Part 9

“Put the bottles down first,” exclaimed Judas, “that we may get a drop of something to drink, and then go over yonder--they are still asleep in their casks; tap them with your dry bones and tell them to get up.”

But hardly had Judas ended, when there was a rush and boisterous laughter at the door. “Spinster Rose, her health, hurrah, and her sweetheart Bacchus!” The door flew open, the ghostly fellows at the table jumped up and cried: “It is she, it is she, Spinster Rose and Bacchus and the others! Hurrah! Now we’re in for a jolly good time!” and with that they touched beakers with a ringing sound and laughed, and the fat one struck his belly, and the pale kellermeister threw his cap skilfully between his legs and up to the ceiling, and joined in with the shouts of the others till my ears rang again. What a sight! The wooden Bacchus, that I had but just seen astride the cask in the cellar, had got down, naked as he was; with his broad, smiling face, with his twinkling eyes, he greeted the group and came walking skittishly into the room; by his hand he led with much ceremony as his betrothed an elderly dame of great height and of goodly roundness. I do not know to this day how it was possible, but then and there it was clear as daylight to me that this dame was no other than old Rose, the enormous cask in the Rose-cellar.

And how gorgeously had she got herself up, the old lady from the Rhine! In her youth she must have been a comely lass, for even now, although the fresh colours of girlhood had left her cheeks, although time had painted some little wrinkles about her brow and her mouth, two centuries could not efface the noble features of her fine face. Her eyebrows had turned grey, and a couple of unseemly grey hairs had sprouted upon her pointed chin, but the hair brushed smoothly over her forehead was brown as nuts, and only intermingled here and there with a little silvery grey. Upon her head she wore a black velvet cap, fitting closely above her ears; then she had on a jerkin of finest black cloth, and the bodice of red velvet showing beneath was fastened with silver hooks and chains. About her throat she wore a broad necklace of glittering garnets, fastened to which was a gold medal; an ample skirt of brown cloth fell about her portly figure, and a little white apron trimmed with white lace added a coquettish touch. On one side there was a large pocket of leather, on the other a bunch of tremendous keys--in short, she was as respectable-looking a dame as ever walked across the street of Cologne or Mayence in 1618.

And behind Dame Rose came six shouting fellows, swinging their three-cornered hats, with their wigs on awry, attired in broad-tailed coats and long embroidered vests.

With ceremonious courtesy did Bacchus lead his lady to the head of the table, accompanied by the jubilations of his companions. She bowed with becoming gravity, and sat down. At her side the wooden Bacchus took a seat, after Balthasar, the kellermeister, had put a big cushion under him, for he had else seemed pitifully small and low. The others also sat down, and then I saw that they were the twelve Apostles from the Rhine, who at other times lie sleeping in the Apostles’ cellar in Bremen.

“So here we are, altogether once more, we young people of 1700,” said Peter, after the tumult had somewhat subsided. “Your health, Dame Rose! You don’t look a day older; you’re as comely and stately as you were fifty years ago. Your health, and your sweetheart’s, Bacchus.”

“My humble thanks to you, esteemed Apostle,” answered Dame Rose, bowing her appreciation. “Are you as much of a tease as ever? I don’t know of no sweetheart, and you mustn’t say such things to put out a modest lass!” She cast down her eyes as she said it, and emptied a tremendous bumper.

“Love,” said Bacchus, looking tenderly out of his little eyes, and taking her hand; “Love, don’t put on airs. You know that my heart has inclined to you for two thousand autumns, and that I love you to-day before all others; a fiery kiss upon thy rosy lips shall prove it.”

He leaned tenderly towards her. “If only all the young folks were not about,” she whispered shamefacedly. But under the shouts and laughter of the twelve the wine-god took his tribute with interest.

“You are a rogue,” he cried, laughing.

“You are a Turk, and make love to many at the same time. Do you suppose I don’t know how you pay court to the frivolous Frenchwoman, the Lady of Bordeaux, and to the chalky pale-face of Champagne? Go away; you have a bad character, and are not made for faithful German love.”

“The devil, you carry your jealousy too far,” he cried snappishly. “I can’t break off all of my old connections.”

“What is this I see?” said Dame Rose. “You are thirteen at table. Who is that over there in strange garments? Who brought him here?”

Heavens, how I started! They all looked at me with surprise, and did not seem at all pleased at my intrusion. But I took heart, and said: “Your humble servant, gentlemen. I am nothing further than a mortal, graduated to a Doctor of Philosophy.”

“But how dare you come here at this hour, mortal?” said Peter very solemnly, shooting lightnings out of his eyes at me.

“Your Excellency,” I replied, “there is good reason for that. I am an enamoured friend of noble drink, and by the kindness of your right worthy Senate I have received permission to pay my respects to the twelve Apostles and to Dame Rose.”

“And so you like to drink Rhine-wine?” said Bacchus. “Well, that is one good quality, and is the more to be praised at a time when mortals have grown more or less cold toward this golden fountain. I believe the race feels that it is no longer worthy of a noble drop, so they brew some slip-slop stuff of syrup and whisky, call it Chateau-Margaux, Sillery, St. Julien, and all sorts of pompous names, and when they drink it they get red rings about their mouth because the stuff is coloured, and headache the next day because they have had vile gin.”

“Ah, it was a different life we led,” continued John, “when our blood was young in the years ’19 and ’26. Nay, as late as ’50 there were high times within these noble vaults. Every evening, no matter whether the sun would shine in spring or whether it would rain and snow in winter, every evening these apartments were filled with happy guests. Here, where we are sitting now, sat in state and dignity the Senate of Bremen, splendid wigs upon their heads, weapons at their side, courage in their heart, and a bumper before each.”

“Yes, yes, children,” said old Rose; “it used to be quite different from now say fifty, or one hundred, or two hundred years ago. Then they brought their wives and daughters with them to the cellar, and the handsome Bremen lasses drank Rhine-wine, or of our neighbours’ from the Moselle, and were noted far and near for their blooming cheeks, their crimson lips, and for their lovely, sparkling eyes; now they drink miserable stuff, tea and the like, which grows far away where the Chinamen live, I am told, and which in my day women drank when they had a little cough or other trouble. Rhine-wine, genuine honest Rhine-wine, doesn’t agree with them nowadays; for the land’s sake you wouldn’t believe it! They put sweet Spanish wine with it to make it taste better; they say it’s too sour.”

The Apostles burst into a perfect roar of laughter, which I joined involuntarily, and Bacchus laughed so horribly that old Balthasar had to hold him.

“Ah, the good old times!” cried fat Bartholomew. “Our burghers used to drink two measures, and it seemed as if they had drunk water, so sober were they; but now one goblet throws them down. They are out of practice.”

There was a terrible bang that made the vault ring again, the door flew open, and upon the threshold stood a tall white figure. With measured, ringing steps, a ponderous sword within his hand, in armour but without a helmet, did this gigantic individual strut into the room. He was of stone, his face was set and without expression. Nevertheless, his stony lips parted and he said--

“God greet ye, beloved vines from the Rhine. I needs must come and visit my fair neighbour on her anniversary-day. God greet you, Dame Rose. May I sit down to your carousal?”

They all turned in surprise upon the giant statue. Spinster Rose broke the silence, clapped her hands together with joy, and exclaimed--

“Goodness me! It’s stony Roland, who has stood for many centuries upon the market-place of our dear Bremen town. Oh, it is kind of you to do me the honour, sir knight; lay down your shield and sword and make yourself comfortable; won’t you sit here by my side? Gracious me, how pleased I am!”

The Apostles had moved up closer and made room for their guest on a chair by the ancient maiden. He laid his shield and sword in a corner and sat down rather awkwardly upon the little chair; but alas! this had been made for respectable mortals but not for a stony giant; with a crash it broke under him, and he lay full length upon the floor.

“Base generation, which fabricates such stools upon which in my day no delicate maiden could have sat without breaking through the seat!” grumbled the hero, slowly getting up. The kellermeister rolled a cask up to the table, and invited the knight to be seated. A couple of staves cracked as he sat down, but the cask stood the test.

“How tastes the wine to you?” Bacchus asked the new-comer. “It must be long since last you drank any.”

“It is good, by my sword! Very good! What growth is it?”

“Red Ingelheimer, august sir!” answered the kellermeister.

The stony eye of the knight took life and fire when he heard this; his chiselled features were softened by a smile, and contentedly he looked into his cup.

“Ingelheim! Thou sweet, familiar name!” he said. “Thou noble castle of my knightly emperor; so thy name has outlasted the centuries, and the vines that Charlemagne planted in his Ingelheim still blossom? Does this new world know aught of Roland and of great Carolus, his master?”

“That you must ask the mortal over yonder,” replied Judas; “we have nothing to do with the earth. He is a doctor and magister, and must be able to give an account of his generation.”

The giant fixed his eyes inquiringly upon me, and I replied: “Noble Paladin! Humanity has grown cold and depraved; its shallow skull is nailed to the present, and looks neither forward nor backward; but we are not yet so bad that we should forget the glorious heroes that once walked our earth, and threw their shadows into our times.”

The spirit of song seemed to have come over the company, for no sooner had Andrew ended than Judas began to sing unasked, and the others followed him. With a resounding bass voice Roland sang a war-hymn of the old Franconians, only a few words of which I understood, and at last, when they had all sung, they looked at me, and Rose nodded encouragingly. So I began--

“Am Rhein, am Rhein, da wachsen unsere Reben Da wächst ein deutscher Wein.”

When I had finished, they all came crowding about me to shake my hand, and Andrew breathed a kiss upon my lips.

“Do they sing that?” cried Bacchus. “Now then, Doctor, I’m mighty glad to hear that; your race cannot be so very frail if it sings such clear and cheery songs.”

“Ah, sir,” I said sadly, “there are many sentimentalists who refuse to give such a song the credit of being poetry, like some pietists who consider the Lord’s prayer not mystic enough for devotion.”

“There have been fools at all times, sir!” replied Peter. “But talking about your generation, tell us what has happened on earth during the last year?”

“If it would interest the ladies and gentlemen,” I replied.

“Go ahead,” cried Roland, and the others joining him, I began--

“As regards German literature----”

“Hold on, _manum de tabula!_” cried Paul. “What do we care about your miserable scribbling, about your puerile, disgusting quarrels, about your poetasters and false prophets and----”

I was dumfounded. If our wonderful, magnificent literature had no interest for these people, what could I tell them? I thought a while, and then continued: “It is evident that Joco, so far as the theatre is concerned----”

“Theatre? Go away with you!” interrupted Andrew. “Why should we hear about your puppet-shows and other follies? Do you suppose it is aught to us if one of your comedy-writers is hissed? Have you nothing interesting--no great historical facts to tell us about?”

“Alack-a-day,” I cried, “we are quite out of historical facts; in that line there is nothing but the Bundestag at Frankfurt.”

The dance the two were performing was according to the mode of two or three centuries ago. Dame Rose had seized her petticoats in both hands, and spread them out so that she looked like an immense cask. She walked trippingly back and forth, bobbing up and down in a succession of curtseys. Much greater vivacity did her partner display, who whirled about her like a top, leaping boldly, snapping his fingers, and shouting ho! and hallo! Odd enough did he look, what with the dainty apron of Mistress Rose, which Balthasar had tied around him, fluttering about in the air; how his little legs jerked, and his round face smiled for heartfelt pleasure and delight!

At last he was tired; he beckoned to Judas and Paul and whispered something to them. They untied his apron, took it by both ends, and pulled and pulled, until suddenly it grew as large as a sheet. “Ah,” thought I, “now they will most likely play a joke on old Balthasar. If only the vault were not so low as it is; I fear me he’ll break his skull.” Then came Judas and Bartholomew and caught hold of me; Balthasar smiled maliciously; I trembled, I resisted, all to no purpose. My senses threatened to leave me as with shouting and laughter they laid me upon the cloth. “Not too high, my honoured patrons,” I cried in great trepidation; but they laughed and shouted the louder. Now they began to rock the sheet, Balthasar blowing a tune on a tunnel. Now it began to go up and down, first 3, 4, or 5 feet, then suddenly they gave a jerk, I flew up, and the ceiling opened like a cloud; up, up higher I flew through the roof of the rathhaus, higher than the steeple of the church. “Well,” I thought, “it’s up with me now! When I fall, I shall break my neck. Farewell, my life and my love!”

I had now reached the highest point of my ascent, and I fell as rapidly. Crash! Right through the roof of the rathhaus, down through the ceiling of the cellar; but I did not fall upon the sheet once more. I lighted on a chair with which I fell over backward upon the floor.

For some time I lay stunned by the fall. A pain in my head and the coolness of the ground woke me at last. At first I could not think whether I had fallen out of bed at home, or what was the matter. At last I remembered, that I had fallen down from some very high region. With some anxiety I examined my limbs; nothing was broken, only my head pained me from the fall. I was in a cellar, the daylight shone in dimly, the light of a candle was dying out upon the table, there were bottles and glasses about, before every chair a little bottle with a long label about its neck. Ah, now I remembered everything. I was in Bremen, in the rathskeller; I had come in here last night, had been locked in, and then----. Full of horror I looked about me. I ventured to cast shy glances into the corners of the room; it was empty. Or was it possible I could have dreamed it all?

Thoughtfully I walked around the table; the little sample-bottles stood where my strange guests had sat. First Rose, then Judas, James, and John. “No, a dream cannot be so like reality,” I said to myself. “All this that I heard and saw did actually occur!” But there was no time for further reflections. I heard keys rattle in the lock, it was slowly opened, and the old rathsdiener entered saying: “It has just struck six.”

_Wilhelm Hauff_ (1802-1827).

_THE DUEL WITH THE DEVIL._

MEANWHILE something occurred which I[4] must not pass over, as it may serve as a commentary to the customs of this peculiar nation. I had been for some time an ardent visitor at the anatomy-rooms, for I was anxious to make the acquaintance of medical students. It happened one day that I was busying myself about a corpse with several friends, dissecting the organs of the mind, the brain, and heart in order to deduce the absurdity of the belief in immortality.

Suddenly I heard a voice behind me, “The devil, how stifling!”

I quickly turned and saw a young student of theology, who had already excited my wrath in a dogmatic lecture by the ardour and gusto with which he had taken notes of the ridiculous conjectures of the professor on the nature of the diabolical. Hearing him make this remark, which at that moment, and from him, I took as referring wholly to myself, I told him pretty strongly that I objected to such personal and insinuating expressions.

According to the ancient sacred law called “Comment,” this was an insult which could only be obliterated with blood. The theologian, a famous bravo, sent me his challenge the next day. This was just such a lark as I had been hoping for. Whoever cared for the good opinion of his fellow-students was expected to have a duel on record, although all of my friends admitted the custom to be utterly irrational and unnatural. I had prevailed upon my opponent to have the affair come off at a public resort, a couple of miles outside the town, and both parties put in an appearance at the designated place and time.

Solemnly each arrival was conducted into a room, where his coat was removed and replaced by the “paukwichs,” a sort of armour in which the duel was to be fought. This “paukwichs,” or armour, consisted in a hat with a broad brim sufficiently protecting the face; an enormously broad bandage made of leather, wadded and decorated with the colours of the society, to be strapped over the abdomen; an immense cravat standing stiffly about the neck, and affording protection to the chin, throat, part of the shoulders, and the upper portion of the chest. The arms were covered from the hands to the elbows with gloves made of old silk stockings. It must be confessed a figure in this unique armour looked funny enough. However, there was great safety in it, for only a part of the face, the upper half of the arm, and a part of the chest were at the mercy of the opponent’s rapier.

A strong impulse to laugh came over me as I examined myself in the mirror. “The devil, in such attire, and about to enter the lists on behalf of the odour in the anatomy-room!”

My companions took my hilarity as an expression of courage and valour. Thinking, therefore, the right moment had now come, they conducted me into a large hall where the position of the enemy had been marked on the floor with chalk. A freshman considered it a high honour to be permitted to carry my rapier, as sword and sceptre were carried before the ancient emperors. It was a well-made weapon of finest steel, with a large hilt offering at the same time a protection for the hand.

At last we stood facing each other. The student of theology put on a fierce expression and looked upon me with an air of disdain, which strengthened me in my purpose of setting a right handsome mark upon him.

We put ourselves into the traditional posture, the blades were crossed, the seconds yelled “Ready!” and our rapiers whizzed through the air, and fell clinking upon the hilts. I confined myself to parrying the really masterly and artistic cuts of my opponent. I knew that my glory would be the greater if I merely defended myself at first and then gave him his deserts in the fourth or fifth round.

Applause followed each pass. Never had there been such bold and decisive attacks, never such dignified and cold-blooded self-defence. My skill in fencing was lifted up into the seventh heaven by old hands, and there was much curiosity and conjecture as to my tactics of retaliation. No one dared urge me to the onset.

Four rounds had passed without one thrust that had drawn blood. Before stepping forth for the fifth, I pointed out to my comrades the spot on my theologian’s right cheek where I intended to hit him. He seemed to get wind of my purpose, put himself under cover as much as possible, and carefully abstained from venturing an attack on his part. I began with a superb feint, which was received with an admiring “Ah!”, made a couple of regular thrusts, and with a clap my rapier was in his cheek.

The honest theologian was very much taken aback. My second and witness rushed up to him with a tape-measure, examined the wound, and said in a solemn voice, “It is more than an inch, and it gaps horribly, so ‘Abfuhr!’” Which is as much as to say, the poor boy having a hole in his face an inch long, his honour has been vindicated.

Now my friends crowded about me; the elder grasped my hands, the younger gazed with veneration upon the weapon with which the deed, surpassing anything in history, had been done. For who could boast of first having designated the spot he intended to hit, and then hitting it with such marvellous precision?

With a serious mien my opponent’s second stepped up to me, and in the name of the former offered me amity. I approached the invalid, whose wound was just being attended to with needle and thread, and made friends.

“I am greatly indebted to you,” he said, “for having marked me thus. I have been forced to study theology against my will. My father is a country parson, my mother is a pious lady, who would like above all things to see her son in a surplice. But your decisive stroke has altered matters; with a scar reaching from my ear to my mouth there is no church that would have me.”[5]

The companions of the brave theologian looked upon him sympathisingly. Who could measure his sad regrets at the thought of the old parson’s grief, the pious mamma’s despair, when the news of this disaster should reach them? But to me it seemed like a great piece of good luck for the youth to be given back to the world by so short an operation. I asked him to what studies he would now devote himself, and he frankly confessed that the calling of a cuirassier or of an actor had always seemed chiefly attractive to him.

I felt like embracing him for this happy thought, for it is in these very professions that I have most of my friends and adherents. I advised him urgently to follow the bend of nature, and promised to supply him with the best recommendations to distinguished generals and to the most notable stages.

As for all the persons in any way connected with this remarkable duel, I gave them an excellent dinner, in which of course I included my opponent and his followers. I then privately paid the debts of the quondam theologian, and when he had recovered I supplied him with money and letters, which opened a right jolly and brilliant career to him.

Neither the elegant conclusion of the duel nor my unobtrusive charity remained a secret. I was now looked upon as a being of a higher order, and I know many a young lady who shed tears over my generous sentiments.

The students of medicine sent a deputation presenting me with a superb rapier, because, as they thought, I had fought on behalf of the faultless odour of their anatomy-room.

_Wilhelm Hauff._

_EDITORIAL CO-OPERATION._

“AS our paper must needs be very universal,” I said, “and as there should be something in the title to express this tendency, how would it do to call it ‘Literary Provender’?”

“That would not be bad; there might be a vignette representing the public as a bevy of fowls clustering about the Muse, who is cutting up food for them; but it will not do. Some might take offence at Provender; it might seem as if only the leavings from the great dinner-table of literature were to be served to the public. It won’t do!”

“Well, then,--‘Evening-Bells.’”