Chapter 10

"Does my comrade still remember His old Hans von Wildenstein? Down the Rhine and Danube many Drops of water have been flowing, Since we in that war together Lay before the bivouac-fire; And I see it by my son's growth, Who is now a strapping fellow-- Four-and-twenty years he reckons. First a page unto his highness The Grand Duke of Würtemberg; Then to Tübingen I sent him. If I by his debts can judge well, Which I had to pay for him there, He must have vast stores of knowledge. Now he stays with me at home, at Wildenstein; is hunting stags here, Hunting foxes, hares and rabbits; But sometimes the rascal even Hunts the peasants' pretty daughters. So 'tis time to think of taming Him beneath the yoke of marriage. If I err not, you, my friend, have Just a daughter suited for him. With old comrades 'tis the custom Not to beat around the bush, but Go straight forward to the business. So I ask you, shall my Damian Start upon a tour of courtship To your castle on the Rhine? Answer soon. Receive the greetings Of thy Hans von Wildenstein! "Postscript: Do you still remember That great brawl we had at Augsburg, And the rage of wealthy Fugger, The ill-humour of his ladies, Two-and-thirty years ago?"

With great effort tried the Baron His friend's writing to decipher. Spent a good half-hour upon it Ere he came to its conclusion. Smiling said he then: "A Suabian Is a devil of a fellow. One and all they are unpolished. And coarse-grained is their whole nature; But within their square-built noddles Lie rich stores of clever cunning. Many stupid brainless fellows Might from them obtain supplies. Truly my old Hans now even In old age is calculating Like the best diplomatist. For, his much encumbered, rotten Owl's-nest out there on the Danube, Would be well propped up and rescued By a good rich marriage-portion. Still his plan is worth considering; For, the name of Wildenstein is Well known all throughout the Empire, Since they followed as crusaders In the train of Barbarossa. Let the younker try his chance then!"

Werner with most solemn aspect, Dressed in black, the room now entered; Sadness lay on his pale features. In good humour spoke the Baron: "I was wishing just to see you, For I want you to be ready With your pen, and as my faithful Secretary write a letter, And a letter of importance. There's a knight who lives in Suabia Questioning me about my daughter; Asks her hand from me in marriage For his son, the younker Damian. Write him then, how Margaretta Daily grows in grace and beauty; How she--but I need not tell you. Think you are an artist--sketch then With your pen a life-like, faithful Portrait, not a jot forgetting. Also write, to his proposal I do offer no objection, And the younker, if he pleases, May come here and try his fortune."

"May come here and try his fortune," Said young Werner, as if dreaming, Mumbling to himself--when grimly Said the Baron: "What's the matter? You have now as long a visage As a protestant old preacher On Good Friday. Is the fever Coming once again to plague you?" Gravely answered him young Werner: "I, my lord, can't write that letter, You must find another penman; For, I come myself as suitor, Come to ask you for your daughter."

"Come--to ask you--for your daughter!" In his turn now said the Baron To himself--he made a wry mouth As one playing on the Jew's-harp, And he felt a sudden twitching In his foot from his old enemy Podagra, and gravely said: "My young friend, your brain is truly Still affected with the fever. Hurry quickly to the garden; There stands in the shade a fountain, There is flowing clear cool water; If you dip your head thrice in it Then your fever soon will cool."

"Noble lord," now answered Werner, "Spare your jokes, for you may better Use them, when the noble younker Comes here from the land of Suabia. Calm and free from any fever Have I on this step decided, And to Margaretta's father I repeat the same petition."

Darkly frowning said the Baron: "Do you want to hear from me then What your own good sense should tell you? Most unwillingly I hurt you With harsh words; I've not forgotten That the wound upon your forehead, Hardly healed yet, you received here By your ardour in my service. He who ventures as a suitor For my daughter first must show me That he comes of noble lineage. Nature has set up strict barriers Round us all with prescient wisdom, To us all our sphere assigning, Wherein we the best may prosper. In the Holy Roman Empire Is each rank defined most clearly-- Nobles, commoners, and peasants. If they keep within their circle, From themselves their race renewing, They'll remain then strong and healthy. Each is then just like a column, Which supports the whole; but never Should these classes mix together. Do you know the consequences? Our descendants would have something Of each class, and yet be nothing-- Shallow, good-for-nothing mongrels, Tossed about, because uprooted From the soil of old tradition. Firm, exclusive must a man be; And his course of life already Must be inborn, an inheritance Coming down through generations. Hence our custom does require Equal rank when people marry; And I hold as law this custom; I shall not allow a stranger To o'erleap this solid barrier, And no trumpeter shall therefore Ever woo a noble lady."

Thus the Baron. With great labour Had he put the words together Of this solemn and unusual Theoretical discourse. Meanwhile Hiddigeigei lying There, behind the stove, was listening. At the end assent he nodded, But in thoughtful meditation Raised his paw up to his forehead, Reasoning to himself as follows: "Why do people kiss each other? Never shall I solve this question! I did think at last I'd solved it, Thought that kisses might be useful As a means to stop one's talking, And prevent one from declaiming Bitter stinging words of truth. But, alas, now this solution Seems, I must confess, erroneous; Else young Werner long before this Would have kissed my good old master."

To the Baron said young Werner, And his voice was growing hollow: "Much I thank you for this lesson. 'Midst the fir-trees of the mountains, By the green waves of the river, In the sunlight of the May-time, Has my eye been overlooking All these barriers of custom. Thanks, that you have thus recalled them. Also, thanks for all your kindness, Shown to me while on the Rhine. Now my time is up, the meaning Of your words I thus interpret: 'Right about face!' I go gladly. As a suitor fully equal I shall here return, or never. Be not angry then--farewell!" Spoke, and from the room departed, And he knew what must be done now. At the door with troubled glances Still a long while gazed the Baron: "I am really sad," he muttered, "Wherefore is this brave youth's name not Damian von Wildenstein?"

Parting, parting, dismal moment! Who first ever did invent it? Surely 'twas a wicked man, far In the Polar Sea, and freezing Round his nose the polar wind blew; And his shaggy, jealous consort, Plagued him, so he no more relished The sweet comfort of the train-oil. O'er his head he drew a yellow, Furry sealskin, and then waving With his fur-protected right hand, To his Ylaleyka spoke he First this harsh and mournful sentence: "Fare-thee-well, from thee I'm parting!"

Parting, parting, dismal moment! In his turret-chamber Werner, Was now tying bag and baggage. Fastening up his travelling knapsack: Greets the walls of his snug chamber For the last time, for they seemed then Just like good old friends and comrades.

Only these he took farewell of; Margaretta's eyes he could not For the world then have encountered. To the court-yard he descended, Quickly his good horse he saddled. Hoofs then clatter; a sad rider Rode forth from the castle's precincts.

In the low ground by the river Stood a walnut-tree; once more there Now he halted with his horse, And once more took up his trumpet; From his overburdened soul then His farewell rang to the castle-- Rang out; don't you know the swan's song, When with death's foreboding o'er him Out into the lake he's swimming? Through the rushes, through the snow-white Water-lilies, rings his death-song: "Lovely world, I now must leave thee; Lovely world I die reluctant!"

Thus he blew there. Were those tears which Glistened brightly on his trumpet, Or some rain-drops which had fallen? Onward now; the sharp spurs quickly In the horse's flanks he presses, And is flying at full gallop Round the forest's farthest edge.

FOURTEENTH PART.

THE BOOK OF SONGS.

Werner went to distant countries, Margaretta's heart was blighted; Some few years will now pass over Ere the two are reunited.

But, meanwhile, abrupt transitions Are not to my taste, I own; So with songs, like wreaths of flowers, Shall this gap be overstrewn.

YOUNG WERNER'S SONGS.

I.

The moment when I saw thee first, Struck dumb, I stood there dreaming, My thoughts ran into harmonies, Which through my heart were streaming.

So here I stand, poor trumpeter, And on the sward am blowing; In words I cannot tell my love, In music it is flowing.

II.

The moment when I saw thee first, The sixth of March, like lightning, Came quickly from the azure sky A flash, my heart igniting.

It burn'd up all that dwelt therein, A dire destruction bringing, But from the ruins, ivy-like, My loved one's name was springing.

III.

Turn not thy timid glance away, To hide what there doth glisten; Come to the terrace, while I play, And to my music listen.

In vain your efforts to escape, I still continue blowing; With magic speed my tunes take shape Into a ladder growing.

On these sweet tones' melodious rounds Love gently is ascending; Through bolt and lock still pierce the sounds Which I to thee am sending.

Turn not thy timid glance away, To hide what there doth glisten; Come to the terrace while I play, And to my music listen.

IV.

A merry piece I blew on the shore, How clear my trumpet was pealing! Above the storm the tones did soar Up to the castle stealing.

The water-nymph on her crystal couch Hears music through the wild roaring; She rises up to listen well To a human heart's outpouring.

And when she dives to her home below, With laughter the fishes she's telling, "O River-children, one doth see Strange things where mortals are dwelling.

"There stands someone on shore, in the storm: What do you think he's doing? Blows evermore the same old tune-- The tune of Love's soft wooing."

V.

Thou Muse of Music, take my thanks, Be praise to thee forever, For teaching me thy Art divine, That Art which faileth never.

Though language is a noble thing, There are limits to what it expresses; No speech has uttered yet what lives In the soul's most hidden recesses.

It matters not that there are times, When words to us are wanting; For then, within, mysterious sounds Our spell-bound hearts are haunting.

It murmurs, hums, it swells and rings, Our hearts seem well-nigh breaking, Till music's glorious hosts burst forth, To forms of life awaking.

Oft I should stand before my love A stupid bashful fellow, Were not my trumpet there at hand, And love-songs sweet and mellow.

Thou Muse of Music, take my thanks, Be praise to thee forever, For teaching me thy Art divine, That Art which faileth never.

VI.

The skylark and the raven Are of a different tribe; I feel as if in heaven! That I am not a scribe.

The world is not so prosy, The woods with mirth o'erflow, To me life seems all rosy, My trumpet rings hallo.

And merry tunes 'tis sending Forth in a constant flow; Who finds these sounds offending May to the cloister go.

When ink it shall be raining, Sand fall instead of snow, Then, from my sin abstaining, I nevermore will blow.

VII.

Where 'neath the bridge the waters foam, Dame Trout was swimming downward, And met her cousin Salmon there: "How are you, river-comrade?"

"I'm well," quoth he, "but thought just now: If only lightning flashing, Down there, would strike that stripling dead, Him and his trumpet smashing!

The live-long day my fine young sir On shore is promenading; Rhine up, Rhine down, and never stops His hateful serenading."

Dame Trout, then smiling, answered him; "Dear cousin, you are spiteful, I, on the contrary, do find The Trumpeter delightful.

"If you, like him, could but enjoy Fair Margaretta's favour, To learn the trumpet even now, You would not deem much labour."

VIII.

I pray that no fair rose for me, By thy dear hands, be broken; A slip of holly evergreen, Be of our love the token.

The chaplet green with glossy sheen O'er the fruit good watch is keeping; And all will prick who try to pick What's for another's reaping.

The gaudy rose, when Autumn comes, Finds that her beauty waneth; The holly leaf her modest green Through cold and snow retaineth.

IX.

Her fragrant balm the sweet May night O'er hill and vale is breathing, When through the shrubs with footsteps light To the castle I am stealing. In the garden waves the linden-tree, I climb to its green bower, And from the leafy canopy My song soars to the tower: "Young Werner is the happiest youth In the German Empire dwelling, But who bewitched him thus, forsooth, In words he won't be telling. Hurrah! is all that he will say, How lovely is the month of May, Dear love, I send thee greeting!"

With joyous trills the nightingale On the topmost bough is singing, While far o'er mountain and o'er vale The thrilling notes are ringing. The birds are looking all about, Awaking from their slumber; From branch, and bush, and hedge burst out Glad voices without number: "Young Werner is the happiest youth In the German Empire dwelling, But who bewitched him thus, forsooth, In words he won't be telling. Hurrah! is all that he will say, How lovely is the month of May, Dear love, I send thee greeting!"

The sounds are heard, are borne along By the river downward flowing; And from afar echoes the song, Fainter and fainter growing. And through the air of rosy morn I see two angels winging, Like a harp's sweet tones, from Heaven borne, I hear their voices singing: "Young Werner is the happiest youth In the German Empire dwelling, But who bewitched him thus, forsooth, In words he won't be telling. Hurrah! is all that he will say, How lovely is the month of May, Dear love, I send thee greeting!"

X.

Who's clattering from the tower To me a greeting queer? 'Tis, in his nest so cosy, My friend the stork I hear.

He's preparing for a journey, O'er sea and land will hie; The Autumn is coming quickly, So now he says good-bye.

Art right, that thou dost travel Where warmer skies do smile; From me greet fair Italia, And also Father Nile.

There in the south are waiting Far better meals for thee, Than German frogs and paddocks, Poor chafers and ennui!

Old fellow, God preserve thee, My blessing take along; For thou, at peaceful night-time, Hast often heard my song.

And if perchance thou wert not Asleep within thy nest, Thou must have seen how often With kisses I was blest.

But be not, pray, a tell-tale, Be still, old comrade mine, What business have the Moors there With lovers on the Rhine?

XI.

A settled life I did despise, And so to wandering took; When soon I found, to my surprise, A comfortable nook.

But as I lay in rest's soft lap, And hoped for long repose, There broke o'er me a thunder-clap, My stay came to a close.

Each year a different plant I see Spring up, with beauty clad; A fool's mad dance this world would be, If 'twere not quite so sad.

XII.

To life belongs a most unpleasant feature: That not a rose without sharp thorns doth grow, Much as love's yearning stirs our human nature, Through pangs of parting we at last must go. From thy dear eyes, when I my fate was trying, A gleam of love and joy streamed forth to me: Preserve thee God! my joy seemed then undying, Preserve thee God! such joy was not to be.

I've suffered much from envy, hatred, sorrow, A weather-beaten wanderer sad and worn; I dreamt of peace and of a happy morrow, When I to thee by angel-guides was borne. To thy dear arms for comfort I was flying, In grateful thanks I vowed my life to thee: Preserve thee God! my joy seemed then undying, Preserve thee God! such joy was not to be.

The clouds fly fast, the wind the leaves is sweeping, A heavy shower falls o'er woods and meads: The weather with my parting is in keeping, Gray as the sky my path before me leads. Whatever may come, joy's smile or bitter sighing, Thou lovely maid! I'll think of naught but thee! Preserve thee God! my joy seemed once undying, Preserve thee God! such joy was not for me.

SONGS OF THE CAT HIDDIGEIGEI.

I.

Honest folks are turning lately Their attention to the Muses, And with ease compose their own songs For their daily household uses.

Therefore I shall also try it, On light pinions freely winging; For, who dares deny our talent, Takes from cats the right of singing?

If I always run to book-stores I shall find it too expensive; And their gaudy books contain oft Naught but trash, weak and offensive.

II.

When through vales and on the mountains Roars the storm at midnight drear, Clambering over ridge and chimney Hiddigeigei doth appear.

Like a spirit he stands up there, Never looked he half so fair; Fire from his eyes is streaming, Fire from his bristling hair.

And he howls in fierce wild measure, An old war-cry caterwauling, Which is borne off by the storm-wind, Like the distant thunder rolling.

Not a soul then ever sees him, Each is sleeping in his house; But far down, deep in the cellar, Listens the poor trembling mouse.

For his voice she recognises, And she knows that, when in rage, Most ferocious is the aspect Of this valiant feline sage.

III.

From the tower's highest summit Gaze I at the world below; From my lofty seat I'm able To observe life's ceaseless flow.

And the cat's green eyes are staring, And he laughs within his sleeve, That those pygmies there are trying Such great follies to achieve.

What's the use? Up to my level Never can I raise mankind. Let them follow their devices, Small their loss is, to my mind.

For perverted are men's actions, And their work is woe and crash. Conscious of his own great value, Grins the cat down on this trash!

IV.

O the world does us injustice, And for thanks I look quite vainly; For the finest chords of feline Nature, it mistakes so plainly.

Thus, if some one falls down drunken, And a throbbing like a hammer Racks his heavy head on waking, Germans call it _Katzenjammer_.

Katzenjammer, oh great insult! Gentle is our caterwauling; Only men I hear too often Through the streets at night-time bawling.

Yes! they do us great injustice, Never can be comprehending All the deep and morbid sorrow Which a poor cat's heart is rending.

V.

Hiddigeigei often has raved with delight, The true, good, and beautiful seeking; Hiddigeigei often felt grief's deadly blight, And with tender sad yearnings was weeping.

Hiddigeigei once has felt his heart glow, When the fairest of cats he was wooing; And just as a troubadour's love-songs flow, Rang nightly his spirited mewing.

Hiddigeigei many a valiant fight, Like the Paladin Roland, was waging; But men have often belaboured his hide, And with dropping hot pitch made him raging.

Hiddigeigei to his sorrow found out, That his fair one was false and deceiving That from a poor insignificant lout She was secretly visits receiving.

Hiddigeigei then did open his eyes, Left off his pining and yearning; The world henceforth he learned to despise, To his inner self earnestly turning.

VI.

Lovely month of May, how hateful To a cat you are, and dreary Ne'er I thought such din of music Could a cat's heart make so weary.

From the branches, from the bushes Birds their warbling notes are ringing; Far and wide, as if for money, Men I hear forever singing.

There the cook sings in the kitchen-- Is love also her head turning? In falsetto she now screameth, That with rage my soul is burning.

Farther upward will I clamber, To the terrace slowly wending. Woe to me, for from the garden Are my neighbour's songs ascending.

Even next the roof I cannot Find the rest for which I'm pining; Near me dwells a crazy poet, His own verses ever whining.

When despairing to the cellar Down I rush the noise escaping; Ah, above me they are dancing, To the pipes, and fiddles' scraping.

Harmless tribe! Your lyric madness You'll continue, while there yonder, In the East, the clouds are gathering, Soon to burst in tragic thunder.

VII.