Chapter 6

Upon this one of the twelve remarked: “The mole shunning the light, grovels for the worms under ground, that he may support himself, for he has not eyes that can endure the beam of day, nor feet that are made to run like those of the swift roe; the scaly crab crawls in the mud of the lakes and marshes, loves best to dwell among the roots of the trees and brushwood on the river side, for he lacks fins to swim; and the domestic cock, kept in the poultry-yard, does not venture to fly over the low wall, for he is too timid to trust himself to his wings, like the up-soaring kite. Now if eyes are given for seeing, feet for walking, fins for swimming, and wings for flying, thou wilt not grovel in the earth like a mole, hide in the marsh like an unwieldy crab, or, like the lord of poultry, be content to crow on a dunghill, but thou wilt come forward into the light of day, run, swim, or fly to the clouds, accordingly as nature has endowed thee with her gifts. For an active man is not content with being what he is, but strives to become what he can be. Therefore try to be that which the gods have appointed thee, and then thou wilt be able to judge whether or not the land of Bohemia is worth a field in exchange.”

This serious discourse of the delegate, in which nothing of a jesting nature was to be perceived, and still more the insignia of princely dignity--the purple raiment, the staff of government, and the golden sword, which the ambassadors produced as vouchers and testimonials of their true mission--at last overcame the mistrust of the doubting ploughman. At once his soul became enlightened; and the transporting thought was awakened in him, that the Lady Libussa had divined the feelings of his heart, had perceived his constancy and fidelity, by the aid of her faculty to discover what was hidden, and had determined to reward them in a manner which he would never have hoped for even in a dream. The gift of prophecy promised to him by his oracle came again into his mind, and he reflected that this promise must be accomplished now or never. He quickly seized his hazel staff, set it deep in the field, heaped loose earth about it, as one does when one plants trees, and behold, the staff was immediately decked with buds, and shot forth sprouts and branches covered with leaves and flowers. Two of the verdant boughs faded, and their dry foliage became a sport for the winds, but the third grew with so much the greater strength, and its fruits ripened. The spirit of prophecy then descended on the rapt ploughman, and, opening his lips, he spoke thus:

“Messengers of the Princess Libussa and of the Bohemian people, hear the words of Premislas, the son of Mnatha, the honourable knight, to whom, touched by the spirit of prophecy, the clouds of the future are opened. You call upon the man who was guiding his plough to take the management of your principality before his daily work is finished. Ah, would that the plough had surrounded the field with its furrows as far as the boundary stone, for then Bohemia would have been an independent land for ever! Now that you have too soon disturbed the work of the ploughman, the boundaries of your land will be the portion and inheritance of a neighbour, and your remote posterity will cleave to him in indissoluble union. The three branches of the verdant staff promise your princess three sons. Two of them will fade away as immature shoots, but the third will inherit the throne, and through him will the fruit of later descendants be ripened, until the eagle shall fly over the mountains and nestle in the land, and then fly away to return as unto his own possession. If then the son of the gods[2] shall come forth, who is a friend to the ploughman, and frees him from his slavish chains--then mark him, posterity, for thou wilt have cause to bless thy fate. He, when he has trodden under foot the serpent of superstition, will stretch out his hand towards the increasing moon to pluck it from the heavens, that he himself may illumine the world as a beneficent star.”

The venerable deputation stood in silent reverence, staring at the prophet like so many dunces; it seemed as though a god was speaking in him. But he turned away from the deputies to the companions of his wearisome toil--the two white oxen, loosened them from the yoke, and set them at liberty, upon which they bounded merrily about the grassy field, then visibly faded away, as light clouds melt into air, and finally vanished completely. Premislas now took off his rustic wooden shoes, and went to wash himself in the neighbouring brook. Costly garments were put on him, he girded himself with the sword in knightly fashion, and had the golden spurs fastened. He then sprang upon the white horse which allowed him to mount with docility. As he was just on the point of quitting the estate he had hitherto possessed, he told the deputies to carry after him the wooden shoes, which he had now put off, and preserve them as a testimony that the humblest of the people had once been raised to the highest rank in Bohemia, and as a _memento_ that he and his posterity might not presume upon the rank he had acquired, but, mindful of their origin, might honour and protect the peasant class from which they had sprung. Hence arose the old custom of exhibiting to the kings of Bohemia a pair of shoes on the day of their coronation--a custom which was observed until the race of Premislas became extinct. The hazel itself, which had been planted, grew and bore fruit, spreading its roots widely around, and sending forth new shoots until at last the whole field was turned into a wood of hazel trees, which proved most advantageous to the neighbouring village in whose land this district was included. For, in commemoration of this wonderful planting, the kings of Bohemia granted a charter to this community, that they should never be obliged to contribute more in the way of taxes than one pint of hazel-nuts. This important privilege, according to report, their descendants enjoy to the present day.

Although the horse, which now bore the bridegroom to his fair owner, seemed to outstrip the winds, Premislas made him sometimes feel the golden spurs to accelerate him still more. The speed of the courser, swift as it was, did not appear to him more so than the pace of a tortoise, so anxious was he to look once more on the face of the fair Libussa, whose form, though seven years had elapsed, still floated before him fresh and charming. He now looked forward, not to gaze vainly upon her, as upon a rare anemone in the varied garden of a florist, but to a happy union of victorious love. He thought only of the myrtle crown, which, in the estimation of lovers, stands far above the crown of kings, and if he had weighed dignity and love one against the other, the land of Bohemia without the Lady Libussa would have kicked the beam like a clipped ducat in a money-changer’s balance.

The sun was just setting when the new prince was led in triumph into Vizegrad. The Lady Libussa was in her garden, where she had filled a little basket with ripe plums, when the arrival of her future husband was announced. She approached modestly with all the maidens of her court, received him as a bridegroom bestowed upon her by the gods, and concealed the choice of her heart by an apparent resignation to the will of the invisible powers. The eyes of all the court were directed with great curiosity towards the newcomer, but they saw nothing in him more than a handsome slender young man. As for his external appearance there were several courtiers who could vie with him in their thoughts, and who could not understand why the gods had despised the anti-chamber and had not rather selected from themselves a rosy-cheeked champion instead of the sun-burnt ploughman, as a husband and partner in dominion for the young princess. With Prince Wladomir and the knight Mizisla it was especially obvious that they gave up their claims unwillingly. Hence it was now the care of the princess to justify the work of the gods, and to declare that Squire Premislas made amends for his deficiency on the score of brilliant extraction by his intellect and acuteness. She had caused a noble meal to be prepared, not in the least inferior to that with which the hospitable Queen Dido formerly entertained the pious Eneas. After the cup of welcome had passed readily from mouth to mouth, the gifts of the joy-bestirring Bacchus had inspired cheerfulness and good humour, and part of the night had already past in jest and pastime, she suggested a game at riddles, and because the divination of things concealed was her peculiar forte, she resolved the riddles that were proposed to the satisfaction of all present.

When it was her turn to propose, she called Prince Wladomir, the Knight Mizisla, and Squire Premislas to her, and said: “Now, my friends, set about solving a riddle, which I will propose, that it may be apparent which is the wisest and cleverest among you. I have destined for each of you, out of this basket, a gift of the plums, which I have picked in my garden. One of you shall have half of them and one more, the second shall again have half and one more, and the third shall again have half and three more. Supposing now that the basket is thus emptied, tell me how many plums are in it now.”

The hasty knight, Mizisla, measured the fruit-basket with his eyes--not the sense of the problem with his understanding--and said: “That which can be solved by the sword I will solve readily, but thy riddles, gracious princess, are rather too subtle for me. Nevertheless, in accordance with thy wishes, I will make a venture at random. I guess that if the plums be well counted, they will be found to amount to three score.”

“Thou hast made a mistake, dear knight,” answered the Lady Libussa. “If there were as many more, half as many more, and a third as many more, as the basket contains now and five more added to that, the number would by so much exceed three score as it is now short of it.”

Prince Wladomir calculated slowly and laboriously, as if the post of general controller of the finances were the reward for solving the riddle, and at last gave out five-and-forty as the value of the renowned number. The lady then said:

“If there were a third as many more, half as many more, and a sixth as many more as there are now, there would then be in my basket as much more than forty-five as there now are under that number.”

Although the very commonest hand at figures, would have deciphered the problem without trouble; nevertheless, for a bad calculation the gift of divination is absolutely indispensable, if he would come off with honour, and not appear ridiculous. Now as this gift had been fortunately communicated to the wise Premislas, it cost him neither ingenuity nor exertion to discover the solution of the riddle.

“Intimate associate of the heavenly powers,” he said, “whoever undertakes to discover thy high-soaring and divine meaning, ventures to fly after the eagle, when he hides himself in the clouds. Nevertheless, I will follow thy secret flight as far as the eye, which is illumined by thee, can reach. I decide that the plums thou hast concealed in the basket are thirty in number,--neither more nor less.”

The lady looked at him kindly and said; “Thou hast traced the glimmering spark that lies deep in the ashes, and light gleams upon thee out of mist and darkness; thou hast guessed my riddle.”

She then opened the basket, counted out fifteen plums into Prince Wladomir’s hat with one more, and there remained fourteen. Of these she gave seven to the Knight Mizisla with one more, and six remained in the basket. The half of these she awarded to the wise Premislas, then gave him the three others, and the basket was empty. The whole court was amazed at the arithmetical wisdom of the fair Libussa, and the acuteness of her clever bridegroom. No one could comprehend how human intellect was able on the one hand to bind a common number so enigmatically in words, and on the other to pick out such an ingenious mystery with such perfect confidence. The lady awarded the empty basket to the two knights, who could not obtain her love, as a memorial of a terminated amour. Hence arises the custom, which exists to the present time, of saying that a rejected lover has received a _basket_ from his mistress.[3]

When all was in readiness for the homage, and the nuptials, both these ceremonies were celebrated with great pomp. The Bohemian people had now a duke, and the fair Libussa a husband, both to their heart’s content, and what was most surprising this result was brought about by trickery, which does not generally bear the reputation of being the most skilful negotiator. If one of the two parties had been deceived, certainly it was not the sage Libussa, but the people, as indeed is frequently the case. The land of Bohemia had nominally a duke, but in point of fact the government remained in a female hand as before. Premislas was a perfect pattern of a docile obedient husband, who did not dispute the rule of his wife, either in the household or the state. His thoughts and wishes sympathised as perfectly with her own, as two similarly tuned strings, of which the untouched one spontaneously repeats the sound, which the louder one has uttered. Libussa had not, however, the proud, vain disposition of those ladies who wish to pass for great matches, and are always superciliously reminding the poor wight, whose fortune they think they have made, of his wooden shoes; but she imitated the celebrated Queen of Palmyra, and governed by the superiority of her talents, as Zenobia managed her good-natured Odenatus.

The happy pair lived in the enjoyment of unchanging love, according to the fashion of that time, when the instinct which unites hearts was as firm and durable as the cement and mortar which renders the walls of the old world so firm and indestructible. Duke Premislas now became one of the most doughty knights of his age, and the Bohemian court one of the most brilliant in Germany. A large number of knights and nobles, as well as a great concourse of common people gradually assembled from all parts of the territory. The consequence was, that the court-city became too narrow for the inhabitants, and therefore Libussa called her people in office to her, and ordered them to build a city on the spot where they should find a man who knew how to make the wisest use of teeth at noon. They went out and found at the appointed time a man who was busied in sawing a block asunder. They decided that this industrious person made an incomparably better use of the teeth of his saw at noon than the parasite made of the teeth in his jaws at the table of the great, and they did not doubt that they had found the place which the princess had appointed for the foundation of the new city. They therefore drew the ploughshare round the field to mark the compass of the city wall. On asking the working man what he intended to make out of the piece of wood he was cutting, he answered: “Prah,” which in the Bohemian tongue signifies the threshold of a door. Libussa therefore called the new city Praha, that is Prague, the well-known royal city on the Moldau in Bohemia. The prediction of Premislas concerning his posterity was punctually fulfilled. His wife became mother of three princes, two of whom died in their youth, while the third grew to man’s estate, and from him sprung a brilliant race of kings, who flourished on the Bohemian throne for ages.

[1] A proverbial expression in Germany for a scene of riot, on account of the disturbances that usually took place at Polish elections.

[2] An allusion to the Emperor Joseph II.

[3] The expression “Einen Korb bekommen,” to meet with a refusal, is familiar to every reader of German.

THE CRIMINAL FROM LOST HONOUR.

BY FRIEDRICH SCHILLER.

In the whole history of man there is no chapter more instructive for the heart and mind than the annals of his errors. On the occasion of every great crime a proportionally great force was in motion. If by the pale light of ordinary emotions the play of the desiring faculty is concealed, in the situation of strong passion it becomes the more striking, the more colossal, the more audible, and the acute investigator of humanity, who knows how much may be properly set down to the account of the mechanism of the ordinary freedom of the will, and how far it is allowable to reason by analogy, will be able from this source to gather much fresh experience for his psychology, and to render it applicable to moral life.

The human heart is something so uniform and at the same time so compound! One and the same faculty or desire may play in a thousand forms and directions, may produce a thousand contradictory phenomena, may appear differently mingled in a thousand characters, and a thousand dissimilar characters and actions might be spun out of one kind of inclination, though the particular man, about whom the question was raised, might have no suspicion of such affinity. If, as for the other kingdoms of nature, a Linnæus for the human race were to arise, who could classify according to inclinations and impulses, how great would be the empire, when many a person whose vices are now stifled in a narrow social sphere, and in the close confines of the law, was found in the same order with the monster Borgia.

Considered from this point of view, the usual mode of treating history is open to much objection, and herein, I think, lies the difficulty, owing to which the study of history has always been so unfruitful for civil life. Between the vehement emotions of the man in action, and the quiet mind of the reader, to whom the action is presented, there is such a repelling contrast, such a wide interval, that it is difficult, nay, impossible for the latter, even to suspect a connexion. A gap remains between the subject of the history and the reader which cuts off all possibility of comparison or application, and which, instead of awakening that wholesome alarm, that warns too secure health, merely calls forth the shake of the head denoting suspicion. We regard the unhappy person, who was still a man as much as ourselves, both when he committed the act and when he atoned for it, as a creature of another species, whose blood flows differently from our own, and whose will does not obey the same regulations as our own. His fate teaches us but little, as sympathy is only founded on an obscure consciousness of similar peril, and we are far removed even from the bare suspicion of such similarity. The relation being lost, instruction is lost with it, and history, instead of being a school of cultivation, must rest content with the humble merit of having satisfied our curiosity. If it is to become any thing more and attain its great purpose, it must choose one of these two plans: either the reader must become as warm as the hero, or the hero must become as cold as the reader.

I am aware that many of the best historians, both of ancient and modern times, have adhered to the first method, and have gained the heart of their reader, by a style which carries him along with the subject. But this is an usurpation on the part of the author, and an infringement on the republican freedom of the reading public, which is itself entitled to sit in judgment: it is at the same time a violation of the law of boundaries, since this method belongs exclusively and properly to the orator and the poet. The last method is alone open to the historian.

The hero then must be as cold as the reader or--what comes to the same thing--we must become acquainted with him before he begins to act; we must see him not only perform, but will his action. His thoughts concern us infinitely more than his deeds, and the sources of his thoughts still more than the consequences of his deeds. The soil of Vesuvius has been explored to discover the origin of its eruption; and why is less attention paid to a moral than to a physical phenomenon? Why do we not equally regard the nature and situation of the things which surround a certain man, until the tinder collected within him takes fire? The dreamer, who loves the wonderful is charmed by the singularity and wonder of such a phenomenon; but the friend of truth seeks a mother for these lost children. He seeks her in the unalterable structure of the human soul, and in the variable conditions by which it is influenced from without, and by searching both these he is sure to find her. He is now no more astonished to see the poisonous hemlock thriving in that bed, in every other part of which wholesome herbs are growing, to find wisdom and folly, virtue and vice, together in the same cradle.

Not to mention any of the advantages which psychology derives from such a method of treating history, this method has alone the preference, because it uproots the cruel scorn and proud security with which erect and untempted virtue commonly looks down upon the fallen, because it diffuses the mild spirit of toleration, without which no fugitive can return, no reconciliation between the law and its offender is possible, no infected member of society can escape utter mortification.

Had the criminal of whom I am now about to speak a right to appeal to that spirit of toleration? Was he really lost for the body of the state, without a possibility of redemption? I will not anticipate the reader’s verdict. Our leniency will no more avail him, since he perished by the hand of the executioner, but the dissection of his crime will perhaps instruct humanity, and possibly instruct justice also.

Christian Wolf was the son of an innkeeper in a provincial town (the name of which must be concealed for reasons which will be obvious in the sequel), and, his father being dead, he assisted his mother in the business till his twentieth year. The business was bad, and Wolf had many an idle hour. Even from his school days he was notorious as a loose kind of fellow. Grown up girls complained of his audacity, and the lads of the town reverenced his inventive powers. Nature had neglected his person. A little insignificant figure, curly hair of an unpleasant blackness, a flat nose, and a swollen upper lip, which had been moreover put out of its place by the kick of a horse, gave a repulsiveness to his appearance, which scared all the women away from him, and afforded abundant material for the wit of his comrades.

Obstinately did he endeavour to gain what had been denied him; because he was unpleasant he determined to please. He was sensual, and persuaded himself that he was in love. The girl whom he chose ill-treated him; he had reason to fear his rivals were more fortunate; nevertheless the girl was poor. A heart that was closed to his endearments might possibly open to his presents, but he himself was oppressed by want, and his vain endeavour to produce an effective exterior absorbed the small gains of his miserable business. Too indolent and too ignorant to restore his dilapidated affairs by speculation, too proud, and also too delicate to exchange the condition of master which he had hitherto held, for that of peasant, he saw but one path before him--a path which thousands before and after him have taken with better success--that of stealing honestly. His native town bordered on a wood, which belonged to the sovereign; he turned poacher, and the profits of his depredations were faithfully placed in the hands of his mistress.