner, I could not get a girl to share it with me. By the way,’ he inquired, ‘does this dinner of yours embrace drink--not water, you know, but _tátto pani_ or spirits?’

‘Also that,’ said Flaxius with a smile. ‘Behold!’

There was not far from them a large earthenware pot, left by some traveller. Flaxius bade the Outcast dig a hole in the ground. In this the pot, upside down, was half-buried. Then he chanted in a mystic ancient Indian tongue:

‘Baro duvel dikkamì, Kūshto hāben, well avri! O choro Rom se bokalo, Kekno māss, kek kokalo; Kekno kil, ne kel pā mui: Bitcha leste sari dui, Te tatto pani kater Rom, Om mani padmi hom!’[9] ‘Mighty spirit, look on me! Let a dinner come from thee! Outcast hungers here alone, Hath no meat and ne’er a bone. Cheese nor butter for his mouth, Send to him, I pray thee, both! Also spirits in this hour, O Jewel in the lotus flower!’

And this done, the feast began, for on removing the pot there appeared beneath it a rice curry, surmounted with a fine piece of roast beef, garnished with chillies, two chupattis or wheat-cakes, jaggree sugar and a great flask.

‘Now by the thousand years in hell, which I am to catch for eating that beef,’ exclaimed the Outcast, ‘I call that a good meal. Thank the devil and your lordship--if ye be not one and the same--and for what I am about to devour, make us truly thankful,’ as the tiger said when he ate up the Buddha. _Yeck lav se tacho sā desh_:

‘One word’s as good as ten, Leather away--Amen!’

‘And _toddy_--by all the goblins!’ he exclaimed as he sampled the bottle, ‘strong and abundant enough to demoralise an elephant. Verily I can now be clear through to the further end of my ideal of bliss, for, as your lordship knows, _that_ man is a _bachtalo beng_ or lucky devil who knows when he is well off, or as the great Sanskrit poet, Jan Kitz, sings:

‘“It is a flaw, In happiness to see beyond our bourne, It forces us in summer skies to mourn, And spoils the singing of the nightingale.”

‘Therefore let us _not_ see beyond our bourne--at least not till we get there; which, as our great ancestor Cain says in his precepts, is more than most men manage to do.’

‘Was Cain thy ancestor?’ inquired Flaxius. ‘I would fain hear the legend if one there be?’

‘Thou shalt hear it in spirit and in truth,’ replied the Outcast. ‘In the spirit of toddy, and on the truth of a gypsy, know then, what is known to everybody of every language, and in every land, that in the beginning were Cainos and Abelos. And unto them was a sister. And Cainos slew his brother and took his sister to wife. But she, being told that it was wrong, fled from him, and took refuge in the sun, where she dwells to this day. Then Cainos for all his sins was sent to live in the moon, and because it is cold, there he is always bearing thorns to feed the fire. And longing for his sister, he, in the moon, ever pursues her. But others say that when the sun has set and ere the moon has risen, then they meet, which accounts for their love lasting so long, since they do not see too much of one another. But however it be, they are gods of all us wanderers, because they are always wandering over the heavens. And we are their descendants, and therefore under a curse, for which indeed we do not care a curse--when we can get toddy!

‘“When the evening fire is burning, And the women return from town; And the crows to their nests returning, We will drink till the moon goes down:

And merrily sing and prattle, While music rings over the plain; And if there’s enough in the bottle, We’ll drink till she rises again.”