Chapter 52

_The_ QUEEN, _breathing heavily, staggers to the door. After a moment's upward glance she opens it. The_ PRINCE OF BAIREUTH _comes in, wrapped in a white cloak_. HOTHAM _follows, carrying a pointed metal helmet, such as belonged to the Prussian uniform of that day. The helmet must not be seen at first_.

WILHELMINE.

What? Whom do I see?

ALL.

The Prince of Baireuth?

QUEEN.

Baronet, what does this mean? Where is the Prince of Wales?

HOTHAM.

Your Majesty, I am all astonishment. I have but just learned that the prince is now on a journey to Scotland.

ALL.

What's that?

QUEEN.

The Prince is not in Berlin?

HOTHAM.

While some trustworthy witnesses insist that the Prince was actually here, others again assert that he returned to England the very moment in which he realized that his patriotic interests--the interests of the cotton industry--could not be reconciled with the inclinations of his heart.

KING.

And what is the Prince of Baireuth doing here?

HOTHAM.

He seeks, as we do, the Prince of Wales, with whom he desires a duel to the death.

[_All exclaim_.]

KING.

A duel? And why?

HOTHAM.

Because this poor Prince of a tiny country does not begrudge the heir to a World-Power his fleet, his army, nor his treasures; but he refuses to yield _one_ treasure to him except at the price of his heart's blood--and that treasure is the hand of Princess Wilhelmine, whom he loves. [_General emotion_.]

KING.

Whom he loves? My daughter's hand? But does the Prince of Baireuth understand sword-craft?

[HOTHAM _takes off the_ PRINCE'S _cloak and places the helmet on his head. The_ PRINCE _stands there in the uniform of a grenadier of the period. His hair is braided into a long pigtail. He stands motionless in a military attitude_.]

KING.

What's this I see? The Prince of Baireuth a grenadier? With--_pigtail--and--sword_--?

HOTHAM.

The equipment of the young recruit of the Glasenapp Regiment. I have the honor to present him to Your Majesty before his departure for Pasewalk.

KING.

A German Prince, who deems it an honor to serve up from the ranks in my army? [_Commands_.] Battalion--left wheel! Battalion--forward march!

[PRINCE _executes manoeuvers and marches to_ WILHELMINE.]

KING.

Halt! [_To_ WILHELMINE] Is the enemy yonder disposed to accept the capitulation on this side?

WILHELMINE.

Until death!

KING.

Entire regiment--right wheel! Forward march--right, left, twenty-one, twenty-two--

[_All three march over to the_ QUEEN _who stands to the left of the room_.]

KING.

Halt!

WILHELMINE AND THE PRINCE (_kneeling at the_ QUEEN'S _feet_).

Mother!

KING.

There was no such order given.

PRINCE.

But it was the hearts' impulse.

HOTHAM (_good-naturedly, whispering to the_ QUEEN).

Your Majesty, won't you correct the mistakes of these two young recruits?

QUEEN.

Out of my sight, you traitor to your Royal House! Arise, Wilhelmine. [_To the_ KING, _hesitating_.] But we still have Austria....

KING.

But Austria hasn't us. The minions--eh, prince! Tomorrow there'll be dismissals--dismissals and pensionings! Well, mother, shall we take him for a son-in-law?

QUEEN.

On the condition that I--that I fix the amount of the dowry.

KING.

And also that you [_embracing the_ QUEEN] remain close to my heart. Now only Friedrich is lacking. And all this is the result of your--your cotton industries! Baronet Hotham? Thanks for this splendid recruit. [_In_ HOTHAM'S _ear, audibly_] How did he sober up so soon?

PRINCE.

I crave your forgiveness Your Majesty--I am still drunk with joy.

KING.

Forgiveness? For your speech, my son? If that which you have said shall one day be written into the book of history, then my old heart is quite content, and has but the wish that they might add: "With his Sword he would be King, but with his Pigtail--merely the first citizen of his State."

* * * * *

GERMAN LYRIC POETRY FROM 1830 to 1848

BY JOHN S. NOLLEN, PH.D.

President of Lake Forest College

The years from 1830 to 1848 were distinctively revolutionary years in Germany, which until then had remained strongly conservative. The spirit of political and social reformation, which had caused the great upheaval of the French Revolution late in the eighteenth century, had made itself felt much more slowly across the Rhine. Even the generous enthusiasm that animated the German people in the War of Liberation against Napoleon in 1813 had ebbed away into disappointment and lethargy when the German princes forgot their pledges of internal reform. The policy of the German and Austrian rulers was dominated by the reactionary Austrian Prime Minister, Prince Metternich, a consistent champion of aristocratic ideas and of the "divine right of Kings." The "Revolution of July," 1830, however, which overthrew the Bourbon dynasty in France, had its counterpart in popular movements that forced the granting of constitutions or other liberal concessions in several German states; and, though the policy of Metternich still remained dominant, the liberal sentiment grew in power until the February revolution of 1848 in Paris inspired similar upheavals in all Germany. Metternich himself was now compelled to retire, Frederick William IV. of Prussia granted his people a constitution, and the other German states seethed with revolt; but the great liberal plan to unify Germany under the leadership of Prussia was nullified by Frederick William's refusal to accept the imperial crown from a democratic assembly.

The lyric poetry of Germany in these years inevitably reflected the liberal sentiment of the time; it is always the radical emotion of any revolutionary period that finds the most effective lyric expression, the conservative state of mind being more characteristically prosaic. For the group of ardent spirits who made themselves the heralds of the new day, one of their number, the novelist and dramatist Karl Gutzkow, found the name "Young Germany." Just as the "Storm and Stress" of 1770 to 1780, and the Romantic movement of the opening nineteenth century, represented a spirit of sharp revolt against the then dominant pseudo-classicism and rationalism, so "Young Germany" reacted passionately against the moonlight sentimentality of the popular romantic poets, as well as against the stupid political conservatism of the time. The aim of the Young Germans was to bring literature down from the clouds into vital contact with the immediate problems of the day. Thus there was developed a body of literature strongly polemic in purpose, quite hostile to the ideals of detachment and disinterested worship of beauty that Goethe and Schiller in their classical period had preached and practised. This literature took the form of fiction, drama, and journalism, as well as of poetry. Indeed, the only important lyric poet of the Young German group was HEINRICH HEINE (1797-1856), who had begun his career with the most intimate poetry of personal confession, in which the simplicity of the folk-song and the nature-feeling of the romanticist are strongly tinged with wit and cynicism. Heine's impatience with German conditions led him to expatriate himself, and from his retreat in Paris to aim venomous shafts of satire at his native land, with its "three dozen masters" and its philistine conservative nightcaps and dumplings. This brilliant poet, with his marvelous mastery of German lyric tones, expressed a wide range of poetic inspiration; but he loved particularly to conceive of himself as an apostle of liberty, an outpost of the revolutionary army, and none so well as he could tip the barb with biting sarcasm and satire. Heine's personality was full of seemingly inconsistent traits. He was both fanciful and rational, serious and flippant, tender and cynical, reverent and impious; and he could be at once a patriot and an alien. He was, to use his own phrase, an "unfrocked romanticist"--at once a brilliant representative of the poetry of self-expression and personal caprice, and an exemplar and prophet of a new ideal, the "holy alliance of poetry with the cause of the nations."

The different attitudes of thoughtful men toward the influences of the time were variously reflected in the work of three leading poets, all older than Heine, who contributed largely to the lyric output of the period. ADELBERT VON CHAMISSO (1781-1835), of aristocratic French descent, and using all the familiar romantic forms and motives, was yet thoroughly democratic and prophetically modern in his unalloyed sympathy with the impoverished victims of the social order. It was something new for German poetry to find inspiration in the wrath of a beggar who cannot pay his dog-tax, the sardonic piety of an old widow reduced to penury by the exactions of the "gracious prince," or the laborious resignation of an aged washerwoman.--The Silesian nobleman JOSEPH VON EICHENDORFF (1788-1857), Prussian officer and civil official, was a consistent conservative in his political attitude, a pious Catholic, and a romanticist in every fibre of his poetic soul. His lyrics are the purest echoes of folk-song and folk-lore, and the simplicity and genuineness of his art give an undying charm to his songs of idyllic meadows and woodlands, post-chaises, carefree wanderers, and lovely maidens in picturesque settings; all suffused with gentle yearning and melting into soft melody. Eichendorff's patriotism was of the traditional type, echoing faintly the battle-hymns of the War of Liberation. For the great liberal movement of the thirties and forties he had neither sympathy nor comprehension.--FRIEDRICH RÜCKERT (1788-1866), endowed with a fatal facility of lyric expression, a virtuoso for whom no _tour-de-force_ was too difficult, lived most of his life aloof from the political and social movements of his time. In his youth his _Sonnets in Armor_ had done sturdy service in the national awakening against Napoleon, but his maturer years were devoted to domestic and academic interests. Every impression of his life, whether deep or fleeting, was material for a poem or a cycle. He handled with consummate skill the odd or complicated metres of eastern and southern lyric forms, and he was most versatile as a translator of foreign poetry, ancient and modern, occidental and oriental. His unusual formal talent and mastery of language were a constant temptation to rapid and superficial versifying; but there are in the vast mass of his production many genuine poems of great beauty.

Two other poets of quite distinctive quality stood aloof from the political interests of the time. The talented Westphalian Catholic poetess ANNETTE VON DROSTE-HÜLSHOFF (1797-1848) has a place apart in her generation, not only for the fine religious poems of her _Christian Year_ (similar in plan to Keble's cycle), but also for her nature-lyrics and songs of common life, which are marked by minute realistic detail and refreshing originality of observation and sentiment. This pious gentlewoman, usually so maidenly in her reserve, nevertheless expressed something of the spirit of emancipation in her quiet protest against the narrow conventional limits of the feminine life. But she would have recoiled with horror from the reckless propaganda for sex-freedom that was a part of the Young German campaign, as she also repudiated the violence of the revolutionists of 1848.--If there is something masculine in Fräulein von Droste's firm and plastic touch, there is something almost feminine in the finely-chiseled lyrics of the Protestant pastor EDUARD MÖRIKE (1804-1875), whose _Poems_ appeared in the same year (1838), and blended the folk-song simplicity and melody of an Eichendorff with the classical form-sense of a Keats. This Suabian country vicar, the youngest member of the group about Uhland, lived in the utmost serenity amid the troubles of revolutionary agitation, devoted to his art, turning the common experiences of every day into forms of beauty, or reviving with charming naïveté the romantic figures of medieval poetry.

We emerge completely from the quietude and piety of these individualists when we come to a group of men who were distinctively political poets. Here we find the direct lyric expression of the revolutionary movement. The first in the field was ANASTASIUS GRÜN (the pen-name of Count Anton von Auersperg, 1806-1876). This Austrian nobleman boldly attacked the reactionary policy of Metternich in his _Saunterings of a Viennese Poet_ (1831); with biting irony he pictures the fate of the Greek patriot Hypsilantes, broken in health by the "hospitality" of Austrian prison-fortresses, or describes the all-powerful minister-of-state enjoying his social triumphs in the palace ball-room, while Austria stands outside the gate vainly pleading for liberty. In another collection entitled _Debris_ (1836) there are whole-hearted protests against the political martyrdom of the best patriots, and the oppressive despotism under which Italy groaned, with which Grün contrasts the blessings of liberty in America.

Anastasius Grün was the forerunner. The period of the real dominance of political poetry began with 1840, when a petty official in a Rhenish village, Nikolaus Becker, electrified Germany with a martial poem, _The German Rhine_, inspired by French threats of war with Prussia and of the conquest of the Rhine territory. The same events inspired Max Schneckenburger's _Wacht am Rhein_, which at the time could not compete in popularity with Becker's poem, but in later years has quite supplanted it as a permanent national song. German officialdom, which had looked askance at all political poetry, easily saw the value to the national defense of such patriotic strains, and now encouraged these national singers with gifts and honors. But political poetry could not be kept within officially recognized bounds. Inevitably it became partisan and revolutionary in character. HEINRICH HOFFMANN (who styled himself VON FALLERS-LEBEN after his birthplace; 1798-1874), one of the most prolific lyric poets of Germany, had the knack of expressing the common feeling in poems that became genuine national songs; the most famous of these, _Deutschland, Deutschland über alles_ (1841), is still sung wherever those who love Germany congregate. But from this expression of the common German tradition Hoffmann went on to espouse the liberal cause, and he had his taste of martyrdom when he lost his professorship at Breslau because of his ironical _Unpolitical Songs_ (1840-42). Hoffmann was essentially an improviser, and sang only too copiously in all the tones and fashions of German verse.

FERDINAND FREILIGRATH (1810-1876) gained immediate fame with the brilliant color and tropical exuberance of his early oriental lyrics, of which the much-declaimed _Lion's Ride_ is an excellent example. But Freiligrath's strongest work was in the field of political poetry. He, too, made sacrifices for the faith that was in him; he gave up a royal pension and twice went into voluntary exile in order to be free to express his liberal sentiments. He began, indeed, with the denial of any partisan bias; but when the Revolution of 1848 broke, no other poet found more daring and eloquent words for the spirit of revolt and of democratic enthusiasm than Freiligrath. And when the war of 1870 again brought new hope of German unity, Freiligrath sang in stirring measures this national awakening.

GEORG HERWEGH (1817-1875), also driven into exile by his opposition to the government, created a sensation with his _Poems of the Living_ (1841), which in ringing refrains incited to revolutionary action. But when the deed followed the word, and Herwegh led an invading column of laborers into Baden in 1848, he lacked the courage of the martyr and fled from the peril of death. _GOTTFRIED KINKEL_ (1815-1882) also took part in the insurrection in Baden, was captured, and condemned to life imprisonment, but escaped with the aid of Carl Schurz in 1850. FRANZ DINGELSTEDT (1814-1881), on the other hand, found his sarcastic _Songs of a Political Night-Watchman_ (1842) no bar to appointment as director of the theatres of Munich, Weimar and Vienna.

While the poets of the revolution were busily at work, the conservatives were not altogether voiceless; nor were the notes of the romantic lyric silenced. Indeed, men like Hoffmann, Herwegh, and Kinkel could not deny the strong influence of the romantic motives and tones upon much of their best poetry. One lyrist greater than any of them was dominated by the romantic tradition--an Austrian nobleman of mingled German, Slavonic and Hungarian blood, NIKOLAUS LENAU (the pen-name of Nikolaus Franz Niembsch Edler von Strehlenau, 1802-1850). A gifted musician, Lenau was also a master of the melody of words, and his nature-feeling was unusually deep and true. Abnormally proud, self-centred and sensitive as he was, Lenau was born to unhappiness and disillusionment; his journey to America, begun with the most generous anticipations, ended in homesickness and bitter disappointment. Before he had reached middle life, his genius went out in the darkness of insanity. The picturesque and the tragic fascinated Lenau; he could sing with genuine sympathy the fate of dismembered Poland, or the lawless freedom of Hungarian rebels and gipsies; but for the great political movements of the day he had little regard. In the melodious interpretation of nature in sad and quiet moods he had no rival.

Very different was the wholesome and chivalrous nature of the young Moravian Count MORITZ VON STRACHWITZ (1822-1847), whose ballads are unmatched in German literature for spirit and fire. Strachwitz despised the democratic agitation of the revolutionists, and sang with fine enthusiasm the coming of the strong man, who, after all the intrigues of the demagogues, like another Alexander should cut the Gordian knot with the sword.

With EMANUEL GEIBEL (1815-1884) we come to the voice of fair compromise between the extremes. Geibel was a conservative liberal, honestly patriotic without partisanship. Thus his _Twelve Sonnets for Schleswig-Holstein_ (1846) were broadly German in inspiration, and his love of liberty was matched by his aristocratic hatred of the mob. Geibel succeeded in once more gaining the widest popularity, in days filled with partisan clamor, for the pure lyric of romantic inspiration. He was in a true sense the poet-laureate of his generation. Lacking in real originality, he was yet sincere in the expression of his emotion, and his faultless form clothed the utterance of a soul of rare purity and nobility.

As in the days after the War of Liberation, so in the years following the revolutionary movements of 1848, the generous hopes of the people seemed doomed to perish in weariness and disappointment, and the voice of democratic poetry was silenced. In the reaction that followed the intoxication of liberal enthusiasm, with the failure of the attempt to unify Germany under Prussian leadership, the German lands relapsed into dull acquiescence in the old regime. But the seed of the new day had been sown, and the harvest came in due time. Strachwitz's intuition was justified; the strong man did appear, in the person of Bismarck, and the "Gordian knot" was cut with the sword of the war of 1870. But the liberal dream of 1848 was realized, also, in the creation of a unified and powerful German Empire on a constitutional basis.

* * * * *

ANASTASIUS GRÜN

A SALON SCENE[14] (1831)

Evening: In the festive halls the light of many candles gleams, Shedding from the mirrors' crystal thousand-fold reflected beams. In the sea of light are gliding, with a stately, solemn air, Honored, venerable matrons, ladies young and very fair.

And among them wander slowly, clad in festive garments grand, Here the valiant sons of battle, there the rulers of the land. But on one that I see moving every eye is fixed with fear-- Few indeed among the chosen have the courage to draw near.

He it is by whose firm guidance Austrians' fortunes rise or sink, He who in the Princes' Congress for them all must act and think. But behold him now! How gracious, courteous, gentle he's to all, And how modest, unassuming, and how kind to great and small!

In the light his orders sparkle with a faint and careless grace, But a friendly, gentle smile is always playing on his face When he plucks the ruddy rose leaves that some rounded bosom wears, Or when, like to withered blossoms, kingdoms he asunder tears.

Equally enchanting is it, when he praises golden curls, Or when, from anointed heads, the royal crowns away he hurls. Yes, methinks 'tis heavenly rapture, which delights the happy man Whom his words to Elba's fastness or to Munkacs' prison ban.

Could all Europe now but see him, so engaging, so gallant, How the ladies, young and old, his winning smiles delight, enchant; How the church's pious clergy, and the doughty men of war, And the state's distinguished servants by his grace enraptured are.

Man of state and man of counsel, since you're in a mood so kind, Since you're showing to all present such a gracious frame of mind, See, without, a needy client standing waiting at your door Whom the slightest sign of favor will make happy evermore.

And you do not need to fear him; he's intelligent and fair; Hidden 'neath his homely garments, knife nor dagger does he wear. 'Tis the Austrian people, open, honest, courteous as can be. See, they're pleading: "May we ask you for the freedom to be free?"

* * * * *

NIKOLAUS LENAU

PRAYER[15] (1832)

Eye of darkness, dim dominioned, Stay, enchant me with thy might, Earnest, gentle, dreamy-pinioned, Sweet, unfathomable night.

With magician's mantle cover All this day-world from my sight, That for aye thy form may hover O'er my being, lovely night.

* * * * *

SEDGE SONGS[16] (1832)

I

In the west the sun departing Leaves the weary day asleep, And the willows trail their streamers In these waters still and deep.

Flow, my bitter tears, flow ever; All I love I leave behind; Sadly whisper here the willows, And the reed shakes in the wind.

Into my deep lonely sufferings Tenderly you shine afar, As athwart these reeds and rushes Trembles soft yon evening star.

II

Oft at eve I love to saunter Where the sedge sighs drearily, By entangled hidden footpaths, Love! and then I think of thee.

When the woods gloom dark and darker, Sedges in the night-wind moan, Then a faint mysterious wailing Bids me weep, still weep alone.

And methinks I hear it wafted, Thy sweet voice, remote yet clear, Till thy song, descending slowly, Sinks into the silent mere.

III

Angry sunset sky, Thunder-clouds o'erhead, Every breeze doth fly, Sultry air and dead.

From the lurid storm Pallid lightnings break, Their swift transient form Flashes through the lake.

And I seem to see Thyself, wondrous nigh-- Streaming wild and free Thy long tresses fly.

* * * * *

SONGS BY THE LAKE[17] (1832)

I

In the sky the sun is failing, And the weary day would sleep, Here the willow fronds are trailing In the water still and deep.

From my darling I must sever: Stream, oh tears, stream forth amain! In the breeze the rushes quiver And the willow sighs in pain.

On my soul in silence grieving Mild thou gleamest from afar, As through rushes interweaving Gleams the mirrored evening star.

IV

Sunset dull and drear; Dark the clouds drive past; Sultry, full of fear, All the winds fly fast.

Through the sky's wild rack Shoots the lightning pale; O'er the waters black Burns its flickering trail.

In the vivid glare Half I see thy form, And thy streaming hair Flutters in the storm.

V

On the lake as it reposes Dwells the moon with glow serene Interweaving pallid roses With the rushes' crown of green.

Stags from out the hillside bushes Gaze aloft into the night, Waterfowl amid the rushes Vaguely stir with flutterings light

Down my tear-dim glance I bend now, While through all my soul a rare Thrill of thought toward thee doth tend now Like an ecstasy of prayer.

* * * * *

THE POSTILION[18] (1833)

Passing lovely was the night, Silver clouds flew o'er us, Spring, methought, with splendor dight Led the happy chorus.

Sleep-entranced lay wood and dale, Empty now each by-way; No one but the moonlight pale Roamed upon the highway.

Breezes wandering in the gloom Soft their footsteps numbered Through Dame Nature's sleeping-room Where her children slumbered.

Timidly the brook stole by, While the beds of blossom Breathed their perfume joyously On the still night's bosom.

My postilion, heedless all, Cracked his whip most gaily, And his merry trumpet-call Rang o'er hill and valley.

Hoofs beat steadily the while, As the horses gamboled, And along the shady aisle Spiritedly rambled.

Grove and meadow gliding past Vanished at a glimmer: Peaceful towns were gone as fast, Like to dreams that shimmer.

Midway in the Maytide trance Tombs were shining whitely; 'Twas the churchyard met our glance-- None might view it lightly.

Close against the mountain braced Ran the long white wall there, And the cross, in sorrow placed, Silent rose o'er all there.

Jehu straight, his humor spent, Left his tuneful courses; On the cross his gaze he bent Then pulled up his horses.

"Here's where horse and coach must wait-- You may think it odd, sir:-- But up yonder, lies my mate Underneath the sod, sir.

"Better lad was never born-- (Sir 'twas God's own pity!) No one else could blow the horn Half as shrill and pretty.

"So I stop beside the wall Every time I pass here, And I blow his favorite call To him under grass here."

Toward the churchyard then he blew One call after other, That they might go ringing through To his sleeping brother.

From the cliff each lively note Echoing resounded, As it were the dead man's throat Answering strains had sounded.

On we went through field and hedge, Loosened bridles jingling; Long that echo from the ledge In my ear kept tingling.

* * * * *

TO THE BELOVED FROM AFAR[19] (1838)

His sweet rose here oversea I must gather sadly; Which, beloved, unto thee I would bring how gladly!

But alas! if o'er the foam I this flower should carry, It would fade ere I could come; Roses may not tarry.

Farther let no mortal fare Who would be a wooer, Than unwithered he may bear Blushing roses to her,

Or than nightingale may fly For her nesting grasses, Or than with the west wind's sigh Her soft warbling passes.

* * * * *

THE THREE GIPSIES[20]

Three gipsy men I saw one day Stretched out on the grass together, As wearily o'er the sandy way My wagon brushed the heather.

The first of the three was fiddling there In the glow of evening pallid, Playing a wild and passionate air, The tune of some gipsy ballad.

From the second's pipe the smoke-wreaths curled, He watched them melt at his leisure. So full of content, it seemed the world Had naught to add to his pleasure.

And what of the third?--He was fast asleep, His harp to a bough confided; The breezes across the strings did sweep, A dream o'er his heart-strings glided.

The garb of all was worn and frayed, With tatters grotesquely mended; But flouting the world, and undismayed, The three with fate contended.

They showed me how, by three-fold scoff, When cares of life perplex us, To smoke, or sleep, or fiddle them off, And scorn the ills that vex us.

I passed them, but my gaze for long Dwelt on the trio surly-- Their dark bronze features sharp and strong, Their loose hair black and curly.

* * * * *

MY HEART[21] (1844)

Sleepless night, the rushing rain, While my heart with ceaseless pain Hears the mournful past subsiding Or the uncertain future striding.

Heart, 'tis fatal thus to harken, Let not fear thy courage darken, Though the past be all regretting And the future helpless fretting.

Onward, let what's mortal die. Is the storm near, beat thou high. Who came safe o'er Galilee Makes the voyage now in thee.

* * * * *

EDUARD MÖRIKE

AN ERROR CHANCED[22] (1824)

An error chanced in the moonlight garden Of a once inviolate love. Shuddering I came on an outworn deceit, And with sorrowing look, yet cruel, Bade I the slender Enchanting maiden Leave me and wander far. Alas! her lofty forehead Was bowed, for she loved me well; Yet did she go in silence Into the dim gray World outside.

Sick since then, Wounded and woeful heart! Never shall it be whole.

Meseems that, spun of the air, a thread of magic Binds her yet to me, an unrestful bond; It draws, it draws me faint with love toward her. Might it yet be some day that on my threshold I should find her, as erst, in the morning twilight, Her traveler's bundle beside her, And her eye true-heartedly looking up to me, Saying, "See, I've come back, Back once more from the lonely world!"

* * * * *

A SONG FOR TWO IN THE NIGHT[23] (1825)

_She_. How soft the night wind strokes the meadow grasses And, breathing music, through the woodland passes! Now that the upstart day is dumb, One hears from the still earth a whispering throng Of forces animate, with murmured song Joining the zephyrs' well-attunèd hum.

_He_. I catch the tone from wondrous voices brimming, Which sensuous on the warm wind drifts to me, While, streaked with misty light uncertainly, The very heavens in the glow are swimming.

_She_. The air like woven fabric seems to wave, Then more transparent and more lustrous groweth; Meantime a muted melody outgoeth From happy fairies in their purple cave. To sphere-wrought harmony Sing they, and busily The thread upon their silver spindles floweth.

_He_. Oh lovely night! how effortless and free O'er samite black-though green by day--thou movest! And to the whirring music that thou lovest Thy foot advances imperceptibly. Thus hour by hour thy step doth measure-- In trancèd self-forgetful pleasure Thou'rt rapt; creation's soul is rapt with thee!

* * * * *

EARLY AWAY[24] (1828)

The morning frost shines gray Along the misty field Beneath the pallid way Of early dawn revealed.

Amid the glow one sees The day-star disappear; Yet o'er the western trees The moon is shining clear.

So, too, I send my glance On distant scenes to dwell; I see in torturing trance The night of our farewell.

Blue eyes, a lake of bliss, Swim dark before my sight, Thy breath, I feel, thy kiss; I hear thy whispering light.

My cheek upon thy breast The streaming tears bedew, Till, purple-black, is cast A veil across my view.

The sun comes out; he glows, And straight my dreams depart, While from the cliffs he throws A chill across my heart.

* * * * *

THE FORSAKEN MAIDEN[25] (1829)

Early when cocks do crow Ere the stars dwindle, Down to the hearth I go, Fire must I kindle.

Fair leap the flames on high, Sparks they whirl drunken; I watch them listlessly In sorrow sunken.

Sudden it comes to me, Youth so fair seeming, That all the night of thee I have been dreaming.

Tears then on tears do run For my false lover; Thus has the day begun-- Would it were over!

* * * * *

WEYLA'S SONG[26] (1831)

Thou art Orplede, my land Remotely gleaming; The mist arises from thy sun-bright strand To where the faces of the gods are beaming.

Primeval rivers spring renewed Thy silver girdle weaving, child! Before the godhead bow subdued Kings, thy worshipers and watchers mild.

* * * * *

SECLUSION[27] (1832)

Let, oh world, ah let me be! Tempt me not with gifts of pleasure. Leave alone this heart to treasure All its joy, its misery.

What my grief I can not say, 'Tis a strange, a wistful sorrow; Yet through tears at every morrow I behold the light of day.

When my weary soul finds rest Oft a beam of rapture brightens All the gloom of cloud, and lightens This oppression in my breast.

Let, oh world, all, let me be! Tempt me not with gifts of pleasure. Leave alone this heart to treasure All its joy, its misery.

* * * * *

THE SOLDIER'S BETROTHED[28] (1837)

Oh dear, if the king only knew How brave is my sweetheart, how true! He would give his heart's blood for the king, But for me he would do the same thing.

My love has no ribbon or star, No cross such as gentlemen wear, A gen'ral he'll never become; If only they'd leave him at home!

For stars there are three shining bright O'er the Church of St. Mary each night; We are bound by a rose-woven band, And a house-cross is always at hand.

* * * * *

THE OLD WEATHERCOCK: AN IDYLL[29] (1840, 1852)

At Cleversulzbach in the Underland A hundred and thirteen years did I stand Up on the tower in wind and rain, An ornament and a weathervane. Through night and tempest gazing down, Like a good old cock I watched the town. The lightning oft my form has grazed, The frost my scarlet comb o'erglazed, And many a warm long summer's day, In times when all seek shade who may, The scorching sun with rage unslaked My golden body well has baked. So in my age all black I'd grown, My beauteous glint and gleam was gone, Till I at length, despised by all, Was lifted from my pedestal. Ah well! 'tis thus we run our race, Another now must have my place. Go strut, and preen, but don't forget What court the wind will pay you yet!

Farewell, sweet landscape, mount and dell! Vineyard and forest, fare ye well! Belovèd tower, the roof's high ridge, Churchyard and streamlet with its bridge; Oh fountain, where the cattle throng And sheep come trooping all day long, With Hans to urge them on their way. And Eva on the piebald gray! Ye storks and swallows with your clatter, And sparrows, how I'll miss your chatter! For every bit of dirt seems dear Which o'er my form you used to smear. Goodby, my worthy friend the pastor, And you, poor driveling old schoolmaster. 'Tis o'er, what cheered my heart so long. The sound of organ, bells and song.

So from my, lofty perch I crew, And would have sung much longer too, When came a crooked devil's minion, The slater 'twas in my opinion. Who after many a knock and shake Detached me wholly from my stake. My poor old heart was broke at last When from the roof he pulled me past The bells which from their station glared And on my fate in wonder stared, But vexed themselves no more about me, Thinking they'd hang as well without me.

Then to the scrap-heap I was brought, For twopence by the blacksmith bought, Which as he paid he said 'twas wonder How much folk wanted for such plunder. And there at noon of that same day In grief before his hut I lay. The time being May, a little tree Shed snow-white blossoms over me, While other chickens by the dozen Unheeding cackled round their cousin. 'Twas then the pastor happened by, Spoke to the smith, then smiling, "Hi! And have you come to this, poor cock A strange bird, Andrew, for your flock! He'll hardly do to broil or roast; For me though, I may fairly boast Things must go hard if I've no place For old church servants in hard case. Bring him along then speedily And drink a glass of wine with me."

The sooty lout with quick assent Laughed, picked me up, and off we went. A little more, and from my throat Toward heaven I'd sent a joyous note. Within the manse the strange new guest Astounded all from most to least; But soon each face, before afraid, The glowing light of joy displayed. Wife, maids and menfolks, girls and boys Surrounded with a seven-fold noise The giant rooster in the hall, Welcoming, looking, handling all. The man of God with jealous care Took me himself and climbed the stair To his own study, while the pack Came stumbling after at his back.

Within these walls is peace enshrined! Entering, we left the world behind. I seemed to breathe a magic air, Essence of books and learning rare, Geranium scent and mignonette, And faint tobacco lingering yet. (To me of course all this was new.) An ancient stove I noticed, too, In the left corner in full view. Quite like a tower its bulk was raised Until its peak the ceiling grazed, With pillared strength and flowery grace, O most delightful resting-place! On the top wreath as on a mast The blacksmith set me firm and fast.

Behold my stove with reverent eyes! Cathedral-like its noble size; With store of pictures overwrought, And rhymes that tell of pious thought. Of such I learned full many a word, While the old stove from out its hoard Would draw them forth for young and old, When the snow fell and winds blew cold. Here you may see where on the tile Stands Bishop Hatto's towered isle, While rats and mice on every side Swim through the Rhine's opposing tide. The armed grooms in vain wage war,

The host of tails grows more and more, Till thousands ranged in close array Leap from the walls on those at bay And seize the bishop in his room: An awful death is now his doom; Devoured straightway shall he be To pay the price of perjury. --There too Belshazzar's banquet shines, Voluptuous women, costly wines; But in the amazèd sight of all The dread hand writes upon the wall. --Lastly the pictures represent How Sarah listens in the tent While God Almighty, come to earth, Foretells to Abraham the birth Of Isaac and his seed thereafter. Sarah cannot restrain her laughter, Since both are well advanced in years. God asks when he the laughter hears: "Doth Sarah laugh then at God's will, And doubt if this he may fulfil?" Her indiscretion to recall She says, "I did not laugh at all." Which commonly would be a lie; But God prefers to pass it by, Since 'tis not done with malice dark, And she's a lady patriarch.

Now that I'm here, I think with reason That winter is the fairest season How smooth the daily current flows To ev'ry week's belovèd close! --Just about nine on Friday night, Sole by the lamp's reposeful light My master with a mind perplexed Sets out to choose his Sunday text. Before the stove a while he stands, Walks to and fro with twisted hands, And vainly struggles to determine The theme on which to thread his sermon. Now and again amid his doubt He lifts the window and looks out. --Oh cooling surge of starlit air, Pour on my brow your tide so rare! I see where Verrenberg doth glimmer, And Shepherds' Knoll with snows a-shimmer. He sits him down to write at last, Dips pen and makes the A and O, Which o'er his "Preface" always go. I meanwhile from my post on high Ne'er from my master turn an eye, Look at him now, with far-off gaze Pondering, testing every phrase; The snuffer once he seizes quick And cleans of soot the flaming wick; Then oft in deep abstraction, he Murmurs a sentence audibly, Which I with outstretched bill peck up And fill with lore my eager crop. So do we come by smooth gradation To where begins the "Application." "Eleven!" comes the watchman's shout. My master hears and turns about. "Bedtime!" He rises, takes the light, Nor ever hears my shrill "good-night!" Alone in darkness then I'd be; That has no terrors, though, for me. Behind the wainscot sharply picking I hear a while the death-clock ticking, I hear the marten vainly scoop The earth around the chicken-coop. Along the eaves the night-wind brushes, And through far trees the tempest rushes--

Bird Wood's the name that forest bears, Where rude old Winter raves and tears. Now splits a beech with such a crack That all the valleys echo it back. --My goodness! when these sounds I hear I'm glad a pious stove's so near, Which warms you so the long hours through That night seems fraught with blessings too. --Just now I well might feel afraid, When thieves and murderers ply their trade; 'Tis lucky, faith, for those who are Secured from harm by bolt and bar. How could I call so men would hear me If some one raised a ladder near me? When thoughts like this attack my brain The sweat runs down my back like rain. At two, thank God! again at three, A cock-crow rises clear and free, And with the morning bell at five My whole heart, now once more alive, High in my breast with rapture springs, When finally the watchman sings "Arise, good friends, for Jesus' sake, For bright and fair the day doth break."

Soon after this, an hour at most, My spurs are growing stiff with frost When in comes Lisa, hums some snatches, And rakes the fire until it catches. Then from below, quite savory too, I scent the steam of onion stew. At length my master enters gay, Fresh for the business of the day. On Saturday a worthy priest Should keep his room, his house at least; Not visit or distract his brain, Turning his thoughts to things profane. My master was not tempted so, But once--don't let it out, you know-- He squandered all his precious wits Making a titmouse trap for Fritz-- Right here, and talked and had a smoke; To me, I'll own, it seemed a joke.

The blessed Sabbath now is here. The church-bells call both far and near, The organ sounds so loud to me I think I'm in the sacristy. There's not a soul in all the house; I hear a fly, and then a mouse. The sunlight now the window reaches And through the cactus stems it stretches, Fain o'er the walnut desk to glide, Some ancient cabinet-maker's pride. There it beholds with searching looks Concordances and children's books, On wafer-box and seal it dances And lights the inkwell with its glances; Across the sand it strikes its wedge, Is cut upon the penknife's edge, Across the armchair freely roams, Then to the bookcase with its tomes. There clad in parchment and in leather The Suabian Fathers stand together: Andrea, Bengel, Riegers two, And Oetinger are well in view. The sun each golden name reads o'er And with a kiss he gilds yet more. As Hiller's "Harp" his fingers touch-- Hark! does it ring? It lacks not much.

With that a spider slim and small Begins upon my frame to crawl, And, never asking my goodwill, Suspends his web from neck to bill. I don't disturb myself a whit, Just wait and watch him for a bit. For him it is a lucky hap That I'm disposed to take a nap.-- But tell me now if anywhere An old church cock might better fare.

A twinge of longing now and then Will vex, no doubt, the happiest men. In summer I could wish outside Upon the dove-cote roof to bide, With just beneath the garden bright And stretch of greensward too in sight. Or else again in winter time, When, as today, the weather's prime:-- Now I've begun, I'll say it out We've got a sleigh here, staunch and stout, All colored, yellow, black and green; Just freshly painted, neat and clean; And on the dashboard proudly strutting A strange, new-fangled fowl is sitting: Now if they'd have me fixed up right-- The whole expense would be but slight-- I'd stand there quite as well as he And none need feel ashamed of me! --Fool! I reply, accept your fate, And be not so immoderate. Perhaps 'twould suit your high behest If some one, for a common jest, Would take you, stove and all, away And set you up there on the sleigh, With all the family round you too: Man, woman, child--the whole blest crew! Old image, what! so shameless yet, And prone on gauds your mind to set? Think on your latter end at last! Your hundredth year's already past.

* * * * *

THINK OF IT, MY SOUL![30] (1852)

Somewhere a pine is green, Just where who knoweth, And in a garth unseen A rose-tree bloweth. These are ordained for thee-- Think, oh soul, fixedly-- Over thy grave to be; Swift the time floweth.

Two black steeds on the down Briskly are faring, Or on their way to town Canter uncaring. These may with heavy tread Slowly convey the dead E'en ere the shoes be shed They now are wearing.

* * * * *

ERINNA TO SAPPHO[31] (1863)

(Erinna was a Greek poetess, a friend and pupil of Sappho of Lesbos. She died at the age of nineteen.)

"Many the paths to Hades," an ancient proverb Tells us, "and one of them thou thyself shalt follow, Doubt not!" My sweetest Sappho, who can doubt it? Tells not each day the old tale? Yet the foreboding word in a youthful bosom Rankles not, as a fisher bred by the seashore, Deafened by use, perceives the breaker's thunder no more. --Strangely, however, today my heart misgave me. Attend: Sunny the glow of morn-tide, pouring Through the trees of my well-walled garden, Roused the slugabed (so of late thou calledst Erinna) Early up from her sultry couch. Full was my soul of quiet, although my blood beat Quick with uncertain waves o'er the thin cheek's pallor. Then, as I loosed the plaits of my shining tresses, Parting with nard-moist comb above my forehead The veil of hair--in the glass my own glance met me. Eyes, strange eyes, I said, what will ye? Spirit of me, that within there dwelled securely as yet, Occultly wed to my living senses-- Demon-like, half smiling thy solemn message, Thou dost nod to me, Death presaging! --Ha! all at once like lightning a thrill went through me, Or as a deadly arrow with sable feathers Whizzing had grazed my temples, So that, with hands pressed over my face, a long time Dumb-struck I sat, while my thought reeled at the frightful abyss.

Tearless at first I pondered, Weighing the terror of Death; Till I bethought me of thee, my Sappho, And of my comrades all, And of the muses' lore, When straightway the tears ran fast.

But there on the table gleamed a beautiful hair-net, thy gift, Costly handwork of Byssos, spangled with golden bees. This, when next in the flowery festal season We shall worship the glorious child of Demeter, This will I offer to her for thy and my sake, So may she favor us both (for she much availeth), That no mourning lock thou untimely sever From thy beloved head for thy poor Erinna.

* * * * *

MOZART'S JOURNEY FROM VIENNA TO PRAGUE (about 1850)

A ROMANCE OF HIS PRIVATE LIFE

BY EDUARD MÖRIKE

TRANSLATED BY FLORENCE LEONARD

In the fall of the year 1787 Mozart and his wife undertook a journey to Prague, where he was to finish and bring out his masterpiece, _Don Juan_.

Eleven o'clock of the fourteenth of September found them well on their way and in the best of spirits. They had been traveling two days, and were about one hundred and twenty miles from Vienna, among the beautiful Mährische mountains. The splendid coach, drawn by three post-horses, belonged to an elderly Frau Volkstett, wife of General Volkstett, who prided herself on her intimacy with the Mozarts and on the favors she had shown them. The carriage was painted a bright yellowish-red, the body adorned with garlands of gay-colored flowers, the wheels finished with narrow stripes of gold. The high top was fitted with stiff leather curtains, now drawn back and fastened.

The dress of the travelers was simple, for the new clothes to be worn at court were carefully packed in the trunk. Mozart wore an embroidered waistcoat of a somewhat faded blue, his ordinary brown coat--with a row of large, curiously fashioned gilt buttons--black silk stockings and small-clothes, and shoes with gilt buckles. As the day grew warm, unusually warm for September, he had taken off both hat and coat and was sitting in his shirt-sleeves, bare headed, serenely chatting. His thick hair, drawn back into a braid, was powdered even more carelessly than usual.

Frau Mozart's hair, a wealth of light brown curls, never disfigured by powder, fell, half unfastened, upon her shoulders. She wore a traveling-suit of striped stuff--light green and white.

They were slowly ascending a gentle slope, where rich fields alternated with long stretches of woodland, when Mozart exclaimed: "How many woods we have passed every day of our journey, and I hardly noticed them, much less thought of going into them! Postilion, stop and let your horses rest a bit, while we get some of those blue-bells yonder in the shade!"

As they rose to leave the coach they became aware of a slight accident for which the master had to take the blame. Through his carelessness a bottle of choice perfume had lost its cork, and its contents had run, unperceived, over clothing and carriage cushions. "I might have known it," lamented Frau Mozart, "I have smelled it this long while! Oh dear! A whole bottle of real 'Rosée d'Aurore!' I was as careful of it as if it had been gold!"

"Never mind, little goose," was Mozart's comforting answer. "This was the only way that your sacred smelling-stuff would do us any good. The air was like an oven here, and all your fanning made it no cooler. But presently the carriage was comfortable--you said it was because I poured a couple of drops on my _jabot_--and we could talk and enjoy our journey instead of hanging our heads like sheep in a butcher's cart. It will last all the rest of the way. Come now, let us stick our two Vienna noses into this green wilderness!"

They climbed the bank arm-in-arm, and strolled into the shade of the pines, which grew deeper and deeper, till only here and there a stray sunbeam lighted up the green mossy carpet. So cool was the air that Mozart soon had to put on the coat, which, but for his prudent wife, he would have left behind.

Presently he stopped and looked up through the rows of lofty tree-trunks. "How beautiful!" he cried. "It is like being in church! This is a real wood, a whole family of trees! No human hand planted them, but they seem to have come and stood there just because it is pleasant to live and grow in company. To think that I have traveled half over Europe, have seen the Alps and the ocean, and yet, happening to come into an ordinary Bohemian pine-woods, I am astonished that such a thing actually exists; not as a poetic fiction like the nymphs and fauns, but really living, drawn out of the earth by moisture and sunshine! Imagine the deer, with his wonderful antlers, at home here, and the mischievous squirrel, the wood-cock, and the jay!" He stooped and picked a mushroom, praised its deep red color and delicate white lines, and put a handful of cones into his pocket.

"Any one would think that you had never walked a dozen steps in the Prater," said his wife; "these same rare cones and mushrooms are to be found there too!"

"The Prater! Heavens, how can you mention it! What is there in the Prater but carriages and swords, gowns and fans, music and hubbub! As for the trees, large as they are--well, even the acorns on the ground seem like second cousins to the old corks lying beside them! You could walk there two hours, and still smell waiters and sauces!"

"Oh, what a speech from a man whose greatest pleasure is to eat a good supper in the Prater!"

After they had returned to the carriage and sat watching the smiling fields which stretched away to the mountains behind them, Mozart exclaimed: "Indeed the earth is beautiful, and no one can be blamed for wanting to stay on it as long as possible. Thank God, I feel as fresh and strong as ever, and ready for a thousand things as soon as my new opera is finished and brought out. But how much there is in the outside world, and how much at home, both wonderful and beautiful, that I know nothing about! Beauties of nature, sciences, and both fine arts and useful arts! That black charcoal-burner there by his kiln knows just as much as I do about many things. And I should like well enough to look into some subjects that aren't connected with my own trade!"

"The other day," interrupted his wife, "I came across your old pocket-calendar for '85. There were three or four special memoranda at the end. One read: 'About the middle of October they are to cast the great lions at the imperial brass foundry.' Another was underlined twice 'Call on Professor Gottner.' Who is he?"

"Oh Oh yes, I remember! That kind old gentleman in the observatory, who invites me there now and then. I meant, long ago, to take you to see the moon and the man in it. They have a new telescope, so strong that they can see distinctly mountains and valleys and chasms, and, on the side where the sun does not fall, the shadows of the mountains. Two years ago I planned to go there! Shameful!"

"Well, the moon will not run away!"

"But it is so with everything. It is too hard to think of all that one puts off and loses, not duties to God and to man only, but pure pleasures--those small innocent pleasures which are within one's grasp every day!"

Madame Mozart could not or would not turn his thoughts into another channel, and could only agree with him as he went on: "Have I ever been able to have a whole hour of pleasure with my own children? Even they can be only half enjoyed! The boys have one ride on my knee, chase me once around the room, and stop. I must shake them off and go! I cannot remember that we have had once a whole day in the country together, at Easter or Whitsuntide, in garden or woods or meadows to grow young again among the children and flowers. And meanwhile life is gradually slipping and running and rushing away from us! Dear Lord! To think of it!"

With such self-reproach began a serious conversation. How sad that Mozart, passionate as he was, keenly alive to all the beauties of the world, and full of the highest aspirations, never knew peace and contentment, in spite of all that he enjoyed and created in his short life. The reason is easily found in those weaknesses, apparently unconquerable, which were so large a part of his character. The man's needs were many; his fondness for society extraordinarily great. Honored and sought by all the families of rank, he seldom refused an invitation to a fête or social gathering of any sort. He had, besides, his own circle of friends whom he entertained of a Sunday evening, and often at dinner at his own well-ordered table. Occasionally, to the inconvenience of his wife, he would bring in unexpected guests of diverse gifts, any one whom he might happen to meet--amateurs, fellow-artists, singers, poets. An idle hanger-on whose only merit lay in his companionable mood or in his jests, was as welcome as a gifted connoisseur or a distinguished musician. But the greater part of his recreation Mozart sought away from home. He was to be found almost every afternoon at billiards in the Kaffeehaus, and many an evening at the inn. He enjoyed both driving and riding, frequented balls and masquerades--a finished dancer--and took part in popular celebrations also, masquerading regularly on St. Bridget's Day as Pierrot.

These pleasures, sometimes wild and extravagant, sometimes quieter in tone, were designed to refresh the severely taxed brain after extreme labors; and in the mysterious ways of genius they bore fruit in later days. But unfortunately he was so bent on enjoying to the full every moment of pleasure that there was room for no other consideration, whether of prudence or duty, of self-preservation or of economy. Both in his amusements and in his creative activity Mozart knew no limits. Part of the night was always devoted to composition; early in the morning, often even while in bed, he finished his work. Then, driving or walking, he made the rounds of his lessons, which generally took a part of the afternoon also. "We take a great deal of trouble for our pupils, and it is often hard not to lose patience," he wrote to one of his patrons. "Because we are well recommended as pianists and teachers of music we load ourselves down with pupils, and are always willing to add another; if only the bills are promptly paid it does not matter whether the new student be a Hungarian mustachio from the engineer corps, whom Satan has tempted to wade through thorough-bass and counterpoint, or the haughtiest little countess who receives us in a fury, as she would Master Coquerel, the hair-dresser, if we do not arrive on the stroke of the hour." So, when weary with the occupations of his profession, school-work, and rehearsals as well as private lessons, and in need of refreshment, he gave his nerves a seeming restorative only in new excitement. His health began to suffer, and ever-recurring fits of melancholy were certainly fostered, if not actually induced, by his ill health; and the premonition of his early death, which for a long time haunted him, was finally fulfilled. The deepest melancholy and remorse were the bitter fruits of every pleasure which he tasted; yet we know that even these troubled streams emptied pure and clear in the deep spring from which all joy and all woe flowed in marvelous melodies.

The effects of Mozart's illness showed most plainly when at home. The temptation to spend his money foolishly and carelessly was very great. It was due, as a matter of course, to one of his most lovely traits. If any one in need came to him to borrow money or to ask his name as security, he consented at once with smiling generosity and without making arrangements to insure the return of the loan. The means which such generosity, added to the needs of his household, required, were out of all proportion to his actual income. The sums which he received from theatres and concerts, from publishers and pupils, together with the Emperor's pension, were the smaller because the public taste was far from declaring itself in favor of Mozart's compositions. The very beauty, depth, and fulness of his music were, in general, opposed to the easily understood compositions then in favor. To be sure, the Viennese public could not get enough of _Die Entführung aus dem Serail_, thanks to its popular element. But, on the other hand, several years later _Figaro_ made a most unexpected and lamentable fiasco, in comparison with the success of its pleasing, though quite insignificant rival _Cosa rara_--and not alone through the intrigue of the manager. It was the same _Figaro_ which, soon after, the cultivated and unprejudiced people of Prague received with such enthusiasm that the master, in gratitude, determined to write his next great opera for them.

But despite the unfavorable period and the influence of his enemies, Mozart, if he had been more prudent and circumspect, might have received a very considerable sum from his art. As it was, he was in arrears after every enterprise, even when full houses shouted their applause to him. So circumstances, his own nature, and his own faults conspired to keep him from prosperity.

And what a sad life was that of Frau Mozart! She was young and of a cheerful disposition, musical, and of a musical family, and had the best will in the world to stop the mischief at the outset, and, failing in that, to make up for the loss in great things by saving in small affairs. But she lacked, perhaps, skill and experience. She held the purse, and kept the account of the house expenses. Every claim, every bill, every vexation was carried to her. How often must she have choked back the tears when to such distress and want, painful embarrassment, and fear of open disgrace, was added the melancholy of her husband, in which he would remain for days, accomplishing nothing, refusing all comfort, and either sighing and complaining, or sitting silent in a corner, thinking continually of death! But she seldom lost courage, and almost always her clear judgment found counsel and relief, though it might be but temporary. In reality she could make no radical change in the situation. If she persuaded him in seriousness or in jest, by entreaties or by coaxing, to eat his supper and spend his evening with his family, she had gained but little. Perhaps, touched by the sight of his wife's distress, he would curse his bad habits and promise all that she asked--even more. But to no purpose; he would soon, unexpectedly, find himself in the old ruts again. One is tempted to believe that he could not do otherwise, and that a code of morals, totally different from our ideas of right and wrong, of necessity controlled him.

Yet Frau Constanze hoped continually for a favorable turn of affairs, a great improvement in their financial condition, which could hardly fail to follow Mozart's increasing fame. If the anxiety which always pressed upon him, more or less, could be lightened; if, instead of devoting half his strength and time to earning money he could live only for his art, and, moreover, could enjoy with a clear conscience those pleasures which he needed for body and mind, then he would grow calmer and more natural. She hoped, indeed, for an opportunity to leave Vienna, for, in spite of his affection for the place, she was convinced that he would never prosper there. Some decisive step toward the realization of her plans and wishes she promised herself as the result of the new opera, for which they were now on their way to Prague.

The composition was more than half written. Trusty friends and competent judges who had heard the beginning of the work talked of it with such enthusiasm that many of Mozart's enemies, even, were prepared to hear, within six months, that his _Don Juan_ had taken all Germany by storm. His more prudent and moderate friends, who took into consideration the state of the public taste, hardly expected an immediate and universal success; and with these the master himself secretly agreed.

Constanze, however, was like all women. If once they hope, particularly in a righteous cause, they are less apt than men are to give heed to discouraging features. She still held fast to her favorable opinion, and had, even now, new occasion to defend it. She did so in her gay and lively fashion, the more earnestly because Mozart's spirits had fallen decidedly in the course of the previous conversation. She described minutely how, after their return, she should use the hundred ducats which the manager at Prague would pay for the score. That sum would supply their most pressing needs, and they could live comfortably till spring.

"Your Herr Bondine will make some money with this opera, you may be sure; and if he is half as honest as you think him, he will give you later also a fair per cent. of the price that other theatres pay him for their copies of _Don Juan_. But, even if he doesn't, there are plenty of other good things that might happen to us; they are more probable too!"

"What, for instance?"

"A little bird told me that the King of Prussia needs a leader for his orchestra."

"Oh!"

"A general music director, I mean. Let me build you an air-castle! That weakness I got from my mother."

"Build away! The higher the better!"

"No, my air-castles are very real ones! In a year from now they'll be reporting--"

"If the Pope to Gretchen comes a-courting!"

"Keep quiet, you ridiculous goose! I tell you by the first of next September there will be no 'Imperial Court Composer' of the name of Wolf Mozart to be found in Vienna."

"May the foxes bite you for that!"

"I hear already what our old friends are saying and gossiping about us."

"What, then?"

"Well, a little after nine o'clock one fine morning our old friend and admirer Frau Volkstett comes sailing at full speed across the Kahlmarkt. She has been away for three months. That famous visit to her brother-in-law in Saxony, that we have heard about every day, has at last come off. She returned yesterday, and cannot wait any longer to see her dear friend, the Colonel's wife. Upstairs she goes and knocks at the door, and does not wait for an answer. You may imagine the rejoicing and the embracing an both sides. 'Now dearest, best Frau Colonel,' she begins after the greetings are over, 'I have so many messages for you. Guess from whom? I didn't come straight from Stendal, but by way of Brandenburg.'

"'What! Not through Berlin! You haven't been with the Mozarts?' 'Yes, ten heavenly days!' 'Oh, my dear, good Frau General, tell me all about them! How are our dear people? Do they like Berlin as well as ever? I can hardly imagine Mozart living in Berlin! How does he act? How does he look?' 'Mozart! You should see him! This summer the King sent him to Karlsbad. When would that have occurred to his dear Emperor Joseph? They had but just returned when I arrived. He is fairly radiant with health and good spirits, as sound and solid and lively as quicksilver, with happiness and comfort beaming from his countenance.'"

And then the speaker began to paint in the brightest colors the glories of the new position. From their dwelling on Unter den Linden, from their garden and country-house to the brilliant scenes of public activity and the smaller circle of the court--where he was to play accompaniments for the Queen--all were vividly described. She recited, with the greatest ease, whole conversations, and the most delightful anecdotes. Indeed she seemed more familiar with Berlin, Potsdam, and Sans Souci than with the palace at Schönbrunn and the Emperor Joseph's castle. She was, moreover, cunning enough to depict our hero with many new domestic virtues which had developed on the firm ground of the Berlin life, and among which Frau Volkstett had perceived (as a most remarkable phenomenon and a proof that extremes sometimes meet) the disposition of a veritable little miser--and it made him altogether most charming.

"'Yes, think of it! He is sure of his three thousand thalers, and for what? For directing a chamber concert once a week, and the opera twice. Ah, Frau Colonel, I have seen him, our dear, precious little man, in the midst of his excellent orchestra who adore him! I sat with Frau Mozart in her box almost opposite the King's box. And what was on the posters, do you think? Look, please! I brought it for you, wrapped around a little souvenir from the Mozarts and myself. Look, read it, printed in letters a yard long!' 'Heaven forbid! Not _Tarare_!' 'Yes! What cannot one live to see! Two years ago, when Mozart wrote _Don Juan_, and the wretched, malicious, yellow, old Salieri was preparing to repeat in Vienna the triumph which he had won with his piece, in Paris, and to show our good plain public, contented with _Cosa rara_, a hawk or two; while he and his arch-accomplice were plotting to present _Don Juan_ just as they had presented _Figaro_, mutilated, ruined, I vowed that if the infamous _Tarare_ was ever given, nothing should hire me to go to see it. And I kept my word. When everybody else ran to hear it--you too, Frau Colonel--I sat by my fire with my cat in my lap, and ate my supper. Several times after that, too. But now imagine! _Tarare_ on the Berlin stage, the work of his deadly foe, conducted by Mozart himself!' 'You must certainly go,' he said, 'if it is only to be able to say in Vienna whether I had a hair clipped from Absalom's head. I wish he were here himself! The jealous old sheep should see that I do not need to bungle another person's composition in order to show off my own.'"

"Brava! Bravissima!" shouted Mozart, and taking his wife by the ears he kissed her and teased her till the play with the bright bubbles of an imaginary future--which, sad to say, were never in the least to be realized--ended finally in laughter and jollity.

Meanwhile they had long ago reached the valley, and were approaching a town, behind which lay the small modern palace of Count Schinzberg. In this town they were to feed the horses, to rest, and to take their noonday meal.

The inn where they stopped stood alone near the end of the village where an avenue of poplar trees led to the count's garden, not six hundred paces away. After they had alighted, Mozart, as usual, left to his wife the arrangements for dinner, and ordered for himself a glass of wine, while she asked only for water and a quiet room where she could get a little sleep. The host led the way upstairs, and Mozart, now singing, now whistling, brought up the rear. The room was newly whitewashed, clean, and fresh. The ancient articles of furniture were of noble descent; they had probably once adorned the dwelling of the Count. The clean white bed was covered with a painted canopy, resting upon slender green posts, whose silken curtains were long ago replaced by a more ordinary stuff. Constanze prepared for her nap, Mozart promising to wake her in time for dinner. She bolted the door behind him, and he descended to seek entertainment in the coffee-room. Here, however, no one but the host was to be seen, and, since his conversation suited Mozart no better than his wine, the master proposed a walk to the palace garden while dinner was preparing. Respectable strangers, he was told, were allowed to enter the grounds; besides, the family were away for the day.

A short walk brought him to the gate, which stood open; then he slowly followed a path overhung by tall old linden-trees, till he suddenly came upon the palace which stood a little to the left. It was a light, plaster building, in the Italian style, with a broad, double flight of steps in front; the slate-covered roof was finished in the usual manner, with a balustrade, and was adorned with statues of gods and goddesses.

Our master turned toward the shrubbery, and, passing many flower-beds still gay with blossoms, took his leisurely way through a dark grove of pines until he came to an open space where a fountain was playing. The rather large oval basin was surrounded with carefully kept orange-trees, interspersed with laurels and oleanders; a smooth gravel walk upon which an arbor opened ran around the fountain. It was a most tempting resting-place, and Mozart threw himself down upon the rustic bench which stood by a table within the arbor.

Listening to the splash of the water, and watching an orange-tree which stood, heavy with fruit, apart from the rest, our friend was carried away by visions of the South and favorite memories of his childhood. Smiling thoughtfully, he reached toward the nearest orange, as if to take the tempting fruit in his hand. But closely connected with that scene of his youth there flashed upon him a long-forgotten, half-effaced, musical memory, which he pondered long and tried to follow out. Then his glance brightened, and darted here and there; an idea had come to him, and he worked it out eagerly. Absently he grasped the orange again--it broke from the tree and remained in his hand. He looked at it, but did not see it; indeed, his artistic abstraction went so far that, after rolling the fragrant fruit back and forth before his nose, while his lips moved silently with the melody which was singing itself to him, he presently took from his pocket an enameled case, and with a small silver-handled knife slowly cut open the fruit. Perhaps he had a vague sense of thirst, but, if so, the fragrance of the open fruit allayed it. He looked long at the inner surfaces, then fitted them gently together, opened them again, and again put them together.

Just then steps approached the arbor. Mozart started, suddenly remembering where he was and what he had done. He was about to hide the orange, but stopped, either from pride or because he was too late. A tall, broad-shouldered man in livery, the head-gardener, stood before him. He had evidently seen the last guilty movement, and stopped, amazed. Mozart, likewise, was too much surprised to speak, and, sitting as if nailed to his chair, half laughing yet blushing, looked the gardener somewhat boldly in the face with his big, blue eyes. Then--it would have been most amusing for a third person--with a sort of defiant courage he set the apparently uninjured orange in the middle of the table.

"I beg your pardon, sir," began the gardener rather angrily, as he looked at Mozart's unprepossessing clothing, "I do not know whom I have the honor--"

"Kapellmeister Mozart, of Vienna."

"You are acquainted in the palace, I presume."

"I am a stranger, merely passing through the village. Is the Count at home?"

"No."

"His wife?"

"She is engaged and would hardly see you." Mozart rose, as if he would go.

"With your permission, sir, how do you happen to be pilfering here?"

"What!" cried Mozart. "Pilfering! The devil! Do you believe, then, that I meant to steal and eat that thing?"

"I believe what I see, sir. Those oranges are counted, and I am responsible for them. That tree was just to be carried to the house for an entertainment. I cannot let you go until I have reported the matter and you yourself have told how it happened."

"Very well. Be assured that I will wait here." The gardener hesitated, and Mozart, thinking that perhaps he expected a fee, felt in his pocket; but he found nothing.

Two men now came by, lifted the tree upon a barrow and carried it away. Meanwhile Mozart had taken a piece of paper from his pocket-book, and, as the gardener did not stir, began to write:

"_Dear Madam_.--Here I sit, miserable, in your Paradise, like Adam of old, after he had tasted the apple. The mischief is done, and I cannot even put the blame on a good Eve, for she is at the inn sleeping the sleep of innocence in a canopy-bed, surrounded by Graces and Cupids. If you require it I will give you an account of my offense, which is incomprehensible even to myself.

"I am covered with confusion, and remain

"Your most obedient servant,

"W. A. MOZART.

"On the way to Prague."

He hastily folded the note and handed it to the impatient servant.

The fellow had scarcely gone when a carriage rolled up to the opposite side of the palace. In it was the Count, who had brought with him, from a neighboring estate, his niece and her fiancé, a young and wealthy Baron. The betrothal had just taken place at the house of the latter's invalid mother; but the event was also to be celebrated at the Count's palace, which had always been a second home to his niece. The Countess, with her son, Lieutenant Max, had returned from the betrothal somewhat earlier, in order to complete arrangements at the palace. Now corridors and stairways were alive with servants, and only with difficulty did the gardener finally reach the antechamber and hand the note to the Countess. She did not stop to open it, but, without noticing what the messenger said, hurried away. He waited and waited, but she did not come back. One servant after another ran past him--waiters, chambermaids, valets; he asked for the Count, only to be told "He is dressing." At last he found Count Max in his own room; but he was talking with the Baron, and for fear the gardener would let slip something which the Baron was not to know beforehand, cut the message short with: "Go along, I'll be there in a moment." Then there was quite a long while to wait before father and son at last appeared together, and heard the fatal news.

"That is outrageous," cried the fat, good-natured, but somewhat hasty Count. "That is an impossible story! A Vienna musician is he? Some ragamuffin, who walks along the high-road and helps himself to whatever he sees!"

"I beg your pardon, sir. He doesn't look just like that. I thinks he's not quite right in the head, sir, and he seems to be very proud. He says his name is 'Moser.' He is waiting downstairs. I told Franz to keep an eye on him."

"The deuce! What good will that do, now? Even if I should have the fool arrested, it wouldn't mend matters. I've told you a thousand times that the front gates were to be kept locked! Besides, it couldn't have happened if you had had things ready at the proper time!"

Just then the Countess, pleased and excited, entered the room with the open note in her hand. "Do you know who is downstairs?" she exclaimed. "For goodness' sake, read that note! Mozart from Vienna, the composer! Some body must go at once and invite him in! I'm afraid he will be gone! What will he think of me? You treated him very politely, I hope, Velten. What was it that happened?"

"What happened?" interrupted the Count, whose wrath was not immediately assuaged by the prospect of a visit from a famous man. "The madman pulled one of the nine oranges from the tree which was for Eugenie. Monster! So the point of our joke is gone, and Max may as well tear up his poem."

"Oh, no!" she answered, earnestly; "the gap can easily be filled. Leave that to me. But go, both of you, release the good man, and persuade him to come in, if you possibly can. He shall not go further today if we can coax him to stay. If you do not find him in the garden, go to the inn and bring him and his wife too. Fate could not have provided a greater gift or a finer surprise for Eugenie today."

"No, indeed," answered Max, "that was my first thought, too. Come, Papa! And"--as they descended the staircase--"you may be quite easy about the verses. The ninth Muse will not desert me; instead, I can use the accident to especial advantage."

"Impossible!"

"Not at all!"

"Well, if that is so--I take your word for it--we will do the lunatic all possible honor."

While all this was going on in the palace, our quasi-prisoner, not very anxious over the outcome of the affair, had busied himself some time in writing. Then, as no one appeared, he began to walk uneasily up and down. Presently came an urgent message from the inn, that dinner was ready long ago and the postilion was anxious to start; would he please come at once. So he packed up his papers and was just about to leave, when the two men appeared before the arbor.

The Count greeted him in his jovial, rather noisy fashion, and would hear not a word of apology, but insisted that Mozart should accompany him to the house, for the afternoon and evening at least.

"You are so well known to us, my dear Maestro, that I doubt if you could find a family where your name is spoken more often, or with greater enthusiasm. My niece sings and plays, she spends almost the whole day at her piano, knows your works by heart, and has had the greatest desire to meet you, particularly since the last of your concerts. She had been promised an invitation from Princess Gallizin, in Vienna, in a few weeks--a house where you often play, I hear. But now you are going to Prague, and no one knows whether you will ever come back to us. Take today and tomorrow for rest; let us send away your traveling carriage and be responsible for the remainder of your journey."

The composer, who would willingly have sacrificed upon the altar of friendship or of pleasure ten times as much as was asked of him now, did not hesitate long. He insisted, however, that very early next morning they must continue their journey. Count Max craved the pleasure of bringing Frau Mozart and of attending to all necessary matters at the inn; he would walk over, and a carriage should follow immediately.

Count Max inherited from both father and mother a lively imagination, and had, besides, talent and inclination for _belles lettres_. As an officer he was distinguished rather for his learning and culture than because of fondness for military life. He was well read in French literature, and at a time when German verse was of small account in the higher circles had won appreciation for uncommon ease of style--writing after such models as Hagedorn and Götz. The betrothal had offered him, as we already learned, a particularly happy occasion for the exercise of his gifts.

He found Madame Mozart seated at the table, where she had already begun the meal, talking with the inn-keeper's daughter. She was too well used to Mozart's habits of forming acquaintances and accepting impromptu invitations to be greatly surprised at the appearance and message of the young officer. With undisguised pleasure she prepared to accompany him, and thoughtfully and quickly gave all necessary orders. Satchels were repacked, the inn-keeper was paid, the postilion dismissed, and, without too great anxiety over her toilet, she herself made ready, and drove off in high spirits to the palace, never guessing in what a strange fashion her spouse had introduced himself there.

He, meanwhile, was most comfortably and delightfully entertained. He had met Eugenie, a most lovely creature, fair and slender, gay in shining crimson silk and costly lace, with a white ribbon studded with pearls in her hair. The Baron, too, was presented, a man of gentle and frank disposition, but little older than his fiancée and seemingly well suited to her.

The jovial host, almost too generous with his jests and stories, led the conversation; refreshments were offered, which our traveler did not refuse. Then some one opened the piano, upon which _Figaro_ was lying, and Eugenie began to sing, to the Baron's accompaniment, Susanne's passionate aria in the garden scene. The embarrassment which for a moment made her bright color come and go, fled with the first notes from her lips, and she sang as if inspired.

Mozart was evidently surprised. As she finished he went to her with unaffected pleasure. "How can one praise you, dear child," he said. "Such singing is like the sunshine, which praises itself best because it does every one good. It is to the soul like a refreshing bath to a child; he laughs, and wonders, and is content. Not every day, I assure you, do we composers hear ourselves sung with such purity and simplicity--with such perfection!" and he seized her hand and kissed it heartily. Mozart's amiability and kindness, no less than his high appreciation of her talent, touched Eugenie deeply, and her eyes filled with tears of pleasure.

At that moment Madame Mozart entered, and immediately after appeared other guests who had been expected--a family of distant relatives, of whom one, Franziska, had been from childhood Eugenie's intimate friend.

When all the greetings and congratulations were over, Mozart seated himself at the piano. He played a part of one of his concertos, which Eugenie happened to be learning. It was a great delight to have the artist and his genius so near--within one's own walls. The composition was one of those brilliant ones in which pure Beauty, in a fit of caprice, seems to have lent herself to the service of Elegance, but, only half disguised in changing forms and dazzling lights, betrays in every movement her own nobility and pours out lavishly her glorious pathos.

The Countess noticed that most of the listeners, even Eugenie herself, were divided between seeing and hearing, although they gave the close attention and kept the perfect silence which were due to such enchanting playing. Indeed it was not easy to resist a throng of distracting and wondering thoughts as one watched the composer--his erect, almost stiff position, his good-natured face, the graceful movements of his small hands and curved fingers.

Turning to Madame Mozart, as the playing ceased, the Count began: "When it is necessary to give a compliment to a composer--not everybody's business--how easy it is for kings and emperors. All words are equally good and equally extraordinary in their mouths; they dare to say whatever they please. And how comfortable it must be, for instance, to sit close behind Herr Mozart's chair, and, at the final chord of a brilliant Fantasia, to clap the modest and learned man on the shoulder and say: 'My dear Mozart, you are a Jack-at-all-trades!' And the word goes like wild-fire through the hall: 'What did he say?' 'He said Mozart was a Jack-at-all-trades!' and everybody who fiddles or pipes a song or composes is enraptured over the expression. In short, that is the way of the great, the familiar manner of the emperors, and quite inimitable. I have always envied the Friedrichs and the Josefs that faculty, but never more than now when I quite despair of finding in my mind's pockets the suitable coin!"

The Count's jest provoked a laugh, as usual, and the guests followed their hostess toward the dining-hall, where the fragrance of flowers and refreshingly cool air greeted them. They took their places at the table, Mozart opposite Eugenie and the Baron. His neighbor on one side was a little elderly lady, an unmarried aunt of Franziska's; on the other side was the charming young niece who soon commended herself to him by her wit and gaiety. Frau Constanze sat between the host and her friendly guide, the Lieutenant. The lower end of the table was empty. In the centre stood two large _epergnes_, heaped with fruits and flowers. The walls were hung with rich festoons, and all the appointments indicated an extensive banquet. Upon tables and side-boards were the choicest wines, from the deepest red to the pale yellow, whose sparkling foam crowns the second half of the feast. For some time the conversation, carried on from all sides, had been general. But when the Count, who, from the first, had been hinting at Mozart's adventure in the garden, came mysteriously nearer and nearer to it, so that some were smiling, others puzzling their brains to know what it all meant, Mozart at last took the cue.

"I will truthfully confess," he began, "how I came to have the honor of an acquaintance with this noble house. I do not play a very dignified rôle in the tale; in fact, I came within a hair's breadth of sitting, not here at this bountiful table, but hungry and alone in the most remote dungeon of the palace, watching the spider-webs on the wall."

"It must, indeed, be a pretty story," cried Madame Mozart.

Then Mozart related minutely all that we already know, to the great entertainment of his audience. There was no end to the merriment, even the gentle Eugenie shaking with uncontrollable laughter.

"Well," he went on, "according to the proverb I need not mind your laughter, for I have made my small profit out of the affair, as you will soon see. But first hear how it happened that an old fellow could so forget himself. A reminiscence of my childhood was to blame for it.

"In the spring of 1770, a thirteen-year-old boy, I traveled with my father in Italy. We went from Rome to Naples, where I had already played twice in the conservatory and several times in other places.

"The nobility and clergy had shown us many attentions, but especially attracted to us was a certain Abbé, who flattered himself that he was a connoisseur, and who, moreover, had some influence at court. The day before we left he conducted us, with some other acquaintances, into a royal garden, the Villa Reale, situated upon a beautiful street, close to the sea. A company of Sicilian comedians were performing there--'Sons of Neptune' was one of the many names they gave themselves.

"With many distinguished spectators, among whom were the young and lovely Queen Carolina and two princesses, we sat on benches ranged in long rows in a gallery shaded with awnings, while the waves splashed against the wall below. The many-colored sea reflected the glorious heavens; directly before us rose Vesuvius; on the left gleamed the gentle curve of the shore.

"The first part of the entertainment was rather uninteresting. A float which lay on the water had served as a stage. But the second part consisted of rowing, swimming, and diving, and every detail has always remained fresh in my memory.

"From opposite sides of the water two graceful light boats approached each other, bent, as it seemed, upon a pleasure-trip. The larger one, gorgeously painted, with a gilded prow, was provided with a quarter-deck, and had, besides the rowers' seats, a slender mast and a sail. Five youths, ideally handsome, with bared shoulders and limbs, were busy about the boat, or were amusing themselves with a like number of maidens, their sweethearts. One of these, who was sitting in the centre of the deck twining wreaths of flowers, was noticeable as well for her beauty as for her dress. The others waited upon her, stretched an awning to shield her from the sun, and passed her flowers from the basket. One, a flute player, sat at her feet, and accompanied with her clear tones the singing of the others. The beauty in the centre had her own particular admirer; yet the pair seemed rather indifferent to each other, and I thought the youth almost rude.

"Meanwhile the other boat had come nearer. It was more simply fashioned, and carried youths only. The colors of the first boat were red, but the crew of this one wore green. They stopped at sight of the others, nodded greetings to the maidens, and made signs that they wished to become better acquainted. Thereupon the liveliest of the girls took a rose from her bosom, and roguishly held it on high, as if to ask whether such a gift would be welcome. She was answered with enthusiasm. The red youths looked on, sullen and contemptuous, but could not object when several of the maidens proposed to throw to the poor strangers at least enough to keep them from starving. A basket of oranges--probably only yellow balls--stood on deck; and now began a charming display, accompanied by music from the quay.

"One of the girls tossed from light fingers a couple of oranges; back they came from fingers in the other boat, as light. On they went, back and forth, and as one girl after another joined in the sport dozens of oranges were soon flying through the air. Only one, the beauty in the middle of the boat, took no part, except to look on, curiously, from her comfortable couch. We could not sufficiently admire the skill on both sides. The boats circled slowly about, turning now the prow, now the sides, toward each other. There were about two dozen balls continually in the air, yet they seemed many more, sometimes falling in regular figures, sometimes rising high in lofty curves, almost never going astray, but seeming to be attracted by some mysterious power in the outstretched hands.

"The ear was quite as well entertained as the eye--with charming melodies, Sicilian airs, dances, Saltorelli, _Canzoni a ballo_--a long medley woven together like a garland. The youngest princess, an impulsive little creature, about my own age, kept nodding her head in time to the music. Her smile and her eyes with their long lashes I can see to this day.

"Now let me briefly describe the rest of the entertainment, though it has nothing to do with my affair in the garden. You could hardly imagine anything prettier. The play with the balls gradually ceased, and then, all of a sudden, one of the youths of the green colors drew out of the water a net with which he seemed to have been playing. To the general surprise, a huge shining fish lay in it. The boy's companions sprang to seize it, but it slipped from their hands to the sea, as if it had really been alive. This was only a ruse, however, to lure the red youths from their boat; and they fell into the trap. They, as well as those of the green, threw themselves into the water after the fish. So began a lively and most amusing chase. At last the green swimmers, seeing their opportunity, boarded the red boat, which now had only the maidens to defend it. The noblest of the enemy, as handsome as a god, hastened joyfully to the beautiful maiden, who received him with rapture, heedless of the despairing shrieks of the others. All efforts of the red to recover their boat were vain; they were beaten back with oars and weapons. Their futile rage and struggles, the cries and prayers of the maidens, the music--now changed in tone--the waters--all made a scene beyond description, and the audience applauded wildly. Then suddenly the sail was loosed, and out of it sprang to the bowsprit a rosy, silver-winged boy, with bow and arrows and quiver; the oars began to move, the sail filled, and the boat glided away, as if under the guidance of the god, to a little island. Thither, after signals of truce had been exchanged, the red youths hastened after boarding the deserted boat. The unhappy maidens were released, but the fairest one of all sailed away, of her own free will, with her lover. And that was the end of the comedy."

"I think," whispered Eugenie to the Baron, in the pause that followed, "that we had there a complete symphony in the true Mozart spirit. Am I not right? Hasn't it just the grace of _Figaro_?"

But just as the Baron would have repeated this remark to Mozart, the composer continued: "It is seventeen years since I was in Italy. But who that has once seen Italy, Naples especially, even with the eyes of a child, will ever forget it? Yet I have never recalled that last beautiful day more vividly than today in your garden. When I closed my eyes the last veil vanished, and I saw the lovely spot--sea and shore, mountain and city, the gay throng of people, and the wonderful game of ball. I seemed to hear the same music--a stream of joyful melodies, old and new, strange and familiar, one after another. Presently a little dance-song came along, in six-eighth measure, something quite new to me. Hold on, I thought, that is a devilishly cute little tune! I listened more closely. Good Heavens! That is Masetto, that is Zerlina!" He smiled and nodded at Madame Mozart, who guessed what was coming.

"It was this way," he went on; "there was a little, simple number of my first act unfinished--the duet and chorus of a country wedding. Two months ago, when in composing my score I came to this number, the right theme did not present itself at the first attempt. It should be a simple child-like melody, sparkling with joy--a fresh bunch of flowers tucked in among a maiden's fluttering ribbons. So, because one should not force such a thing, and because such trifles often come of themselves, I left that number, and was so engrossed in the rest of the work that I almost forgot it. Today, while we were driving along, just outside the village, the text came into my head; but I cannot remember that I thought much about it. Yet, only an hour later, in the arbor by the fountain, I caught just the right _motif_, more happily than I could have found it in any other way, at any other time. An artist has strange experiences now and then, but such a thing never happened to me be fore. For to find a melody exactly fitted to the verse--but I must not anticipate. The bird had only his head out of the shell, and I proceeded to pull off the rest of it! Meantime Zerlina's dance floated before my eyes, and, somehow, too, the view on the Gulf of Naples. I heard the voices of the bridal couple, and the chorus of peasants, men and girls." Here Mozart gayly hummed the beginning of the song. "Meantime my hands had done the mischief, Nemesis was lurking near, and suddenly appeared in the shape of the dreadful man in livery. Had an eruption of Vesuvius suddenly destroyed and buried with its rain of ashes audience and actors, the whole majesty of Parthenope, on that heavenly day by the sea, I could not have been more surprised or horrified. The fiend! People do not easily make me so hot! His face was as hard as bronze--and very like the terrible Emperor Tiberius, too! If the servant looks like that, thought I, what must His Grace the Count be! But to tell the truth I counted--and not without reason--on the protection of the ladies. For I overheard the fat hostess of the inn telling my wife, Constanze there, who is somewhat curious in disposition, all the most interesting facts about the family, and so I knew--"

Here Madame Mozart had to interrupt him and give them most positive assurance that he was the one who asked the questions, and a lively and amusing discussion followed.

"However that may be," he said at last, "I heard something about a favorite foster-daughter who, besides being beautiful, was goodness itself, and sang like an angel. '_Per Dio_!' I said to myself, as I remembered that, 'that will help you out of your scrape! Sit down and write out the song as far as you can, explain your behavior truthfully, and they will think it all a good joke.' No sooner said than done! I had time enough, and found a blank piece of paper--and here is the result! I place it in these fair hands, an impromptu wedding-song, if you will accept it!"

He held out the neatly written manuscript toward Eugenie, but the Count anticipated her, and quickly taking it himself, said: "Have patience a moment longer, my dear!"

At his signal the folding-doors of the salon opened, and servants appeared, bringing in the fateful orange-tree, which they put at the foot of the table, placing on each side a slender myrtle-tree. An inscription fastened to the orange-tree proclaimed it the property of Eugenie; but in front of it, upon a porcelain plate, was seen, as the napkin which covered it was lifted, an orange, cut in pieces, and beside it the count placed Mozart's autograph note.

"I believe," said the Countess, after the mirth had subsided, "that Eugenie does not know what that tree really is. She does not recognize her old friend with all its fruit and blossoms."

Incredulous, Eugenie looked first at the tree, then at her uncle. "It isn't possible," she said; "I knew very well that it couldn't be saved."

"And so you think that we have found another to take its place? That would have been worth while! No! I shall have to do as they do in the play, when the long-lost son or brother proves his identity by his moles and scars! Look at that knot, and at this crack, which you must have noticed a hundred times. Is it your tree or isn't it?"

Eugenie could doubt no longer, and her surprise and delight knew no bounds. To the Count's family this tree always suggested the story of a most excellent woman, who lived more than a hundred years before their day, and who well deserves a word in passing.

The Count's grandfather--a statesman of such repute in Vienna that he had been honored with the confidence of two successive rulers--was as happy in his private life as in his public life; for he possessed a most excellent wife, Renate Leonore. During her repeated visits to France she came in contact with the brilliant court of Louis XIV., and with the most distinguished men and women of the day. She sympathized with the ever-varying intellectual pleasures of the court without sacrificing in the least her strong, inborn sense of honor and propriety. On this very account, perhaps, she was the leader of a certain naïve opposition, and her correspondence gives many a hint of the courage and independence with which she could defend her sound principles and firm opinions, and could attack her adversary in his weakest spot, all without giving offense.

Her lively interest in all the personages whom one could meet at the house of a Ninon, in the centres of cultivation and learning, was nevertheless so modest and so well controlled that she was honored with the friendship of one of the noblest women of the time--Mme. de Sévigné. The Count, after his grandmother's death, had found in an old oaken chest, full of interesting papers, the most charming letters from the Marquise and her daughter.

From the hand of Mme. de Sévigné, indeed, she had received, during a fête at Trianon, the sprig from an orange-tree, which she had planted and which became in Germany a flourishing tree. For perhaps twenty-five years it grew under her care, and afterward was treated with the greatest solicitude by children and grandchildren. Prized for its own actual worth, it was treasured the more as the living symbol of an age which, intellectually, was then regarded as little less than divine--an age in which we, today, can find little that is truly admirable, but which was preparing the way for events, only a few years distant from our innocent story, which shook the world.

To the bequest of her excellent ancestor Eugenie showed much devotion, and her uncle had often said that the tree should some day belong to her. The greater was her disappointment then, when, during her absence in the preceding spring, the leaves of the precious tree began to turn yellow and many branches died. The gardener gave it up for lost, since he could find no particular cause for its fading, and did not succeed in reviving it. But the Count, advised by a skilful friend, had it placed in a room by itself and treated according to one of the strange and mysterious prescriptions which exist among the country folk, and his hope of surprising his beloved niece with her old friend in all its new strength and fruitfulness was realized beyond expectation. Repressing his impatience, and anxious, moreover, lest those oranges which had ripened first should fall from the tree, he had postponed the surprise for several weeks, until the day of the betrothal; and there is no need of further excuse for the good man's emotion, when, at the last moment, he found that a stranger had robbed him of his pleasure.

But the Lieutenant had long before dinner found opportunity to arrange his poetical contribution to the festive presentation, and had altered the close of his verses, which might otherwise have been almost too serious. Now he rose and drew forth his manuscript, and, turning to Eugenie, began to read.

The oft-sung tree of the Hesperides--so ran the story--sprang up, ages ago, in the garden of Juno on a western island, as a wedding gift from Mother Earth, and was watched over by three nymphs, gifted with song. A shoot from this tree had often wished for a similar fate, for the custom of bestowing one of his race on a royal bride had descended from gods to mortals. After long and vain waiting, the maiden to whom he might turn his fond glances seemed at last to be found. She was kind to him and lingered by him often. But the proud laurel (devoted to the Muses), his neighbor beside the spring, roused his jealousy by threatening to steal from the talented beauty all thought of love for man. In vain the myrtle comforted him and taught him patience by her own example; finally the absence of his beloved increased his malady till it became well-nigh fatal.

But summer brought back the absent one, and, happily, with a changed heart. Town, palace, and garden received her with the greatest joy. Roses and lilies, more radiant than ever, looked up with modest rapture; shrubs and trees nodded greetings to her; but for one, the noblest, she came alas! too late. His leaves were withered, and only the lifeless stem and the dry tips of his branches were left. He would never know his kind friend again. And how she wept and mourned over him!

But Apollo heard her voice from afar, and, coming nearer, looked with compassion upon her grief. He touched the tree with his all-healing hands. Immediately the sap began to stir and rise in the trunk; young leaves unfolded; white, nectar-laden flowers opened here and there. Yes--for what cannot the immortals do-the beautiful, round fruits appeared, three times three, the number of the nine sisters; they grew and grew, their young green changing before his eyes to the color of gold. Phoebus--so ended the poem--

Phoebus, in his work rejoicing, Counts the fruit; but, ah! the sight Tempts him. In another moment Doth he yield to appetite.

Smiling, plucks the god of music One sweet orange from the tree "Share with me the fruit, thou fair one, And this, slice shall Amor's be."

The verses were received with shouts of applause, and Max was readily pardoned for the unexpected ending which had so completely altered the really charming effect which he had made in the first version.

Franziska, whose ready wit had already been called out by the Count and Mozart, suddenly left the table, and returning brought with her a large old English engraving which had hung, little heeded, in a distant room. "It must be true, as I have always heard, that there is nothing new under the sun," she cried, as she set up the picture at the end of the table. "Here in the Golden Age is the same scene which we have heard about today. I hope that Apollo will recognize himself in this situation."

"Excellent," answered Max. "There we have the god just as he is bending thoughtfully over the sacred spring. And, look! behind him in the thicket is an old Satyr watching him. I would take my oath that Apollo is thinking of some long-forgotten Acadian dances which old Chiron taught him to play on the cithern when he was young."

"Exactly," applauded Franziska, who was standing behind Mozart's chair. Turning to him, she continued, "Do you see that bough heavy with fruit, bending down toward the god?"

"Yes; that is the olive-tree, which was sacred to him."

"Not at all. Those are the finest oranges. And in a moment--in a fit of abstraction--he will pick one."

"Instead," cried Mozart, "he will stop this roguish mouth with a thousand kisses." And catching her by the arm he vowed that she should not go until she had paid the forfeit--which was promptly done.

"Max, read us what is written beneath the picture," said the Countess.

"They are verses from a celebrated ode of Horace.[32] The poet Ramler, of Berlin, made a fine translation of them a while ago. It is in most beautiful rhythm. How splendid is even this one passage:

"--And he, who never more Will from his shoulders lay aside the bow, Who in the pure dew of Castalia's fountain Laves loosened hair; who holds the Lycian thicket And his own native wood-- Apollo! Delian and Pataréan King."

"Beautiful!" exclaimed the Count, "but it needs a little explanation here and there. For instance, 'He who will never lay aside the bow,' would, of course, mean in plain prose, 'He who was always a most diligent fiddler.' But, Mozart, you are sowing discord in two gentle hearts."

"How so?"

"Eugenie is envying her friend--and with good reason."

"Ah! you have discovered my weak point. But what would the Herr Baron say?"

"I could forgive for once."

"Very well, then; I shall not neglect my opportunity. But you need not be alarmed, Herr Baron. There is no danger as long as the god does not lend me his countenance and his long yellow hair. I wish he would. I would give him on the spot Mozart's braid and his very best hair-ribbon besides."

"Apollo would have to be careful, in future, how he gracefully laved his new French finery in the Castalian fountain," laughed Franziska.

With such exchange of jests the merriment grew; the wines were passed, many a toast was offered, and Mozart soon fell into his way of talking in rhyme. The Lieutenant was an able second, and his father, also, would not be outdone; indeed, once or twice the latter succeeded remarkably well. But such conversations cannot well be repeated, because the very elements which make them irresistible at the time--the gaiety of the mood and the charm of personality in word and look--are lacking.

Among the toasts was one proposed by Franziska's aunt--that Mozart should live to write many more immortal works. "Exactly! I am with you in that," cried Mozart, and they eagerly touched glasses. Then the Count began to sing--with much power and certainty, thanks to his inspiration:

"Here's to Mozart's latest score; May he write us many more."

_Max_.

"Works, da Ponte, such as you (Mighty Schikaneder, too),"

_Mozart_.

"And Mozart, even, until now Never thought of once, I vow."

_The Count_.

"Works that you shall live to see, Great arch-thief of Italy; That shall drive you to despair, Clever Signor Bonbonnière."

_Max_.

"You may have a hundred years,"

_Mozart_.

"Unless you with all your wares,"

_All three, con forza_.

"Straight _zum Teufel_ first repair, Clever Monsieur Bonbonnière."

The Count was loth to stop singing, and the last four lines of the impromptu terzetto suddenly became a so-called "endless canon," and Franziska's aunt had wit and confidence enough to add all sorts of ornamentation in her quavering soprano. Mozart promised afterward to write out the song at leisure, according to the rules of the art, and he did send it to the Count after he returned to Vienna.

Eugenie had long ago quietly examined her inheritance from the shrubbery of "Tiberius," and presently some one asked to hear the new duet from her and Mozart. The uncle was glad to join in the chorus, and all rose and hastened to the piano, in the large salon.

The charming composition aroused the greatest enthusiasm; but its very character was a temptation to put music to another use, and indeed it was Mozart himself who gave the signal, as he left the piano, to ask Franziska for a waltz, while Max took up his violin. The Count was not slow in doing the honors for Madame Mozart, and one after another joined in the dance. Even Franziska's aunt became young again as she trod the minuet with the gallant Lieutenant. Finally, as Mozart and the fair Eugenie finished the last dance, he claimed his promised privilege.

It was now almost sunset, and the garden was cool and pleasant. There the Countess invited the ladies to rest and refresh themselves, while the Count led the way to the billiard room, for Mozart was known to be fond of the game.

We will follow the ladies.

After they had walked about they ascended a little slope, half inclosed by a high vine-covered trellis. From the hill they could look off into the fields, and down into the streets of the village. The last rosy rays of sunlight shone in through the leaves.

"Could we not sit here for a little," suggested the Countess, "if Madame Mozart would tell us about herself and her husband?"

Madame Mozart was willing enough, and her eager listeners drew their chairs close about her.

"I will tell you a story that you must know in order to understand a little plan of mine. I wish to give to the Baroness-to-be a souvenir of a very unusual kind. It is no article of luxury or of fashion but it is interesting solely because of its history."

"What can it be, Eugenie?" asked Franziska. "Perhaps the ink-bottle of some famous man." "Not a bad guess. You shall see the treasure within an hour; it is in my trunk. Now for the story and with your permission it shall begin back a year or more.

"The winter before last, Mozart's health caused me much anxiety, on account of his increasing nervousness and despondency. Although he was now and then in unnaturally high spirits when in company, yet at home he was generally silent and depressed, or sighing and ailing. The physician recommended dieting and exercise in the country. But his patient paid little heed to the good advice; it was not easy to follow a prescription which took so much time and was so directly contrary to all his plans and habits. Then the doctor frightened him with a long lecture on breathing, the human blood, corpuscles, phlogiston, and such unheard-of things; there were dissertations on Nature and her purposes in eating, drinking, and digestion--a subject of which Mozart was, till then, as ignorant as a five-year-old child.

"The lesson made a distinct impression. For the doctor had hardly been gone a half hour when I found my husband, deep in thought but of a cheerful countenance, sitting in his room and examining a walking-stick which he had ferreted out of a closet full of old things. I supposed that he had entirely forgotten it. It was a handsome stick, with a large head of lapis lazuli, and had belonged to my father. But no one had ever before seen a cane in Mozart's hand, and I had to laugh at him.

"'You see,' he cried, 'I have surrendered myself to my cure, with all its appurtenances. I will drink the water, and take exercise every day in the open air, with this stick as my companion. I have been thinking about it; there is our neighbor, the privy-councilor, who cannot even cross the street to visit his best friend without his cane; tradesmen and officers, chancellors and shop-keepers, when they go with their families on Sunday for a stroll in the country, carry each one his trusty cane. And I have noticed how in the Stephansplatz, a quarter of an hour before church or court, the worthy citizens stand talking in groups and leaning on their stout sticks, which, one can see, are the firm supports of their industry, order, and tranquillity. In short, this old-fashioned and rather homely custom must be a blessing and a comfort. You may not believe it, but I am really impatient to go off with this good friend for my first constitutional across the bridge. We are already slightly acquainted, and I hope that we are partners for life.'

"The partnership was but a brief one, however. On the third day of their strolls the companion failed to return. Another was procured, and lasted somewhat longer; and, at any rate, I was thankful to Mozart's sudden fancy for canes, since it helped him for three whole weeks to carry out the doctor's instructions. Good results began to appear; we had almost never seen him so bright and cheerful. But after a while the fancy passed, and I was in despair again. Then it happened that, after a very fatiguing day, he went with some friends who were passing through Vienna to a musical soirée. He promised faithfully that he would stay but an hour, but those are always the occasions when people most abuse his kindness, once he is seated at the piano and lost in music; for he sits there like a man in a balloon, miles above the earth, where one cannot hear the clocks strike. I sent twice for him, in the middle of the night; but the servant could not even get a word with him. At last, at three in the morning, he came home, and I made up my mind that I must be very severe with him all day."

Here Madame Mozart passed over some circumstances in silence. It was not unlikely that the Signora Malerbi (a woman with whom Frau Constanze had good reason to be angry) would have gone also to this soirée. The young Roman singer had, through Mozart's influence, obtained a place in the opera, and without doubt her coquetry had assisted her in winning his favor. Indeed, some gossips would have it that she had made a conquest of him, and had kept him for months on the rack. However that may have been, she conducted herself afterward in the most impertinent and ungrateful manner, and even permitted herself to jest at the expense of her benefactor. So it was quite like her to speak of Mozart to one of her more fortunate admirers as _un piccolo grifo raso_ (a little well-shaven pig). The comparison, worthy of a Circe, was the more irritating because one must confess that it contained a grain of truth.

As Mozart was returning from this soirée (at which, as it happened, the singer was not present), a somewhat excited friend was so indiscreet as to repeat to him the spiteful remark. It was the more amazing to him because it was the first unmistakable proof of the utter ingratitude of his protegée. In his great indignation he did not notice the extreme coolness of Frau Constanze's reception. Without stopping to take breath he poured out his grievance, and well-nigh roused her pity; yet she held conscientiously to her determination that he should not so easily escape punishment. So when he awoke from a sound sleep shortly after noon, he found neither wife nor children at home, and the table was spread for him alone.

Ever since Mozart's marriage there had been little which could make him so unhappy as any slight cloud between his better half and himself. If he had only known how heavy an anxiety had burdened her during the past few days! But, as usual, she had put off as long as possible the unpleasant communication. Her money was now almost spent, and there was no prospect that they should soon have more. Although Mozart did not guess this state of affairs, yet his heart sank with discouragement and uncertainty. He did not wish to eat; he could not stay in the house. He dressed himself quickly, to go out into the air. On the table he left an open note in Italian:

"You have taken a fair revenge, and treated me quite as I deserved. But be kind and smile again when I come home, I beg you. I should like to turn Carthusian or Trappist and make amends for my sins."

Then he took his hat, but not his cane--that had had its day--and set off.

Since we have excused Frau Constanze from telling so much of her story we may as well spare her a little longer. The good man sauntered along past the market toward the armory--it was a warm, sunshiny, summer afternoon--and slowly and thoughtfully crossed the Hof, and, turning to the left, climbed the Mölkenbastei, thus avoiding the greetings of several acquaintances who were just entering the town.

Although the silent sentinel who paced up and down beside the cannon did not disturb him, he stopped but a few minutes to enjoy the beautiful view across the green meadows and over the suburbs to the Kahlenberg. The peaceful calm of nature was too little in sympathy with his thoughts. With a sigh he set out across the esplanade, and so went on, without any particular aim, through the Alser-Vorstadt.

At the end of Währinger Street there was an inn, with a bowling alley; the proprietor, a master rope-maker, was as well known for his good beer as for the excellence of his ropes. Mozart heard the balls and saw a dozen or more guests within. A half-unconscious desire to forget himself among natural and unassuming people moved him to enter the garden. He sat down at one of the tables--but little shaded by the small trees--with an inspector of the water-works and two other Philistines, ordered his glass of beer, joined in their conversation, and watched the bowling.

Not far from the bowling-ground, toward the house, was the open shop of the rope-maker. It was a small room, full to overflowing; for, besides the necessaries of his trade, he had for sale all kinds of dishes and utensils for kitchen, cellar, and farm-oil and wagon grease, also seeds of various kinds, and dill and cheap brandy. A girl, who had to serve the guests and at the same time attend to the shop, was busy with a countryman, who, leading his little boy by the hand, had just stepped up to make a few purchases--a measure for fruit, a brush, a whip. He would choose one article, try it, lay it down, take up a second and a third, and go back, uncertainly, to the first one; he could not decide upon any one. The girl went off several times to wait on the guests, came back, and with the utmost patience helped him make his choice.

Mozart, on a bench near the alley, saw and heard, with great amusement, all that was going on. As much as he was interested in the good, sensible girl, with her calm and earnest countenance, he was still more entertained by the countryman who, even after he had gone, left Mozart much to think about. The master, for the time being, had changed places with him; he felt how important in his eyes was the small transaction, how anxiously and conscientiously the prices, differing only by a few kreutzers, were considered. "Now," he thought, "the man will go home to his wife and tell her of his purchases, and the children will all wait until the sack is opened, to see if it holds anything for them; while the good wife will hasten to bring the supper and the mug of fresh home-brewed cider, for which her husband has been keeping his appetite all day. If only I could be as happy and independent waiting only on Nature, and enjoying her blessings though they be hard to win! But if my art demands of me a different kind of work, that I would not, after all, exchange for anything in the world, why should I meanwhile remain in circumstances which are just the opposite of such a simple and innocent life? If I had a little land in a pleasant spot near the village, and a little house, then I could really live. In the mornings I could work diligently at my scores; all the rest of the time I could spend with my family. I could plant trees, visit my garden, in the fall gather apples and pears with my boys, now and then take a trip to town for an opera, or have a friend or two with me--what delight! Well, who knows what may happen!"

He walked up to the shop, spoke to the girl, and began to examine her stock more closely. His mind had not quite descended from its idyllic flight, and the clean, smooth, shining wood, with its fresh smell, attracted him. It suddenly occurred to him that he would pick out several articles for his wife, such as she might need or might like to have. At his suggestion, Constanze had, a long time ago, rented a little piece of ground outside the Kärnthner Thor, and had raised a few vegetables; so now it seemed quite fitting to invest in a long rake and a small rake and a spade. Then, as he looked further, he did honor to his principles of economy by denying himself, with an effort and after some deliberation, a most tempting churn. To make up for this, however, he chose a deep dish with a cover and a prettily carved handle; for it seemed a most useful article. It was made of narrow strips of wood, light and dark, and was carefully varnished. There was also a particularly fine choice of spoons, bread-boards, and plates of all sizes, and a salt-box of simple construction to hang on the wall.

At last he spied a stout stick, which had a handle covered with leather and studded with brass nails. As the strange customer seemed somewhat undecided about this also, the girl remarked with a smile that that was hardly a suitable stick for a gentleman to carry. "You are right, child," he answered. "I think I have seen butchers carry such sticks. No, I will not have it. But all the other things which we have laid out you may bring to me today or tomorrow." And he gave his name and address. Then he went back to the table to finish his beer. Only one of his former companions was sitting there, a master-tinker.

"The girl there has had a good day for once," he remarked. "Her uncle gives her a commission on all that she sells."

Mozart was now more pleased with his purchase than ever. But his interest was to become still greater. For, in a moment, as the girl passed near, the tinker called out, "Well, Crescenz, how is your friend the locksmith? Will he soon be filing his own iron?" "Oh," she answered without stopping, "that iron is still growing deep in the mountain."

"She is a good goose," said the tinsmith. "For a long time she kept house for her stepfather, and took care of him when he was ill; but after he died it came out that he had spent all her money. Since that she has lived with her uncle, and she is a treasure, in the shop, in the inn, and with the children. There is a fine young apprentice who would have liked to marry her long ago, but there is a hitch somewhere."

"How so? Has he nothing to live on?"

"They both have saved a little, but not enough. Now comes word of a good situation and a part of a house in Ghent. Her uncle could easily lend them the little money that they need, but of course he will not let her go. He has good friends in the council and in the union, and the young fellow is meeting with all sorts of difficulties."

"The wretches!" cried Mozart, so loud that the other looked around anxiously, fearing that they might have been overheard. "And is there no one who could speak the right word or show those fellows a fist? The villains! We will get the best of them yet."

The tinker was on thorns. He tried, clumsily enough, to moderate his statements, and almost contradicted himself. But Mozart would not listen. "Shame on you, how you chatter! That's just the way with all of you as soon as you have to answer for anything!" And with that he turned on his heel and left the astonished tinker. He hastened to the girl, who was busy with new guests: "Come early tomorrow, and give my respects to your good friend. I hope that your affairs will prosper." She was too busy and too much surprised to thank him.

He retraced his way to the city at a quick pace, for the incident had stirred his blood. Wholly occupied with the affairs of the poor young couple, he ran over in his mind a list of his friends and acquaintances who might be able to help them. Then, since it was necessary to have more particulars from the girl before he could decide upon any step, he dismissed the subject from his thoughts and hastened eagerly toward home.

He confidently expected a more than cordial welcome and a kiss at the door, and longing redoubled his haste. Presently the postman called to him and handed him a small but heavy parcel, which was addressed in a fair clear hand which he at once recognized. He stepped into the first shop to give the messenger his receipt, but when once in the street again his impatience was not to be checked, so he broke the seal, and, now walking, now standing still, devoured his letter.

"I was sitting at my sewing-table," continued Madame Mozart, in her story, "and heard my husband come upstairs and ask the servant for me. His step and tone were more cheerful and gay than I had expected, and more so than I quite liked. He went first to his room, but came immediately to me. 'Good-evening!' he said. I answered him quietly, without looking up. After walking across the room once or twice, with a smothered yawn he took up the fly-clap from behind the door--a most unusual proceeding--and remarking, 'Where do all these flies come from?' began to slap about, as loudly as possible. The noise is particularly unpleasant to him, and I had been careful not to let him hear it. 'H'm,' I thought, 'when he does it himself it's another matter.' Besides, I had not noticed many flies. His strange behavior vexed me much. 'Six at a blow!' he cried. 'Do you see?' No answer. Then he laid something on the table before me, so near that I could not help seeing it without lifting my eyes from my work. It was nothing less than a heap of ducats. He kept on with his nonsense behind my back, talking to himself, and giving a slap now and then. 'The disagreeable good-for-nothing beasts! What were they put in the world for"' _Pitsch_. 'To be killed, I suppose!' _Patsch_. 'Natural history teaches us how rapidly their numbers multiply.' _Pitsch, patsch_. 'In my house they are soon dispatched. Ah, _maledette! disperate_! Here are twenty more. Do you want them?' And he came and laid down another pile of gold. I had had hard work to keep from laughing, and could hold out no longer. He fell on my neck and we laughed as if for a wager.

"'But where did the money come from' I asked, as he shook the last pieces from the roll. 'From Prince Esterhazy,[33]rough Haydn. Read the letter.' I read:

"'Eisenstadt, Etc.

"'_My good friend_.--His Highness has, to my great delight, intrusted me with the errand of sending to you these 60 ducats. We have been playing your quartettes again, and his Highness was even more charmed and delighted than at the first hearing, three months ago. He said to me (I must write it word for word): "When Mozart dedicated these works to you, he thought to honor you alone. Yet he cannot take it amiss if I find in them a compliment to myself also. Tell him that I think as highly of his genius as you do, and more than that he could not wish." "Amen," said I. Are you satisfied?

"'_Postscript_ (for the ear of the good wife).--Take care that the acknowledgment be not too long delayed. A note from Mozart himself would be best. We must not lose so favorable a breeze.'

"'You angel! You divine creature!' cried Mozart again and again. It would be hard to say which pleased him most, the letter, or the praise of the prince, or the money. I confess that just then the money appealed most to me. We passed a very happy evening, as you may guess.

"Of the affair in the suburb I heard neither that day nor the next. The whole week went by; no Crescenz appeared, and my husband, in a whirl of engagements, soon forgot her. One Sunday evening we had a small musicale. Captain Wasselt, Count Hardegg, and others were there. During a pause I was called out, and there was the outfit. I went back to the room and asked, 'Have you ordered a lot of woodenware from the Alservorsstadt?'

"'By thunder, so I did! I suppose the girl is here? Tell her to come in.'

"So in she came, quite at ease, with rakes, spades, and all, and apologized for her delay, saying that she had forgotten the name of the street and had only just found it. Mozart took the things from her, one after another, and handed them to me with great satisfaction. I thanked him and was pleased with everything, praising and admiring, though I wondered all the time what he had bought the garden tools for.

"'For your garden,' he said.

"'Goodness! we gave that up long ago, because the river did so much damage; and besides we never had good luck with it. I told you, and you didn't object.'

"'What! And so the asparagus that we had this spring--'

"'Was always from the market!'

"'Hear that! If I had only known it! And I praised it just out of pity for your poor garden, when really the stalks were no bigger than Dutch quills.'

"The guests enjoyed the fun, and I had to give them some of the unnecessary articles at once. And when Mozart inquired of the girl about the prospects of her marriage, and encouraged her to speak freely, assuring her that whatever assistance we could offer should be quietly given and cause her no trouble, she told her story with so much modesty and discretion that she quite won her audience, and was sent away much encouraged.

"'Those people must be helped,' said the Captain. 'The tricks of the union do not amount to much. I know some one who will see to that. The important thing is a contribution toward the expenses of the house and the furniture. Let us give a benefit concert, admission fee _ad libitum_!'

"The suggestion found hearty approval. Somebody picked up the salt-box and said: 'We must have an historic introduction, with a description of Herr Mozart's purchase, and an account of his philanthropic spirit; and we will put this box on the table to receive the contributions and arrange the rakes as decorations.' This did not happen, however, though the concert came off; and what with the receipts of the concert and outside contributions, the young couple had more than enough for their housekeeping outfit, and also the other obstacles were quickly removed.

"The Duscheks, in Prague, dear friends of ours, with whom we are to stay, heard the story, and Frau Duschek asked for some of the woodenware as souvenirs. So I laid aside two which I thought were suitable, and was taking them to her.

"But since we have made another artist friend by the way, one who is, too, about to provide her wedding furnishings, and who will not despise what Mozart has chosen, I will divide my gift, and you, Eugenie, may choose between a lovely open-work rod for stirring chocolate and the salt-box, which is decorated with a tasteful tulip. My advice is to take the salt-box; salt, as I have heard, is a symbol of home and hospitality, and with the gift go the best and most affectionate wishes."

So ended Madame Mozart's story. How pleased and gratified her listeners were is easily to be imagined. Their delight was redoubled when, in the presence of the whole party, the interesting articles were brought out, and the model of patriarchal simplicity was formally presented. This, the Count vowed, should have in the silver-chest of its present owner and all her posterity, as important a place as that of the Florentine master's famous work.

It was, by this time, almost eight o'clock and tea-time, and soon our master was pressingly reminded of his promise to show his friends _Don Juan_, which lay under lock and key, but, happily, not too deep down in his trunk. Mozart was ready and willing, and by the time he had told the story of the plot and had brought the libretto, the lights were burning at the piano.

We could wish that our readers could here realize a touch, at least, of that peculiar sensation with which a single chord, floating from a window as we pass, stops us and holds us spellbound--a touch of that pleasant suspense with which we sit before the curtain in the theatre while the orchestra is still tuning! Or am I wrong? Can the soul stand more deeply in awe of everlasting beauty than when pausing before any sublime and tragic work of art--Macbeth, OEdipus, or whatever it may be? Man wishes and yet fears to be moved beyond his ordinary habit; he feels that the Infinite will touch him, and he shrinks before it in the very moment when it draws him most strongly. Reverence for perfect art is present, too; the thought of enjoying a heavenly miracle--of being able and being permitted to make it one's own--stirs an emotion--pride, if you will--which is perhaps the purest and happiest of which we are capable.

This little company, however, was on very different ground from ours. They were about to hear, for the first time, a work which has been familiar to us from childhood. If one subtracts the very enviable pleasure of hearing it through its creator, we have the advantage of them; for in one hearing they could not fully appreciate and understand such a work, even if they had heard the whole of it.

Of the eighteen numbers which were already written the composer did not give the half (in the authority from which we have our statement we find only the last number, the sextet, expressly mentioned), and he played them in a free sort of transcription, singing here and there as he felt disposed. Of his wife it is only told that she sang two arias. We might guess, since her voice was said to be as strong as it was sweet, that she chose Donna Anna's _Or sai, chi l'onore_, and one of Zerlina's two arias.

In all probability Eugenie and her fiancé were the only listeners who, in spirit, taste, and judgment, were what Mozart could wish. They sat far back in the room, Eugenie motionless as a statue, and so engrossed that, in the short pauses when the rest of the audience expressed their interest or showed their delight in involuntary exclamations, she gave only the briefest replies to the Baron's occasional remarks.

When Mozart stopped, after the beautiful sextet, and conversation began again, he showed himself particularly pleased with the Baron's comments. They spoke of the close of the opera, and of the first performance, announced for an early date in November; and when some one remarked that certain portions yet to be written must be a gigantic task, the master smiled, and Constanze said to the Countess, so loudly that Mozart must needs hear: "He has ideas which he works at secretly; before me, sometimes."

"You are playing your part badly, my dear," he interrupted. "What if I should want to begin anew? And, to tell the truth, I'd rather like to."

"Leporello!" cried the Count, springing up and nodding to a servant. "Bring some wine. Sillery--three bottles."

"No, if you please. That is past; my husband will not drink more than he still has in his glass."

"May it bring him luck--and so to every one!"

"Good heavens! What have I done," lamented Constanze, looking at the clock. "It is nearly eleven, and we must start early tomorrow. How shall we manage?"

"Don't manage at all, dear Frau Mozart."

"Sometimes," began Mozart, "things work out very strangely. What will my Stanzl say when she learns that the piece of work which you are going to hear came to life at this very hour of the night, just before I was to go on a journey?"

"Is it possible! When? Oh! three weeks ago, when you were to go to Eisenstadt."

"Exactly. This is how it came about. I came in after ten (you were fast asleep) from dinner at the Richters'. and intended to go to bed early, as I had promised, for I was to start very early in the morning. Meanwhile Veit had lighted the candles on the writing-table, as usual. I made ready for bed mechanically, and then thought I would take just a look at the last notes I had written. But, cruel fate! with woman's deuced inconvenient spirit of order you had cleared up the room and packed the music--for the Prince wished to see a number or two from the opera. I hunted, grumbled, scolded-all in vain. Then my eye fell on a sealed envelope from Abbate--his pot-hooks in the address. Yes; he had sent me the rest of his revised text, which I had not hoped to see for months. I sat down with great curiosity and began to read, and was enraptured to find how well the fellow understood what I wanted. It was all much simpler, more condensed, and at the same time fuller. The scene in the churchyard and the _finale_, with the disappearance of the hero, were greatly improved. 'But, my excellent poet,' I said to myself, 'you need not have loaded me with heaven and hell a second time, so carelessly.'

"Now, it is never my habit to write any number out of order, be it never so tempting; that is a mistake which may be too severely punished. Yet there are exceptions, and, in short, the scene near the statue of the governor, the warning which, coming suddenly from the grave of the murdered man, interrupts so horribly the laughter of the revelers--that scene was already in my head. I struck a chord, and felt that I had knocked at the right door, behind which lay all the legion of horrors to be let loose in the _finale_. First came out an adagio--D-minor, only four measures; then a second, with five. 'There will be an extraordinary effect in the theatre,' thought I, 'when the strongest wind instruments accompany the voice.' Now you shall hear it, as well as it can be done without the orchestra."

He snuffed out the candles beside him, and that fearful choral, "Your laughter shall be ended ere the dawn," rang through the death-like stillness of the room. The notes of the silver trumpet fell through the blue night as if from another sphere--ice-cold, cutting through nerve and marrow. "Who is here? Answer!" they heard Don Juan ask. Then the choral, monotonous as before, bade the ruthless youth leave the dead in peace.

After this warning had rung out its last notes, Mozart went on: "Now, as you can think, there was no stopping. When the ice begins to break at the edge, the whole lake cracks and snaps from end to end. Involuntarily, I took up the thread at Don Juan's midnight feast, when Donna Elvira has just departed and the ghost enters in response to the invitation. Listen!"

And then the whole, long, horrible dialogue followed. When the human voices have become silent, the voice of the dead speaks again. After that first fearful greeting, in which the half-transformed being refuses the earthly nourishment offered him, how strangely and horribly moves the unsteady voice up and down in that singular scale! He demands speedy repentance; the spirit's time is short, the way it must travel, long. And Don Juan, in monstrous obstinacy withstanding the eternal commands, beneath the growing influence of the dark spirits, struggles and writhes and finally perishes, keeping to the last, nevertheless, that wonderful expression of majesty in every gesture. How heart and flesh tremble with delight and terror! It is a feeling like that with which one watches the mighty spectacle of an unrestrained force of nature, or the burning of a splendid ship. In spite of ourselves, we sympathize with the blind majesty, and, shuddering, share the pain of its self-destruction.

The composer paused. For a while no one could speak. Finally, the Countess, with voice still unsteady, said "Will you give us some idea of your own feelings when you laid down the pen that night?"

He looked up at her as if waked from a dream, hesitated a moment, and then said, half to the Countess, half to his wife: "Yes, my head swam at last. I had written this dialogue and the chorus of demons, in fever heat, by the open window, and, after resting a moment, I rose to go to your room, that I might talk a little and cool off. But another thought stopped me half way to the door." His glance fell, and his voice betrayed his emotion. "I said to myself, 'If you should die tonight and leave your score just here, could you rest in your grave?' My eye fell on the wick of the light in my hand and on the mountain of melted wax. The thought that it suggested was painful. 'Then,' I went on, 'if after this, sooner or later, some one else were to complete the opera, perhaps even an Italian, and found all the numbers but one, up to the seventeenth--so many sound, ripe fruits, lying ready to his hand in the long grass-if he dreaded the finale, and found, unhoped for, the rocks for its construction close by--he might well laugh in his sleeve. Perhaps he would be tempted to rob me of my honor. He would burn his fingers, though, for I have many a good friend who knows my stamp and would see that I had my rights.'

"Then I thanked God and went back, and thanked your good angel, dear wife, who held his hand so long over your brow, and kept you sleeping so soundly that you could not once call to me. When at last I did go to bed and you asked me the hour, I told you you were two hours younger than you were, for it was nearly four; and now you will understand why you could not get me to leave the feathers at six, and why you had to dismiss the coach and order it for another day."

"Certainly," answered Constanze; "but the sly man must not think that I was so stupid as not to know something of what was going on. You didn't need, on that account, to keep your beautiful new numbers all to yourself."

"That was not the reason."

"No, I know. You wanted to keep your treasure away from criticism yet a little while."

"I am glad," cried the good-natured host, "that we shall not need to grieve the heart of a noble Vienna coachman to-morrow, when Herr Mozart cannot arise. The order, 'Hans, you may unharness!' always makes one sad."

This indirect invitation for a longer stay, which was heartily seconded by the rest of the family, obliged the travelers to explain their urgent reason for declining it; yet they readily agreed that the start need not be made so early as to interfere with a meeting at breakfast.

They stood, talking in groups, a little while longer. Mozart looked about him, apparently for Eugenie; since she was not there he turned naïvely with his question to Franziska.

"What do you think, on the whole, of our Don Juan? Can you prophesy anything good for him?"

"In the name of my aunt, I will answer as well as I can," was the laughing reply. "My opinion is that if Don Juan does not set the world mad, the good Lord may shut up his music chests for years to come, and give mankind to understand--"

"And give mankind," corrected the Count, "the bag-pipes to play on, and harden the hearts of the people so that they worship Baal."

"The Lord preserve us!" laughed Mozart. "But in the course of the next sixty or seventy years, long after I am gone, will arise many false prophets."

Eugenie approached, with the Baron and Max; the conversation took a new turn, growing ever more earnest and serious, and the composer, ere the company separated, rejoiced in many a word of encouragement and good cheer. Finally, long after midnight, all retired; nor, till then, had any one felt weary.

Next day--for the fair weather still held--at ten o'clock a handsome coach, loaded with the effects of the two travelers, stood in the courtyard. The Count, with Mozart, was waiting for the horses to be put in, and asked the master how the carriage pleased him.

"Very well, indeed; it seems most comfortable." "Good! Then be so kind as to keep it to remind you of me."

"What! You are not in earnest?"

"Why not?"

"Holy Sixtus and Calixtus! Constanze, here!" he called up to the window where, with the others, she sat looking out. "The coach is mine. You will ride hereafter in your own carriage."

He embraced the smiling donor, and examined his new possession on all sides; finally he threw open the door and jumped in, exclaiming: "I feel as rich and happy as Ritter Gluck. What eyes they will make in Vienna!"

"I hope," said the Countess, "when you return from Prague, to see your carriage again, all hung with wreaths."

Soon after this last happy scene the much-praised carriage moved away with the departing guests, and rolled rapidly toward the road to Prague. At Wittingau the Count's horses were to be exchanged for post-horses, with which they would continue their journey.

When such excellent people have enlivened our houses by their presence, have given us new impulses through their fresh spirits, and have made us feel the blessings of dispensing hospitality, their departure leaves an uncomfortable sense of vacancy and interruption, at least for the rest of the day, and especially if we are left to ourselves. The latter case, at least, was not true with our friends in the palace. Franziska's parents and aunt soon followed the Mozarts. Franziska herself, the Baron, and Max of course, remained. Eugenie, with whom we are especially concerned, because she appreciated more deeply than the others the priceless experience she had had--she, one would think, could not feel in the least unhappy or troubled. Her pure happiness in the truly beloved man to whom she was now formally betrothed would drown all other considerations; rather, the most noble and lovely things which could move her heart must be mingled with that other happiness. So would it have been, perhaps, if she could have lived only in the present, or in joyful retrospect. But she had been moved by anxiety while Frau Mozart was telling her story, and the apprehension increased all the while that Mozart was playing, in spite of the ineffable charm beneath the mysterious horror of the music, and was brought to a climax by his own story of his night work. She felt sure that this man's energy would speedily and inevitably destroy him; that he could be but a fleeting apparition in this world, which was unable to appreciate the profusion of his gifts.

This thought, mingled with many others and with echoes of Don Juan, had surged through her troubled brain the night before, and it was almost daylight when she fell asleep. Now, the three women had seated themselves in the garden with their work; the men bore them company, and when the conversation, as was natural, turned upon Mozart, Eugenie did not conceal her apprehensions. No one shared them in the least, although the Baron understood her fully. She tried to rid herself of the feeling, and her friends, particularly her uncle, brought to her mind the most positive and cheering proofs that she was wrong. How gladly she heard them! She was almost ready to believe that she had been foolishly alarmed.

Some moments afterward, as she passed through the large hall which had just been swept and put in order, where the half-drawn green damask curtains made a soft twilight, she stopped sadly before the piano. It was like a dream, to think who had sat there but a few hours before. She looked long and thoughtfully at the keys which _he_ had touched last; then she softly closed the lid and took away the key, in jealous care lest some other hand should open it too soon. As she went away, she happened to return to its place a book of songs; an old leaf fell out, the copy of a Bohemian folk-song, which Franziska, and she too, had sung long ago. She took it up, not without emotion, for in her present mood the most natural occurrence might easily seem an oracle. And the simple verses, as she read them through again, brought the hot tears to her eyes:

"A pine-tree stands in a forest--who knows where? A rose-tree in some garden fair doth grow; Remember they are waiting there, my soul, Till o'er thy grave they bend to whisper and to blow.

"Far in the pasture two black colts are feeding. Toward home they canter when the master calls; They shall go slowly with thee to thy grave, Perchance ere from their hoofs the gleaming iron falls."

* * * * *

ANNETTE ELIZABETH VON DROSTE-HÜLSHOFF

PENTECOST[34] (1839)

The day was still, the sun's bright glare Fell sheer upon the Temple's beauteous wall Withered by tropic heat, the air Let, like a bird, its listless pinions fall. Behold a group, young men and gray, And women, kneeling; silence holds them all; They mutely pray!

Where is the faithful Comforter Whom, parting, Thou didst promise to Thine own? They trust Thy word which cannot err, But sad and full of fear the time has grown. The hour draws nigh; for forty days And forty wakeful nights toward Thee we've thrown Our weeping gaze.

Where is He? Hour on hour doth steal, And minute after minute swells the doubt. Where doth He bide? And though a seal Be on the mouth, the soul must yet speak out. Hot winds blow, in the sandy lake The panting tiger moans and rolls about, Parched is the snake.

But hark! a murmur rises now, Swelling and swelling like a storm's advance, Yet standing grass-blades do not bow, And the still palm-tree listens in a trance. Why seem these men to quake with fear While each on other casts a wondering glance? Behold! 'Tis here!

'Tis here, 'tis here! the quivering light Rests on each head; what floods of ecstasy Throng in our veins with wondrous might! The future dawns; the flood-gates open free; Resistless pours the mighty Word; Now as a herald's call, now whisperingly, Its tone is heard.

Oh Light, oh Comforter, but there Alas! and but to them art Thou revealed And not to us, not everywhere Where drooping souls for comfort have appealed! I yearn for day that never breaks; Oh shine, before this eye is wholly sealed, Which weeps and wakes.

* * * * *

THE HOUSE IN THE HEATH[35] (1841)

Beneath yon fir trees in the west, The sunset round it glowing, A cottage lies like bird on nest, With thatch roof hardly showing.

And there across the window-sill Leans out a white-starred heifer; She snorts and stamps; then breathes her fill Of evening's balmy zephyr.

Near-by reposes, hedged with thorn, A garden neatly tended; The sunflower looks about with scorn; The bell-flower's head is bended.

And in the garden kneels a child, She weeds or merely dallies, A lily plucks with gesture mild And wanders down the alleys.

A shepherd group in distance dim Lie stretched upon the heather, And with a simple evening hymn Wake the still breeze together.

And from the roomy threshing hall The hammer strokes ring cheery, The plane gives forth a crunching drawl, The rasping saw sounds weary.

The evening star now greets the scene And smoothly soars above it, And o'er the cottage stands serene; He seems in truth to love it.

A vision with such beauty crowned, Had pious monks observed it, They straight upon a golden ground Had painted and preserved it.

The carpenter, the herdsmen there A pious choral sounding; The maiden with the lily fair, And peace the whole surrounding;

The wondrous star that beams on all From out the fields of heaven-- May it not be that in the stall The Christ is born this even?

* * * * *

THE BOY ON THE MOOR[36] (1841)

'Tis an eerie thing o'er the moor to fare When the eddies of peat-smoke justle, When the wraiths of mist whirl here and there And wind-blown tendrils tussle, When every step starts a hidden spring And the trodden moss-tufts hiss and sing 'Tis an eerie thing o'er the moor to fare When the tangled reed-beds rustle.

The child with his primer sets out alone And speeds as if he were hunted, The wind goes by with a hollow moan-- There's a noise in the hedge-row stunted. 'Tis the turf-digger's ghost, near-by he dwells, And for drink his master's turf he sells. "Whoo! whoo!" comes a sound like a stray cow's groan; The poor boy's courage is daunted.

Then stumps loom up beside the ditch, Uncannily nod the bushes, The boy running on, each nerve a twitch, Through a jungle of spear-grass pushes. And where it trickles and crackles apace Is the Spinner's unholy hiding-place, The home of the cursèd Spinning-witch Who turns her wheel 'mid the rushes.

On, ever on, goes the fearsome rout, In pursuit through that region fenny, At each wild stride the bubbles burst out, And the sounds from beneath are many. Until at length from the midst of the din Comes the squeak of a spectral violin, That must be the rascally fiddler lout Who ran off with the bridal penny!

The turf splits open, and from the hole Bursts forth an unhappy sighing, "Alas, alas, for my wretched soul!" 'Tis poor damned Margaret crying! The lad he leaps like a wounded deer, And were not his guardian angel near Some digger might find in a marshy knoll Where his little bleached bones were lying.

But the ground grows firmer beneath his feet, And there from over the meadow A lamp is flickering homely-sweet; The boy at the edge of the shadow Looks back as he pauses to take his breath, And in his glance is the fear of death. 'Twas eerie there 'mid the sedge and peat, Ah, that was a place to dread, O!

* * * * *

ON THE TOWER[37] (1842)

I stand aloft on the balcony, The starlings around me crying, And let like maenad my hair stream free To the storm o'er the ramparts flying. Oh headlong wind, on this narrow ledge I would I could try thy muscle And, breast to breast, two steps from the edge, Fight it out in a deadly tussle.

Beneath me I see, like hounds at play, How billow on billow dashes; Yea, tossing aloft the glittering spray, The fierce throng hisses and clashes. Oh, might I leap into the raging flood And urge on the pack to harry

The hidden glades of the coral wood, For the walrus, a worthy quarry! From yonder mast a flag streams out As bold as a royal pennant; I can watch the good ship lunge about From this tower of which I am tenant; But oh, might I be in the battling ship, Might I seize the rudder and steer her, How gay o'er the foaming reef we'd slip Like the sea-gulls circling near her!

Were I a hunter wandering free, Or a soldier in some sort of fashion, Or if I at least a man might be, The heav'ns would grant me my passion.

But now I must sit as fine and still As a child in its best of dresses, And only in secret may have my will And give to the wind my tresses.

* * * * *

THE DESOLATE HOUSE[38] (1842)

Deep in a dell a woodsman's house Has sunk in wild dilapidation; There buried under vines and boughs I often sit in contemplation. So dense the tangle that the day Through heavy lashes can but glimmer; The rocky cleft is rendered dimmer By overshadowing tree-trunks gray.

Within that dell I love to hear The flies with their tumultuous humming, And solitary beetles near Amid the bushes softly drumming.

And when the trickling cliffs of slate The color from the sunset borrow, Methinks an eye all red with sorrow Looks down on me disconsolate.

The arbor peak with jagged edge Wears many a vine-shoot long and meagre And from the moss beneath the hedge Creep forth carnations, nowise eager. There from the moist cliff overhead The muddy drippings oft bedew them, Then creep in lazy streamlets through them To sink within a fennel-bed.

Along the roof o'ergrown with moss Has many a tuft of thatch projected, A spider-web is built across The window-jamb, else unprotected; The wing of a gleaming dragon-fly Hangs in it like some petal tender, The body armed in golden splendor Lies headless on the sill near-by.

A butterfly sometimes may chance In heedless play to flutter hither And stop in momentary trance Where the narcissus blossoms wither; A dove that through the grove has flown Above this dell no more will utter Her coo, one can but hear her flutter And see her shadow on the stone.

And in the fireplace where the snow Each winter down the chimney dashes A mass of bell-capped toad-stools grow On viscid heaps of moldering ashes. High on a peg above the rest A hank of rope-yarn limply dangles Like rotted hair, and in the tangles The swallow built her last year's nest.

An old dog-collar set with bells Swings from a hook by clasp and tether, With rude embroidery that spells "Diana" worked upon the leather. A flute too, when the woodsman died, The men who dug his grave forgot here; The dog, his only friend, they shot here And laid her by her master's side.

But while I sit in reverie, A field-mouse near me shrilly crying, The squirrel barking from his tree, And from the marsh the frogs replying-- Then eerie shudders o'er me shoot, As if I caught from out the dingle Diana's bells once more a-jingle And echoes of the dead man's flute.

* * * * *

THE JEW'S BEECH-TREE (1841)

BY ANNETTE ELIZABETH VON DROSTE-HÜLSHOFF

TRANSLATED BY LILLIE WINTER, A.B.

Frederick Mergel, born in 1738, was the son of a so-called _Halbmeier_ or property holder of low station in the village of B., which, however badly built and smoky it may be, still engrosses the eye of every traveler by the extremely picturesque beauty of its situation in a green woody ravine of an important and historically noteworthy mountain chain. The little country to which it belonged was, at that time, one of those secluded corners of the earth, without trade or manufacturing, without highways, where a strange face still excited interest and a journey of thirty miles made even one of the more important inhabitants the Ulysses of his vicinage--in short, a spot, as so many more that once could be found in Germany, with all the failings and the virtues, all the originality and the narrowness that can flourish only under such conditions.

Under very simple and often inadequate laws the inhabitants' ideas of right and wrong had, in some measure, become confused, or, rather, a second law had grown up beside the official, a law of public opinion, of custom, and of long uncontested privilege. The property holders, who sat as judges in the lower courts, meted out punishments or rewards in accordance with their own notions, which were, in most cases, honest. The common people did what seemed to them practicable and compatible with a somewhat lax conscience, and it was only the loser to whom it sometimes occurred to look up dusty old documents. It is hard to view that period without prejudice; since it has passed away it has been either haughtily criticised or foolishly praised; for those who lived through it are blinded by too many precious recollections, and the newer generation does not understand it. This much, however, one may assert, that the shell was weaker, the kernel stronger, crime more frequent, want of principle rarer. For he who acts according to his convictions, be they ever so faulty, can never be entirely debased; whereas nothing kills the soul more surely than appealing to the written law when it is at variance with one's own sense of what is right.

The inhabitants of the little country of which we speak, being more restless and enterprising than their neighbors, certain features of life came out more sharply here than would have been the case elsewhere under like conditions. Wood stealing and poaching were every-day occurrences, and in the numerous fights which ensued each one had to seek his own consolation if his head was bruised. Since great and productive forests constituted the chief wealth of the country, these forests were of course vigilantly watched over, less, however, by legal means than by continually renewed efforts to defeat violence and trickery with like weapons.

The village of B. was reputed to be the most arrogant, most cunning, and most daring community in the entire principality. Perhaps its situation in the midst of the deep and proud solitude of the forest had early strengthened the innate obstinacy of its inhabitants. The proximity of a river which flowed into the sea and bore covered vessels large enough to transport shipbuilding timber conveniently and safely to foreign ports, helped much in encouraging the natural boldness of the wood-thieves; and the fact that the entire neighborhood swarmed with foresters served only to aggravate matters, since in the oft-recurring skirmishes the peasants usually had the advantage. Thirty or forty wagons would start off together on beautiful moonlight nights with about twice as many men of every age, from the half-grown boy to the seventy-year-old village magistrate, who, as an experienced bell-wether, led the procession as proudly and self-consciously as when he took his seat in the court-room. Those who were left behind listened unconcernedly to the grinding and pounding of the wheels dying away in the narrow passes, and slept calmly on. Now and then an occasional shot, a faint scream, startled perhaps a young wife or an engaged girl; no one else paid any attention to it. At the first gray light of dawn the procession returned just as silently--every face bronzed, and here and there a bandaged head, which did not matter. A few hours later the neighborhood would be alive with talk about the misfortune of one or more foresters, who were being carried out of the woods, beaten, blinded with snuff, and rendered unable to attend to their business for some time.

In this community Frederick Mergel was born, in a house which attested the pretensions of its builder by the proud addition of a chimney and somewhat less diminutive window panes, but at the same time bespoke the miserable circumstances of its owner by its present state of dilapidation. What had once been a hedge around the yard and the garden had given way to a neglected fence; the roof was damaged; other people's cattle grazed in the pastures; other people's corn grew in the field adjoining the yard; and the garden contained, with the exception of a few woody rose bushes of a better time, more weeds than useful plants. Strokes of misfortune had, it is true, brought on much of this, but disorder and mismanagement had played their part. Frederick's father, old Herman Mergel, was, in his bachelor days, a so-called orderly drinker--that is, one who lay in the gutter on Sundays and holidays, but during the week was as well behaved as any one, and so he had had no difficulty in wooing and winning a right pretty and wealthy girl. There was great merrymaking at the wedding. Mergel did not get so very drunk, and the bride's parents went home in the evening satisfied; but the next Sunday the young wife, screaming and bloody, was seen running through the village to her family, leaving behind all her good clothes and new household furniture. Of course that meant great scandal and vexation for Mergel, who naturally needed consolation; by afternoon therefore there was not an unbroken pane of glass in his house and he was seen late at night still lying on his threshold, raising, from time to time, the neck of a broken bottle to his mouth and pitifully lacerating his face and hands. The young wife remained with her parents, where she soon pined away and died. Whether it was remorse or shame that tormented Mergel, no matter; he seemed to grow more and more in need of "spiritual" bolstering up, and soon began to be counted among the completely demoralized good-for-nothings.

The household went to pieces, hired girls caused disgrace and damage; so year after year passed. Mergel was and remained a distressed and finally rather pitiable widower, until all of a sudden he again appeared as a bridegroom. If the event itself was unexpected, the personality of the bride added still more to the general astonishment. Margaret Semmler was a good, respectable person, in her forties, a village belle in her youth, still respected for her good sense and thrift, and at the same time not without some money. What had induced her to take this step was consequently incomprehensible to every one. We think the reason is to be found in her very consciousness of perfection. On the evening before the wedding she is reported to have said: "A woman who is badly treated by her husband is either stupid or good-for-nothing; if I am unhappy, put it down as my fault." The result proved, unfortunately, that she had overestimated her strength. At first she impressed her husband; if he had taken too much, he would not come home, or would creep into the barn. But the yoke was too oppressive to be borne long, and soon they saw him quite often staggering across the street right into his house, heard his wild shouting within, and saw Margaret hastily closing doors and windows. On one such day--it was no longer a Sunday now--they saw her rush out of the house in the evening, without hood or Shawl, with her hair flying wildly about her head. They saw her throw herself down in the garden beside a vegetable bed and dig up the earth with her hands, then, anxiously looking about her, quickly pick off some vegetables and slowly return with them in the direction of the house, but, instead of entering it, go into the barn. It was said that this was the first time that Mergel had struck her, although she never let such an admission pass her lips. The second year of this unhappy marriage was marked by the coming of a son--one cannot say gladdened, for Margaret is reported to have wept bitterly when the child was handed to her. Nevertheless, although born beneath a heart full of grief, Frederick was a healthy, pretty child who grew strong in the fresh air. His father loved him dearly, never came home without bringing him a roll or something of that sort, and it was even thought he had become more temperate since the birth of the boy; at least the noise in the house decreased.

Frederick was in his ninth year. It was about the Feast of the Three Kings, a raw and stormy winter night. Herman had gone to a wedding, and had started out early because the bride's house was three miles away. Although he had promised to return in the evening, Mistress Mergel hardly counted on it because a heavy snowfall had set in after sunset. About ten o'clock she banked the fire and made ready to go to bed. Frederick stood beside her, already half undressed, and listened, to the howling of the wind and the rattling of the garret windows.

"Mother, isn't father coming home tonight?" he asked.

"No, child; tomorrow."

"But why not, mother? He promised to."

"Oh, God, if he only kept every promise he makes!--Hurry now, hurry and get ready."

They had hardly gone to bed when a gale started to rage as though it would carry the house along with it. The bed-stead quivered, and the chimney-stack rattled as if there were goblins in it.

"Mother, some one's knocking outside!"

"Quiet, Fritzy; that's the loose board on the gable being shaken by the wind."

"No; mother, it's at the door."

"It does not lock; the latch is broken. Heavens, go to sleep! Don't deprive me of my bit of rest at night!"

"But what if father should come now!"

His mother turned angrily in her bed. "The devil holds him tight enough!"

"Where is the devil, mother?

"Wait, you restless boy! He's standing at the door, ready to get you if you don't keep quiet!"

Frederick became quiet. A little while longer he listened, and then fell asleep. A few hours later he awoke. The wind had changed, and hissed like a snake through the cracks in the window near his ear. His shoulder was stiff; he crept clear under his quilt and lay still and trembling with fear. After a while he noticed that his mother was not asleep either. He heard her weep and moan between sobs: "Hail, Mary!" and "Pray for us poor sinners!" The beads of the rosary slid by his face. An involuntary sigh escaped him. "Frederick, are you awake?

"Yes, mother."

"Child, pray a little--you know half of the Paternoster already, don't you?-that God protect us from flood and fire."

Frederick thought of the devil, and wondered how he looked, anyway. The confused noise and rumbling in the house seemed strange to him. He thought there must be something alive within and without. "Listen, mother! I am sure I hear people knocking."

"Oh, no, child; but there's not an old board in the house that isn't rattling."

"Hark! Don't you hear? Someone's calling! Listen!"

His mother sat up; the raging of the storm subsided a moment. Knocking on the shutters, was distinctly audible, and several voices called: "Margaret!. Mistress Margaret! Hey there! Open the door!" Margaret ejaculated violently, "There, they're again bringing the swine home to me!"

The rosary flew clattering down on the wooden chair; hastily she snatched her clothes; she rushed to the hearth, and soon Frederick heard her walk across the hall with defiant steps. Margaret did not return; but in the kitchen there was a loud murmuring of strange voices. Twice a strange man came into the bedroom and seemed to be nervously searching for something. Suddenly a lamp was brought in; two men were supporting his mother. She was white as chalk and her eyes were closed; Frederick thought she was dead. He emitted a fearful scream, whereupon some one boxed his ear. That silenced him; and now he gradually gleaned from the remarks of the bystanders that his father had been found dead in the woods by his Uncle Franz Semmler and by Huelsmeyer, and was now lying in the kitchen.

As soon as Margaret regained consciousness she tried to get rid of the strangers. Her brother remained with her, and Frederick, who was threatened with severe punishment if he got out of bed, heard the fire crackling in the kitchen all night and a noise like stroking something back and forth, and brushing it. There was little spoken and that quietly, but now and then sobs broke out that went through and through the child, young as he was. Once he understood his uncle to say, "Margaret, don't take it so badly; we will all have three masses read, and at Eastertide we'll make together a pilgrimage to the Holy Virgin of Werl."

When the body was carried away two days later, Margaret sat on the hearth and covered her face with her apron. After a few minutes, when everything had become quiet, she mumbled, "Ten years, ten crosses! But we carried them together, after all, and now I am alone!" Then louder, "Fritzy, come here!"

Frederick approached her timidly; his mother had become quite uncanny to him with her black ribbons and her haggard, troubled face. "Fritzy," she said, "will you now really be good and make me happy, or will you be naughty and lie, or drink and steal?"

"Mother, Huelsmeyer steals."

"Huelsmeyer? God forbid! Must I spank you? Who tells you such wicked things?"

"The other day he beat Aaron and took six groschen from him."

"If he took money from Aaron, no doubt the accursed Jew had first cheated him out of it. Huelsmeyer is a respectable householder, and the Jews are all rascals!"

"But, mother, Brandes also says that he steals wood and deer."

"Child, Brandes is a forester."

"Mother, do foresters tell lies?"

Margaret was silent a moment, and then said, "Listen, Fritz! Our Lord makes the wood grow free and the wild game moves from one landowner's property into another's. They can belong to no one. But you do not understand that yet. Now go into the shed and get me some fagots."

Frederick had seen his father lying on the straw, where he was said to have looked blue and fearful; but the boy never spoke of it and seemed indisposed to think of it. On the whole, the recollection of his father had left behind a feeling of tenderness mingled with horror, for nothing so engrosses one as love and devotion on the part of a person who seems hardened against everything else; and in Frederick's case this sentiment grew with the years, through the experience of many slights on the part of others. As a child he was very sensitive about having any one mention his deceased father in a tone not altogether flattering to him--a cause for grief that the none too delicate neighbors did not spare him. There is a tradition in those parts which denies rest in the grave to a person killed by accident. Old Mergel had thus become the ghost of the forest of Brede; as a will o' the wisp he led a drunken man into the pond by a hair; the shepherd boys, when they crouched by their fires at night and the owls screeched in the hollows, sometimes heard quite clearly in broken accents his "Just listen, sweet Lizzie;" and an unprivileged woodman who had fallen asleep under the broad oak and been overtaken by nightfall, had, upon awakening, seen his swollen blue face peeping through the branches. Frederick was obliged to hear much of this from other boys; then he would howl and strike any one who was near; once he even cut some one with his little knife and was, on this occasion, pitilessly thrashed. After that he drove his mother's cows alone to the other end of the valley, where one could often see him lie in the grass for hours in the same position, pulling up the thyme.

He was twelve years old when his mother received a visit from her younger brother who lived in Brede and had not crossed his sister's threshold since her foolish marriage.

Simon Semmler was a short, restless, lean man with bulging fishlike eyes and a face altogether like a pike--an uncanny fellow, in whom exaggerated reserve often alternated with affability no less affected--who would have liked to pass for a shrewd intellect but was considered disagreeable instead. He was a quarrelsome chap, and everybody grew more anxious to avoid him the farther he advanced toward that age when persons of limited intellect are apt to make up in pretensions for what they lose in usefulness. Nevertheless poor Margaret was glad to see him, as she had no other relatives living.

"Simon, is that you?" she asked, trembling so that she had to steady herself on a chair. "You want to see how I am getting along with my dirty boy?"

Simon looked at her earnestly and clasped her hand. "You have grown old, Margaret."

Margaret sighed. "I've had much sorrow and all kinds of bad luck since I saw you."

"Yes, girl, marry at leisure, repent in haste! Now you are old and the child is small. Everything has its time. But when an old house is burning nothing will quench the fire." A flame, red as blood, flashed across Margaret's care-worn face.

"But I hear your son is cunning and smart," Simon continued.

"Well, rather, but good withal," replied Margaret.

"H'm, some one once stole a cow; he was called 'good' too. But he is quiet and thoughtful, isn't he? He doesn't run around with the other boys?"

"He is a peculiar child," said Margaret, as though to herself; "it's not a good thing."

Simon laughed aloud. "Your boy is timid because the others have given him a few good thrashings. Don't worry, the lad will repay them! Huelsmeyer came to see me lately; said the boy was like a deer."

What mother's heart does not rejoice when she hears her child praised? Poor Margaret seldom had this pleasure; every one called her boy malicious and close-mouthed. Tears started to her eyes. "Yes, thank God, his limbs are straight!"

"What does he look like?" continued Simon.

"He's a good deal like you, Simon, a good deal." Simon laughed. "Indeed, he must be a rare fellow; I'm getting better-looking every day. Of course he shouldn't be wasting his time at school. You let him pasture the cows? Just as well; what the teacher says isn't half true anyway. But where does he pasture? In the Telgen glen? In the Roder woods? In the Teutoburg forest? At night and early in the morning, too?"

"All through the night; but what do you mean?"

Simon seemed not to hear this. He craned his neck toward the door. "Look, there comes the youngster! His father's son! He swings his arms like your departed husband. And just see! The lad actually has my light hair!"

A proud smile spread secretly over the mother's face; her Frederick's blond curls and Simon's reddish bristles! Without answering she broke a branch from the hedge near-by and went to meet her son, apparently to hurry on a lazy cow, in reality, however, to whisper a few hasty, half threatening words into his ear; for she knew his obstinate disposition, and Simon's manner today had seemed to her more intimidating than ever. But everything ran smoothly beyond expectation; Frederick showed himself neither obdurate nor insolent-rather, somewhat embarrassed and anxious to please his uncle. And so matters progressed until, after half an hour's discussion, Simon proposed a kind of adoption of the boy, by virtue of which he was not to take him entirely away from his mother but was, nevertheless, to command the greater part of his time. And for this the boy was eventually to inherit the old bachelor's fortune, which, to be sure, couldn't have escaped him anyway. Margaret patiently allowed her brother to explain how great the advantages of the arrangement would be to her, how slight the loss. She knew best what a sickly widow misses in the help of a twelve-year-old boy whom she has trained practically to replace a daughter. But she kept silent and yielded to everything. She only begged her brother to be firm, but not harsh, with the boy.

"He is good," she said, "but I am a lonely woman; my son is not like one who has been ruled by a father's hand."

Simon nodded slyly. "Leave it to me; we'll get along all right; and, do you know what?--let me have the boy right now; I have two bags to fetch from the mill; the smallest is just right for him and that's how he'll learn to help me. Come, Fritzy, put your wooden shoes on!" And presently Margaret was watching them both as they walked away, Simon ahead with his face set forward and the tails of his red coat flying out behind him like flames, looking a good deal like a man of fire doing penance beneath the sack he has stolen. Frederick followed him, tall and slender for his age, with delicate, almost noble, features and long blond curls that were better cared for than the rest of his exterior appearance would have led one to expect; for the rest, ragged, sunburnt, with a look of neglect and a certain hard melancholy in his countenance. Nevertheless a strong family resemblance between the two could not be mistaken, and as Frederick slowly followed his leader, with his eyes riveted on the man who attracted him by the very strangeness of his appearance, involuntarily he reminded one of a person who with anxious interest gazes on the picture of his future in a magic mirror.

They were now approaching the place in the Teutoburg Forest where the Forest of Brede extends down the slope of the mountain and fills a very dark ravine. Until now they had spoken little. Simon seemed pensive, the boy absent-minded, and both were panting under their sacks. Suddenly Simon asked, "Do you like whiskey?" The boy did not answer. "I say, do you like whiskey? Does your mother give you some once in a while?"

"Mother hasn't any herself," answered Frederick.

"Well, well, so much the better! Do you know the woods before us?"

"It is the Forest of Brede."

"Do you know what happened here?" Frederick remained silent. Meanwhile they came nearer and nearer to the gloomy ravine.

"Does your mother still pray much?" Simon began again.

"Yes, she tells her beads twice every evening."

"Really? And you pray with her?"

Somewhat ill at ease, the boy looked aside slyly and laughed. "At twilight before supper she tells her beads once--then I have not yet returned with the cows; and again in bed--then I usually fall asleep."

"Well, well, my boy!" These last words were spoken under the sheltering branches of a broad beech-tree which arched the entrance to the glen. It was now quite dark and the new, moon shone in the sky, but its weak rays served only to lend a strange appearance to the objects they occasionally touched through an aperture between the branches. Frederick followed close behind his uncle; his breath came fast and, if one could have distinguished his features, one would have noticed in them an expression of tremendous agitation caused by imagination rather than terror. Thus both trudged ahead sturdily, Simon with the firm step of the hardened wanderer, Frederick unsteadily and as if in a dream. It seemed to him that everything was in motion, and that the trees swayed in the lonely rays of the moon now towards one another, now away. Roots of trees and slippery places where water had gathered made his steps uncertain; several times he came near falling. Now some distance ahead the darkness seemed to break, and presently both entered a rather large clearing. The moon shone down brightly and showed that only a short while ago the axe had raged here mercilessly. Everywhere stumps of trees jutted up, some many feet above the ground, just as it had been most convenient to cut through them in haste; the forbidden work must have been interrupted unexpectedly, for directly across the path lay a beech-tree with its branches rising high above it, and its leaves, still fresh, trembling in the evening breeze. Simon stopped a moment and surveyed the fallen tree-trunk with interest. In the centre of the open space stood an old oak, broad in proportion to its height. A pale ray of light that fell on its trunk through the branches showed that it was hollow, a fact that had probably saved it from the general destruction.

Here Simon suddenly clutched the boy's arm. "Frederick, do you know that tree? That is the broad oak." Frederick started, and with his cold hands clung to his uncle. "See," Simon continued, "here Uncle Franz and Huelsmeyer found your father, when without confession and extreme unction he had gone to the Devil in his drunkenness."

"Uncle, uncle!" gasped Frederick.

"What's coming over you? I should hope you are not afraid? Devil of a boy, you're pinching my arm! Let go, let go!" He tried to shake the boy off. "On the whole your father was a good soul; God won't be too strict with him. I loved him as well as my own brother." Frederick let go his uncle's arm; both walked the rest of the way through the forest in silence, and soon the village of Brede lay before them with its mud houses and its few better brick houses, one of which belonged to Simon.

The next evening Margaret sat at the door with her flax for fully an hour, awaiting her boy. It had been the first night she had passed without hearing her child's breathing beside her, and still Frederick did not come. She was vexed and anxious, and yet knew that there was no reason for being so. The clock in the tower struck seven; the cattle returned home; still he was not there, and she had to get up to look after the cows.

When she reëntered the dark kitchen, Frederick was standing on the hearth; he was bending forward and warming his hands over the coal fire. The light played on his features and gave him an unpleasant look of leanness and nervous twitching. Margaret stopped at the door; the child seemed to her so strangely changed.

"Frederick, how's your uncle?" The boy muttered a few unintelligible words and leaned close against the chimney.

"Frederick, have you forgotten how to talk? Boy, open your mouth! Don't you know I do not hear well with my right ear?" The child raised his voice and began to stammer so that Margaret failed to understand anything.

"What are you saying? Greeting from Master Semmler? Away again? Where? The cows are at home already. You bad boy, I can't understand you. Wait, I'll have to see if you have no tongue in your mouth!" She made a few angry steps forward. The child looked up to her with the pitiful expression of a poor, half-grown dog that is learning to sit up on his hind legs. In his fear he began to stamp his feet and rub his back against the chimney.

Margaret stood still; her glances became anxious. The boy looked as though he had shrunk together. His clothes were not the same either; no, that was not her child! And. yet--"Frederick, Frederick!" she cried.

A closet door in the bedroom slammed and the real Frederick came out, with a so-called clog-violin in one hand, that is, a wooden shoe strung with three or four resined strings, and in his other hand a bow, quite befitting the instrument. Then he went right up to his sorry double, with an attitude of conscious dignity and independence on his part, which at that moment revealed distinctly the difference between the two boys who otherwise resembled each other so remarkably.

"Here, John!" he said, and handed him the work of art with a patronizing air; "here is the violin that I promised you. My play-days are over; now I must earn money."

John cast another timid glance at Margaret, slowly stretched out his hand until he had tightly grasped the present, and then hid it stealthily under the flaps of his shabby coat.

Margaret stood perfectly still and let the children do as they liked. Her thoughts had taken another, very serious, turn, and she looked restlessly from one to the other. The strange boy had again bent over the coals with an expression of momentary comfort which bordered on simple-mindedness, while Frederick's features showed the alternating play of a sympathy evidently more selfish than good-humored, and his eyes, in almost glassy clearness, for the first time distinctly showed the expression of that unrestrained ambition and tendency to swagger which afterwards revealed itself as so strong a motive in most of his actions.

His mother's call aroused him from his thoughts which were as new as they were pleasant to him; again she was sitting at her spinning-wheel. "Frederick," she said, hesitating, "tell me--" and then stopped. Frederick looked up and, hearing nothing more, again turned to his charge. "No, listen!" And then, more softly: "Who is that boy I What is his name?"

Frederick answered, just as softly: "That is Uncle Simon's swineherd; he has a message for Huelsmeyer. Uncle gave me a pair of shoes and a huckaback vest which the boy carried for me; in return I promised him my violin; you see, he's a poor child. His name is John."

"Well?" said Margaret.

"What do you want, mother?"

"What's his other name?"

"Well--he has none, but, wait--yes, Nobody, John Nobody is his name. He has no father," he added under his breath.

Margaret arose and went into the bedroom. After a while she came out with a harsh, gloomy expression on her countenance. "Well, Frederick," she said, "let the boy go, so that he may attend to his errand. Boy, why do you lie there in the ashes? Have you nothing to do at home?" With the air of one who is persecuted the boy roused himself so hastily that all his limbs got in his way, and the clog-violin almost fell into the fire.

"Wait, John," said Frederick proudly, "I'll give you half of my bread and butter; it's too much for me anyhow. Mother always gives me a whole slice."

"Never mind," said Margaret, "he is going home."

"Yes, but he won't get anything to eat now. Uncle Simon eats at seven o'clock."

Margaret turned to the boy. "Won't they save anything for you? Tell me! Who takes care of you?"

"Nobody," stuttered the child.

"Nobody?" she repeated; "then take it, take it!" she added nervously; "your name is Nobody and nobody takes care of you. May God have pity on you! And now see that you get away! Frederick, do not go with him, do you hear? Do not go through the village together."

"Why, I only want to get wood out of the shed," answered Frederick. When both boys had gone Margaret sank down in a chair and clasped her hands with an expression of the deepest grief. Her face was as white as a sheet. "A false oath, a false oath!" she groaned. "Simon, Simon, how will you acquit yourself before God!"

Thus she sat for a while, motionless, with her lips shut tight, as if completely unconscious. Frederick stood before her and had already spoken to her twice.

"What's the matter? What do you want?" she cried, starting up.

"I have some money for you," he said, more astonished than frightened.

"Money? Where?" She moved and the little coin fell jingling to the floor. Frederick picked it up.

"Money from Uncle Simon, because I helped him work. Now I can earn something for myself."

"Money from Simon! Throw it away, away!--No, give it to the poor. But no, keep it!" she whispered, scarcely audibly. "We are poor ourselves; who knows whether we won't be reduced to begging!"

"I am to go back to Uncle Monday and help him with the sowing."

"You go back to him? No, no, never!" She embraced her child wildly. "Yet," she added, and a stream of tears suddenly rushed down her sunken cheeks, "go; he is the only brother I have, and slander is great! But keep God before your eyes, and do not forget your daily prayers!" Margaret pressed her face against the wall and wept aloud. She had borne many a heavy burden--her husband's harsh treatment, and, worse than that, his death; and it was a bitter moment when the widow was compelled top give over to a creditor the usufruct of her last piece of arable land, and her own plow stood useless in front of her house. But as badly as this she had never felt before; nevertheless, after she had wept through an evening and lain awake a whole night, she made herself believe that her brother Simon could not be so godless, that the boy certainly did not belong to him; for resemblances can prove nothing. Why, had she not herself lost a little sister forty years ago who looked exactly like the strange peddler! One is willing to believe almost anything when one has so little, and is liable to lose that little by unbelief!

From this time on Frederick was seldom at home. Simon seemed to have lavished on his nephew all the more tender sentiments of which he was capable; at least he missed him greatly and never ceased sending messages if some business at home kept him at his mother's house for any length of time. The boy was as if transformed since that time; his dreamy nature had left him entirely; he walked firmly, began to care for his external appearance, and soon to have the reputation of being a handsome, clever youth. His uncle, who could not be happy without schemes, sometimes undertook important public works--for example, road building, at which Frederick was everywhere considered one of his best workmen and his right-hand man; for although the boy's physical strength had not yet attained its fullest development, scarcely any one could equal him in endurance. Heretofore Margaret had only loved her son; now she began to be proud of him and even feel a kind of respect for him, seeing the young fellow develop so entirely without her aid, even without her advice, which she, like most people, considered invaluable; for that reason she could not think highly enough of the boy's capabilities which could dispense with such a precious means of furtherance.

In his eighteenth year Frederick had already secured for himself an important reputation among the village youth by the successful execution of a wager that he could carry a wild boar for a distance of more than two miles without resting. Meanwhile participation in his glory was about the only advantage that Margaret derived from these favorable circumstances, since Frederick spent more and more on his external appearance and gradually began, to take it to heart if want of money compelled him to be second to any one in that respect. Moreover, all his powers were directed toward making his living outside; quite in contrast to his reputation all steady work around the house seemed irksome to him now, and he preferred to submit to a hard but short exertion which soon permitted him to follow his former occupation of herding the cattle, although it was beginning to be unsuitable for his age and at times drew upon him ridicule. That he silenced, however, by a few blunt reprimands with his fist. So people grew accustomed to seeing him, now dressed up and jolly as a recognized village beau and leader of the young folks, and again as a ragged boy slinking along, lonely and dreamily, behind his cows, or lying in a forest clearing, apparently thoughtless, scratching the moss from the trees.

About this time, however, the slumbering laws were roused somewhat by a band of forest thieves which, under the name of the "Blue Smocks," surpassed all its predecessors in cunning and boldness to such an extent that even the most indulgent would have lost patience. Absolutely contrary to the usual state of affairs, when the leading bucks of the herd could always be pointed out, it had thus far been impossible, in spite of all watchfulness, to specify even one member of this company of thieves. Their name they derived from their uniform clothing which made recognition more difficult if a forester happened by chance to see a few stragglers disappear in the thicket. Like caterpillars they destroyed everything; whole tracts of forest-land would be cut down in a single night and immediately made away with, leaving nothing to be found next morning but chips and disordered heaps of brushwood. The fact that there were never any wagon tracks leading towards a village, but always to and from the river, proved that the work was carried on under the protection, perhaps with the coöperation, of the shipowners. There must have been some very skilful spies in the band, for the foresters could watch in vain for weeks at a time; nevertheless, the first night they failed, from sheer fatigue, to watch, the devastation began again, whether it was a stormy night or moonlight. It was strange that the country folk in the vicinity seemed just as ignorant and excited as the foresters themselves.

Of several villages it could be asserted with certainty that they did not belong to the "Blue Smocks," while no strong suspicion could be attached to a single one, since the most suspected of all, the village of B., had to be acquitted. An accident had brought this about--a wedding, at which almost every resident of this village had notoriously passed the night, while during this very time the "Blue Smocks" had carried out one of their most successful expeditions.

The damage to the forest, in the meanwhile, was so enormous that preventive measures were made more stringent than ever before; the forest was patrolled day and night; head-servants and domestics were provided with firearms and sent to help the forest officers. Nevertheless, their success was but slight, for the guards had often scarcely left one end of the forest when the "Blue Smocks" were already entering the other. This lasted more than a whole year; guards and "Blue Smocks," "Blue Smocks" and guards, like sun and moon, ever alternating in the possession of the land and never meeting each other.

It was July, 1756, at three o'clock in the morning; the moon shone brightly in the sky, but its light had begun to grow dim; and in the East there was beginning to appear a narrow, yellow streak which bordered the horizon and closed the entrance to the narrow dale as with a hand of gold. Frederick was lying in the grass in his accustomed position, whittling a willow stick, the knotty end of which he was trying to form roughly into the shape of an animal. He seemed to be very tired, yawned, rested his head against a weather-beaten stump and cast glances, more sleepy than the horizon, over the entrance of the glen which was almost overgrown with shrubbery and underbrush. Now and then his eyes manifested life and assumed their characteristic glassy glitter, but immediately afterwards be half shut them again, and yawned, and stretched, as only lazy shepherds may. His dog lay some distance away near the cows which, unconcerned by forest laws, feasted indiscriminately on tender saplings and the grass, and snuffed the fresh morning air.

Out of the forest there sounded from time to time a muffled, crashing noise; it lasted but a few seconds, accompanied by a long echo on the mountain sides, and was repeated about every five or eight minutes. Frederick paid no attention to it; only at times, when the noise was exceptionally loud or long continued, he lifted his head and glanced slowly down the several paths which led to the valley.

Day was already dawning; the birds were beginning to twitter softly and the dew was rising noticeably from the ground. Frederick had slid down the trunk and was staring, with his arms crossed back of his head, into the rosy morning light softly stealing in. Suddenly he started, a light flashed across his face, and he listened a few moments with his body bent forward like a hunting dog which scents something in the air. Then he quickly put two fingers in his mouth and gave a long, shrill whistle. "Fido, you cursed beast!" He threw a stone and hit the unsuspecting dog which, frightened out of his sleep, first snarled and then, limping on three feet and howling, went in search of consolation to the very place from which the hurt had come.

At the same moment the branches of a near-by bush were pushed back almost without a rustle, and a man stepped out, dressed in a green hunting jacket, with a silver shield on his arm and his rifle cocked in his hand. He cast a hurried glance over the glen and stared sharply at the boy, then stepped forward, nodded toward the shrubbery, and gradually seven or eight men came into sight, all in the same costume, with hunting knives in their belts and cocked weapons in their hands.

"Frederick, what was that?" asked the one who had first appeared. "I wish the cur would die on the spot. For all he knows, the cows could chew the ears off my head."

"The scoundrel has seen us," said another. "Tomorrow you'll go on a trip with a stone about your neck," Frederick went on, and kicked at the dog. "Frederick, don't act like a fool! You know me, and you understand me too!" A look accompanied these words, which had an immediate effect.

"Mr. Brandes, think of my mother!"

"That's what I'm doing. Didn't you hear anything in the forest?"

"In the forest?" The boy threw a hasty glance at the forester's face. "Your woodchoppers--nothing else."

"My woodchoppers!" The naturally dark complexion of the forester changed to a deep brownish red. "How many of them are there, and where are they doing their job?"

"Wherever you have sent them; I don't know."

Brandes turned to his comrades. "Go ahead; I'll follow directly." When one by one they had disappeared in the thicket, Brandes stepped close up to the boy. "Frederick," he said in tones of suppressed rage, "my patience is worn out; I'd like to thrash you like a dog, and that's no worse than you deserve. You bundle of rags, without a tile in your roof to call your own! Thank God, you'll soon find yourself begging; and at my door, your mother, the old witch, shan't get as much as a moldy crust! But first both of you'll go to the dungeon!"

Frederick clutched a branch convulsively. He was pale as death, and his eyes looked as if they would shoot out of his head like crystal bullets--but only for a moment. Then the greatest calmness, bordering on complete relaxation, returned. "Sir," he said firmly, in an almost gentle voice, "you have said something that you cannot defend, and so, perhaps, have I. Let us call it quits; and now I will tell you what you wish. If you did not engage the woodchoppers yourself, they must be the 'Blue Smocks,' for not a wagon has come from the village; why, the road is right before me, and there are four wagons. I did not see them, but I heard them drive up the pass." He faltered a moment. "Can you say that I have ever hewn a tree on your land, or even that I ever raised my axe in any other place but where I was ordered to? Think it over, whether you can say that?" A confused muttering was the forester's only answer; like most blunt people, he repented easily. He turned, exasperated, and started toward the shrubbery. "No, sir," called Frederick, "if you want to follow the other foresters, they've gone up yonder by the beech-tree."

"By the beech-tree!" exclaimed Brandes doubtfully. "No, across there, toward Mast Gorge."

"I tell you, by the beech-tree; long Heinrich's gun-sling even caught on the crooked branch; why, I saw it!"

The forester turned into the path designated. Frederick had not changed his position the whole time; half reclining, with his arm wound about a dry branch, he gazed immovably after the departing man, as he glided through the thickly wooded path with the long cautious steps characteristic of his profession, as noiseless as a lynx climbing into the hen-roost. Here and there a branch sank behind him; the outlines of his body became fainter and fainter. Then there was one final flash through the foliage; it was a steel button on his hunting jacket; and now he was gone. During this gradual disappearance Frederick's face had lost its expression of coldness, and his features had finally become anxious and restless. Was he sorry, perhaps, that he had not asked the forester to keep his information secret? He took a few steps forward, then stopped. "It is too late," he mused, and reached for his hat. There was a soft pecking in the thicket, not twenty paces from him. It was the forester sharpening his flint-stone. Frederick listened. "No!" he said in a decisive tone, gathered up his belongings, and hastily drove the cattle down into the hollow.

About noon, Margaret was sitting by the hearth, boiling tea. Frederick had come home sick; he had complained of a violent headache and had told her, upon her anxious questioning, how he had become deeply provoked with the forester--in short, all about the incident just described, with the exception of several details which he considered wiser to keep to himself. Margaret gazed into the boiling water, silent and sad. She was not unaccustomed to hear her son complain at times, but today he seemed more shaken than ever. Was this perhaps the symptom of some illness? She, sighed deeply and dropped a log of wood she had just lifted.

"Mother!" called Frederick from the bedroom. "What is it? Was that a shot?"

"Oh, no! I don't know what you mean."

"I suppose it's the throbbing in my head," he replied. A neighbor stepped in and related in a low whisper some bit of unimportant gossip which Margaret listened to without interest. Then she went. "Mother!" called Frederick. Margaret went in to him. "What did Huelsmeyer's wife say?"

"Oh, nothing at all--lies, nonsense!" Frederick sat up. "About Gretchen Siemers; you know the old story well enough!--there isn't a word of truth in it either."

Frederick lay down again. "I'll see if I can sleep," he said.

Margaret was sitting by the hearth. She was spinning and thinking of rather unpleasant things. The village clock struck half-past eleven; the door opened and the court-clerk, Kapp, came in. "Good day, Mrs. Mergel," he said. "Can you give me a drink of milk? I'm on my way from M." When Mrs. Mergel brought what he wished, he asked "Where is Frederick?" She was just then busy getting a plate out and did not hear the question. He drank hesitatingly and in short draughts. Then he asked, "Do you know that last night the 'Blue Smocks' again cleared away a whole tract in the Mast forest as bare as my hand?"

"Oh, you don't mean it!" she replied indifferently.

"The scoundrels!" continued the clerk. "They ruin everything; if only they had a little regard at least for the young trees; but they go after little oaks of the thickness of my arm, too small even to make oars of! It looks as if loss on the part of other people were just as gratifying to them as gain on their own part!"

"It's a shame!" said Margaret.

The clerk had finished his milk, but still he did not go. He seemed to have something on his mind. "Have you heard nothing about Brandes?" he asked suddenly.

"Nothing; he never enters this house."

"Then you don't know what has happened to him?"

"Why, what?" asked Margaret, agitated.

"He is dead!"

"Dead!" she cried. "What, dead? For God's sake! Why, only this morning he passed by here, perfectly well, with his gun on his back!"

"He is dead," repeated the clerk, eyeing her sharply, "killed by the 'Blue Smocks.' The body was brought into the village fifteen minutes ago."

Margaret clasped her hands. "God in Heaven, do not judge him! He did not know what he was doing!"

"Him!" cried the clerk--"the cursèd murderer you mean?"

A heavy groan came from the bedroom. Margaret hurried there and the clerk followed her. Frederick was sitting upright in bed, with his face buried in his hands, and moaning like one dying. "Frederick, how do you feel?" asked his mother.

"How do you feel?" repeated the clerk.

"Oh, my body, my head!" he wailed.

"What's the matter with him?" inquired the clerk.

"Oh, God knows," she replied; "he came home with the cows as early as four o'clock because he felt sick." "Frederick, Frederick, answer me! Shall I go for the doctor?"

"No, no," he groaned; "it is only the colic; I'll be better soon." He lay down again; his face twitched convulsively with pain; then his color returned. "Go," he said, feebly; "I must sleep; then it will pass away."

"Mistress Mergel," asked the clerk earnestly, "are you sure that Frederick came home at four and did not go away again?"

She stared in his face. "Ask any child on the street. And go away?--I wish to God he could!"

"Didn't he tell you anything about Brandes?"

"In the name of God, yes--that Brandes had reviled him in the woods and reproached him with our poverty, the rascal! But God forgive me, he is dead! Go!" she continued; "have you come to insult honest people? Go!"

She turned to her son again, as the clerk went out. "Frederick, how do you feel?" asked his mother. "Did you hear? Terrible, terrible--without confession or absolution!"

"Mother, mother, for God's sake, let me sleep. I can stand no more!"

At this moment John Nobody entered the room; tall and thin like a bean-pole, but ragged and shy, as we had seen him five years before. His face was even paler than usual. "Frederick," he stuttered, "you are to come to your Uncle immediately; he has work for you; without delay, now!"

Frederick turned toward the wall. "I won't come," he snapped, "I am sick."

"But you must come," gasped John; "he said I must bring you back."

Frederick laughed scornfully. "I'd like to see you!"

"Let him alone; he can't," sighed Margaret; "you see how it is." She went out for a few minutes; when she returned, Frederick was already dressed. "What are you thinking of?" she cried. "You cannot, you shall not go!"

"What must be, must," he replied, and was gone through the door with John.

"Oh, God," sobbed the mother, "when children are small they trample our laps, and when they are grown, our hearts!"

The judicial investigation had begun, the deed was as clear as day; but the evidence concerning the perpetrator was so scanty that, although all circumstances pointed strongly towards the "Blue Smocks," nothing but conjectures could be risked. One clue seemed to throw some light upon the matter; there were reasons, however, why but little dependence could be placed on it. The absence of the owner of the estate had made it necessary for the clerk of the court to start the case himself. He was sitting at his table; the room was crowded with peasants, partly those who came out of curiosity, and partly those from whom the court hoped to receive some information, since actual witnesses were lacking--shepherds who had been watching their flocks that night, laborers who had been working in near-by fields; all stood erect and firm,, with their hands in their pockets, as if thus silently manifesting their intention not to interfere.

Eight forest officers were heard; their evidence was entirely identical. Brandes, on the tenth day of the month, had ordered them to go the rounds because he had evidently secured information concerning a plan of the "Blue Smocks"; he had, however, expressed himself but vaguely regarding the matter. At about two o'clock at night they had gone out and had come upon many traces of destruction, which put the head-forester in a very bad humor; otherwise, everything had been quiet. About four o'clock Brandes had said, "We have been led astray; let us go home." When they had come around Bremer mountain and the wind had changed at the same time, they had distinctly heard chopping in the Mast forest and concluded from the quick succession of the strokes that the "Blue Smocks" were at work. They had deliberated a while whether it were practical to attack the bold band with such a small force, and then had slowly approached the source of the sound without any fixed determination. Then followed the scene with Frederick. Finally, after Brandes had sent them away without instructions they had gone forward a while and then, when they noticed that the noise in the woods, still rather far away, had entirely ceased, they had stopped to wait for the head-forester.

They had grown tired of waiting, and after about ten minutes had gone on toward the scene of devastation. It was all over; not another sound was to be heard in the forest; of twenty fallen trees eight were still left, the rest had been made way with. It was incomprehensible to them how this had been accomplished, since no wagon tracks were to be found. Moreover, the dryness of the season and the fact that the earth was strewn with pine-needles had prevented their distinguishing any footprints, although the ground in the vicinity looked as if it had been firmly stamped down. Then, having come to the conclusion that there was no point in waiting for the head-forester, they had quickly walked to the other side of the wood in the hope of perhaps catching a glimpse of the thieves. Here one of them had caught his bottle-string in the brambles on the way out of the wood, and when he had looked around he had seen something flash in the shrubbery; it was the belt-buckle of the head-forester whom they then found lying behind the brambles, stretched out, with his right hand clutching the barrel of his gun, the other clenched, and his forehead split with an axe.

These were the statements of the foresters. It was then the peasants' turn, but no evidence could be obtained from them. Some declared they had been at home or busy somewhere else at four o'clock, and they were all decent people, not to be suspected. The court had to content itself with their negative testimonies.

Frederick was called in. He entered with a manner in no respect different from his usual one, neither strained nor bold. His hearing lasted some time, and some of the questions were rather shrewdly framed; however, he answered them frankly and decisively and related the incident between himself and the forester truthfully, on the whole, except the end, which he deemed expedient to keep to himself. His alibi at the time of the murder was easily proved. The forester lay at the end of the Mast forest more than three-quarters of an hour's walk from the ravine where he had spoken with Frederick at four o'clock, and whence the latter had driven his cows only ten minutes later. Every one had seen this; all the peasants present did their utmost to confirm it; to this one he had spoken, to that one, nodded.

The court clerk sat ill-humored and embarrassed. Suddenly he reached behind him and, presenting something gleaming to Frederick's gaze, cried: "To whom does this belong?" Frederick jumped back three paces, exclaiming, "Lord Jesus! I thought you were going to brain me."

His eyes had quickly passed across the deadly tool and seemed to fix themselves for a moment on a splinter broken out of the handle. "I do not know," he added firmly. It was the axe which they had found plunged in the head-forester's skull.

"Look at it carefully," continued the clerk. Frederick took it in his hand, looked at the top, the bottom, turned it over. "One axe looks like another," he then said, and laid it unconcernedly on the table. A blood-stain was visible; he seemed to shudder, but he repeated once more with decision: "I do not know it." The clerk of the court sighed with displeasure. He himself knew of nothing more, and had only sought to bring about a possible disclosure through surprise. There was nothing left to do but to close the hearing.

To those who are perhaps interested in the outcome of this affair, I must say that the story was never cleared up, although much effort was made to throw light upon it and several other judicial examinations followed. The sensation which the incident had caused and the more stringent measures adopted in consequence of it, seemed to have broken the courage of the "Blue Smocks"; from now on it looked as though they had entirely disappeared, and although many a wood-thief was caught after that, they never found cause to connect him with the notorious band. Twenty years afterwards the axe lay as a useless _corpus delicti_ in the archives of the court, where it is probably resting yet with its rust spots. In a made-up story it would be wrong thus to disappoint the curiosity of the reader, but all this actually happened; I can add or detract nothing. The next Sunday Frederick rose very early to go to confession. It was the day of the Assumption of the Blessed Virgin and the parish priests were in the confessionals before dawn. He dressed in the dark, and as quietly as possible left the narrow closet which had been consigned to him in Simon's house. His prayer-book, he thought, would be lying on the mantelpiece in the kitchen, and he hoped to find it with the help of the faint moonlight. It was not there. He glanced searchingly around, and started; at the bedroom door stood Simon, half-dressed; his rough figure, his uncombed, tangled hair, and the paleness of his face in the moonlight, gave him a horribly changed appearance. "Can he possibly be walking in his sleep?" thought Frederick, and kept quite still. "Frederick, where are you going?" whispered the old man.

"Uncle, is that you? I am on my way to confession."

"That's what I thought; go, in the name of God, but confess like a good Christian."

"That I will," said Frederick.

Think of the Ten Commandments: 'Thou shalt not bear witness against thy neighbor.'"

"Not _false_ witness!"

"No, none at all; you have been badly taught; he who accuses another in his confession is unworthy to receive the Sacrament."

Both were silent. "Uncle, what makes you think of this?" Frederick finally asked. "Your conscience is not clear; you have lied to me."

"I? How?"

"Where is your axe?"

"My axe? On the barn-floor."

"Did you make a new handle for it? Where is the old one?"

"You'll find it at daylight in the woodshed."

"Go," he continued scornfully. "I thought you were a man; but you are like an old woman who thinks the house must be on fire as soon as she sees smoke rising from her pot. See," he went on, "if I know anything more about this story than that doorpost there, may I never hope for salvation. I was at home long before," he added. Frederick stood still, oppressed and doubtful. He would have given much to be able to see his uncle's face. But while they were whispering, the sky had clouded over.

"I am very guilty," sighed Frederick, "because I sent him the wrong way; although--but still, I never thought it would come to this, no, certainly not! Uncle, I have you to thank for a troubled conscience."

"Well, go and confess!" whispered Simon in a trembling voice. "Desecrate the Sacrament by tale-bearing, and set a spy on poor people who will manage to find a way to snatch their bit of bread from between their teeth, even if he is not permitted to talk--go!" Frederick stood, undecided; he heard a soft noise; the clouds cleared away, the moonlight again fell on the bedroom door; it was closed. Frederick did not go to confession that morning.

The impression which this incident had made on Frederick wore off only too soon. Who doubts that Simon did everything to lead his adopted son down the same paths that he was following? And Frederick possessed qualities which made this only too easy: carelessness, excitability, and, above all, boundless pride, which did not always scorn pretense and ended by doing its utmost to escape possible disgrace, by trying to realize what it first had pretended to possess. He was not naturally ignoble, but he fell into the habit of preferring inward to outward shame. One need only say that he habitually made a display while his mother starved.

This unfortunate change in his character was, however, the work of many years, during which it was noticed that Margaret became more and more quiet on the subject of her son, and gradually came to a state of demoralization which once would have been thought impossible. She became timid, negligent, even slovenly, and many thought her brain had suffered. Frederick, on the other hand, grew all the more self-assertive; he missed no fair or wedding, and since his irritable sense of honor would not permit him to overlook the secret disapprobation of many, he was, so to speak, up in arms, not so much to defy public opinion as to direct it into the channel which pleased him. Externally he was neat, sober, apparently affable, but crafty, boastful, and often coarse--a man in whom no one could take delight, least of all his mother, and who, nevertheless, through his audacity, which every one feared, and through his cunning, which they dreaded even more, had attained a certain preeminence in the village. The preëminence came to be acknowledged more and more as people became conscious of the fact that they neither knew him nor could guess of what he might be capable. Only one young fellow in the village, Will Huelsmeyer, who realized his own strength and good circumstances, dared to defy him. Since he was also readier with his tongue than Frederick, and could always make a pointed joke, he was the only one whom Frederick did not like to meet.

Four years had passed. It was the month of October; the open autumn of 1760, which filled every barn with corn and every cellar with wine, had also lavished its riches on this corner of the earth, and more intoxicated people were seen and more fights and stupid tricks were heard of than ever before. Everywhere there were festivities; Blue Mondays were the fashion, and whoever had laid aside a few dollars quickly wanted also a wife to help him feast today and starve tomorrow. A big, noteworthy wedding took place in the village, and the guests could expect more than the one violin, generally out of tune, than the single glass of whiskey, and higher spirits than they themselves brought along. Since the early morning all had been astir; clothing had been aired in front of every door, and all day B. had looked like a frippery-stall. Since many outsiders were expected, everybody was anxious to uphold the honor of the village.

It was seven o'clock in the evening and everything was in full swing; fun and laughter were rampant on every side, and the low rooms were crowded to suffocation with blue, red, and yellow figures, like pen-folds into which too large a herd had been huddled. On the barn floor there was dancing--that is, whoever succeeded in capturing a two-foot space twirled around on it and tried to make up by shouting for what was lacking in motion. The orchestra was brilliant, the first violinist as a recognized artist drowned out the second, and a great bass-viol with three strings was sounded _ad libitum_ by dilettantes, whiskey and coffee flowed in abundance, all the guests were dripping with perspiration--in short, it was a glorious affair.

Frederick strutted about like a cock in his new sky-blue jacket and asserted his position as the first beau of the village. When the lord of the manor and his family arrived he happened to be sitting behind the bass-viol, sounding the lowest string with great strength and much decorum. "John," he called imperiously, and up stepped his protégé from the dancing-floor, where he too had tried to swing his awkward legs and shout a cheer. Frederick handed him the bow, made his wishes known by a proud nod, and joined the dancers. "Now, strike up, musician, the 'Pape van Istrup!'" The favorite dance was played, and Frederick cut such capers before the company that the cows in the barn drew back their horns and a lowing and a rattling of chains sounded from their stalls. A foot high above the others, his blond head bobbed up and down like a pike diving out of the waters, on every side girls screamed as he dashed his long flaxen hair, by a quick movement of the head, into their faces as a sign of admiration.

"Now is the time," he said finally, and stepped up to the refreshment table, dripping with perspiration. "Here's to the gracious lords and ladies and all the noble princes and princesses; and whoever doesn't join in the toast will get such a boxing on the ears from me that he'll hear the angels singing!" A loud _Vivat_ responded to the gallant toast. Frederick bowed. "Take nothing amiss, gracious lords and ladies; we are but ignorant peasant people." At this moment a disturbance arose at the end of the floor--shouting, scolding, laughter, all in confusion. "Butter-thief, butter-thief!" called a few children; and John Nobody pushed his way, or rather was pushed, through the crowd, his head sunk between his shoulders and pressing with all his might toward the door.

"What's the matter? What are you doing to our John!" called Frederick imperiously.

"You'll find out soon enough," coughed an old woman in a kitchen apron and with a dish-rag in her hand. "Shame!" John, the poor devil, who had to put up with the worst at home, had tried to secure for himself a paltry half pound of butter for the coming time of scarcity, and, without remembering that he had concealed it in his pocket, neatly wrapped in his handkerchief, had stepped near the kitchen fire, and now the grease was disgracing him by running down his coat.

There was general excitement; the girls sprang back from fear of soiling their clothes, or pushed the culprit forward. Others made room as much out of pity as of caution. But Frederick stepped forward. "Rogue!" he cried; and a few hard slaps struck his patient protégé; then he pushed him toward the door and gave him a good kick on the way. The gallant came back dejected; his dignity was injured; the general laughter cut him to the quick, although he tried to bring himself into the swing again by a bold huzza!--It did not work. He was on the point of taking refuge behind the bass-viol again, but before that he wanted to produce still another brilliant effect; he drew out his silver watch, at that time a rare and precious ornament. "It is almost ten o'clock," he said. "Now the Bride's Minuet! I will strike up."

"A beautiful watch!" said the swineherd, and leaned forward in reverential curiosity.

"What did it cost?" cried Will Huelsmeyer, Frederick's rival.

"Will you pay for it?" asked Frederick. "Have you paid for it?" retorted Will. Frederick threw him a haughty glance and seized the bow in silent majesty. "Well, well," Huelsmeyer went on, "such things have happened. As you know well enough, Franz Ebel had a beautiful watch too, till Aaron the Jew took it away from him." Frederick did not answer, but nodded proudly to the first violin and they began to play with all their might and main.

Meanwhile the lord of the manor had stepped into the room where the women of the neighborhood were investing the bride with the white head band, the insignia of her new position. The young girl was crying bitterly, partly because custom so decreed, partly from honest nervousness. She was to manage a run-down household, under the eye of a peevish old man, whom, moreover, she was expected to love. He stood beside her, by no means like the groom in the Song of Solomon who "steps into the chamber like the morning sun." "You've cried enough now," he said crossly; "remember, it isn't you who are making me happy; I am making you happy!" She looked up to him humbly and seemed to feel that he was right. The business was ended; the young wife had drunk to her husband's health, some young wags had looked through the tripod to see if the bride's head band was straight, and they were all crowding again toward the dancing-floor, whence there still resounded inextinguishable laughter and noise. Frederick was no longer there. He had met with a great unbearable disgrace, when Aaron the Jew, a butcher and casual second-hand dealer from the nearest town, had suddenly appeared, and, after a short unsatisfactory conversation, had dunned him before the whole company for the sum of ten thalers in payment of a watch delivered at Eastertide. Frederick had gone away, as if annihilated, and the Jew followed him, shouting all the while: "Oh, woe is me! Why didn't I listen to sensible people! Didn't they tell me a hundred times you had all your possessions on your back and no bread in your cupboard!" The room shook with laughter. Some had pushed after them into the yard. "Catch the Jew! Balance him against a pig!" called some; others had become serious. "Frederick looked as white as a sheet," said an old woman, and the crowd separated as the carriage of the lord of the estate turned into the yard. Herr von S. was out of sorts on the way home, the usual and inevitable effect when the desire to maintain popularity induced him to attend such feasts. He looked out of the carriage silently. "What two figures are those?" He pointed to two dark forms running ahead of the wagon like two ostriches. Now they sneaked into the castle. "Another blessed pair of swine out of our own pen!" sighed Herr von S. Having arrived at home, he found the corridor crowded with all the domestics standing around two lower-servants, who had sunk down pale and breathless on the steps.

They declared that they had been chased by old Mergel's ghost, when they were coming home through the forest of Brede. First they had heard a rustling and crackling high above them, and then, up in the air, a rattling noise like sticks beating against one another; then suddenly had sounded a shrieking yell and quite distinctly the words, "O, my poor soul!" coming down from on high. One of them even claimed to have seen fiery eyes gleaming through the branches, and both had run as fast as their legs could carry them.

"Stupid nonsense!" exclaimed the lord of the estate crossly, and went into his room to change his clothes. The next morning the fountain in the garden would not play, and it was discovered that some one had removed a pipe, apparently to look for the head of a horse's skeleton which had the reputation of being an attested instrument against any wiles of witches or ghosts. "H'm," said Baron von S.; "what rogues do not steal, fools destroy."

Three days later a frightful storm was raging. It was midnight, but every one in the castle was out of bed. The Baron stood at the window and looked anxiously out into the dark toward his fields. Leaves and twigs flew against the panes; now and, then a brick fell and was dashed to pieces on the pavement of the courtyard. "Terrible weather!" said Herr von S. His wife looked out anxiously. "Are you sure the fire is well banked?" she asked; "Gretchen, look again; if not, put it all out with water! Come, let us read the Gospel of St. John." They all knelt down and the lady of the house began: "In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God." There was a terrible clap of thunder. All started; then there was a terrible scream and noise up the stairs. "For God's sake! Is something burning?" cried Frau von S., and sank down with her face on the chair. The door burst open and in rushed the wife of Aaron the Jew, pale as death, with her hair wildly disheveled, dripping with rain. She threw herself on her knees before the Baron. "Justice!" she cried, "Justice! My husband is murdered!" and she fell in a faint.

It was only too true, and the ensuing investigation proved that Aaron the Jew had lost his life by a single blow on the temples delivered by some blunt instrument, probably a staff. On his left temple was the blue mark; beyond that there was no other injury. The statement of the Jewess and her servant, Samuel, ran thus: Three days ago Aaron had gone out in the afternoon to buy cattle and had said at the time that he would probably be gone overnight, because there were still several bad debtors in B. and S., on whom he would call for payment; in this case he would spend the night with the butcher, Solomon, in B. When he did not return home the next day his wife had become greatly worried and had finally set out at three o'clock in the afternoon with her servant and the big butcher dog. At the house of Solomon the Jew, no one knew anything about Aaron; he had not been there at all. Then they had gone to all the peasants with whom they knew Aaron had intended to transact some business. Only two had seen him, and those on the very day when he had left home. Meanwhile it had become very late. Her great anxiety drove the woman back home, where she cherished a faint hope of finding her husband after all. They had been overtaken by the storm in the Forest of Brede and had sought shelter under a great beech on the mountain side. In the meantime the dog had been running about and acting strangely, and had, in spite of repeated calling, finally run off into the woods. Suddenly, during a lightning flash, the woman had seen something white beside her on the moss. It was her husband's staff, and almost at the same moment the dog had broken through the shrubbery with something in his mouth; it was her husband's shoe. Before long they found the Jew's body in a trench filled with dry leaves.

This was the report of the servant, supported only in general by the wife; her intense agitation had subsided and her senses now seemed half confused or, rather, blunted. "An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth!" These were her only words, which she at intervals ejaculated.

The same night the guards were summoned to take Frederick into custody. They needed no warrant, because Herr von S. himself had been witness to a scene which inevitably threw the strongest suspicion on him; furthermore there was the ghost story of that night, the beating together of the sticks in the forest of Brede, the scream from above. Since the clerk of the court was at that time absent, Herr von S. hastened everything faster than would otherwise have been done. Nevertheless dawn was already breaking when the riflemen as quietly as possible surrounded poor Margaret's house. The Baron himself knocked; it was hardly a minute before the door was opened, and Margaret appeared, fully dressed. Herr von S. started; he scarcely recognized her, so pale and stony did she look. "Where is Frederick?" he asked in an unsteady voice.

"Search for him!" she answered, and sat down on a chair. The Baron hesitated a moment longer.

"Come in, come in," he then said roughly to the guards; "what are we waiting for?" They stepped into Frederick's room. He was not there, but the bed was still warm. They climbed to the garret, down the cellar, examined the straw, looked behind every barrel, even into the oven; he was not there. Some of them went into the garden, looked behind the fence and up into the apple trees; he was not to be found.

"Escaped!" said the Baron with conflicting feelings; the sight of the old woman made a strong impression on him. "Give me the key to that trunk!" Margaret did not answer. "Give me the key," he repeated, and noticed now for the first time that the key was already in the lock. The contents of the trunk were brought into view--the fugitive's best Sunday clothes and his mother's poor finery, then two shrouds with black ribbons, one made for a man, the other for a woman. Herr von S. was deeply affected. Under everything else, at the very bottom of the trunk, lay the silver watch and some documents in a very legible hand, one of these signed by a man who was strongly suspected of alliance with the forest-thieves. Herr von S. took them along to examine them, and the guards left the house without Margaret's giving another sign of life than that of incessantly biting her lips and blinking her eyes.

Having arrived at the castle, the Baron found the court clerk, who had returned the night before and declared he had slept through the whole affair because his Honor had not sent for him. "You always come too late," said Herr von S. crossly; "wasn't there any old woman in the village to tell your maid about it? And why didn't they wake you up then?"

"Your Honor," replied Kapp, "of course my Anne Marie learned of the incident an hour before I did; but she knew that your Honor was directing the matter yourself--and then," he added in a plaintive tone, "that I was deathly tired!"

"A fine police force!" muttered the Baron. "Every old hag in the village knows about a thing whenever it's supposed to be conducted in absolute secrecy." Then he continued angrily: "He'd have indeed to be a stupid devil of a criminal who would let himself be caught!"

Both were silent a moment. "My driver lost his way in the dark," began the clerk again; "we were delayed over an hour in the wood; the weather was awful; I thought the wind would blow the wagon over. At last, when the rain slackened, we drove on in the name of God, heading toward the Zellerfeld, unable to see our hands before our eyes. Then the coachman said: 'If only we don't get too near the stone-quarries!' I was frightened myself; I had him stop, and struck a light, to find some comfort at least in my pipe. Suddenly we heard a bell ring very near, perpendicularly under us. Your Honor will realize that I felt dreadfully. I jumped out of the wagon, for one can trust one's own limbs, but not those of a horse. So I stood in the mud and rain without moving, until presently, thank God, it began to dawn. And where had we stopped? Right near the Heerse ravine with the tower of Heerse directly under us! If we had driven on twenty paces farther, we should all have been children of Death."

"That was indeed no joke!" exclaimed the Baron, half conciliated. Meanwhile he had examined the papers that he had taken along. They were dunning letters for money lent, most of them from usurers. "I had not thought," he muttered, "that the Mergels were so deeply in debt." "Yes, and that it must come to light in this way," replied Kapp; "that will be no little cause for vexation to Mistress Margaret."

"Oh, dear me, she does not think of that now!" With these words the Baron arose and left the room to proceed together with Kapp to the judicial examination of the body. The examination was short--death by violence evident; the suspected criminal escaped; the evidence against him very strong indeed, but not sufficient to establish his guilt without a personal confession; his flight at all events very suspicious. So the judicial investigation had to be closed without satisfactory results.

The Jews in the vicinity had manifested great interest. The widow's house was never empty of mourners and advisers. Within the memory of man never had so many Jews been seen together in L. Extremely embittered by the murder of their co-religionist they had spared neither pains nor money to trace the criminal. It is even known that one of them, commonly called "Joel the Usurer," offered one of his customers, who owed him many hundreds and whom he considered an especially sly fellow, remission of the entire sum if he could help him to arrest Mergel; for the belief was general among the Jews that the murderer could not have escaped without efficient assistance, and was probably still in the vicinity. When, nevertheless, all this did no good, and the judicial investigation had been declared closed, a number of the most prominent Israelites appeared in the castle the next morning to make a business proposition to the gracious lord. The object was the beech-tree, under which Aaron's staff had been found and where the murder had probably been committed. "Do you want to hew it down, now that it is in full leaf?" asked the Baron.

"No, gracious Sir, it must remain standing winter and summer, as long as there is a chip of it left."

"But then, if I should have the forest cut down, it would injure the young trees."

"Well, we do not want it for any ordinary price." They offered two hundred thalers. The deal was made, and all the foresters were strictly forbidden to injure the "Jew's Beech" in any way.

Soon after, about sixty Jews with a Rabbi at their head were seen going toward the Forest of Brede, all silent, with their eyes cast down. They stayed in the woods over an hour, and then returned just as seriously and ceremoniously through the village of B. up to the Zellerfeld, where they separated and each went his own way. The next morning there was a Hebrew inscription carved on the oak with an axe:[Hebrew:]

And where was Frederick? Without doubt, gone, and far enough away to find it no longer necessary to fear the short arms of such a weak police force. Soon he was completely forgotten. His Uncle Simon seldom spoke of him, and then ill. The Jew's wife finally consoled herself and took another husband. Only poor Margaret remained without consolation.

About half a year afterward the lord of the estate read in the presence of the court clerk some letters just received. "Remarkable, remarkable!" he exclaimed. "Just think, Kapp, perhaps Mergel is innocent of the murder. The chairman of the court of P. has just written me: 'Le vrai n'est pas toujours vraisemblable' (Truth does not always bear the marks of probability). I often find this out in my profession, and now I have a new proof of it. Do you know that it is possible that your dear trusty Frederick Mergel killed the Jew no more than you or I? Unfortunately proofs are lacking, but the probability is great. A member of the Schlemming band (which, by-the-by, we now have, for the most part, under lock and key), named Ragged Moses, alleged in the last hearing that he repented of nothing so much as of murdering one of his co-religionists, Aaron, whom he had beaten to death in the woods, and had found only six groschen on him.

"Unfortunately the examination was interrupted by the noon recess and, while we were at lunch, the dog of a Jew hanged himself with a garter. What do you say to that? Aaron is a common name, to be sure," etc.

"What do you say to that?" repeated the Baron; "and what reason then did the fool of a fellow have for running away?"

The court clerk reflected. "Well, perhaps on account of the forest thefts which we were just then investigating. Isn't it said: 'The wicked man flees from his own shadow?' Mergel's conscience was dirty enough, even without this spot."

With these considerations they let the matter drop. Frederick had gone, disappeared; and John Nobody--poor, neglected John--with him on the same day. A long, long time had passed--twenty-eight years, almost half a lifetime. The Baron was grown very old and gray, and his good-natured assistant, Kapp, had been long since buried. People, animals, and plants had arisen, matured, passed away; only Castle B., gray and dignified as of old, still looked down on the cottages which, like palsied old people, always seemed about to fall, yet always kept their balance.

It was Christmas Eve, December 24, 1788.

The narrow passes were covered with snow, probably about twelve feet deep, and the penetrating, frosty air froze the window panes in the heated room. It was almost midnight, and yet faint lights flickered from the snow mounds everywhere, and in every house the inmates were on their knees awaiting in prayer the advent of the holy Christmas festival, as is the custom in Catholic countries, or, at least, as was general in those times. That night a figure moved slowly down from the heights of Brede toward the village. The wanderer seemed to be very tired or sick; he groaned heavily and dragged himself with extreme difficulty through the snow.

Half the way down he stopped, leaned on his staff, and gazed fixedly at the lights. Everything was so quiet, so dead and cold; one could not have helped thinking of will o' the wisps in cemeteries. At that moment the clock struck twelve in the tower; as the last stroke died slowly away, soft singing arose in the nearest house and, spreading from house to house, ran through the whole village:

A little babe, a worthy child, Was born to us today, Of Mary Virgin undefiled; We all rejoice and say: Yea, had the Christ-child ne'er been born, To lasting woe we'd all been sworn, For He is our salvation. O, thou our Jesus Christ adored, A man in form but yet our Lord, From Hell grant us Redemption.

The man on the mountain slope had sunk to his knees and with a trembling voice made an effort to join in the song; it turned into nothing but loud sobbing, and large hot drops fell on the snow. The second verse began; he prayed along silently; then the third and the fourth. The song was ended and the lights in the houses began to move. Then the man rose laboriously and slunk slowly down to the village. He panted past several houses, then stopped in front of one and knocked on the door softly.

"I wonder what that is!" said a woman's voice inside. "The door is rattling, and there's no wind blowing!"

He knocked louder. "For God's sake, let in a half-frozen man, who comes out of Turkish slavery!"

There was whispering in the kitchen. "Go to the inn," answered another voice, "the fifth house from here!"

"In the name of our merciful God, let me in! I have no money."

After some delay the door opened. A man came out with a lighted lamp. "Come right in," he then said; "you won't cut our heads off." In the kitchen there were, besides the man, a middle-aged woman, an old mother, and five children. All crowded around the newcomer and scrutinized him with timid curiosity. A wretched figure! Wry-necked, with his back bent, his whole body broken and powerless; long hair, white as snow, fell about his face, which bore the distorted expression of long suffering. The woman went silently to the hearth and added some fresh fagots. "A bed we cannot give you," she said, "but I will make a good litter of straw here; you'll have to make the best of that."

"God reward you!" answered the stranger; "indeed I am used to worse than that."

The man who had returned home was recognized as John Nobody, and he himself avowed that it was he who had once fled with Frederick Mergel. The next day the village was full of the adventures of the man who had so long been forgotten. Everybody wanted to see the man from Turkey, and they were almost surprised that he should still look like other people. The young folks, to be sure, did not remember him, but the old could still recognize his features perfectly, wretchedly disfigured though he was.

"John, John, how gray you've grown!" said an old woman; "and where did you get your wry neck?"

"From carrying wood and water in slavery," he replied. "And what has become of Mergel? You ran away together, didn't you?"

"Yes, indeed; but I do not know where he is; we got separated. If you think of him, pray for him," he added; "he probably needs it."

They asked him why Frederick had disappeared, inasmuch as he had not murdered the Jew. "Not killed him!" said John, and listened intently when they told him what the lord of the estate had purposely spread abroad in order to erase the spot from Mergel's name. "So all was in vain," he said musing, "all in vain--so much suffering!"

He sighed deeply and asked, on his part, about many things. He was told that Simon had been dead a long while, but had first fallen into complete poverty through lawsuits and bad debtors whom he could not sue because, it was said, the business relations between them had been questionable. Finally he had been reduced to begging and had died on the straw in a strange barn. Margaret had lived longer, but in absolute mental torpor. The people in the village had soon grown tired of helping her, because she let everything that they gave her go to ruin; for it is, after all, characteristic of people to abandon the most helpless, those whom assistance does not relieve for any length of time and who are and always will be in need of aid. Nevertheless she had not suffered any actual want; the family of the Baron had cared for her, sent her meals daily, and even provided medical treatment for her, when her pitiable condition had developed into complete emaciation. In her house now lived the son of the former swineherd, who had so admired Frederick's watch on that unfortunate night.

"All gone, all dead!" sighed John.

In the evening, when it had grown dark and the moon was shining, he was seen limping about the cemetery in the snow; he did not pray over any one grave, nor did he go very close to any, but he seemed to gaze fixedly at some of them from a distance. Thus he was found by Forester Brandes, the son of the murdered forester, whom the Baron had sent to bring John to the castle. Upon entering the living-room he looked about him timidly, as though dazed by the light, and then at the Baron who was sitting in his armchair; he had aged greatly but still had his old bright eyes, and the little red cap was still on his head, as it had been twenty-eight years ago; beside him was the Baroness, his wife, also grown old, very old.

"Now, John," said the Baron, "do tell me all about your adventures. But," as he surveyed him through his glasses, "you wasted away terribly there in Turkey, didn't you?" John began telling how Mergel had called him away from the hearth at night and said he must go away with him.

"But why did the foolish fellow ever run away?--I suppose you know that he was innocent?"

John looked down.

"I don't know exactly; I think it was on account of some forest affairs. Simon had all kinds of dealings, you know; they never told me anything about it, but I do not believe everything was as it should have been."

"But what did Frederick tell you?"

"Nothing but that we must run away, that they were at our heels. So we ran to Heerse; it was still dark then and we hid behind the big cross in the churchyard until it grew somewhat lighter, because we were afraid of the stone-quarries at Bellerfeld; and after we had been sitting a while we suddenly heard snorting and stamping over us and saw long streaks of fire in the air directly over the church-tower of Heerse. We jumped up and ran straight ahead in the name of God as fast as we could, and, when dawn arose, we were actually on the right road to P." John seemed to shudder at the remembrance even now, and the Baron thought of his departed Kapp and his adventures on the slope of Heerse.

"Remarkable!" he mused; "you were so near each other! But go ahead."

John now related how they had successfully passed through P. and across the border, telling how, from that point, they had begged their way through to Freiburg in Breisgau as itinerant workmen. "I had my haversack with me, and Frederick a little bundle; so they believed us," he went on. In Freiburg they had been induced to enlist in the Austrian army; he had not been wanted, but Frederick had insisted. So he was put with the commissariat. "We stayed over the winter in Freiburg," he continued, "and we got along pretty well; I did, too, because Frederick often advised me and helped me when I did something wrong. In the spring we had to march to Hungary, and in the fall the war with the Turks broke out. I can't repeat very much about it because I was taken prisoner in the very first encounter and from that time was a Turkish slave for twenty-six years!"

"God in Heaven, but that is terrible!" exclaimed Frau von S.

"Bad enough! The Turks consider us Christians no better than dogs; the worst of it was that my strength left me with the hard work; I grew older, too, and was still expected to do as in former years." He was silent for a moment. "Yes," he then said, "it was beyond human strength and human patience, and I was unable to endure it. From there I got on a Dutch vessel."

"But how did you get there?" asked the Baron.

"They fished me out of the Bosphorus," replied John. The Baron looked at him in astonishment and raised his finger in warning; but John continued. "On the vessel I did not fare much better. The scurvy broke out; whoever was not absolutely helpless was compelled to work beyond his strength, and the ship's tow ruled as severely as the Turkish whip. At last," he concluded, "when we arrived in Holland, at Amsterdam, they let me go free because I was useless, and the merchant to whom the ship belonged sympathized with me, too, and wanted to make me his porter. But," he shook his head, "I preferred to beg my way along back here."

"That was foolish enough!" said the Baron.

John sighed deeply. "Oh, sir, I had to spend my life among Turks and heretics; should I not at least go to rest in a Catholic cemetery?"

The lord of the estate had taken out his purse. "Here, John, now go and come back soon. You must tell me the whole story more in detail; today it was a bit confused. I suppose you are still very tired."

"Very tired," replied John; "and"--he pointed to his forehead--"my thoughts are at times so curious I cannot exactly tell how things are."

"I understand," said the baron; "that is an old story. Now, go. Huelsmeyer will probably put you up for another night; come again tomorrow."

Herr von S. felt the deepest sympathy with the poor chap; by the next day he had decided where to lodge him; he should take his meals in the castle and his clothing could, of course, be provided for too. "Sir," said John, "I can still do something; I can make wooden spoons and you can also send me on errands."

Herr von S. shook his head sympathetically. "But that wouldn't work so remarkably well."

"Oh, yes, sir, if once I get started--I can't move very fast, but I'll get there somehow, and it won't be as hard as you might think, either."

"Well," said the Baron, doubtfully, "do you want to try it? Here is a letter to P. There is no particular hurry." The next day John moved into his little room in the house of a widow in the village. He carved spoons, ate at the castle, and did errands for the Baron. On the whole he was getting along tolerably well; the Baron's family was very kind, and Herr von S. often conversed with him about Turkey, service in Austria, and the ocean. "John could tell many things," he said to his wife, "if he wasn't so downright simple."

"More melancholic than simple," she replied; "I am always afraid he'll lose his wits some day."

"Not a bit of it," answered the Baron; "he's been a simpleton all his life; simple people never go crazy." Some time after, John stayed away much longer than usual on an errand. The good Frau von S. was greatly worried and was already on the point of sending out people, when they heard him limping up the stairs.

"You stayed out a long time, John," she said; "I was beginning to think you had lost your way in the forest of Brede."

"I went through Fir-tree Hollow."

"Why, that's a long roundabout way! Why didn't you go through the Brede Woods?"

He looked up at her sadly. "People told me the woods were cut down and there were now so many paths this way and that way that I was afraid I would not find my way out. I am growing old and shaky," he added slowly.

"Did you see," Frau von S. said afterwards to her husband, "what a queer, squinting look there was in his eyes? I tell you, Ernest, there's a bad ending in store for him!"

Meanwhile September was approaching. The fields were empty, the leaves were beginning to fall, and many a hectic person felt the scissors on his life's thread. John, too, seemed to be suffering under the influence of the approaching equinox; those who saw him at this time said he looked particularly disturbed and talked to himself incessantly--something which he used to do at times, but not very often. At last one evening he did not come home. It was thought the Baron had sent him somewhere. The second day he was still not there. On the third his housekeeper grew anxious. She went to the castle and inquired. "God forbid!" said the Baron, "I know nothing of him; but, quick!--call the forester and his son William! If the poor cripple," he added, in agitation, "has fallen even into a dry pit, he cannot get out again. Who knows if he may not even have broken one of his distorted limbs! Take the dogs along," he called to the foresters on their way, "and, first of all, search in the quarries; look among the stone-quarries," he called out louder.

The foresters returned home after a few hours; no trace had been found. Herr von S. was restless. "When I think of such a man, forced to lie like a stone and unable to help himself, I--but he may still be alive; a man can surely hold out three days without food." He set out himself; inquiry was made at every house, horns were blown everywhere, alarms were sent out, and dogs set on the trail--in vain! A child had seen him sitting at the edge of the forest of Brede, carving a spoon. "But he cut it right in two," said the little girl. That had happened two days before. In the afternoon there was another clue. Again a child had seen him on the other side of the woods, where he had been sitting in the shrubbery, with his face resting on his knees as though he were asleep. That was only the day before. It seemed he had kept rambling about the forest of Brede.

"If only that damned shrubbery weren't so dense! Not a soul can get through it," said the Baron. The dogs were driven to the place where the woods had just been cut down; the searching-party blew their horns and hallooed, but finally returned home, dissatisfied, when they had convinced themselves that the animals had made a thorough search of the whole forest. "Don't give up! Don't give up!" begged Frau von S. "It's better to take a few steps in vain than to leave anything undone." The Baron was almost as worried as she; his restlessness even drove him to John's room, although he was sure not to find him there. He had the room of the lost man opened. Here stood his bed still in disorder as he had left it; there hung his good coat which the Baroness had had made for him out of the Baron's old hunting-suit; on the table lay a bowl, six new wooden spoons, and a box. Herr von S. opened the box; five groschen lay in it, neatly wrapped in paper, and four silver vest-buttons. The Baron examined them with interest. "A remembrance from Mergel," he muttered, and stepped out, for he felt quite oppressed in the musty, close room. The search was continued until they had convinced themselves that John was no longer in the vicinity--at least, not alive.

So, then, he had disappeared for the second time! Would they ever find him again--perhaps some time, after many years, find his bones in a dry pit? There was little hope of seeing him again alive, or, at all events, certainly not after another twenty-eight years.

One morning two weeks later young Brandes was passing through the forest of Brede, on his way from inspecting his preserve. The day was unusually warm for that time of the year; the air quivered; not a bird was singing; only the ravens croaked monotonously in the branches and opened their beaks to the air. Brandes was very tired. He took off his cap, heated through by the sun; and then he put it on again; but one way was as unbearable as another, and working his way through the knee-high underbrush was very laborious. Round about there was not a single tree save the "Jew's beech"; for that he made, therefore, with all his might, and stretched himself on the shady moss under it, tired to death. The coolness penetrated to his limbs so soothingly that he closed his eyes.

"Foul mushrooms!" he muttered, half asleep. There is, you must know, in that region a species of very juicy mushrooms which live only a few days and then shrivel up and emit an insufferable odor. Brandes thought he smelt some of these unpleasant neighbors; he looked around him several times, but did not feel like getting up; meanwhile his dog leaped about, scratched at the trunk of the beech, and barked at the tree. "What have you there, Bello? A cat?" muttered Brandes. He half opened his lids and the Hebrew inscription met his eye, much distorted but still quite legible. He shut his eyes again; the dog kept on barking and finally put his cold nose against his master's face.

"Let me alone! What's the matter with you, anyway?" Brandes was lying on his back, looking up; suddenly he jumped up with a bound and sprang into the thicket like one possessed.

Pale as death he reached the castle; a man was hanging in the "Jew's Beech-tree"; he had seen his limbs suspended directly above his face. "And you did not cut him down, you fool?" cried the Baron.

"Sir," gasped Brandes, "if Your Honor had been there you would have realized that the man is no longer alive. At first I thought it was the mushrooms!" Nevertheless Herr von S. urged the greatest haste, and went out there himself.

They had arrived beneath the beech. "I see nothing," said Herr von S. "You must step over there, right here on this spot!" Yes, it was true; the Baron recognized his own old shoes. "God, it is John! Prop up the ladder!--so--now down--gently, gently! Don't let him fall! Good heaven, the worms are at him already! But loose the knot anyway, and his necktie!" A broad scar was visible; the Baron drew back. "Good God!" he said; he bent over the body again, examined the scar with great care, and in his intense agitation was silent for some time. Then he turned to the foresters. "It is not right that the innocent should suffer for the guilty; just tell everybody this man here"--he pointed to the dead body--"was Frederick Mergel."

The body was buried in the potter's field.

As far as all main events are concerned, this actually happened during the month of September in the year 1789.

The Hebrew inscription on the tree read: "When thou comest near this spot, thou wilt suffer what thou didst to me."

* * * * *

FERDINAND FREILIGRATH

THE DURATION OF LOVE[39] (1831)

Oh! love while Love is left to thee; Oh! love while Love is yet thine own; The hour will come when bitterly Thou'lt mourn by silent graves, alone!

And let thy breast with kindness glow, And gentle thoughts within thee move, While yet a heart, through weal and woe, Beats to thine own in faithful love.

And who to thee his heart doth bare, Take heed thou fondly cherish him; And gladden thou his every hour, And not an hour with sorrow dim!

And guard thy lips and keep them still; Too soon escapes an angry word. "O God! I did not mean it ill!" But yet he sorrowed as he heard.

Oh! love while Love is left to thee; Oh! love while Love is yet thine own; The hour will come when bitterly Thou'lt mourn by silent graves, alone.

Unheard, unheeded then, alas! Kneeling, thou'lt hide thy streaming eyes Amid the long, damp, churchyard grass, Where, cold and low, thy loved one lies,

And murmur: "Oh, look down on me, Mourning my causeless anger still; Forgive my hasty word to thee-- O God! I did not mean it ill!"

He hears not now thy voice to bless, In vain thine arms are flung to heaven! And, hushed the loved lip's fond caress, It answers not: "I _have_ forgiven!"

He _did_ forgive--long, long ago! But many a burning tear he shed O'er thine unkindness--softly now! He slumbers with the silent dead.

Oh! love while Love is left to thee; Oh! love while Love is yet thine own; The hour will come when bitterly Thou'lt mourn by silent graves--alone!

* * * * *

THE EMIGRANTS[40] (1832)

I cannot take my eyes away From you, ye busy, bustling band, Your little all to see you lay Each in the waiting boatman's hand.

Ye men, that from your necks set down Your heavy baskets on the earth, Of bread, from German corn baked brown, By German wives, on German hearth.

And you, with braided tresses neat, Black Forest maidens, slim and brown, How careful, on the sloop's green seat, You set your pails and pitchers down.

Ah! oft have home's cool shady tanks Those pails and pitchers filled for you; By far Missouri's silent banks Shall these the scenes of home renew--

The stone-rimmed fount, in village street, Where oft ye stooped to chat and draw-- The hearth, and each familiar seat-- The pictured tiles your childhood saw.

Soon, in the far and wooded West Shall log-house walls therewith be graced; Soon, many a tired, tawny guest Shall sweet refreshment from them taste.

From them shall drink the Cherokee, Faint with the hot and dusty chase; No more from German vintage, ye Shall bear them home, in leaf-crowned grace.

Oh say, why seek ye other lands? The Neckar's vale hath wine and corn; Full of dark firs the Schwarzwald stands; In Spessart rings the Alp-herd's horn.

Ah, in strange forests you will yearn For the green mountains of your home; To Deutschland's yellow wheat-fields turn; In spirit o'er her vine-hills roam.

How will the form of days grown pale In golden dreams float softly by, Like some old legendary tale, Before fond memory's moistened eye! The boatman calls--go hence in peace! God bless you, wife and child, and sire! Bless all your fields with rich increase, And crown each faithful heart's desire!

* * * * *

THE LION'S RIDE [41] (1834)

King of deserts reigns the lion; will he through his realm go riding, Down to the lagoon he paces, in the tall sedge there lies hiding. Where gazelles and camelopards drink, he crouches by the shore; Ominous, above the monster, moans the quivering sycamore.

When, at dusk, the ruddy hearth-fires in the Hottentot kraals are glowing, And the motley, changeful signals on the Table Mountain growing Dim and distant--when the Caffre sweeps along the lone karroo-- When in the bush the antelope slumbers, and beside the stream the gnu--

Lo! majestically stalking, yonder comes the tall giraffe, Hot with thirst, the gloomy waters of the dull lagoon to quaff; O'er the naked waste behold her, with parched tongue, all panting hasten-- Now she sucks the cool draught, kneeling, from the stagnant, slimy basin.

Hark, a rustling in the sedges! with a roar, the lion springs On her back now. What a race-horse! Say, in proudest stalls of kings, Saw one ever richer housings than the courser's motley hide, On whose back the tawny monarch of the beasts tonight will ride?

Fixed his teeth are in the muscles of the nape, with greedy strain; Round the giant courser's withers waves the rider's yellow mane. With a hollow cry of anguish, leaps and flies the tortured steed; See her, how with skin of leopard she combines the camel's speed!

See, with lightly beating footsteps, how she scours the moonlit plains! From their sockets start the eyeballs; from the torn and bleeding veins, Fast the thick, black drops come trickling, o'er the brown and dappled neck, And the flying beast's heart-beatings audible the stillness make.

Like the cloud, that, guiding Israel through the land of Yemen, shone, Like a spirit of the desert, like a phantom, pale and wan, O'er the desert's sandy ocean, like a waterspout at sea, Whirls a yellow, cloudy column, tracking them where'er they flee.

On their track the vulture follows, flapping, croaking, through the air, And the terrible hyena, plunderer of tombs, is there; Follows them the stealthy panther--Cape-town's folds have known him well; Them their monarch's dreadful pathway, blood and sweat full plainly tell.

On his living throne, they, quaking, see their ruler sitting there, With sharp claw the painted cushion of his seat they see him tear. Restless the giraffe must bear him on, till strength and life-blood fail her; Mastered by such daring rider, rearing, plunging, naught avail her.

To the desert's verge she staggers--sinks--one groan--and all is o'er. Now the steed shall feast the rider, dead, and smeared with dust and gore. Far across, o'er Madagascar, faintly now the morning breaks; Thus the king of beasts his journey nightly through his empire makes.

* * * * *

THE SPECTRE-CARAVAN[42] (1835)

'Twas at midnight, in the Desert, where we rested on the ground; There my Bedouins were sleeping, and their steeds were stretched around; In the farness lay the moonlight on the mountains of the Nile, And the camel-bones that strewed the sands for many an arid mile.

With my saddle for a pillow did I prop my weary head, And my caftan-cloth unfolded o'er my limbs was lightly spread, While beside me, both as Captain and as watchman of my band, Lay my Bazra sword and pistols twain a-shimmering on the sand.

And the stillness was unbroken, save at moments by a cry From some stray belated vulture sailing blackly down the sky, Or the snortings of a sleeping steed at waters fancy-seen, Or the hurried warlike mutterings of some dreaming Bedouin.

When, behold!--a sudden sandquake--and atween the earth and moon Rose a mighty Host of Shadows, as from out some dim lagoon; Then our coursers gasped with terror, and a thrill shook every man, And the cry was "_Allah Akbar_!--'tis the Spectre-Caravan!"

On they came, their hueless faces toward Mecca evermore; On they came, long files of camels, and of women whom they bore; Guides and merchants, youthful maidens, bearing pitchers like Rebecca, And behind them troops of horsemen, dashing, hurrying on to Mecca!

More and more! the phantom-pageant overshadowed all the Plains, Yea, the ghastly camel-bones arose, and grew to camel-trains; And the whirling column-clouds of sand to forms in dusky garbs, Here, afoot as Hadjee pilgrims--there, as warriors on their barbs!

Whence we knew the Night was come when all whom Death had sought and found, Long ago amid the sands whereon their bones yet bleach around, Rise by legions from the darkness of their prisons low and lone, And in dim procession march to kiss the Kaaba's Holy Stone.

More and more! the last in order have not passed across the plain, Ere the first with slackened bridle fast are flying back again. From Cape Verde's palmy summits, even to Bab-el-Mandeb's sands, They have sped ere yet my charger, wildly rearing, breaks his bands!

Courage! hold the plunging horses; each man to his charger's head! Tremble not as timid sheep-flocks tremble at the lion's tread. Fear not, though yon waving mantles fan you as they hasten on; Call on _Allah_! and the pageant, ere you look again, is gone!

Patience! till the morning breezes wave again your turban's plume; Morning air and rosy dawning are their heralds to the tomb. Once again to dust shall daylight doom these Wand'rers of the night; See, it dawns!--A joyous welcome neigh our horses to the light!

* * * * *

HAD I AT MECCA'S GATE BEEN NOURISHED[43] (1836)

Had I at Mecca's gate been nourished, Or dwelt on Yemen's glowing sand, Or from my youth in Sinai flourished, A sword were now within this hand.

Then would I ride across the mountains Until to Jethro's land I came, And rest my flock beside the fountains Where once the bush broke forth in flame.

And ever with the evening's coolness My kindred to the tent would throng, When verses with impassioned fulness Would stream from me in glowing song.

The treasure of my lips would dower A mighty tribe, a mighty land, And as with a magician's power I'd rule, a monarch, 'mid the sand.

My list'ners are a nomad nation, To whom the desert's voice is dear; Who dread the simoon's devastation And fall before his wrath in fear.

All day they gallop, never idle-- Save by the spring--till set of sun; They dash with loosely swaying bridle From Aden unto Lebanon.

At night upon the earth reclining They watch amid their sleeping herds, And read the scroll of heaven, shining With golden-lettered mystic words.

They often hear strange voices mutter From Sinai's earthquake-shattered, height, While desert phantoms rise and flutter In wreaths of smoke before their sight.

See!--through yon fissure deep and dim there The demon's forehead glows amain, For as with me so 'tis with him there-- In the skull's cavern seethes the brain.

Oh, land of tents and arrows flying! Oh, desert people brave and wise! Thou Arab on thy steed relying,-- A poem in fantastic guise!

Here in the dark I roam so blindly-- How cunning is the North, and cold! Oh, for the East, the warm and kindly, To sing and ride, a Bedouin bold!

* * * * *

WILD FLOWERS[44] (1840)

Alone I strode where the broad Rhine flowed, The hedge with roses was covered, And wondrous rare through all the air The scent of the vineyards hovered. The cornflowers blue, the poppies too, Waved in the wheat so proudly! From a cliff near-by the joyous cry Of a falcon echoed loudly.

Then I thought ere long of the old love song: Ah, would that I were a falcon! With its melody as a falcon free, And daring, too, as a falcon. As I sang, thought I: Toward the sun I'll fly, The very tune shall upbear me To her window small with a bolt in the wall, Where I'll beat till she shall hear me.

Where the rose is brave, and curtains wave, And ships by the bank are lying, Two brown eyes dream o'er the lazy stream-- Oh, thither would I be flying!

With talons long and strange wild song I'd perch me at her feet then, Or bold I'd spread my wings o'er her head, And gladly we should greet then.

Though I gaily sang and gaily sprang, No pinions had I to aid me; I took my path through the corn in wrath-- So restless my love had made me. Then branch and tree all ruthlessly I stripped, nor ceased from my ranting Till with hands all torn and heart forlorn I sank down, weary and panting.

While I heard the sound from all around Of frolicking lads and lasses, Alone for hours I gathered flowers And bound them together with grasses. O crude bouquet, O rude bouquet!-- Though many a girl despise it, Yet come there may the happy day When thou, my love, shalt prize it.

In fitting place it well might grace An honest farmer's dwelling These cornflowers mild and poppies wild, With others past my telling; The osier fine, the blossoming vine, The meadow-sweetening clover-- All vagrant stuff, and like enough To him, thy vagrant lover.

His dark eye beams, his visage gleams, His clenched hand--how it trembles! His fierce blood burns, his mad heart yearns, His brow the storm resembles.

He breathes oppressed, with laboring breast-- His weeds and he rejected! His flowers, oh, see!--shall they and he Lie here at thy door neglected?

* * * * *

THE DEAD TO THE LIVING[45] (July, 1848)

The bullet in the marble breast, the gash upon the brow, You raised us on the bloody planks with wild and wrathful vow! High in the air you lifted us, that every writhe of pain Might be an endless curse to _him_, at whose word we were slain; That he might see us in the gloom, or in the daylight's shine, Whether he turns his Bible's leaf, or quaffs his foaming wine; That the dread memory on his soul should evermore be burned, A wasting and destroying flame within its gloom inurned; That every mouth with pain convulsed, and every gory wound, Be round him in the terror-hour, when his last bell shall sound; That every sob above us heard smite shuddering on his ear; That each pale hand be clenched to strike, despite his dying fear-- Whether his sinking head still wear its mockery of a crown, Or he should lay it, bound, dethroned, on bloody scaffold down!

Thus, with the bullet in the breast, the gash upon the brow, You laid us at the altar's foot, with deep and solemn vow! "Come down!" ye cried--he trembling came--even to our bloody bed; "Uncover!" and 'twas tamely done!--(like a mean puppet led, Sank he whose life had been a farce, with fear unwonted shaken). Meanwhile his army fled the field, which, dying, we had taken! Loudly in "_Jesus, thou my trust_!" the anthem'd voices peal; Why did the victor-crowds forget the sterner trust of steel?

That morning followed on the night when we together fell, And when ye made our burial, there was triumph in the knell! Though crushed behind the barricades, and scarred in every limb, The pride of conscious Victory lay on our foreheads grim! We thought: the price is dearly paid, but the treasures _must_ be true, And rested calmly in the graves we swore to fill for you!

Alas! for you--we were deceived! Four moons have scarcely run, Since cowardly you've forfeited what we so bravely won! Squandered and cast to every wind the gain our death had brought! Aye, all, we know--each word and deed our spirit-ears have caught! Like waves came thundering every sound of wrong the country through: The foolish war with Denmark! Poland betrayed anew! The vengeance of Vendean men in many a province stern! The calling back of banished troops! The Prince's base return! Wherever barricades were built, the lock on press and tongue! On the free right of all debate, the daily-practised wrong! The groaning clang of prison-doors in North and South afar! For all who plead the People's right, Oppression's ancient bar! The bond with Russia's Cossacks! The slander fierce and loud, Alas! that has become your share, instead of laurels proud-- Ye who have borne the hardest brunt, that Freedom might advance, Victorious in defeat and death--June-warriors of France! Yes, wrong and treason everywhere, the Elbe and Rhine beside, And beat, oh German men! your hearts, with calm and sluggish tide? _No war within your apron's folds_? Out with it, fierce and bold! The second, final war with all who Freedom would withhold! Shout: "The Republic!" till it drowns the chiming minster bells, Whose sound this swindle of your rights by crafty Austria tells!

In vain! 'Tis time your faltering hands should disentomb us yet, And lift us on the planks, begirt with many a bayonet; Not to the palace-court, as then, that _he_ may near us stand-- No; to the tent, the market-place, and through the wakening land! Out through the broad land bear us--the dead Insurgents sent, To join, upon our ghastly biers, the German Parliament. Oh solemn sight! there we should lie, the grave-earth on each brow, And faces sunken in decay--the proper Regents now! There we should lie and say to you: "Ere we could waste away, Your Freedom-gift, ye archons brave, is rotting in decay! The Corn is housed which burst the sod, when the March sun on us shone, But before all other harvests was Freedom's March-seed mown! Chance poppies, which the sickle spared, among the stubbles stand; Oh, would that Wrath, the crimson Wrath, thus blossomed in the land!" And yet, it _does_ remain; it springs behind the reaper's track; Too much had been already gained, too much been stolen back; Too much of scorn, too much of shame, heaped daily on your head-- Wrath and Revenge _must_ still be left, believe it, from the Dead! It _does_ remain, and it awakes--it shall and must awake! The Revolution, half complete, yet wholly forth will break. It waits the hour to rise in power, like an up-rolling storm, With lifted arms and streaming hair--a wild and mighty form! It grasps the rusted gun once more, and swings the battered blade, While the red banners flap the air from every barricade! Those banners lead the German Guards--the armies of the Free-- Till Princes fly their blazing thrones and hasten towards the sea! The boding eagles leave the land--the lion's claws are shorn-- The sovereign People, roused and bold, await the Future's morn! Now, till the wakening hour shall strike, we keep our scorn and wrath For you, ye Living! who have dared to falter on your path! Up, and prepare--_keep watch in arms!_ Oh, make the German sod, Above our stiffened forms, all free, and blest by Freedom's God; That this one bitter thought no more disturb us in our graves: "_They once were free--they fell--and now, forever they are Slaves!_"

* * * * *

HURRAH, GERMANIA![46] (July 25, 1870)

Hurrah! thou lady proud and fair, Hurrah! Germania mine! What fire is in thine eye, as there Thou bendest o'er the Rhine! How in July's full blaze dost thou Flash forth thy sword, and go, With heart elate and knitted brow, To strike the invader low! Hurrah! Hurrah! Hurrah! Hurrah! Germania!

No thought hadst thou, so calm and light, Of war or battle plain, But on thy broad fields, waving bright, Didst mow the golden grain, With clashing sickles, wreaths of corn, Thy sheaves didst garner in, When, hark! across the Rhine War's horn Breaks through the merry din! Hurrah! Hurrah! Hurrah! Hurrah! Germania!

Down sickle then and wreath of wheat Amidst the corn were cast, And, starting fiercely to thy feet, Thy heart beat loud and fast; Then with a shout I heard thee call: "Well, since you will, you may! Up, up, my children, one and all, On to the Rhine! Away!" Hurrah! Hurrah! Hurrah! Hurrah! Germania!

From port to port the summons flew, Rang o'er our German wave; The Oder on her harness drew, The Elbe girt on her glaive; Neckar and Weser swell the tide, Main flashes to the sun, Old feuds, old hates are dash'd aside, All German men are one! Hurrah! Hurrah! Hurrah! Hurrah! Germania!

Suabian and Prussian, hand in hand, North, South, one host, one vow! "What is the German's Fatherland?" Who asks that question now? One soul, one arm, one close-knit frame, One will are we today; Hurrah, Germania! thou proud dame, Oh, glorious time, hurrah! Hurrah! Hurrah! Hurrah! Hurrah! Germania!

Germania now, let come what may, Will stand unshook through all;

This is our country's festal day; Now woe betide thee, Gaul! Woe worth the hour a robber thrust Thy sword into thy hand! A curse upon him that we must Unsheathe our German brand! Hurrah! Hurrah! Hurrah! Hurrah! Germania!

For home and hearth, for wife and child, For all loved things that we Are bound to keep all undefiled From foreign ruffianry! For German right, for German speech, For German household ways, For German homesteads, all and each, Strike home through battle's blaze! Hurrah! Hurrah! Hurrah! Hurrah! Germania!

Up, Germans, up, with God! The die Clicks loud--we wait the throw! Oh, who may think without a sigh What blood is doom'd to flow? Yet, look thou up, with fearless heart! Thou must, thou shalt prevail! Great, glorious, free as ne'er thou wert, All hail, Germania, hail! Hurrah! Victoria! Hurrah! Germania!

* * * * *

THE TRUMPET OF GRAVELOTTE[47] (Aug. 16, 1870)

Death and Destruction they belched forth in vain, We grimly defied their thunder; Two columns of foot and batteries twain, We rode and cleft them asunder.

With brandished sabres, with reins all slack, Raised standards, and low-couched lances, Thus we Uhlans and Cuirassiers wildly drove back, And hotly repelled their advances.

But the ride was a ride of death and of blood; With our thrusts we forced them to sever; But of two whole regiments, lusty and good, Out of two men, one rose never.

With breast shot through, with brow gaping wide, They lay pale and cold in the valley, Snatched away in their youth, in their manhood's pride-- Now, Trumpeter, sound to the rally!

And he took the trumpet, whose angry thrill Urged us on to the glorious battle, And he blew a blast--but all silent and still Was the trump, save a dull hoarse rattle,

Save a voiceless wail, save a cry of woe, That burst forth in fitful throbbing-- A bullet had pierced its metal through, For the Dead the wounded was sobbing!

For the faithful, the brave, for our brethren all, For the Watch on the Rhine, true-hearted! Oh, the sound cut into our inmost soul!-- It brokenly wailed the Departed!

And now fell the night, and we galloped past, Watch-fires were flaring and flying, Our chargers snorted, the rain poured fast-- And we thought of the Dead and the Dying!

* * * * *

MORITZ GRAF VON STRACHWITZ

DOUGLAS OF THE BLEEDING HEART[48] (1842)

Earl Douglas, don thy helm so bright, And buckle thy sword with speed, Bind on thy sharpest spurs to-night And saddle thy swiftest steed!

"The death watch ticks in the hall of Scone, All Scotland hears its warning, King Robert in pains of death does groan, He'll never see the morning."

For nigh on forty miles they sped And spoke of words not four, And horse and spur with blood were red When they came to the palace door.

King Robert lay at the north tower's turn; With death he'd begun to battle: "I hear the sword of Bannockburn On the stairway clatter and rattle.

"Ha! Welcome in God's name, gallant lord! My end cometh presently, And thou shalt harken my latest word And write down my will for me:

"'Twas on the day of Bannockburn, When Scotland's star rose high, 'Twas on the day of Bannockburn That a vow to God vowed I;

"I vowed that, should He defend my right And give me the victory there, With a thousand lances I'd go to fight For His holy sepulchre.

"I'm perjured, for still my heart doth stand, 'Twas broken with care and strife; The man who would rule o'er the Scottish land May scarce lead a pilgrim's life.

"But thou, when my voice has sunk to rest, When grief and glory depart, Shalt straightway cut from out my breast My battle-o'erwearied heart.

"Then thou shalt wrap the samite red And lock it in yellow gold, And when o'er my bier the mass is said, Let the flag of the cross be unrolled.

"Take a thousand steeds at thy command And a thousand knights also, And carry my heart to the Savior's land That peace my soul may know."

* * * * *

"Make ready, gallants, for the start, Let plume from helmet sway! The Douglas bears the Bruce's heart, And who shall bar his way?

"Now cut the ropes, ye seamen brave And hoist the sail so free! The king must to his dark, dark grave, And we to the dark-blue sea."

Then into the east they sailed away Full ninety days and nine, And at the dawn of the hundredth day They landed in Palestine.

Across the yellow desert they wound As a shining river might flow, The sun it pierced through their helmets' round Like an arrow shot from a bow.

The desert was still, there breathed no gust, All limply the flags were streaming, When up to the sky rose a cloud of dust Whence lightning of spears was gleaming.

The desert was thronged, the din grew loud, The dust was on every side. And thick as rain from each bursting cloud Did the spear-armed Saracens ride.

Ten thousand lances glittered to right, Ten thousand sparkled to left, "Allah il Allah!" they shouted to right, "Il Allah!" they echoed to left.

The Douglas drew his bridle rein, And still stood earl and knight; "By the cross on which our Lord was slain 'Twill be a deadly fight!"

A noble chain his neck embraced In golden windings three. The locket to his lips he placed And kissed it fervently:

"Since thou hast ever gone before, O heart, by night and day, E'en so today do thou once more Precede me in the fray.

"And now may God this boon bestow, As I to thee have been true, That I may strike a Christian blow Against this heathen crew."

He threw his shield o'er his left side, Bound on his helm so proud, And as to battle he did ride, He rose and called aloud:

"Who brings this locket back to me Be his the day's renown!" Then 'mid the paynims mightily He hurled the king's heart down.

Each made the cross with his left thumb, The right hand held the lance, No fear had they though fiends had come To check their bold advance.

A sudden crash, a headlong flight, And mad death raging around-- But when the sun sank in the sea's blue light From the desert there came no sound.

For the pride of the east was there laid low In the sweep of the death-strewed plain, And the sand so red in the afterglow Would never be white again.

Of all the heathen, by God's good grace Not one had escaped that harm, Short patience have men of the Scottish race And ever a long sword-arm!

But where had been the fellest strife, There lay in the moonlight clear The good Earl Douglas, reft of life By a hellish heathen spear.

All cleft and rent was the mail he wore, And finished his mortal smart. Yet under his shield he clasped once more King Robert Bruce's heart.

* * * * *

GEORG HERWEGH

THE STIRRUP-CUP[49] (1840)

The anxious night is gone at last, Silent and mute we gallop past And ride to our destiny. How keen the morning breezes blow! Hostess, one glass more ere we go, We go to die!

Thou soft young grass, why now so green? Soon like the rose shall be thy sheen, My blood thee red shall dye. The first quick sip with sword in hand I drink, a toast to our native land, For our native land to die.

Now for the next, the time is short, The next to Freedom, the queen we court,-- The fiery cup drain dry! These dregs--to whom shall we dedicate? To thee, Imperial German State, For the German State to die!

My sweetheart!--But there's no more wine-- The bullets whistle, the lance heads shine-- To her the glass where the fragments lie! Up! Like a whirlwind into the fray! O horseman's joy, at the break of day, At the break of day to die!

* * * * *

EMANUEL GEIBEL

THE WATCHMAN'S SONG[50] (1840)

Wake--awake! The cry rings out; From the high watch-tower comes the shout. Awake, imperial German land-- Ye by distant Danube dwelling, And where the infant Rhine is swelling, And where the bleak dunes pile their sand! For hearth and home keep watch, Sword from its scabbard snatch; Every hour For bitter fight Prepare aright-- The day of combat is in sight!

Hear in the East the ominous cry That tells a greedy foe draws nigh-- The vulture, thirsting for the strife. Hear in the west the serpent's hiss Whose siren-fangs are set for this, To poison all your virtuous life. Near is the vulture's swoop; The serpent coils to stoop For the stroke; Then watch and pray Until the day-- Your swords be sharpened for the fray!

Pure in life, in faith as strong, Let no man do your courage wrong; Be one, what time the trump shall sound.

Cleanse your souls by fervent prayer, That so the Lord may find them fair When He shall make His questioning round, The Cross be still your pride, Your banner and your guide In the battle! Who in the field Their fealty yield To God, victorious weapons wield.

Look Thou down from heaven above, Thou Whom the angels praise and love-- Be gracious to our German land! Speak from the clouds with thunder-voice; Princes and people of Thy choice, Unite them with a mighty hand. Be Thou our fortress-tower, Bring us through danger's hour. Hallelujah! Thine is today And shall alway Kingdom, and power, and glory stay!

* * * * *

THE CALL OF THE ROAD[51] (1841)

Sweet May it is come, and the trees are in bloom-- Who wills may sit listless with sorrow at home! As the clouds go a-roving up there in the sky, So away for a life of adventure am I!

Kind father, dear mother, God be with you now! Who knows what my fortune is waiting to show? There is many a road that I never have gone, There is many a wine that I never have known.

Then up with the sun, and away where it leads, High over the mountains and down through the meads! The brooks they are singing, the trees hear the call; My heart's like a lark and sings out with them all.

And at night, when I come to a cozy old nest, "Mine host, now a bottle--and make it your best! And you, merry fiddler, tune up for a song, A song of my sweetheart--I'll help it along!"

If I come to no inn, then my slumber I'll snatch 'Neath the kindly blue sky, with the stars to keep watch. The trees with their rustling will lull me to sleep; Dawn's kisses will wake me, and up I shall leap.

Then ho! for the road, and the life that I love, And God's pure air to cool your hot brow as you rove. The heart sings for joy in the sun's merry beams-- All, wherefore so lovely, wide world of my dreams?

* * * * *

AUTUMN DAYS[52] (1845)

Sunny days of the autumn, Days that shall make me whole, When a balm for wounds that were bleeding Drops silently on the soul!

Now seem the hours to be brooding In still, beneficent rest, And with a quieter motion Heaves now the laboring breast.

To rest from the world's endeavor, To build on the soul's deep base-- That is my only craving, In the stillness of love to gaze.

O'er the hills, through the dales I wander, Where the shy sweet streamlets call, Following each clear sunbeam, Whether scorching or kind it fall.

There where the leaves are turning, I harken with reverent ear; All that is growing or dying, Fading or blooming, I hear.

Blissful I learn my lesson-- How through the world's wide sweep Matter and spirit together Their concord eternal keep.

What blows in the rustling forest, Takes life from the sun and rain, Is a symbol of truth immortal To the soul that can read it plain.

Each tiniest plant that blossoms With the perfume of its birth Holds in its cup the secret Of the whole mysterious earth.

It looks down from the cliffs in silence, Speaks in the waves' long swell-- But all its wonderful meaning The poet alone can tell.

* * * * *

THE DEATH OF TIBERIUS[53] (1856?)

On Cape Misenum shone a palace fair Among the laurels by the summer sea; Long colonnades, and wondrous artistry, And all that should a gorgeous feast prepare. Oft saw it scenes of midnight revelry Where moved soft boys, their brows with ivy crowned, And silver-footed damsels, capering round, The thyrsus swung; with merry shouts of glee And rippling laughter, and the lyre's soft tone, It rang till fell the dew, and night was gone.

Tonight, how still! But here and there is traced A lighted window; in the shadowy space About the doors, slaves throng with awestruck face. Litters draw nigh, and men spring out in haste; And as each comes, a question runs its round Through all the quivering circle of the spies "What says the leech? How goes it?" Hush--no sound! The end is near--the fierce old tiger dies! Up there on purple cushion, in the light Of flickering lamps, pale Cæsar waits for morn; His sallow face, by hideous ulcers torn, Looks ghastlier than was e'er its wont tonight; Hollow the eyes; the fire of fell disease And burning fever runs through every limb; None but the aged leech abides with him, And Macro, trusted bearer of the keys.

And now, with stifled cry, by fears oppressed, The sick man feebly throws his coverings off "Let me, O Greek, a cooling potion quaff! Ice--ice! Vesuvius burns within my breast. Gods! how it flames! Yet in my anguished brain The torturing thoughts burn fiercer far, and worse ... A thousand times their tireless strength I curse, Yet cannot find refreshment. 'Tis in vain I cry for Lethe; where the frankincense Sends up its smoke, from all the ancient wars The victims lift their faces, seamed with scars, In grim reproachful gaze to call me hence. Germanicus--Sejanus--Drusus rise ... Who brought you hither? Has the grave no bars? Ah, 'tis past bearing, how with corpse-cold eyes Ye suck the life-blood from me pitilessly! I know I slew you--but it had to be. Was it my fault ye threw the losing dice? Away! Alas--when ends my misery?"

The grave physician held the cup; he drank Its cooling at a draught, then feebly sank Among the pillows, still with wandering eye About the chamber, from his forehead dank Wiping the dews: "They're gone? No more they try To fright me? Ah, perchance 'twas but the mist ... Yet often have they come, by night--in what dread guise None knows but I ... Come, sit thee near me ... hist! And let me tell of dim old memories.

"I too was young once, trusted in my star, Had faith in men; but all the glamour of youth Vanished too soon--and, piercing to the truth, I found some evil each fair show to mar. No thing I saw so high and free from blame But worms were at its heart; each noble deed Revealed self-seeking as its primal seed. Love, honor, virtue--each was but a name! Naught marked us off, vile creatures of the dust, From ravening brutes, save on the smiling face A honeyed falseness--in the heart so base A craven weakness and a fiercer lust. Where was a friend had not his friend betrayed A brother guiltless of a brother's death, A wife that hid no poisoned sting beneath A fond embrace? Of one clay all were made! Thus I became as they. Since only fear Could tame that crew, I bade its form draw near. It was a war I waged; I found a joy Undreamed-of in their death-cries, and in blood Full ankle-deep I waded--victor stood, To find at last that horror too could cloy! Now, grimly bearing what I may not mend, Remorseless, unconsoled, I wait the end."

His dull voice sank to silence. Moaning low, He met new pains: cold sweat stood on his brow. In fearsome change his face the watchers saw Grow like some hideous mask; till Macro came Nearer the throne-like couch, and spoke a name "Shall I thy nephew call--Caligula? Thy sickness waxes--"

Hissed the prince in scorn: "My curse upon thee, viper! What to thee Is Caius? Still I live! And he was born To ape the others--lies, greed, roguery, And aught but manhood. If he had, 'twere vain; No hero now Rome's downfall may restrain. If gods there were, upon this ruined soil No god could bring forth fruit; but that weak lad! Nay, nay, not him--the spirits stern and sad That dog my steps and mock at all my coil, The Furies of the abyss that drive me mad, Them--them and chaos--leave I of my toil The heritage. For them the sceptre!"

So Up leaped he as he was, dire agony Twisting his features, from the window high Tore back the curtain, cast with frenzied throw The wand of empire far into the night-- Then, senseless, crumbled.

In the court below A soldier stood at guard--a man of might, Fair-haired and long of limb. Straight to his feet It rolled, the rounded ivory, and upsprang From off the polished marble with a clang

That seemed to say 'twas minded him to greet. He took it up, unknowing what it meant; And soon his thoughts pursued their former bent. Of far-off, sombre German woods he dreamed; He saw the waving tree-tops of the north, He saw the comrades to their tryst go forth. Each word true as their own sharp weapons seemed, As much for friendship as for war their worth. Then thought he of his wife; he saw her sit In all the glory of her golden hair Before their hut, whirling the spindle there Send forth her thoughts across the leagues to flit And reach him here. In that same woodland shrine A merry boy was carving his first spear, His blue eyes flashing boldly in scorn of fear, As though he said--"A sword--the world is mine!" Then swift he saw another vision come Unbidden, hide the pictures of his home, Press on his soul with irresistible might-- How once, far in the East, he stood to guard The cross where hung a Man with visage marred-- And at His death the sun was plunged in night. Long since, that day had faded in the West; Yet could he ne'er the Sufferer's look forget-- The deep abyss of infinite sorrow, and yet The fulness of all blessing it expressed. Now (what could this portend?) to his old home He saw that cross a conquering symbol come; And lo, the assembled tribes of all his race Innumerable moved, and o'er their host On all their banners, as their proudest boast, The same Man's image, a glory round His face ...

Sudden he started; from the halls above Came harsh, quick shouts--the lord of the world was dead! Awe struck the soldier stared where dawn hung red, And saw the Future's mighty curtain move.

* * * * *

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 1: Permission Macmillan and Co., New York, and George Bell & Sons, Ltd., London.]

[Footnote 2: Or in Goethe:

"Zuschlagen kann die Masse, Da ist sie respektabel; Urteilen gelingt ihr miserabel."]

[Footnote 3: _The Dial_, Vol. II, No. 1.]

[Footnote 4: Cf. _Fanny Tarnow_ (1835), Z. Funck (1836), and _Otto Berdrow_, 2d Edition, 1902, p. 338 seq.]

[Footnote 5: This is Rahel's expression, the tribute of admiration forced from the childless woman fresh from the Berlin salons, by the spectacle of Bettina romping with her children in the nursery.]

[Footnote 6: Cf. Herman Grimm, _Briefwechsel_, 3 Aug. 1881, s. XVII: "For her circle of relatives and friends in the descending line, Bettina has remained a near relative of a higher order."]

[Footnote 7: James Freeman Clarke's estimate of Margaret Fuller and her influence (_Memoirs_, I, 97) supplies interesting, though not specific confirmation of the point of view here suggested.]

[Footnote 8: In his _Aristeia der Mutter_. Werke, Weimarer Ausgabe, Bd. 29, ss. 231-238, Goethe acknowledged Bettina's faithfulness and complete credibility for these details. Cf. also Reinhold Steig, _Achim von Arnim and Clemens Brentano_, Stuttgart, 1894, s. 379.]

[Footnote 9: Translator's Preface to _Eckermann's Conversations with Goethe_.]

[Footnote 10: According to the investigations of R. Steig, _Achim von Arnim and Clemens Brentano_ (1894), Bettina was born in the year 1788. Internal evidence is at hand to support this view. Bettina herself stated (_Briefwechsel_, 538) that she was sixteen when her enthusiasm for Goethe first manifested itself as an elemental force. From another passage we learn that this was three years before her first meeting with the poet in 1807, "in the heyday between childhood and maidenhood." The "Child" of the first letters of the Correspondence was, accordingly, just nineteen. German authorities have accepted 1788 as Bettina's birth-year, but English publications, including the Encyclopædia Britannica (1911) still cling to 1785, the old date. Herman Grimm's account of Bettina's interests at threescore (_Briefwechsel_, XIX, f.) reveals the same preoccupation with Goethe, Shakespeare, and Beethoven. She died in the year 1859.]

[Footnote 11: A mountain range between the Neckar and Main rivers.]

[Footnote 12: The reference is to the _Elective Affinities_ of Goethe, in which Edward, the husband of Charlotte, is obsessed with a passion for the latter's foster-daughter, Ottilie, which results in the death of the two lovers.]

[Footnote 13: Ottilie in _Elective Affinities_.]

[Footnote 14: From _Spaziergaenge eines Wiener Poeten_. Translator: Sarah T. Barrows.]

[Footnote 15: Translator: Charles Wharton Stork.]

[Footnote 16: Translator: Kate Freiligrath Kroeker. (From _A Century of German Lyrics_.)]

[Footnote 17: Translator: Charles Wharton Stork.]

[Footnote 18: Translator: Charles Wharton Stork.]

[Footnote 19: Translator: Charles Wharton Stork.]

[Footnote 20: Translator: Charles Wharton Stork.]

[Footnote 21: Translator: Charles Wharton Stork.]

[Footnote 22: Translator: Charles Wharton Stork.]

[Footnote 23: Translator: Charles Wharton Stork.]

[Footnote 24: Translator: Charles Wharton Stork.]

[Footnote 25: Translator: Charles Wharton Stork.]

[Footnote 26: Translator: Charles Wharton Stork.]

[Footnote 27: Translator: Charles Wharton Stork.]

[Footnote 28: Translator: Charles Wharton Stork.]

[Footnote 29: Translator: Charles Wharton Stork.]

[Footnote 30: Translator: Charles Wharton Stork.]

[Footnote 31: Translator: Charles Wharton Stork.]

[Footnote 32: _Invocation to Calliope_, Bk. III, Ode IV.]

[Footnote 33: The friend and patron of Haydn, to whose support and interest we owe many works of art.]

[Footnote 34: Translator: Charles Wharton Stork.]

[Footnote 35: Translator: Charles Wharton Stork.]

[Footnote 36: Translator: Charles Wharton Stork.]

[Footnote 37: Translator: Charles Wharton Stork.]

[Footnote 38: Translator: Charles Wharton Stork.]

[Footnote 39: Translator: M.G. in _Chambers' Journal_. Permission Bernhard Tauchnitz, Leipzig.]

[Footnote 40: Translator: C.T. Brooks. Permission Bernhard Tauchnitz, Leipzig.]

[Footnote 41: Translator: J.C. Mangan. Permission Bernhard Tauchnitz, Leipzig.]

[Footnote 42: Translator: Charles Wharton Stork.]

[Footnote 43: Translator: Charles Wharton Stork.]

[Footnote 44: Translator: Bayard Taylor. Permission Bernhard Tauchnitz, Leipzig.]

[Footnote 45: _Pall Mall Gazette_, London. Permission Bernhard Tauchnitz, Leipzig.]

[Footnote 46: Translator: Kate Freiligrath-Kroeker. Permission Bernhard Tauchnitz, Leipzig.]

[Footnote 47: Translator: Charles Wharton Stork.]

[Footnote 48: Translator: William G. Howard.]

[Footnote 49: Translator: A.I. du P. Coleman.]

[Footnote 50: Translator: A.I. du P. Coleman.]

[Footnote 51: Translator: A.I. du P. Coleman]

[Footnote 52: Translator: A.I. du P. Coleman.]

[Footnote 53: Translator: A.I. du P. Coleman.]