Part 5
“Whither, in the Lord’s name? Twice four-and-twenty hours at this rate and we shall have spanned this terrestrial globe and come out on the other side at Nieder-Fahren.” As he was saying this they approached a bridge. The Vicar, in terror lest the horse in its blind rage might miss the bridge and leap into the stream, tugged frantically at the line on the side nearest to the bridge. But he tugged too long; the provoking animal thereupon left the bridge lying at the right, and jumped into the water. The Vicar came very near fainting away when he became aware of floating between heaven and water, and felt the waves penetrate his black silk stockings, and soon after his velvet breeches, until they played about his hips.
The horse, which was a capital swimmer, reached the opposite shore in safety, regained the road, and jauntily continued its journey until it reached Schloss Malzen, where it darted joyfully with the Vicar into the open door of the stable, standing still at last in its own familiar stall.
The servants in the courtyard ran in after him, helped the rider out of the saddle, and anxiously inquired how he had come into possession of the Baron’s horse.
An unspeakable sense of blissful security seized the much-tried clergyman as once more he felt _terra-firma_ beneath his feet. Deprived of his hat and his wig, to be sure, and the lower half of his body dripping with water, far from home, the approaching night before him, and upon the domain of the arch-enemy of Nieder-Fahren--all these circumstances served to make the situation not altogether agreeable. But what cared he so long as his life was saved?
While the servants were storming the breathless gentleman with questions the Baron’s steward appeared upon the scene, and hospitably urged him to come into the house. As upon his request a carriage was promised him to take him back to Nieder-Fahren, he consented to enter and rest before his departure. Meanwhile nearly two hours passed; no carriage appeared, and the Vicar began to wax suspicious lest he was being treated as a prisoner for having run away with the horse, although he had repeatedly affirmed that it was he who had been run away with. He finally decided to take flight. He arose, and was about to open the door, when Baron Pompeius von Malzen entered, having arrived upon his lackey’s horse while the despairing lackey was on a search for the Baron’s steed through the whole of Ober and Nieder-Fahren.
The Baron, recognising the worthy uncle of his wife--the tale concerning the arrival of the horse with a wigless and decidedly damp clergyman had been related to him in the courtyard--at once escorted him to a better room, ordered dry clothing, and gave the Vicar time to change his garments. His departure was quite out of the question for that night; the Baron would not let the opportunity escape him to heap coals of fire upon the head of one of his adversaries, to entertain him sumptuously, and overwhelm him with courtesies.
Susie’s uncle, surprised at the Baron’s cordial manner, soon felt very comfortable behind smoking viands and bottles of Burgundy. Still, however soft and firm he sat upon the luxurious cushions of his chair, he could not for the whole evening rid himself of the notion, as he said, of having “the hellish beast” between his legs.
“At the same time I am more grateful to my good horse than I can tell you,” said the Baron, “for bringing me the uncle of my beloved wife. I have long wished for the honour of your acquaintance, so that I might beg for your kind intercession. I adore my wife, and a separation is about to be forced upon us. My wife has forgiven me--nay, more, she loves me; she does not desire a separation, and yet----”
“Loves you? Does not desire a separation?” cried the Vicar, shaking his head, which was adorned with the Baron’s best cotton night-cap.
“Will you have proofs?” said the Baron. “Ah, I will be frank with our dear uncle. You shall know all. This hour may decide our life’s happiness.” He thereupon went and fetched Susie’s letters.
And indeed from his niece’s letters the Vicar saw that between her and the Baron there was eternal peace, and a great deal more that is eternal.
He seemed greatly touched as he laid the letters down; he stretched out his hand across the table, and said--
“Baron, I for my part will make peace with you. Susie shall be yours, and the law-suit may go to the dogs. But we must handle Aunt Rosmarin carefully. She is a dear, good woman, but she has peculiar ideas about some things. Up to this day I was a raging Saul, henceforth I shall be a gentle Paul, and shall begin at once upon my work of conversion.”
The Baron jumped up, embracing and kissing brave Saul in a rapture of delight.
* * * * *
Meanwhile Aunt Rosmarin had heard her brother relate the story of his adventure. When he told her how he found the horse, her eyes sparkled with pleasure at the discovery. The fact of his getting into the saddle she accompanied with the remark: “You don’t know how to ride. Every cobbler to his last!” When he came to his aerial flight across the bar, and his swim through the stream, she jumped up, nervously seized her brother’s two hands and cried, “For heaven’s sake, what dangers were you subject to!” And she did not regain her composure until he halted before the horse’s crib. Then, as the Baron came in, her face lengthened; the warmer the Vicar grew in chanting his praises the cooler was Aunt Rosmarin. And when he had the audacity to add, “Susie does not seem to dislike the Baron; seems to me we had better let the law-suit go, and let things take their course,” Auntie shook her head, while she gazed at her brother from top to toe with wide open eyes.
“Well, I never!” said she. “I fear me the ride and the fright have done you some injury. If the Baron did not turn you out into the pitch-dark night, giving you lodging and food instead, he did no more than heathens and barbarians would have done. You need not think I’ll give him Susie for his roasts and his Burgundy. A weak sort of man you must be to be willing to sacrifice your principles and all the disgrace and sorrow our family has suffered through the Baron for one poor supper.”
Then did the Vicar arise in indignation and say, “Why, Aunt Rosmarin, has all Christian charity gone out of you? I wish then that _you_ had ridden the Baron’s horse in my stead; I wish _you_ had been called upon to fly through the air, and to swim through the surging billows, to make the acquaintance of an honourable man. Then you would think different.”
Aunt Rosmarin thought her brother’s remarkable wish very improper, as well as insulting. She thereupon gave him a lecture lasting three hours, and having for its perpetual refrain, “I will not hear another word about the Baron. In future I shall act alone, in strict accordance with my principles.”
_Heinrich Zschokke_ (1771-1848).
_THE MAN WHO SOLD HIS SHADOW._
WHAT was my horror to see the man in grey come behind with the evident purpose of accosting me. He raised his hat and bowed with a more profound obeisance than I had ever been honoured with. I returned the courtesy, and stood bare-headed in the sun as if rooted to the ground. I stared at him in an agony of terror, like a bird under the spell of a serpent. He seemed greatly embarrassed, did not raise his eyes, bowed repeatedly, approached me, and began to speak in a gentle, wavering voice, with the tone of a mendicant.
“I trust your Honour will have the kindness to pardon my presumption in venturing to address you, being a stranger. I have a very particular request to make. Graciously permit me, sir----”
“For heaven’s sake,” I cried in terror, “what can I do for a man who----” We both stopped, and, as it seemed to me, we blushed.
After a moment of silence he began again. “During the short time that it was my good fortune to enjoy the presence of your company, I have had occasion more than once to gaze--if you will permit me to say so--with inexpressible admiration upon the well-formed, handsome shadow which, with an air of noble disdain, as if scorning to set any value upon it, you cast behind you. It is a superb shadow you have there lying at your feet. Pardon the temerity of the suggestion; would it be possible to induce you to sell this same shadow to me?”
He ceased speaking, and it seemed as if a wheel were going around in my head. What was I to make of this remarkable proposition? He must be crazy, I thought, and in an altered voice, more suited to the humility of his tone, I replied--
“Go to, good friend; have you not enough with your own shadow? What you propose is a very strange bargain.” He interrupted me with, “I have many a useful thing in my pocket that your Honour might find convenient; for this inestimable shadow there is no price I should deem too high. To show my gratitude to you, sir, I would give you your own choice of all the treasures I carry about with me. I have miraculous wands of the witch-hazel, I have Mercury’s cap and potent draughts, the dish-cloth of Roland’s page, and a Homunculus, but best of all is the magic purse of Fortunatus.” “A magic purse,” I interrupted him, and great as was my horror, he had captured my sensibilities with that word. A deathly giddiness came over me, and rows of ducats seemed to twinkle before my eyes.
“Would your Honour have the goodness to examine the purse?” He put his hand in his pocket and drew out a medium-sized, strongly-made bag of leather, with heavy leather cords for draw-strings, and handed me the same. I put my hand in and pulled out ten golden coins, and ten more, and ten more, and ten more. I held out my hand to him: “It is a bargain; for the bag I’ll give you my shadow.” He clasped my hand to seal the bargain, and then quickly knelt down before me, and with marvellous dexterity loosening my shadow from the grass, he lifted it, rolled it up, folded it, and at last put it in his pocket. He arose, bowed once more, and then vanished among the rose bushes. Methought I heard him laugh softly to himself. I held the bag tightly in my hands. Round about me the earth was bright with sunshine, and within me there was as yet no wisdom.
* * * * *
Meanwhile it had grown late, and, unnoticed, the dawn preceding sunrise was brightening the sky. It was a very unpleasant surprise when I looked up and saw the glory of colour unfold in the east. There was no refuge on this open plain that I was traversing from the approaching sun, and that too at an hour when shadows sport their utmost extension! And I was not alone! I glanced at my companion, and once more I trembled. He was no other than the man in grey.
He smiled at my consternation, and continued, without giving me time to speak: “Let us, true to the custom of the world, be united for a while by the reciprocal advantages to be derived from such a union; we have time enough to separate later on. This road which you are taking happens to be my road also. I see you turn pale before the rising sun. I will lend you your shadow for the time of our companionship, and in return I will ask you to tolerate me at your side. You have lost your servant Bendel; I will yield you as good service. You do not look upon me with favour; this I greatly regret. I can be of service to you, nevertheless. The devil is not as black as he is painted. It is true you offended me yesterday; to-day I bear you no ill-will, and I have shortened the way for you so far, as you yourself must confess. Will you not give your shadow a trial?”
The sun had risen, early wayfarers came along the road; however distasteful it might be, I accepted his proposal. Smiling, he allowed my shadow to glide upon the ground. It fell into place on the shadow of my horse, and cheerily trotted along beside me. Strange feelings took possession of me. I rode past a group of country people, who, with uncovered head, respectfully made room for a person of quality. I rode on, and looked with greedy eyes and a beating heart down from my horse upon the shadow that once was mine, and which I had now borrowed from a stranger, ay, from an enemy.
The latter walked unconcernedly beside me, whistling a tune--he on foot, I on horseback! A tremor seized me; the temptation was too great; I suddenly turned my horse’s head, gave him the spurs, and off I went in a full canter down a byway; but I did not succeed in bringing the shadow with me; as the horse turned it slipped down, and awaited its lawful master in the road. There was nothing for it but a shamefaced admission of defeat. I rode back, and the man in grey, first finishing the tune he was whistling, laughed at me, pulled my shadow straight again, and informed me that it would not stick to me, and be content to stay with me, until it was once more my lawful property. “I hold you by your shadow,” he added; “and you will not escape me. A rich man like you cannot get on without a shadow. You are to be blamed in so far as you did not find that out before.”
_A. von Chamisso_ (1781-1838).
_THE GHOST OF DR. ASCHER._
THE night I spent at Goslar something very remarkable occurred. Terror seizes me even now as I think back. I am not timid by nature, but I have a mortal terror of ghosts. What is fear? Is it a product of the understanding or of the soul? About this question I had many a discussion with Dr. Saul Ascher in Berlin when we met in the Café Royal, where I used to dine. He would have it that we fear a thing because our reason recognises therein due cause for terror. While I was eating and drinking to my satisfaction he was fond of constantly demonstrating the fine qualities of Reason. Toward the end of his demonstration he would look at his watch, and he always ended with: “Reason is the highest principle!” Reason! When I so much as hear the word I see before me Dr. Ascher with his abstract legs, his tight waistcoat of transcendental grey, and his harsh bitter-cold face, which might have served as a title-vignette to a book on geometry. The man was a straight line personified. In his search after the Positive the poor man had philosophised all grandeur out of life, all sunbeams, all faith, and all flowers, and all that remained to him was a cold, positive grave. He cherished a pet aversion for the Apollo of Belvedere and for Christianity. He even went so far as to write a pamphlet about the latter, proving it to be unreasonable and untenable. Indeed he wrote a host of books, in each of which Reason brags of its own excellence. The poor Doctor was serious enough about it, and in this respect they deserve esteem. But it was just this which was the best joke of all--that he would put on so fatuously serious a mien when he could not understand what every child understands by very reason of its childhood. I called upon this reasonable Doctor in his own house once or twice, and I found beautiful women there, for Reason does not forbid sensuality. Once when I intended to call upon him his servant said: “The Doctor has just died.” It did not impress me any more strongly than if he had said: “The Doctor is gone out.”
But to return to Goslar. “The highest principle is Reason!” I said consolingly to myself as I got into bed. It did not answer the purpose, however. I had just been reading that horrible story in Varnhagen von Ense’s _Deutsche Erzählungen_, which I had brought with me from Clansthal, how a son, whose father intended to murder him, was warned at night by his mother’s ghost. The marvellous effectiveness of the story caused me to shiver with horror while reading. Then, too, ghost stories excite the most uncanny sensations when read on a journey, and especially at night in a town, in a house, in a room where one has never been. How many horrible things may have happened upon this very spot where I am now lying? One cannot refrain from conjecturing. Moreover, the moon shone so doubtfully into the room; all sorts of uncalled-for shadows were moving along the wall, and when I raised myself in bed to look closer, I saw----
There is nothing more weird than to come unintentionally upon one’s own face in a mirror by the light of the moon. At the same moment a lumbering sleepy clock began to strike, and, moreover, it struck so long and so slowly that after the twelfth stroke I verily believed twelve hours had gone by, and it would have to begin over again and strike twelve once more. Between the last beat and the last but one, another clock struck very rapidly with a rasping shrillness, put out of temper perhaps by the dulness of its kinswoman. When at last both iron tongues subsided and the silence of death reigned in the house, it seemed to me suddenly as if I heard something slur and drag along the passage just outside of my door like the unsteady gait of a man. At last my door was opened, and slowly the late Dr. Saul Ascher walked into my room. A cold chill passed through my bones. I trembled like a leaf, and hardly did I dare to look at the ghost. He looked just the same as ever--the same transcendental grey waistcoat, the same abstract legs, and the same mathematical face; only that the latter was a little yellower than I remembered it, and the mouth, which had always formed two angles of 22½ degrees, was tightly shut, and the circles of his eyes had a longer radius. Wavering and leaning, as had been his custom, upon a slender stick, he approached me, and in his usual lazy dialect said pleasantly, “Do not be afraid, and don’t believe me to be a ghost. It is an illusion of the senses if you imagine you see a ghost. What is a ghost? Give me a definition. Deduce the conditions for the possibility of a ghost. In what reasonable relation to your reason would such a phenomenon be! Reason, I say Reason----”
And now the ghost proceeded to analyse Reason, quoting Kant, Part 2, Division 1, Book 2, Proposition 3, “The distinction between phenomena and noumena,” constructing the problematic belief in ghosts, piling syllogism upon syllogism with the logical conclusion that there is positively no such thing as a ghost. All the while the perspiration was cold upon my back, my teeth were chattering; in my terror I nodded unqualified assent to every sentence in which the spook-doctor had proved the absurdity of my fears, and the latter was demonstrating so eagerly that in a moment of abstraction, instead of his gold watch he pulled a handful of worms out of his vest pocket, and discovering his error he replaced them with ridiculous nervous haste. “Reason is the highest----” The clock struck one, and the ghost vanished.
_Heinrich Heine_ (1799-1856).
_TOURISTS AT THE BROCKEN._
UPON entering the Brocken-house a somewhat unusual romantic mood came over me. After long and lonely wanderings among rocks and hemlocks, one seems suddenly transported to a house in the clouds. I found the house full of guests; and as it becomes a man of wise foresight, I thought of the night and of the discomfort pertaining to a couch of straw. With a dying voice I ordered tea, whereupon the Herr host was so reasonable as to be convinced that an invalid like me must needs have a decent bed.... Having refreshed myself, I climbed up to the look-out, and found a diminutive gentleman with two ladies, one young, the other elderly. When I was a boy I thought of nothing but of wondrous fairy-tales, and every pretty woman with ostrich feathers on her head I took to be a fairy-queen. If by good chance the hem of her dress was bedraggled, I took her for a water-nymph. Had I looked upon the fair one with those boyish eyes, had I seen her then upon the Brocken, I should certainly have said to myself, this is the sylph of the mountain, and she has just uttered the charm which makes all below appear so wondrously beautiful. What relation the very lithe gentleman bore to the ladies whom he accompanied I could not ascertain. His was a thin peculiar figure. His little head, sparsely covered with grey hair, which fell over his low forehead nearly to his pale greenish eyes; his clumsy nose far protruding; his mouth and chin timidly drawing back in the direction of his ears. This little face seemed to be modelled out of a certain kind of delicate, yellowish clay, such as sculptors use for their first design; and when his narrow lips were shut tight, a thousand little folds, light and semi-circular, covered his cheeks. The little man did not say a word, only now and then, when the elder lady whispered something kind to him, he would smile like a pug with a cold in his head.... While we were speaking it began to grow dusk; the air grew chillier, the sun sank lower, and students, travelling journeymen, and a couple of honest bourgeois with their wives and daughters, crowded upon the platform to see the sunset. It is a marvellous sight, tuning the soul to prayer. During a quarter of an hour we all stood in solemn silence, and saw the gorgeous globe of fire slowly sink in the west; our faces reflected the evening glory, our hands were folded involuntarily; it seemed as if we stood a silent congregation in the aisle of a cathedral, and the priest was holding up the body of the Lord, and from the organ sounded Palestrina’s immortal anthem.
As I stood thus enwrapped in the fervour of devotion, I heard some one calling out beside me, “How beautiful is nature on the whole!” These words proceeded out of the overflowing breast of my room-mate, the young merchant. I was at once landed thereby in my work-day mood, and was now able to make a great many brilliant remarks to the ladies about the sunset. I escorted them to their room as if nothing had happened. I believe we talked about Angora cats, Etruscan vases, Turkish shawls, macaroni, and Lord Byron, from whose poems the elder lady recalled some sunset passages, which she recited with a pretty lisp and sigh. To the younger lady, who did not know English, and expressed a wish to read these poems, I recommended some excellent translations. Upon this occasion I did not fail to declaim, as it is my custom to do when conversing with young ladies, against Byron’s impiety, heartlessness, hopelessness, and heaven knows what all.
It was the coffee’s fault that I had forgotten my pretty lady. She was standing outside of the door with her mother and companion, preparing to get into the carriage. There was but just time for me to step up to her briskly and assure her that it was cold. She seemed displeased that I had not come sooner; but I smoothed the pettish frown from her fair brow by bestowing a wonderful flower upon her, which I had picked the day before from a steep precipice at the danger of breaking my neck. Her mother demanded the name of the flower, considering it improper as it were for her daughter to wear a strange, unknown flower upon her bosom. Her taciturn companion unexpectedly opened his mouth, counted the stamens of the flower, and dryly remarked that it belonged to the eighth class. It aggravates me when I see how God’s dear flowers are parcelled off into classes as well as we, and indeed, according to a method no less superficial--viz., the difference in the number of stamens. If there must be subdivision, it would be well to follow the suggestion of Theophrast, who would have flowers classified according to their spirit--that is, their fragrance. So far as I am concerned, I have my own system in natural science, and according to it I classify all things--into those that are good to eat, and those that are not.
_Heinrich Heine._
_MY APPRECIATIVE FRIEND._