Part 8

Is drumming, now, an inborn talent, or was it early developed in me? Enough--it lies in my limbs, in my hands, in my feet, and often manifests itself involuntarily. I once sat at Berlin in the lecture-room of the Privy Councillor Schmaltz, a man who had saved the State by his book on the _Red and Black Coat Danger_. You remember, perhaps, Madam, out of Pausanias, that by the braying of an ass an equally dangerous plot was once discovered; and you also know from Livy, or from Becker’s _History of the World_, that geese once saved the capital; and you must certainly know from Sallust that a loquacious _putain_, the Lady Livia, brought the terrible conspiracy of Cataline to light. But to return to the mutton aforesaid. I listened to international law in the lecture-room of the Herr Privy Councillor Schmaltz, and it was a sleepy summer afternoon, and I sat on the bench and heard less and less--my head had gone to sleep, when all at once I was wakened by the noise of my own feet, which had stayed awake, and had probably observed that the exact opposite of international law and constitutional tendencies was being preached; and my feet, which, with the little eyes of their corns, had seen more of how things go in the world than the Privy Councillor with his Juno eyes--these poor dumb feet, incapable of expressing their immeasurable meaning by words, strove to make themselves intelligible by drumming, and they drummed so loudly that I thereby nearly came to grief.

Cursed, unreflecting feet! They once played me a similar trick, when I on a time, in Göttingen, sponged without subscribing on the lectures of Professor Saalfeld; and as, with an angular activity, he jumped about here and there in his pulpit, and heated himself in order to curse the Emperor Napoleon in regular set style,--no, my poor feet, I cannot blame you for drumming then; indeed, I would not have blamed you if in your dumb _naïveté_ you had expressed yourselves by still more energetic movements. How could I, the scholar of Le Grand, hear the Emperor cursed? The Emperor, the Emperor, the great Emperor!

The Emperor is dead. On a waste island in the Atlantic Ocean is his grave; and he for whom the world was too narrow lies quietly under a little hillock, where five weeping willows hang their green heads, and a little brook, murmuring sorrowfully, ripples by. There is no inscription on his tomb; but Clio, with a just pen, has written thereon invisible words, which will resound, like spirit tones, through thousands of years.

Britannia! the sea is thine. But the sea has not water enough to wash away the shame with which the death of that mighty one has covered thee. Not thy windy Sir Hudson--no, thou thyself wert the Sicilian bravo with whom perjured kings bargained that they might revenge on the man of the people what he had once inflicted on one of themselves. And he was thy guest, and had seated himself by thy hearth.

Strange! A terrible destiny has already overtaken the three greatest enemies of the Emperor. Londonderry has cut his throat, Louis XVIII. has rotted away on his throne, and Professor Saalfeld is still professor in Göttingen.

_Heinrich Heine._

_VERSES FROM HEINE._

IT makes a man happy, no doubt, But it maketh him weary, i’fegs, To have three lovely women about him, And only a couple of legs.

With one I must walk of a morning; At eve with another I rove; And a third comes at noontide, and drags me Right out of my quarters, by Jove!

Farewell, irresistible sirens! I have but two legs of my own; Henceforth in some rural seclusion I’ll worship Dame Nature--alone.

* * * * *

THESE fine ladies, understanding Honour must to poets be, Bade me to a lordly luncheon-- My great Genius and me.

There was soup, ah! it was stunning; There was wine no lip would spurn; There was poultry, simply godlike, There was hare cooked to a turn.

They talked I remember of poets, And when I could eat no more, I rose, and acknowledged the honour, And bowed till I reached the door.

* * * * *

FRANKLY, this young man I honour, He exhibits graces rare. Often he has stood me oysters, Also Rhine-wine and liqueurs.

And his clothes exactly fit him, And his tie proclaims the swell; And he turns up every morning, And he hopes I’m pretty well,

Talks about my reputation, And my wit, and grace of style; And he’d do, if I would let him, Oh, a thousand things the while!

And at nights, in rooms surrounded By the fairest of the fair, He declaims my ‘Heavenly’ poems With a soft abstracted air.

Truly, is not this refreshing? Such young men as him I praise Are not common; they are growing Rare and rarer nowadays.

A YOUNG man loves a maiden Who other hopes has fed, And her love loves another love, And to his choice is wed.

The maiden marries straightway The handiest man to be had, And this is simple cussedness, And her young man is mad.

It is an ancient drama, But any time ’twill fit-- Don’t play “first gentleman” unless You want your heart to split.

* * * * *

LAID on thy snow-white shoulder My head is at rest; And I listen--and know the unquiet Desire of thy breast.

The gorgeous hussars have stormed it, And entered without strife! And, to-morrow, a woman will leave me That I love as my life.

What tho’ in the morning she leave me, To-night she is mine-- My head is at rest on her shoulder, And her snow-white arms entwine.

_Translated by Ernest Radford._

THOU wert a blonde-hair’d maid without a stain, So neat, so prim, so cool! I stay’d in vain To see thy bosom’s guarded gates unroll, And Inspiration breathe upon thy soul.

A zeal and ardour for those lofty themes, By chilly Reason scorn’d for airy dreams, But wringing from the noble and the good The toil of hand and heart, and brain and blood.

On hills with vineyards’ clambering leafage gay, Glass’d in the Rhine we roamed one summer day; Bright was the sun, and from the shining cup Of every flower a giddy scent flew up.

A kiss of fire, a deep voluptuous blush, Burn’d on each pink and every rosy bush, Ideal flames in dandelions glow’d And lit each sorriest weed that edged our road.

But thou went’st on with even-stepping feet, Clad in white satin, elegant and neat; No child of Netcher’s brush more trim and nice, And in thy stays a little heart of ice.

_Translated by Richard Garnett._

_ABOUT MONEY._

THE world is divided into two kinds of human beings--those that have money and those that have none. But the latter are not human beings at all--they are either devils, viz., poor devils; or angels, viz., angels of patience and renunciation.

Without money, without teeth, and without a wife we come into this world; and without money, without teeth, and without a wife we go out of this world. What then have we accomplished in the world? We have made money, cut teeth, and taken unto ourselves wives! A glorious destiny! There are fevers, pains, convulsions, and sufferings of all kinds attendant upon the getting of teeth and wives, and when one has them they hurt the whole year round, and often the best one can do is to have them extracted. Teeth and wives come to you without your doing, and unless most carefully treated they are liable to decay. But money does not come without your doing, and often a man leaves this world without having had money. It would be interesting to hear the reply of such a person when asked on the other side, “What did you do in the world?”

Who has money? The rich people! That is a misfortune! If the poor people only had money then we should see what poor devils these rich fellows are! It is no art to be rich when one has much money, and it is no merit to be poor when one has none.

What is money? Money is a goodly lump which the Lord God attaches to insignificant people, so as not to lose sight of them in his creation, as a good housekeeper puts a big label on a little key.

What is money? Money is a figure which gains in importance as there is a cipher attached to it.

What is money? Money is a metal heel under the boots of little people to make them appear as tall as others.

What is money? Money is an indemnity which God gives to a certain number of persons on condition that they will not make bold to acquire any such goods as Intellect or Genius.

What is money? Money is the _accent grave_ upon a letter which would else be silent.

What is money? Money is the mysterious essence of a being which defines its _ego_ in the following words:--“If I were not what I have, I should not have what I am.”

But what is no money? No money? No money?

No money is a thing of which all empty pockets are full.

No money is the _alibi_ of a being which should testify to our presence in this world.

No money is a disease aggravated by the continuous obstruction of Fortune.

No money is a gentle invitation of nature to incur debts, and a peremptory command not to pay them.

No money is an irresistible inclination to melancholy on the part of our purse caused by hopeless love to an unattainable object.

No money is an _ex_position of no money at all, a _pro_position in abstract philosophy, a fit position for a minister of finance, and a happy _dis_position for platonic love.

No money is a vulgar ballad which common people sing aloud on the streets, but the more refined only hum between their lips within doors.

No money is the watchword of extreme radicalism and the art of making oneself popular at a low price.

Alas, what is man without money? A twice-told anecdote, a song without a tune, a lost poodle-dog without an honest finder, last year’s calendar, etc., etc.

Without money no prince can reign, no minister can minister, no general can make war, no painter can paint, no farmer can till the field; only the bards and poets sing and make verses without money; the poet is true to his muse even though he has no money; indeed he muses more than ever--how to get some.

_M. G. Saphir_ (1795-1858).

_A NIGHT IN THE BREMER RATHSKELLER._

IT struck ten o’clock as I descended the broad steps of the Rathskeller. There was a reasonable hope of finding it empty, for a storm was howling without, the weather-cocks were making strange music, and the rain splashed upon the pavement. But the kellerdiener gave me a questioning look when I told him my desire.

“What, so late, and to-night of all nights?” he exclaimed.

“It’s never too late for me before twelve,” I answered; “and after that it is early enough in the day.”

“Are you expecting company?” asked the man.

“I am alone.”

“You might have some unasked,” he added, looking about timorously at the shadows his lamp cast.

“What do you mean?” I asked in surprise.

“Oh, I was only thinking,” answered he, lighting a couple of candles and setting a large beaker before me. “There are all sorts of odd rumours about the 1st of September. Indeed I can’t do it, sir! Not to-day, sir!”

I took this to be one of those common tricks wherewith custodians, wardens, and the like work upon a stranger’s purse, so I placed a generous coin in his hand, and took him by the arm to make him come with me.

“No, that was not my intention, sir,” he said, trying to give it back to me. “I’ll tell you frankly what my meaning was--there’s nothing in the world would induce me to enter the Apostles’ cellar this night, for it’s the 1st of September.”

“Well, and what of that?”

“In God’s name, then, you may think what you please, but it isn’t as it should be there to-night, and that’s because it is the anniversary day of the _Rose_.”[3]

I laughed till the walls rang again. “Well, I have heard many a ghost-story in my life, but never one about a wine-ghost. Aren’t you ashamed to talk such nonsense, you with your white hair? But I have the permission of the Senate; I may drink in this cellar to-night, wherever I please, and as long as I please. Therefore, in the name of the Senate, I bid you follow me. Unlock the cellar of Bacchus.”

This had the desired effect; unwillingly, but not venturing to remonstrate, he took the candles and beckoned to me. First we traversed one roomy vault, then a smaller one, until we reached a long narrow passage. Our steps reverberated with a hollow sound, and our breath striking against the wall produced what seemed like distant whispering. At last we stood before a door, the keys rattled, with a moan it came yawning open, the light of the candles fell into the cellar, and opposite to me sat Friend Bacchus upon a mighty cask. Refreshing sight! They had not pictured him with delicate grace, those old Bremen artists, not daintily as a Grecian youth; they had not represented him old and drunk, with a disgusting belly, leering eyes, and protruding tongue, as the vulgarised myth profanely portrays him now and then. Outrageous anthropomorphism; blind folly of man! Because some of his priests, grown old in his worship, walk about thus; because their belly swells with satisfaction, their nose takes colour from the burning reflection of the dark-red flood, their eyes turn up in silent bliss--these things must needs be attributed to the god, while they but adorn his worshippers.

Otherwise did the men of Bremen. How blithely and cheerily does the old boy ride his cask! The round blooming face, the merry little wine-enraptured eyes looking down so knowingly, the broad smiling mouth that has tasted of many a bumper, the short powerful neck, the whole little figure teeming with health and good humour! Is one not tempted to expect that in a gay mood, wine-inspired, he will bend his little round knees, press his calves up close, and stem his heels against the old mother-cask, setting her off at a brisk canter, in which all the Roses, Apostles, and common casks will join with a wild “halloo” through the cellar?

“Lord of Heaven!” cried the custodian, clinging tightly to my arm; “don’t you see him roll his eyes and swing his legs?”

“Old fellow, you are crazy!” said I, casting a timid look at the wooden god; “it is the light of the candles flickering about him.” At the same time a queer feeling came over me as I followed the old man out of the Bacchus-cellar. Was it really the light of the candles, was it an illusion what I saw? Did he not nod to me with his little round pate, did he not put out one of his chubby legs and shake and writhe with secret laughter? I ran after the old man and walked close behind him.

“Now to the twelve Apostles,” I said to him. He did not reply; shaking his head dubiously he walked on. There were two or three steps to ascend from the large cellar into a small one, into the subterranean heavens, the seat of the blessed, where abide the twelve Apostles. What are ye, vaults and sepulchres of royal families, beside these catacombs! Place coffin by coffin, laud upon black marble the merits of the man who sleeps below, employ a garrulous keeper in garments of mourning, let him praise the unspeakable greatness of this dust or of that, let him relate the marvellous virtues of a prince who fell at such and such a battle, the exquisite beauty of a princess upon whose sarcophagus the virgin’s myrtle twines with the bursting rosebud--it will remind you of mortality, it may cost you a tear; but can it touch you like this bed-chamber of a century, this resting-place of a glorious race? There they lie in their dark-brown coffins devoid of ornament and frippery. No marble boasts of their silent merits, their inconspicuous virtue, their excellent character; but what man with a heart for virtue of this sort does not feel himself stirred when the old custodian, this keeper of the catacombs, this sexton of the subterranean church, places his candles upon the coffins and lets the light fall upon the illustrious names of the great dead! Like royal heads, these too have no long title and surname; in noble simplicity their names appear upon the brown coffins. There is Andrew, here John, in yonder corner Judas, in this Peter. Who is not touched when he is then told that there lies the noble one of Nierenstein, born 1718; here he of Rüdesheim, born 1726. To the right Paul, to the left James, the good James!

“Good-night, ye old lords of the Rhine; good-night. And if there is anything I can do for you, fiery Judas, or you, gentle Andrew, or you, dear John, come, come to me.”

“Lord of Heaven!” the old man interrupted me, slamming the door and turning the key. “Are you intoxicated already by the few drops you had, that you should thus tempt the devil? Don’t you know that the wine-spirits arise this night, and visit each other, as they always do on the 1st of September? And should I lose my place thereby, I shall run off and leave you if you speak such words again. It is not yet twelve o’clock, but at any moment one of them might come creeping out of his cask and frighten us to death with a hideous grimace.”

“Stop your foolish prattle, old fellow, and be comforted. I will not say another word to wake your wine-spirits. But now take me to the Rose.”

We walked on; we entered a vault, the rose-garden of Bremen. There she lay, old Rose, bulky, tremendous, with an air of commanding sovereignty. What an enormous cask! and every bumper worth its weight in gold! 1615! Where are the hands that planted thee? Where are the eyes that revelled in thy bloom. Where are the happy folks that exulted when thou, noble grape, wert cut upon the heights of the Rhinelands, when thou wert pulled and thy golden flood burst into the tub? They are gone, like the waves of the river that bathed the foot of thy vineyard.

“There, and now good-night, Frau Rose!” said the old servant pleasantly. “Now, good-night, and God bless you; here, this way, sir, not around that corner; this is the way out of the cellar. Here, come, do not run against those casks; I will hold the candle.”

“No, indeed, old chap,” I said; “the joke is only just beginning. All this was but a foretaste. Bring me two or three bottles of your choicest of ’22 in the large room yonder.”

He stood there with eyes wide open, the poor fool. “Sir,” he said solemnly, “put it out of your mind. I will not stay with you for love or money.”

“Who told you to stay with me? Put the wine where I tell you, and, in God’s name, go along with you.”

“But I cannot leave you alone in the cellar,” he replied. “I know, begging your pardon, that you wouldn’t steal anything, but it is against my orders.”

“Well, then, lock the door behind me; put a padlock on, as ponderous as you please, and to-morrow morning at six come and wake me and get your fee.”

He tried to remonstrate, but it was in vain. At last he put down three bottles and nine candles before me, wiped out the beaker, and bade me good-night with a heavy heart as it seemed. He locked the door, and out of tender solicitude for me, as it would seem, more than for the safety of his cellar, hung on a padlock. Just then the clock struck twelve. I heard him mutter a prayer and hasten away. The sound of his steps died away in the vault, and when he shut the outside door of the cellar it reverberated like a peal of thunder through the passages.

So I am alone with thee, my soul, far down in the womb of the earth. Up on the earth they are all asleep and adream, and down here, round about, they slumber in their coffins, the spirits of wine. Do they dream, I wonder, of their short childhood, of the distant hills where they were bred, and of their old father Rhine who murmured a gentle ditty by their cradle?

* * * * *

Hark! Was not that the sound of a door? Certainly very queer; if I were not alone down here, if I did not know that men can only walk the earth above, I should be tempted to think that there are steps resounding through the vaults. Ha! here they come, there is something fumbling at the door; it shakes the latch, but the door is locked and bolted; this night no _mortal_ will disturb me. Ha! What is that? The door opens. Holy horrors!

Outside the door stood two men with ceremonious politeness urging the precedence upon each other. The one was tall and lean, adorned with a great black wig, a dark-red coat, trimmed with gilt cording and gilt-spun buttons; his legs, of abnormal length and thinness, were attired in knee-breeches of black velvet with gold buckles. His sword, with a heft of porcelain, he had stuck through his trousers-pocket; when bowing he waved a little three-cornered silk hat, while the flowing locks of his wig brushed his shoulders. The man had a pale, sorrowful face, deep-set eyes, and a large nose of fiery red. Quite different was the smaller fellow, who had been specially obsequious in urging the other to pass him at the door. His hair was pasted to his head with the white of an egg, and on either side it was fastened securely in two rolls like the holsters of a pistol; a long pig-tail hung down his back; he wore a little coat of grey faced with red; his lower parts were adorned with large jack-boots, his upper with a richly-embroidered vest of state, which fell over his well-rounded little belly down to his knees; and he was buckled about with an enormous sword. There was an expression of exceeding good-nature in his fleshy face, especially in his little eyes that stood out like those of a lobster. His gestures were carried out with an enormous felt hat turned up boldly on either side.

They hung their hats upon the wall, unbuckled their swords, and sat down silently by the table without looking at me. I was about to take heart and address them, when there was a new sound outside. Steps approached, the door was opened, and four other gentlemen, attired in the same old fashion, entered.

“God greet ye, Lords of the Rhine!” said the tall one of the red coat in a deep bass voice, getting up and bowing. “God greet ye,” squeaked the little one; “it’s a long time since last we saw you, James!”

“Hallo and good morning, Matthew,” replied one of the new-comers; “and good morning to you too, Judas! But what is this? Where are our bumpers, our pipes and tobacco? Has the old knave not yet waked out of his sinner’s sleep?”

“The lazy-bones!” cried the little one. “The heavy-eyed rascal! He is still lying over yonder in the graveyard; but, thunder and lightning, I’ll wake him up!” With that he seized a large bell that was standing upon the table, ringing it and laughing in a shrill, cutting voice.

As is the case with genuine old drinkers, so among these guests the conversation would not flow without wine. Just then a new personage appeared at the door. It was a little old man, with shaking legs and grey hair; his head looked like a skull over which a thin hide has been drawn, and his eyes shone dimly out of deep hollows; he was tugging at a large basket, and greeted the guests humbly.

“Ah, here’s our old kellermeister, Balthasar,” called out the guests; “come on, old fellow, put down the beakers and bring our pipes! Why did you tarry so long? It struck twelve long ago.”

The old man gaped once or twice rather indecently, and on the whole looked like a person who has overslept. “Came near sleeping through the 1st of September,” he grunted; “ever since they have paved the churchyard, I don’t hear as well as I did. Where are the other gentlemen?” he proceeded, taking beakers of strange shape and marvellous size out of the basket, and putting them on the table.

“Where are the others? You are only six, and old Rose hasn’t come yet.”