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VOLUME XVIII
GERHART HAUPTMANN
FERDINAND VON SAAR
DETLEV VON LILIENCRON
PRINCE EMIL VON SCHONAICH-CAROLATH
GUSTAV FALKE
ISOLDE KURZ
RICHARD DEHMEL
ARNO HOLZ
OTTO JULIUS BIERBAUM
STEFAN GEORGE
LULU VON STRAUSS UND TORNEY
BORRIES VON MUNCHHAUSEN
RAINER MARIA RILKE
HERMANN HESSE
AGNES MIEGEL
RICARDA HUGH
-Vi ' - J -
iermai
C[)e Ji.!Jh ana
Masterpieces of Ger > Literature
TRANSLATED I
Editou-)
KUNO FRANCKE, D.
Professor of the Hil^P.B©AtfXy„ ,j
Curator of tht
Harvat
As:.y
TAM ILD A.M.
itt <ll»!n?tii 1^altxmj?a l^Unadtri3t]C&'
THE germa; ii^^is buui.b;y
Frow an EtcUttg by Max ^^Ur^j^r ,,.^
-v'^ft^TvirA x\y\k \^>S ip.M'rs\")\^ wo iW)'\^\
*- -^^V-^ZD
%
OF
Cf)e JT3ineteent|) anD
Ctoentietl) Centuries
Masterpieces of German Literature
TRANSLATED INTO ENGLISH
Editor-in-Chief
KUNO FRANCKE, Ph.D., LL.D., Litt.D.
Professor of the History of German Culture and
Curator of the Germanic Museum,
Harvard University
Assistant Editor-in-Chief
WILLIAM GUILD HOWARD, A.M.
Assistant Professor of German, Harvard University
Sn Qloirtiti} Halumrs Miuetr&Uh
1 1']'^ '
THE GERMAN PUBLICATION SOCIETY
NEW YORK
Copyright 1014
by
The German Publication Socnnr
CONTRIBUTORS AND TRANSLATORS
VOLUME XVIII
Special Writers
LUDWIG Lewisohn, a.m., Assistant Professor of the German Language and
Literature, Ohio State University:
The Life of Gerhart Hauptmann.
Paul H. Gbummann, A.M., Professor of Modern German Literature, Univer-
sity of Nebraska:
The Contemporary German Lyric.
Fbiedbicii ScnoENEMANN, Ph.D., Instructor in German, Harvard University:
Ricarda Huch.
Translators
LxJDWiG Lewisohn, A.M., Assistant Professor of the German Language and
Literature, Ohio State University:
Michael Kramer.
Charles Henry Meltzer:
The Sunken Bell.
Mart Morrison:
The Weavers.
Muriel Almon :
The Recollections of Ludolf Ursleu the Younger.
Charles Wharton Stork, Ph.D., Assistant Professor of English, University
of Pennsylvania:
Flowrets; The New Railroad; The Goldfinch; The Big Merry-Go-Round ;
White Lilacs.
Margarete Munsterberg :
Girls Singing ; War and Peace ; Parting and Return ; Oh Germany ; A
Day Spent; When I Die; Necropolis; Through the Night; From an
Oppressed Heart; Wave Dance Song; Many a Night; Like One of
These was He; Enougli; The Shepherd's Day; The Seafarer; Ballad
of the Wall; Fairy Tale; Two Poems to Hans Thoma on His Sixtieth
Birthday; Maiden Melancholy; Talk in a Gondola; The Fair Agnete;
Midnight, etc.
[V]
CONTENTS OF VOLUME XVIII
Gerhart Hauptmann page
The Life of Gerhart Hauptmann. By Ludwig Lewisohn 1
The Weavers. Translated by Mary Morrison 16
The Sunken Bell. Translated by Charles Henry Meltzer 105
Michael Kramer. Translated by Ludwig Lewigohn 211
The Contemporary German Lyric. By Paul H. Grummann 281
Ferdinand von Saar
Girls Singing. Translated by Margarete Miinsterberg 292
Detlev von Liliencron
War and Peace. Translated by Margarete Miinsterberg 293
Parting and Return. Translated by Margarete Miinsterberg 294
Flowrets. Translated by Charles Wharton Stork 2S6
The New Railroad. Translated by Charles Wharton Stork 296
Prince Emil von Schonaich-Carolath
Oh Germany. Translated by Margarete Miinsterberg 298
Gustav Falke
A Day Spent. Translated by Margarete Miinsterberg 300
When I Die. Translated by Margarete Miinsterberg 301
Isolde Kurz
Necropolis. Translated by Margarete Miinsterberg 301
- Richard Dehmel
Through the Night. Translated by Margarete Miinsterberg 303
From an Oppressed Heart. Translated by Margarete Miinsterberg 303
Wave Dance Song. Translated by Margarete Miinsterberg 30 4
Many a Night. Translated V)y Margarete Miinsterberg 304
Voice in Darkness. Translated by Margarete Miinsterberg 305
The Workman. Translated by Margarete Miinsterberg 305
The Goldfinch. Translated by Charles Wharton Stork 306
The Big Merry-Go-Round. Translated by Charles Wharton Stork 307
[vii]
viii CONTENTS OF VOLUME XVIII
Arno Holz PAGE
Like One of These was He. Translated by Margarete Miinsterberg 308
Otto Julius Bierbaum
Enough. Translated by Margarete Miinsterberg 310
'^Stefan George
The Shepherd's Day. Translated by Margarete Miinsterberg 311
The Vigil. Translated by Margarete Miinsterberg 312
Lulu von Strauss und Torney
The Seafarer. Translated by Margarete Miinsterberg 314
Borries von Miinchhausen
Ballad of the Wall. Translated by Margarete Miinsterberg 318
Fairy Tale. Translated by Margarete Miinsterberg 321
Ninon! Que Fais-Tu de la Vie? Translated by Margarete Miinsterberg. . 321
Mine Own Land. Translated by Margarete Miinsterberg 321
White Lilacs. Translated by Charles Wharton Stork 322
Rainer Maria Rilke
Two Poems to Hans Thoma on His Sixtieth Birthday. Translated by
Margarete Miinsterberg 323
Maiden Melancholy. Translated by Margarete Miinsterberg 324
Autumn Day. Translated by Margarete Miinsterberg 324
The Last Supper. Translated by Margarete Miinsterberg 325
From the Book of the Monk's Life. Translated by Margarete Miinsterberg. 325
Hermann Hesse
Talk in a Gondola. Translated by Margarete Miinsterberg 327
In the Fog. Translated by Margarete Miinsterberg 328
Agnes Miegel
The Fair Agnete. Translatad by Margarete Miinsterberg 330
'" Ricarda Huch
Ricarda Huch. By Friedrich Schoenemann 332
The Recollections of Ludolf Ursleu the Younger. Translated by Muriel
Almon 339
Midnight. Translated by Margarete Miinsterberg 485
ILLUSTRATIONS — VOLUME XVIII
To Beauty". By Max Klinger Frontispiece
Gerhart Hauptmann 2
Gerliart Hauptmann. Bf Nicola Perscheid 32
The Silesian Weavers ( 1847 ) . By Karl Hiibner 62
Misery. By Max Klinger 92
Intermezzo I. By Max Klinger 122
Intermezzo II, By Max Klinger 1.52
Bear and Sprite. By Max Klinger 182
Tlie Messengers. By Max Klinger 208
Moonlight Night. By Max Klinger 230
Melody. By 0. Zwintscher 246
Peace in the Metropolis. By Fritz Kallmorgen 280
Ferdinand von Saar 292
Detlev von Liliencron 294
Prince Emil von Schonaich-Carolath 298
Gustav Falke 300
Isolde Kurz 302
Richard Dehmel 306
Arno Holz 308
Otto Julius Bierbaum 310
Stefan George 312
Lulu von Strauss und Torney 316
Borries von Miinchhausen 320
Ricarda Huch 336
Aphrodite. By Max Klinger 374
Psyche at the Sea. By Max Klinger 400
Zeus and Eros. By Max Klinger 440
The Abduction of Prometheus. By Max Klinger 476
THE LIFE OF GERHART HAUPTMANN
By LuDwiG Lewisohn, A.M.
Assistant Professor of the German Language and Literature, Ohio State University
OR a number of years the literary physiog-
nomy of Gerhart Hauptmann was felt, by
critics and historians of literature, to be
lacking in definiteness of outline. It is
even now not uncommon to find Haupt-
y '^^g^^'^ .\ n^ann described as one still in search of
the final medium of self-expression. The
rapidity, however, with which literary and philosophical
movements follow one another in modem life, should enable
us to see the work of Hauptmann in a truer light, an exacter
perspective.
The fact is that the drama of Hauptmann, viewed in its
totality, is remarkably representative of its epoch in the
history of literature and thought. The frequent contrasts
in his work between idealism and sheer realism are not due
to personal vacillation, but rather to the uncontrollable
Zeitgeist expressing itself through an exquisitely sensitive
organism. Of the two special notes of our time — an
exacting consciousness of the actual and a hardy idealism
soaring toward the heights of life — many writers sound
only one. It is the special praise and achievement of
Hauptmann to have united both in his work. He has been
vividly alive to the older naturalistic doctrine, announced
with such feverish energy by the Goncourts : ' * The tinith, the
truth in its nakedness and rawness — that is art." He has
not been unaware, on the other hand, of the contrary theory
as stated, for instance, by Maeterlinck: *' If one desires
to produce a lasting and powerful work, it is well to dis-
VoL. XVITI— 1
2 THE GERMAN CLASSICS
engage it from the details of reality. ' ' Or, in other words,
Hauptmann's work illustrates an age which has gradually
passed from positivism — from the abandoning, in Comte 's
own words, of '* a vain search after the origin and destina-
tion of the universe" — to a more liberal and mystical
philosophy, in the light of which truths of the merely scien-
tific order are seen to be, as Anatole France put it, but pre-
carious and transitory. Tliis is a fairer and exacter inter-
pretation of the creative energy which has given us The
Weavers, and also The Sunken Bell and The Beaver Coat
as well as Henry of Aue.
Hauptmann's interpretation and criticism of life, how-
ever, although so constantly shaped by the prevalent inteh
lectual currents of his age, have never been argumentative
or direct. In that respect they have differed notably from
the interpretation and criticism of other contemporary dra-
matists. Thus M. Paul Hervieu, for instance, began his
career by a brief series of telling arguments against the
legal status of woman; he has recently used the stage
in defense of the secular institutions of the social order.
Brieux has never written a play but to attack some evil,
unveil some hypocrisy, or scourge some definite injustice.
Shaw has attempted to undermine the emotional bases of
our civilization, and Galsworthy is devoting his admirable
dramatic gift to the service of various causes. Haupt-
mann has had the larger, and surely the wiser vision; for
all these evils are but accidental and transitory elements in
the life of historic man. Man remains. And thus Haupt-
mann, abandoning more and more the brief social ardor of
his youth, has fixed his eye primarily upon humanity amid
conditions and conflicts which, however exactly defined in
time and space, partake, by their very nature, of the recur-
rent and the enduring.
This freedom from the heat of any immediate purpose
has enabled Hauptmann to attain a higher degree of plas-
ticity in the final aim of every creative artist — the shaping
of characters. The men and women of Hervieu and Brieux
Permission Berlin I'hoto. Co., New York.
GERHART HAUPTMAXN
GERHART HAUPTMANN 3
must, for the play's necessary effectiveness, possess a given
set of traits, or, at least, these traits must be emphasized
at the expense of their complete selves; or, finally, they
must be placed in situations that serve to bring out the
expression of the specific energies and passions required
by the argument. In other words, the play with a purpose
can never divest itself wholly of intrigue in plot, or of arti-
ficial emphasis in the drawing of character. Hauptmann
has plunged into the fullness of life. His themes have been
hunger and love, aspiration and death. Hence his char-
acters are entire men and women, delineated without sup-
pression or undue stress.
To these two facts — Hauptman's sensitiveness to the
spiritual temper of his time and his carelessness (since his
earliest plays) of its special and hence passing problems —
may be set down the solidity and impressiveness of his
work. That impressiveness has gradually become apparent
far beyond the limits of Germany and may, in the light of
the modern growth of critical certainty, be expected to
maintain itself. Hence it will be appropriate to seek for
the qualities and experiences of Hauptmann 's personality
in his works, briefly to sketch the movement in the history
of German literature from which he proceeds but which he
has transcended, and, finally, to attempt to disengage some
of his most notable characteristics both as a naturalistic
playwright and as a poet.
II
Gerhart Hauptmann is a Silesian both by descent and by
his sympathies. His great-grandfather emigrated, as a
weaver, from Bohemia to Silesia, and his grandfather
also *' sat behind the loom." Thus Hauptmann 's intense
absorption in the fate of the Silesian weavers is almost his
birthright. His grandfather, however, returning from the
wars of liberation, took up the more lucrative calling of a
waiter, and rose, before the end of his life, to be an inde-
pendent innkeeper. The inn which he owned and which he
4 THE GERMAN CLASSICS
passed on to his son Robert, was the * * Prussian Crown ' ' at
Obersalzbrunn, the birthplace of Gerhart Hauptmann.
Robert Hauptmann, the poet 's father, a man of seriousness
and ability, probably described in Drayman Henschel as
Siebenhaar, married Marie Straehler. Prau Hauptmann
belonged to one of the intensely pious families of Silesian
Moravians who are almost the only German representatives
of Protestantism at its highest emotional pitch. It is not
easy to overestimate the influence of his mother and of her
affiliations upon Hauptmann. His leaning to a mystical
type of Christianity, his sympathy with its representatives,
are clearly shown in Hannele, in Rose Bernd, in The Fool
in Christ, and in numberless individual characters and pas-
sages throughout his works. He* isr almost alone among
modern German authors in his, intimate understanding of
the religious experiences of the Christian life.
Gerhart Hauptmann,, born November 15, 1862, is the
youngest child of these parents, whose contrasting char-
acters remind one, in spite of the difference of intellectual
and social surroundings, of the characters of Goethe's
father and mother. The fact that Gerhart was an unsatis-
factory pupil, both in the school of his native village and
in the Realschule at Breslau, whither he was sent in 1874,
is not without, significance. The mind of Hauptmann
has always been centred upon its intimate aims; even
in his boyhood he was difficult to deflect to what seemed
alien purposes, and. not until many years later did he turn
to those interests which are basic to a humanistic educa-
tion. In 1878 he was removed from school and placed
in- the household of a maternal uncle, where he was to
become a skilled agriculturist. The two years spent here
have left, indelible traces upon his work. He gained his
intimate knowledge of the Silesian countryside as shown
in Before Daivn and in Rose Bervid, and fortified his
acquaintance with the spiritual environment from which so
many of his characters have come. The girlhood of Helene
Krause {Before Dawn) and of Kaethe Vockerat {Lonely
Lives) was passed amid just such influences.
GERHART HAUPTMANN 5
A second stage in the development of the future play-
wright was reached when, irP 1880, he returned to Breslau
and was enrolled as a student in the Royal College of Art.
He had long taken an interest in sculpture and modeled in
a desultorj^ way; this impulse was now to be formed and
directed. The academic practice of art, however, failed to
colJtent the young student, and a conflict \\dth his teachers
ensued; he was rusticated, but readmitted. The impres-
sions of his second Breslau period are set down in two
plays, Colleague Crampton and Michael Kramer, whose
protagonists are probably — mutatis mutandis — portraits
of two professors then active in the Breslau College of Art.
Dissatisfaction with the course of instruction was not
Hauptmann's only reason for leaving Breslau in 1882. The
literary impulse was asserting itself vigorously. Reports
reach us of dramas — Ingehorg and Germans and Romans
— and of a romantic epic on. Arminius. At all events, in
the spring of 1882 Hauptmann joined his favorite brother
Carl as a student in the University of Jena.
Here he remained for one year, awakening to all the mod-
ern problems and tendencies* in the study of nature and
society. Social reform and evolutionary monism were then
in their heyday and there can be no doubt that the influence
of these Jena months had not a little to do with the shaping
of the future naturalist. In fact the young artist, setting
out during the follo^\'ing spring on a journey to Spain and
to Italy, Avas less impressed by the beauty and the memories
of the cities he visited than by the poverty, the vice, and the
suffering of the modern Latin populations. In his earliest
published work, the Byronic epic Promethidenlos (1885),
he records the deep and deeply painful impressions which
he received in the south of Europe. After a brief stay in
Rome he hastened northward.
In this same important year (1883) he was betrothed to
Marie Thienemann, one of the five charming daughters of
a wealthy merchant. The young women of the Thienemann
family were orphans and lived together in a country-house
6 THE GERMAN CLASSICS
isolated from the world in what seemed to young Haupt-
mann an atmosphere of blandness and exquisite peace. His
brothers Carl and Georg had- chosen the two older sisters
of his betrothed. Thus Hauptmann lived through the
delightful dream described fnore than twenty years later
in The Maidens of the Mount. But the conflicts of his inner
life made that dream transitory. Not only was he unable
to decide between sculpture and literature as a final aim,
but art itself seemed to him, in an age of so many practical
problems, as possibly a tragic waste. Perhaps to attain
greater spiritual certainty he went once more, in 1884, to
Rome ; a severe illness, however, cut short his final experi-
ment as a plastic artist, and, accompanied by his future
wife, he hurried home.
The young couple were married in the spring of 1885.
For a few months Hauptmann entertained the plan of
fitting himself for the stage, but by autumn this plan too
was seen to be impossible and he and his wife took up
their residence in the Berlin suburb of Erkner, a milieu
which he has described in its various phases in The Recon-
ciliation, The Beaver Coat and The Confagration. And
it was here, in his first individual home, that he came into
immediate contact with those new forces in German litera-
ture which found their final crysiallization in his own work.
Ill
The decade from 1880 to 1890 is marked in the literary
history of Europe by the transference of naturalistic aims
and methods from the novel to the drama. It opened with
the perfoiTnance of Ghosts (1881) and of Henri Becque's
Les Corheaux (1882) ; it closed with that marvelous out-
burst of naturalistic dramaturgy marked by Tolstoy's
The Might of Darkness (1887), Strindberg's The Father
(1887), Comrades (1888), Miss Juliet (1888), by the found-
ing of the ''Theatre Libre " in Paris (1887), the establish-
ment of the '' Freie Buehne " in Berlin (1889), and the first
pronunciamento of the real Hauptmann: his Before Daivn
GERHART HAUPTMANN 7
(1889). Now naturalism stood not only for esthetic reform,
but for an umnistakable attitude toward man, toward nature,
and toward human life. It was the reflection of scientific
positivism in literature. It accepted all the implications of
positivism and hence wrought a far profounder change in
the character and technique of the drama than in those of
the novel. For the drama had been hitherto the struggle of
free personalities — above all, of responsible personalities.
The naturalistic drama rested, by its very assumptions,
upon the liberation of the individual will from responsibility
— especially from responsibility incurred under some fixed
ethical or social law. It saw man oppressed by social insti-
tutions, hemmed in by narrow conventions, pursued by the
fatality of inherited instincts and e\dls. Hence it was a
drama of moral readjustment. It fixed its vision less upon
the evil that men do than upon the e\dl they endure ; it laid
greater stress upon being than upon doing. But action is
the immemorial basis of all drama; and hence a drama
which was static rather than dynamic by its very principles,
necessarily sought a new technique. The inevitable truth
could not be represented through a technique of exposition,
implication, and explication; for life bears but little resem-
blance to intrigue, and human fortunes are devoid of plot.
It was left for the German drama to develop this new
technique. Strindberg alone had approached it ; but Strind-
berg stood apart. The French plaj^vrights had rarely been
able to free themselves from the pursuit of a. definite thesis
and its results upon the structure of the drama. In Ger-
many the new technique appeared suddenly, first in the
theories of Arno Holz, next in the work of Holz and Haupt-
mann, and almost immediately thereafter in the plays of
half a dozen notable young dramatists. The way for it
had, in a sense, been prepared. Germany was thoroughly
discontented with the pale and imitative literary forms that
immediately succeeded the Franco-Pimssian war. The new
empire needed a new literature. Men like Michael Georg
Conrad preached pure Zolaism as the salvation of German
8 THE GERMAN CLASSICS
letters; the young enthusiasts of Berlin who founded the
society Dutch in 1886 insisted upon fidelity to truth and
modernity of subject matter; the lyric had already been
revolutionized in fact and not only in theory by Detlev von
Liliencron. Finally, in 1889, Paul Schlenther and Otto
Brahm founded the ' ' Freie Buehne ' ' in direct imitation of
the " Theatre Libre " established by Antoine in Paris two
years before. The imitation was very close. Like Antoine
they began their series of performances with Ibsen's Ghosts
and Tolstoy's Might of Darkness. In one respect, however,
the Germans were more fortunate than their French prede-
cessor, Antoine had done something for Brieux, a little
more for Francois de Curel ; Brahm and Schlenther inaugu-
rated the career of Gerhart Hauptmann.
To Hauptmann, living at Erkner since 1885, seeking some
form of definite expression, deeply afflicted by the inhuman-
ity of man to man — to Hauptmann had come the varying
theories and battle-cries of the day. He yielded to the
clamor of the Zolaists and wrote his study Bahmvaerter
Thiel in 1887. But in literature he had always been dra^vn
primarily to poetry and to the drama. His poetic power,
however, had not yet ripened, and the drama was hovering
between two worlds — (^ne dead, the other powerless to be
born.) Kretzer, the German Zolaist, was a frequent guest at
Erkner; so were the brothers Hart, critics, poets, and
prophets of modernity, Boelsche the essayist, von Hanstein
the historian of the movement, and, finally, the East-Prus-
sian, Arno Holz. The latter brought to Hauptmann early
in 1889 his sketches and his play Family Selicke, in which
he had embodied his theory of consistent naturalism — a
record of life as pitilessly true as the necessarily selective
processes of art will permit. Hauptmann immediately
responded to the impulse. Like all the major men of
letters, he did not invent the form to which he has given sig-
nificance and through which he has expressed himself. The
almost immediate result of Holz' influence was to liberate
Hauptmann 's creative force. In October, 1889, Before
GERHART HAUPTMANN 9
Dawn was performed under the auspices of tlie " Freie
Bueline. "
The technique of the naturalistic drama had been found.
Hauptmann extended the form and wrought upon it with
extraordinary powder and skilL In The Reconciliation
(1890) and Lonely Lives (1891) he returned partly to the
methods of Ibsen; but in 1892 he created the naturalistic
folk-drama in The Weavers and in 1893 the naturalistic
comedy in The Beaver Coat. The new drama produced
notable works in rapid succession — Fukla's The Slave
(1891), Halbe's Youth (1898), Schnitzler's Flirtation (1895).
But the triumph of naturalism was not undivided. In the
very year of The Weavers, Ludwig Fulda achieved a great
stage success with his romantic comedy in verse, The Talis-
man, and in 1893 Hauptmann himself blended naturalism
and poetry in The Assumption of Hannele. It is noteworthy
that his almost feverish creative activity in the drama now
ceased. Two years elapsed before the performance of his
historical play Florian Geyer. The play failed utterly. It
was a blow all the more crushing to Hauptmann since, dur-
ing these years, he passed through that painful crisis which
led to his separation from his first wife. The poet in him
welded all the elements of his fate into an imaginative whole
which completed his essential development as a man and
an artist — The Sunken Bell.
IV
What now, briefly, is the technique of the naturalistic
drama which Hauptmann has exemplified in a series of
plays extending from 1889 to 1912? * In what respect has
he so revolutionized the form and content of the modern
drama that men as different as John Galsworthy, on the
one hand, and the older Henri Lavedan, on the other, are
what they are largely through the absorption — conscious or
• Before Davm, The Reconciliation, Lonely Lii^es, The Weavers, Colleague
Crampton. The Braver Coat, Drayman IJenschel, Michael Kramer, The Con-
flagration, Rose Bernd, The Rats, Gabriel Schilling's Flight.
10 THE GERMAN CLASSICS
unconscious — of the dramaturgic methods which are, but
for the prophetic work of Ibsen, primarily if not exclusively
Hauptmann's own!
The technique of the drama of the past, then, rests upon
certain conventions of structure. These conventions are
summed up as plot, coil, evolution — what you will. They
all come to this — that the stuff of life is forced, by a variety
of artifices, into the gathering and untying of the traditional
dramatic knot. Characters came and went, acted and re-
acted, not at the urging of necessity, but in preparation for
the climax of the scene, the act, or the play. Polonius had
to be hid beliind the arras in order to be killed ; Desdemona
had to lose her kerchief in order to wring Othello's heart,
Lady Teazle had to be maneuvred behind the screen in
order that she might emerge to confound Joseph and to
accept her. husband's kindness. These instances illustrate
the conventions which Hauptmann was the first dramatist
to avoid. His fables represent the stuff of life in its true
order and succession both in action and in time. There is
no climax unles's reality demands one ; there is no artificially
satisfying conclusion to his plays, since each play represents
but a fragmentary vision of the great stream of life which
continues to flow.
■ In addition* to avoiding artifices of structure, Hauptmann
avoids, so far as possible, artifices of speech. It is difficult
for the reader of English to realize this fact, and no trans-
lation can convey it adequately. But Hauptmann does not
help his characters to an eloquence that is his own. In this
respect he has most strikingly followed the Shakespearian
warning not to -overstep the modesty of nature. His men
and women are gniiltless of false eloquence, of repartee, of
the pat give-and-take of the well-made French play; their
words have the simplicity and the savor of real speech.
Hence Hauptmann's dramatic interpretation of human
character is based upon the authentic material of life
itself.
But if these plays are so nearly exact -a rendering of the
GERHART HAUPTMANN 11
humble truth, wherein, it may be asked, lies that representa-
tive quality, that interpretative power, without which liter-
ature ceases to be literature ? The answer may be summed
up in one of those admirable sayings of Goethe that grow
more luminous and inclusive in their wisdom as time goes
on:
Willst du ins Unendliche schreiten,
Geh nur im Endliclien nach alien Seiten.*
There, surely, is summed up a complete defense of natural-
istic art. To observe man and his life relentlessly and to
set down the result of such observation with sobriety and
yet incisiveness cannot fail leading us in the end to those
unescapable world mysteries w^hich rise above the snares
of circumstance and are free of the arbitrament of mor-
tality. In other words, the most meaningful interpreta-
tion will rest upon a basis of incontestable facts. Pursue
these finite facts far enough, as Goethe counsels, and you
will fare into the infinite.
Four t>T)ical plays, several of which are included in this
collection, illustrate all the qualities here set down and sat-
isfy the suggested test. In The Weavers we have a com-
plete vision of the soul of man under the stress of want.
That vision is fuller and more significant than eloquence or
pleading could have made it, and it is built of the humblest
materials. In the first act the weavers are depicted in their
relations to the manufacturers; in the second the wretched-
ness of the weavers is illustrated intimately, and the feeble
note of their doomed rebellion is struck. The third act
shows the public house where the news of the hour flits
about, where rebellion is fomented by cheap liquor, and
where appear minor but yet sinister factors necessary to
the complete portrayal of the fate of the weavers. The mas-
terly fourth act presents the manufacturers and their social
views from wTithin — their cravenness, their real difficul-
ties, their genuine inability to free themselves from a con-
• If thou wouldst fare into the infinite, follow the finite in all directions.
12 THE GERMAN CLASSICS
ventional view of the social order. And, finally, essential
tragedy steps into the fifth act — the cry of Luise's despair,
the soaring and yet destroying faith of old Hilse. It is
made clear that these people bore in their broken hearts
the seed of weakness and inevitable failure. The truth is
there — the humble truth built of the despised details of
man's daily living and suffering. But also the infinite is
there — silently rising and brooding over the fates of
men.
The temper in which Hauptmann wrote The Beaver Coat
is harder and dryer; hence the result was, superficially at
least, comedy rather than tragedy. The play is fashioned
with immense economy and concentration of effort. Its
central and recurrent aim is the full portrayal of the pro-
tagonist— Mrs. Wolff. There is not a word of comment,
direct or indirect, from :&ny side. Yet, as in the laconic
stories of de Maupassant, a silent implication of intense
ironic force rests over the whole play. Is not Mrs-. Wolff
what her world has made her? Could she have turned that
resourcefulness, that intrepidity of herS', into other and
nobler channels? Inevitably scrambling in tli€t mire with
all her kind — who can blame her for wanting to rise?
" If you don't join the scramble — you're lazy: if you do
— you're bad. An' everythin' we does get, we gets out o'
the dirt. . . . An'they, they tells you: Be good, be good!
How? What chance has we got? ... I wanted to get
on — that's tru'e. An' ain't it natural? We all wants to
get out 0 ' this here mud in which we all fights and scratches
aroun'. . . . Out o' it . . . away from it . . .
higher up if you wants to call it that! "
There is little serenity or beauty in such art. But it has
seen life steadily and seen it whole. Its vision has gone be-
yond tradition and convention into the heart of man itself.
If that heart is warped, the knowledge of that truth may
help us onward to a clearer path. But this art, at all events,
can create character, and by that unmistakable creative
energy it is justified and assured.
GERHART HAUPTMANN 13
V
But there is the other side to Hauptmann's activity. He
has not only, as a naturalistic playwright, created a new-
technique and a new standard of reality for the drama. He
is also a poet. In The Sunken Bell and in Henry of Aue he
has, perhaps alone among contemporary poets, written
plays of ideal content and poetic form that are original in
manner and conception and powerful on the stage. In a
word, he has given new life to the poetic drama; and he has
done so, largely, by infusing into it the sobriety, inevitable-
ness, and simplicity which he mastered as a naturalist and
in prose.
The Sunken Bell, though raised by its form and method
into the realm of the timeless, is the drama of the creative
thinker of modern times. The problem of the modern artist
is — as Hauptmann has shown in Lonely Lives and again,
quite recently, in Gabriel Schilling's Flight — the conflict
between personal and ideal ends. However blended with
secondary motives, the kernel of the play is there. The
faith by which Heinrich, the bell-founder, lives is the pres-
ence of the creative power within him.
What's germed within me's worthy of the blessing —
Worthy the ripening.
His one aim is to see- that germ ripen, regardless of the
world and its rewards, regardless of his personal happi-
ness. To understand the play it is necessary to enter into
the overwhelming reality and sincerity -of this thought.
To the true artist all features and forms of life bring only
an added pang of the soul, if this central aim is balked.
And it is a perception of this fundamental truth which the
homely environment of Heinrich 's personal life lacks. His
bell falls into the mere. And Magda, his ^vife, says;
Pray Heaven that be the worst!
What matters one bell more or less! If he,
The Master, be but safe!
The master lives; but he is filled with despair, for it was
bv no mere chance that his bell was hurled from the heights.
14 THE GERMAN CLASSICS
" 'Twas for the valley, not the mountain-top ! "
And to this cry of the artist 's despair his wife replies :
" That is not true ! Hadst thou but heard, as I,
The Vicar tell the Clerk, in tones that shook :
' How gloriously 'twill sound upon the heights ! ' "
The opinion of the Vicar and the Clerk are her norm; of
the new and unapproached ideal she and her world know
nothing. And so Heinrich, driven by his deepest impulse,
goes up into the hills and meets a spirit of beauty and re-
freshment in nature — Rautendelein - — wlio will help him
to find his treasures. His heart is not hard. He cannot help
Magda, for to her " his. wine would be but bitter gall and
venom." He stays upon the heights with Rautendelein to
build the great work that shall embody his dreams. The
ignorant cries of hidebound men serve only to convince
him more
" Of the great weight and purpose of his mission."
And yet he fails. It is the tragedy of tragedies. He has
left too great a part of himself in his other life.
" Yonder I am at home . . . and yet a stranger —
Here I am strange . . . and yet I am at home."
His children bring their mother's tears up the mountain-
side and the sunken bell tolls the destruction of his hopes.
He dies — clasping his ideal to his heart; for it is better
to die so than to return to the valleys where the ideal is an
outcast and a s-tranger.
In Henry of Aue Hauptmann has remolded a legend fa-
mous in German literature for nearly a thousand years. The
play offers no diflSculties to the attentive reader. Haupt-
mann has humanized the characters of the medieval legend
and poem, and has shifted the stress from the miracle which
solves the problem of the play to that great change of heart
in the protagonist which calls the miracle forth. Henry of
Aue, as the pragmatist would put it, helps the universe to
show its divinity by breaking away from his personal un-
happiness and believing it to be divine. Thus- he creates
the miracle by which his salvation is brought about.
GERHART HAUPTMANN 15
Something should be said of the form of these two plays.
Hauptmami's mastery of lyrical measures is not, perhaps,
first-rate, but he has created anew the blank verse of the
German drama. That versie has been apt to seem, even at
its best, a little heavy, a little stiff — burdened with too
great a proportion of end-stopped lines, and lacking flexibil-
ity within the verse. In Henry of Aue, more especially,
however, Hauptmann has w^ritten verse in which — as. in
Milton or Tennyson — the individual line has ceased to be
the rhythmic unit and the essential secret of blank verse —
that, namely, of the complete hannony of the verse-para-
graph— is found. Even through the medium of transla-
tion this may be illustrated from the beginning of Henry's
great speech in the second act :
Life is a brittle vessel, 0 my friend,
The Korau saith, and look ye, it is true.
And I have learned this truth. I would not live
In a blown egg's void shell. Wouldst thou exalt
The glory and the grandeur that are man,
Or call him even in God's image made?
Scratch him but with a tailor's sheai-s — he bleeds !
Prick him but gently with a cobbler's awl
Where the pulse beats, or here, or there, or here,
And swiftly, irresistibly, will gush
Even like a liberated fountain, forth
His pride, his joy, his noble soul and sense,
Divine illusion, all his love and hate
And wealth and gloiy and guerdon of his deed —
All, all, in brief, that he, blind error's slave,
Did deem his very own ! Be emperor, sultan, pope —
A naked body huddled in a shroud
Art thou — today, tomorrow, cold therein and still ! *
The writer of these lines and of Luise's outburst in The
Weavers has little to fear from the future except the in-
evitable winnowing of his less masterly from the greater
remnant of his authentic and enduring work.
* The quotations from The Siunken Bell are taken from the version by
C. H. Melt/er; the quotation from Henry of Aue is from my own rendering
of that play. — L, L.
GERHART HAUPTMANN
THE WEAVERS
I DEDICATE THIS DRAMA
TO MY FATHER
ROBERT HAUPTMANN
You, dear father, know what feelings lead me
to dedicate this work to you, and I am not called
upon to analyze them here.
Your stories of my grandfather, who in his
young days sat at the loom, a poor weaver like
those here depicted, contained the germ of my
drama. Whether it possesses the vigor of life
or is rotten at the core, it is the best, " so poor
a man as Hamlet is " can offer.
Your
GERHART
[16]
THE WEAVERS*
DRAilATIS PERSOX.E
^
Dbeissiger, fustian manufacturer
Mbs. Dbeissiger
Pfbufeb, manager
Neumann, cashier
An Apprentice
John, coachman
A Maid
Wei N HOLD, tutor
sons
Pastor Kittelhaus
Mbs. Kittelhaus
in Dreissigeb's
eniijloyment
to Dreissigeb's
Heude, Police Superintendent
Kutsciie, policeman
Welzel, publican
Mbs. Welzel
Anna Welzel
WiEGAND, joiner
A COMMEBCIAL TRAVELER
A Peasant
A FORESTEE
Schmidt, surgeon
HoBNiG, rag dealer
Wittig, smith
Beckjeb
MORITZ Jaegeb
Old Baumert
MoTHEB Baumert
Bertha Baumert
Emma Baumert
Fbitz, Emma's son [four years old)
August Baumebt
Old Ansobge
Mrs. Heinbich
Old Hilse
Weavers
Mother Hilse
Gottlieb Hilse
Luise, Gottlieb's ivifc
Mielchen, their daughter (six years
old)
Resmann, loeaver
Heibeb, iveave)'
A Weave^j's Wife
A number of weavers, young and old,
of both sexes
The action passes in the Forties, at Kaschbach, Peterswaldau and. iM-ngen-
bielau, in the Eulengebirge.
* From The Dramatic Works of (Icrhart fJauptmM,nn, edited by Ludwig
Lewisolm. Permission B. W. Huebscli, New York.
Vol. XVIII— 2
[17]
THE WEAVERS (1892)
TRANSLATED BY MARY MORRISON
Assistant Professor of the German Language and Literature, Ohio State University
ACT I
A large whitewashed room on the ground floor of Dreissiger's house at
Peterswaldau, where the weavers deliver their finished webs and the
fustian is stored. To the left are uncurtained windows, in the back wall
there is a glass door, and to the right another glass door, through which
weavers, male and female, and children, are passing in and out. All three
walls are lined with shelves for the storing of the fustian. Against the
right wall stands a long bench, on which a number of weavers have al-
ready spread out their cloth. In the order of arrival each presents his
piece to be examined hy Ppeifer, Dreissiger's manager, who stands,
with compass and magnifying-glass, behind a large table, on ivhich the
web to be inspected is laid. When Pfeifer has satisfied himself, the
weaver lays the fustian on the scale, and an office apprentice tests its
weight. The same boy stores the accepted pieces on the shelves. Pfeifer
calls out the payment due in each case to Neumann, the cashier, who
is seated at a small table.
It is a sultry day toward the end of May. The clock is on the stroke of
twelve. Most of the waiting work-people have the air of standing before
the bar of justice, in torturing expectation of a decision that means life
or death to them. They are marked, too, by the anxious timidity
characteristic of the receiver of charity, who has suffered many humilia-
tions, and, conscious that he is barely tolerated, has acquired the habit
of self-effacement. Add to this a rigid expression on every face that
tells of constant, fruitless brooding. There is a general resemblance
among the men. They have something about them of the dwarf, some-
thing of the schoolmaster. The majority are flat-breasted, short-winded,
sallow, and poor looking — creatures of the loom, their knees bent with
much sitting. At a first glance the women show fewer typical traits.
They look over-driven, worried, reckless, ivhereas the men still make some
show of a pitiful self-respect; and their clothes are ragged, while the
men's are patched and mended. Some of the young girls are not without
a certain charm, consisting in a waxlike pallor, a slender figure, and
large, projecting, melancholy eyes.
[181
THE WEAVERS 19
Neumann {counting out money). Comes to one and seven-
pence halfpenny.
Weaver's Wife {about thirty, emaciated, takes up the
money ivith trembling fingers). Thank you, sir.
Neumann {seeing that she does not move on). Well, some-
thing wrong this time, too ?
Weaver's Wife {agitated, imploringly). Do you think I
might have a few pence in advance, sir f I need it that
bad.
Neumann, And I need a few pounds. If it was only a
question of needing it — ! [Already occupied in count-
ing out another weaver's money, gruffly.^ It's Mr.
Dreissiger who settles about pay in advance.
Weaver's Wife. Couldn't I speak to Mr. Dreissiger him-
self, then, sir"?
Pfeifer {now manager, formerly weaver. The type is un-
mistakable, only he is well fed, ivell dressed, clean
shaven; also takes snuff copiously. He calls out
roughly). Mr. Dreissiger would have enough to do if
he had to attend to every trifle himself. That's what
we are here for. [He measures, and then examines
through the magnifying-glass.'] Mercy on us! what a
draught! [Puts a thick muffler round his neck.'] Shut
the door, whoever comes in.
Apprentice {loudly to Pfeifer). You might as well talk
to stocks and stones.
Pfeifer. That's done! — Weigh! [The ivearer places his
iveb on the scales.] If you only understood your busi-
ness a little better! Full of lumps again. I hardly
need to look at the cloth to see them. Call yourself a
weaver, and " draw as long a bow " as you've done
there !
Becker has entered. A young, exceptionally powerfully-built weaver;
offhand, almost bold in manner. Pfeifer, Neumann, and the Appren-
tice exchange looks of mutual understanding as he comes in.
Becker. Devil take it! This is a sweatin' job, and no
mistake.
20 THE GERMAN CLASSICS
FiEST Weaver {in a low voice). This blazin' heat means
rain.
[Old Baumert forces his way in at the glass door
on the right, through which the crowd of weavers
can he seen, standing shoulder to shoulder, waiting
their turn. The old man stumbles forward and lays
his bundle on the bench, beside Becker's. He sits
down by it, and wipes the siveat from his face.'\
Old Baumert. A man has a right to a rest after that.
Becker. Rest's better than money.
Old Baumert. Yes, but we needs the money too. Good
mornin' to you, Becker!
Becker. Mornin', father Baumert! Goodness knows how
long we'll have to stand here again.
First Weaver. That don't matter. What's to hinder a
weaver waitin' for an hour, or for a day! What else
is he there for?
Pfeifer. Silence there! We can't hear our own voices.
Becker {in a low voice). This is one of his bad days.
Pfeifer {to the weaver standing before him). How often
have I told you that you must bring cleaner cloth?
What sort of mess is this? Knots, and straw, and all
kinds of dirt.
Reimann. It's for want of a new picker, sir.
Apprentice {has weighed the piece). Short weight, too.
Pfeifer. I never saw such weavers. I hate to give out the
yarn to them. It was another story in my day! I'd
have caught it finely from my master for work like
that. The business was carried on in different style
then. A man had to know his trade — that's the last
thing that's thought of nowadays. Reimann, one
shilling.
Reimann. But there's always a pound allowed for waste.
Pfeifer. I've no time. Next man! What have you to
show?
Heiber {lays his web on the table. While Pfeifer is ex-
amining it, he goes close up to him; eagerly in a low
THE WEAVERS 21
tone). Beg pardon, Mr. Pfeifer, but I wanted to ask
you, sir, if you would perhaps be so very kind an' do
me the favor an' not take my advance money off this
week's pay.
Pfeifer {measuring and examining the texture; jeeringly).
Well ! What next, I wonder? This looks very much as
if half the weft had stuck to the bobbins again.
Heiber {continues). I'll be sure to make it all right next
week, sir. But this last week I've had to put in two
days' work on the estate. And my missus is ill in bed.
Pfeifer {giving the web to he weighed). Another piece of
real slop-work. [Already examining a new weh.'\
What a selvage! Here it's broad, there it's narrow;
here it's dra^vn in by the weft's goodness knows how
tight, and there it's torn out again by the temples. And
hardly seventy threads weft to the inch. W^hat's come
of the rest? Do you call this honest work? I never
saw anything like it.
[Heiber, repressing tears, stands humiliated and
helpless.']
Becker {in a low voice to Baumert). To please that brute
you'd have to pay for extra yarn out o' your own
pocket.
Weaver's Wife {who has remained standing near the
cashier's table, from time to time looking round ap-
pealingly, takes courage and once more turns implor-
ingly to the cashier). I don't know wdiat's to come o'
me, sir, if you w^on't give me a little advance this time.
0 Lord, 0 Lord!
Pfeifer {calls across). It's no good whining, or dragging
the Lord's name into the matter. You're not so anx-
ious about Him' at other times. You look after your
husband and see that he's not to be found so often
lounging in the public-house. We can give no pay in
advance. We have to account for every penny. It's
not our money. People that are industrious, and un-
derstand their work, and do it in the fear of God, never
need their pay in advance. So now you know.
22 THE GERMAN CLASSICS
Neumann. If a Bielau weaver got four times as much pay,
he would squander it four times over and be in debt
into the bargain.
Weaver's Wife (in a loud voice, as if appealing to the gen-
eral sense of justice). No one can't call me idle, but
I'm not fit now for what I once was. I've twice laad a
miscarriage. And as to John, he's but a poor creature.
He's been to the shepherd at Zerlau, but he couldn't
do him no good, and — yon can't do more than you've
strength for. We works as hard as ever we can. This
many a week I've been at it till far on into the night.
An' we'll keep our heads above w^ater right enough if
I can just get a bit o ' strength into me. But you must
have pity on us, Mr. Pfeifer, sir. {Eagerly, coaxingly.']
You'll please be so very kind as to let me have a few
pence on the next job, sir?
Pfeifer {paying no attention) . Fiedler,- one and tw^opence.
Weaver's Wife. Only a few pence, to buy bread with. We
can't get no more credit. We've a lot o' little ones.
Neumann {half aside to the Apprentice, in a serio-comic
tone). '* Every year brings a cliild to the linen-
weaver's wdfe, heigh-ho, heigh-ho, heigh."
Apprentice {takes up the rhyme, half singing). "And the
little brat it's blind the first weeks of its life, heigh-ho,
heigh-ho, heigh."
Reimann {not touching the money which the cashier has
counted out to him). We've alw^ays got one and four-
pence for the w^eb.
Pfeifer {calls across). If our terms don't suit you, Rei-
mann, you have only to say so. There's no scarcity of
weavers — especially of your sort. For full weight
we give full pay.
Reimann. How anything can be wrong with the weight o'
this — !
Pfeifer. You bring a piece of fustian with no faults in
it, and there ^dll be no fault in the pay.
Reimann. It's clean impossible that there 's too many knots
in this web.
THE WEAVERS 23
Pfeifer (examining) . If you want to live well, then be sure
you weave well.
Heibeu (has remained standing near Pfeifer, so as to seize
on any favorable opportunity. He laughs at Pfeifer 's
little witticism, then steps forward and again addresses
him). I wanted to ask you, sir, if you would perhaps
have the great kindness not to take my advance of six-
pence off today's pay? My missus has been bedridden
since February. She can't do a hand's turn for me, an'
I've to pay a bobbin girl. An' so —
Pfeifer (takes a pinch of snuff). Heiber, do you think I
have no one to attend to but you? The otluers must
have their turn.
Reimann. As the warp was given me I took it home and
fastened it to the beam. I can't bring back no better
yarn than I gets.
Pfeifer. If you're not satisfied, you need come for no
more. There are plenty ready to tramp the soles off
their shoes to get it.
Neumann (to Reimann). Don't you want your money?
Reimann. I can't bring myself to take such pay.
Neumann (paying no further attention to Reimann).
Heiber, one shilling. Deduct sixpence for pay in ad-
vance. Leaves sixpence.
Heiber (goes up to the table, looks at the money, stands
shaking his head as if unable to believe his eyes, then
slowly takes it up). Well, I never! — [Sighing.]
Oh dear, oh dear !
Old Baumert (looking into Heiber 's face). Yes, Franz,
that's so! There's matter enough for sighing.
Heiber (speaking with difficulty). I've a girl lyin' sick at
home too, an' she needs a bottle of medicine.
Old Baumert. What's wrong with her?
Heiber. Well, you see, she's always been a sickly bit of a
thing. I don't know — I needn't mind tellin' you —
she brought her trouble with her. It's in her blood,
and it breaks out here, there, and everywhere.
24 THE GERMAN CLASSICS
Old Baumert, It's always the way. Let folks be poor, and
one trouble comes to them on the top of another.
There's no help for it and there's no end to it.
Heiber. What are you carrying' in that cloth, father
Baumert?
Old Baumert. We haven't so much as a bite in the house,
and so I 've had the little dog killed. There 's not much
on him, for the poor beast was half starved. A nice
little dog he was ! I couldn't kill him myself. I hadn't
the heart to do it.
Pfeifer {has inspected Becker's web and calls). Becker,
one and threepence.
Becker. That's what you might give to a beggar; it's not
pay.
Pfeifer. Every one who has been attended to must clear
out. We haven't room to turn round in.
Becker (to those standing near, without lowering his
voice). It's a beggarly pittance, nothing else. A man
works his treadle from early morning till late at night,
an' when he's bent over his loom for days an' days,
tired to death every evening, sick with the dust and
the heat, he finds he's made a beggarly one and three-
pence !
Pfeifer. No impudence allowed here.
Becker. If you think I'll hold my tongue for your tellin',
you're much mistaken.
Pfeifer (exclaims). We'll see about that! [Rushes to the
glass door and calls into the office.] Mr. Dreissiger,
Mr. Dreissiger, will you be good enough to come here?
Enter Dreissiger. About forty, full-blooded, asthmatic. Looks severe.
Dreissiger. What is it, Pfeifer?
Pfeifer (spitefully). Becker says he won't be told to hold
his tongue.
Dreissiger (draws himself up, throws hack his head, stares
at Becker; his nostrils tremble). Oh, indeed ! — Becker.
[To Pfeifer.] Is he the man?
[The clerks nod.]
THE WEAVERS 25
Becker {insolently). Yes, Mr. Dreissiger, yes! [Pointing
to himself.] This is the man. [Pom^m^ ^o Dreissiger.]
And that 's a man too !
Dreissiger (angrily). Fellow, how dare yon?
Pfeifer. He's too well off. He'll go dancing on the ice
once too often, though.
Becker (recklessly). You shut up, you Jack-in-the-box.
Your mother must have gone dancing once too often
mth Satan to have got such a devil for a son.
Dreissiger (now in a violent passion, roars). Hold your
tongue this moment, sir, or —
[He trembles and takes a few steps forivard.]
Becker (holding his ground steadily). I'm not deaf. My
hearing's quite good yet.
Dreissiger (controls himself, asks in an apparently cool
business tone). Was this fellow not one of the pack — ?
Pfeifer. He's a Bielau weaver. When there's any mis-
chief going, they're sure to be in it.
Dreissiger (trembling). Well, I give you all warning: if
the same thing happens again as last night — a troop
of half-drunken cubs marching past my windows sing-
ing that low song —
Becker. Is it '' Bloody Justice " you mean?
Dreissiger. You know well enough what I mean. I tell
you that if I hear it again I'll get hold of one of you,
and — mind, I'm not joking — before the justice he
shall go. And if I can find out who it was that made
up that vile doggerel —
Becker. It's a grand song, that's what it is!
Dreissiger. Another word and I send for the police on the
spot, without more ado. I'll make short work with you
young fellows. I've got the better of very different
men before now.
Becker. I believe you there. A real thoroughbred manu-
facturer \\dll get the better of two or three hundred
weavers in the time it takes you to turn round —
26 THE GERMAN CLASSICS
swallow 'em up, and not leave as much as a bone. He 's
got four stomachs like a cow, and teeth like a wolf.
That 's nothing to him at all !
Dreissiger {to his clerks). That man gets no more work
from us.
Becker. It's all the same to me whether I starve at my
loom or by the roadside.
Dreissiger. Out you go, then, at this moment!
Becker (determinedly). Not without my pay.
Dreissiger. How much is owing to the fellow, Nemnann!
Neumann. One and threepence.
Dreissiger (takes the money hurriedly out of the cashier's
hand, and flings it on the table, so that some of the
coins roll off on to the floor). There you* are, then;
and now, out of my sight with you !
Becker. Not "svithout my pay.
Dreissiger. Don't you see it lying there? If you don't
take it and go — It's exactly twelve now. The dyers
are coming out for their dinner.
Becker. I gets my pay into my hand — here — that's
where !
[Points with the fingers of his right hand at the
palm of his left.']
Dreissiger (to the Apprentice). Pick up the money,
Tilgner.
[The Apprentice lifts the money and puts it into
Becker's hand.]
Becker. Everything in proper order.
[Deliberately takes an old purse out of his pocket and
puts the money into it.]
Dreissiger (as Becker still does not move away). Well?
Do you want me to come and help youf
[Signs of agitation are observable among the crowd
of weavers. A long, loud sigh is heard, and then
a fall. General interest is at once diverted to this
new event.]
Dreissiger. What's the matter there?
THE WEAVERS 27
Chorus of Weavers and Women. ' ' Some one 's fainted. ' ' —
*' It's a little sickly boy."—'' Is it a fit, or what I "
Dreissiger. What do you say? Fainted f
[He goes nearer.]
Old Weaver. There he lies, anyway.
[They make room. A hoy of about eight is seen
lying on the floor as if dead.]
Dreissiger. Does any one know the boy?
Old Weaver. He's not from our village.
Old Baumert. He's like one of weaver Heinrich's boys.
[Looks at him more closely.] Yes, that's Heinrioh's
little Philip.
Dreissiger. Where do they live ?
Old Baumert. Up near us in Kaschbach, sir. He goes
round playin' music in the evenings, and all day he's
at the loom. They 've nine children an ' a tenth a-coming.
Chorus of Weavers and Women. ' ' They're terrible put to
it."—'' The rain comes through their roof."— " The
woman hasn't two shirts among the nine."
Old Baumert {taking the boy by the arm). Now, then, lad,
what 's wrong with you ? Wake up, lad.
Dreissiger. Some of you help me, and we'll get him up.
It's disgraceful to send a sickly child this distance.
Bring some water, Pfeifer.
Woman (helping to lift the boy). Sure you're not goin'
to be foolish and die, lad!
Dreissiger. Brandy, Pfeifer, brandy will be better.
Becker [forgotten by all, has stood looking on. With his
hand on the door-latch, he now calls loudly and taunt-
ingly). Give him something to eat, an' he'll soon be
all right. [Goes out.]
Dreissiger. That fellow will come to a bad end. — Take him
under the arm, Neumann. Easy now, easy; we'll get
him into my room. ^Vhat?
Neumann. He said something, Mr. Dreissiger. His lips
are moving.
Dreissiger. What — what is it, boy?
Boy (whispers). I'm h — hungry.
28 THE GERMAN CLASSICS
Woman. I think lie says —
Deeissigee. We'll find out. Don't stop. Let us get him
into my room. He can lie on the sofa there. We'll
hear what the doctor says.
[Deeissigee, Neumann, and the woman lead the boy
into the office. The weavers begin to behave like
school-children when their master has left the
classroom. They stretch themselves, whisper,
move from one foot to the other, and in the course
of a few moments are conversing loudly. 1
Old Baumeet. I believe as how Becker was right.
Choeus of Weavees and Women. " He did say something
like that." — " It's nothin' new here to fall down from
hunger." — '' God knows what's to come of 'em in
winter if this cuttin' down o' wages goes on." —
"An' this year the potatoes aren't no good at all." —
" Things '11 get worse and worse till we're all done for
together."
Old Baumeet. The best thing a man could do would be to
put a rope round his neck and hang hisself on his own
loom, like weaver Nentwich. [To another, old weaver.^
Here, take a pinch. I was at Neurode yesterday. My
brother-in-law, he works in the snuff facto ly there, and
he give me a grain or two. Have you anything good
in your kerchief?
Old Weavee. Only a little pearl barley. I was coming
along behind Ulbrich the miller's cart, and there was a
slit in one of the sacks. I can tell you we '11 be glad of it.
Old Baumeet. There's twenty-two mills in Peterswaldau,
but of all they grind, there's never nothin' comes our
way.
Old Weavee. We must keep up heart. There's always
somethin' comes to help us on again.
Heibee. Yes, when we're hungry, we can pray to all the
saints to help us, and if that don't fill our bellies we
can put a pebble in our mouths and suck it. Eh,
Baumert?
Reenter Dbeissiger, Pfeiper, and Neumann.
/
THE WEAVERS 29
Dreissiger. It was nothing serious. Tiie boy is all right
again. [Walks about excitedly, panting.] But all the
same it's a disgrace. The child's so weak that a puff
of wind would blow him over. How people, how any
parents can be so thoughtless is what passes my com-
prehension. Loading him with two heavy pieces of
fustian to carry six good miles ! No one would believe
it that hadn't seen it. It simply means that I shall
have to make a rule that no goods brought by children
will be taken over. [He walks up and down silently
for a few moments.'] I sincerely trust such a thing will
not occur again. — Who gets all the blame for it ? Why,
of course the manufacturer. It's entirelv our fault.
If some poor little fellow sticks in the snow in winter
and goes to sleep, a special correspondent arrives post-
haste, and in two days we have a blood-curdling story
served up in all the papers. Is any blame laid on the
father, the parents, that send such a child! — Not a bit
of it. How should they be to blame I It's all the man-
ufacturer's fault — he's made the scapegoat. They
flatter the weaver, and give the manufacturer nothing
but abuse — he 's a cruel man, with a heart like a stone,
a dangerous fellow, at whose calves every cur of a
journalist may take a bite. He lives on the fat of the
land, and pays the poor weavers star^^ation wages. In
the flow of his eloquence the writer forgets to mention
that such a man has his cares too and his sleepless
nights ; that he runs risks of which the workman never
dreams; that, he is often driven distracted by all the
calculations he has to make, and all the different things
he has to take into account ; that he has to struggle for
his very life against competition; and that no day
passes without some annoyance or some loss. And
think of the manufacturer's responsibilities, think of
the numbers that depend on him, that look to him for
their daily bread. No, No ! none of you need wish your-
selves in my shoes — you would soon have enough of it.
30 THE GERMAN CLASSICS
[After a moment's reflection.l You all saw liow that
fellow, that scoundrel Becker, behaved. Now he'll go
and spread about all sorts of tales of my hardhearted-
ness, of how my weavers are turned off for a mere trifle,
without a moment's notice. Is that true? Am I so
very unmerciful?
Chorus of Voices. No, sir.
Dreissiger. It doesn't seem to me that I am. And yet these
ne'er-do-wells come round singing low songs about us
manufacturers — prating about hunger, with enough
in their pockets to pay for quarts of bad brandy. If
they would like to know what want is, let them go and
ask the linen- weavers : they can tell something about it.
But you here, you fus-tian-weavers, have every reason
to thank God that things are no worse than they are.
And I put it to all the old, industrious weavers present :
Is a good workman able to gain a living in my employ-
ment, or is he not?
Many Voices. Yes, sir ; he is, sir.
Dreissiger. There now ! You see ! Of course such a fel-
low as that Becker can't. I a.d"vdse you to keep these
young lads in check. If there's much more of this sort
of thing, I'll shut up shop — give up the business alto-
gether, and then you can shift for yourselves, get work
where you like — perhaps Mr. Becker mil provide it.
First Weaver's Wife {has come close to Dreissiger, and
removes a- little dust from Ms coat with creeping ser-
vility). You've been an' rubbed agin something, sir.
Dreissiger. Business is as bad as it can be just now, you
know that yourselves. Instead of making money, I
am losing it every day. If, in spite of this, I take care
that my weavers are kept in work, I look for some
little gratitude from them. I have thousands of pieces
of cloth in stock, and don't know if I'll ever be able to
sell them. Well, now, I've heard how many weavers
hereabouts are out of work, and — I'll leave Pfeifer to
give the particulars — but this much I'll tell you, just to
THE WEAVERS 31
show you my good will. I can't deal out charity all
round ; I'm not rich enough for that ; but I can give the
people who are out of work the chance of earning at
any rate a little. It's a great business risk I run by
doing it, but that's my affair. I say to myself: Better
that a man should work for a bite of bread than that
he should starve altogether. Am I not right?
Chorus of Voices. Yes, yes, sir.
Dreissiger. And therefore I am ready to give employment
to two hundred more weavers. Pfeifer will tell you on
what conditions. [He turns to go.]
First Weaver's Wife (comes hetiveen him and the door,
speaks hurriedly, eagerly, imploringly). Oh, if you
please, sir, will you let me ask you if you '11 be so good —
I've been twice laid up for —
Dreissiger (7m5h7i/). Speak to Pfeifer, good woman. I'm
too late as it is. [Passes on, leaving her standing.]
Reimann (stops hiin again. In an injured, complaining
tone). I have a complaint to make, if you please, sir.
Mr. Pfeifer refuses to — I've always got one and two-
pence for a web —
Dreissiger (interrupts him). Mr. Pfeifer 's my manager.
There he is. Apply to him.
Heiber (detaining Dreissiger; hurriedly and confusedly).
0 sir, I wanted to ask if you w^ould p'r'aps, if I might
p'r'aps — if Mr. Pfeifer might — might —
Dreissiger. What is it you w^ant ?
Heiber. That advance pay I had last time, sir; I thought
p'r'aps you would kindly —
Dreissiger. I have no idea what you are talking about.
Heiber. I'm awful hard up, sir, because —
Dreissiger. These are things Pfeifer must look into — I
really have not the time. Arrange the matter with
Pfeifer. [He escapes into the office.]
[The supplicants look helplessly at one another, sigh,
and take their places again among the others.]
Pfeifer (resuming his task of inspection). Well, Annie,
let us see what yours is like.
32 THE GERMAN CLASSICS
Old Baumekt. How much, is we to get for the web, then,
Mr. Pfeiferl
Pfeifer. One shilling a web.
Old Baumeet. Has it come to that!
[Excited whispering and murmuring among ihe
weavers.^
ACT II
A small room in the house of Wilhelm Ansorge, weaver and cottager in
the village of Kaschhach, in the Eulengebirge.
In this room, which does not measure six feet from the dilapidated wooden
floor to the smoke-blackened rafters, sit four people. Two young girls,
Emma and Bertha Baumert, are 'working at their looms; Mother Bau-
MERT, a decrepit old woman, sits on a stool beside the bed, with a wind-
ing-wheel in front of her; her idiot son August sits on a footstool, also
winding. He is twenty, has a small body and head, and long, spider-like
legs and arms.
Faint, rosy evening light makes its way through two small windows in the
right wall, which have their broken panes pasted over with paper or
stuffed with straw. It lights up the flaxen hair of the girls, which falls
loose on their slender white necks and thin bare shoulders, and their
coarse chemises. These, with a short petticoat of the roughest linen,
form their whole attire. The warm glow falls on the old woman's face,
neck, and breast — a face worn away to a skeleton, ivith shriveled skin
and sunken eyes, red and watery with smoke, dust, and working by
lamplight — a long goitre neck, wrinkled and sinewy — a hollow breast
covered with faded, ragged shawls.
Part of the right wall is also lighted up, with stove, stove-bench, bedstead,
and one or two gaudily colored sacred prints. On the stove rail rags are
hanging to dry, and behind the stove is a collection of worthless lumber.
On the bench stand some old pots and cooking utensils, and potato
parings are laid out on it, on paper, to dry. Hanks of yarn and reels
hang from the rafters; baskets of bobbins stand beside the looms. In the
back tvall there is a low door without fastening. Beside it a bundle of
willow wands is set up against the wall, and beyond them lie some
damaged quarter-bushel baskets.
The room is full of sound — the rhythmic thud of the looms, shaking floor
and icalls, the click and rattle of the shuttles passing back and forward,
and the steady whirr of the winding-wheels, like the hum of gigantic
bees.
Mother Baumert {in a querulous, feeble voice, as the girls
stop weaving and bend over their webs). Grot to make
knots a<rain already, have vou?
Permission Berlin Photo, Co., New York
GERHART HAUPTMANN
Nicola Perscheid
THE WEAVERS ' 33
Emma {the elder of the two girls, about twenty-two, tying
a broken thread). It's the plagueyest web, this!
Bertha {fifteen). Yes, it's real bad yarn they've given ns
this time.
Emma. What can have happened to father? He's been
away since nine.
Mother Baumert. That he has ! yes. Where in the wide
world c'n he be?
Bertha. Don't you worry yourself, mother.
Mother Baumert. I can't help it, Bertha lass.
[Emma begins to weave again.]
Bertha. Stop a minute, Emma!
Emma. What is it !
Bertha. I thought I heard some one.
Emma. It'll be Ansorge comin' home.
Enter Fritz, a little, barefooted, ragged boy of four.
Fritz {whimpering) . I'm hungry, mother.
Emma. W^ait, Fritzel, wait a bit! Gran 'father '11 be here
very soon, an' he's bringin' bread along with him, an'
coffee too.
Fritz. But I'm awful hungry, mother.
Emma. Be a good boy now, Fritz. Listen to what I'm
tellin' you. He'll be here this minute. He's bringin'
nice bread an' nice corn-coffee; an' when we stops
workin' mother '11 take the tater peelin's and carry
them to the farmer, and the farmer '11 give her a drop
o' good buttermilk for her little boy.
Fritz. Where's grandfather gone?
Emma. To the manufacturer, Fritz, with a web.
Fritz. To the manufacturer?
Emma. Yes, yes, Fritz, down to Dreissiger's at Peters-
waldau.
Fritz. Is it there he gets the bread?
Emma. Yes ; Dreissiger gives him money, and then he buys
the bread.
Fritz. Does he give him a heap of money?
Vol. XVIII— 3
\y
34 THE GERMAN CLASSICS
Emma (impatiently). Oh, stop that chatter, boy.
[She and Bertha go on weaving for a time, and then
both stop again.]
Bertha. Augus-t, go and ask Ansorge if he'll give us a
light. [August goes out accompanied by Fritz.]
Mother Baumert {overcome by her childish apprehension,
whimpers). Emma! Bertha! where c'n the man be
stayin'?
Bertha. Maybe he looked in to see Hanffe.
Mother Baumert {crying). What if he's sittin' drinkin'
in the public-house ?
Emma. Don 't cry, mother ! You know well enough father 's
not the man to do that.
Mother Baumert {half distracted by a multitude of gloomy
forebodings). What — what — what's to become of us
if he don't come home? if he drinks the money, an'
don't bring us nothin' at alll There's not so much as
a handful o' salt in the house — not a bite o' bread, nor
a bit 0 ' wood for the fire.
Bertha. Wait a bit, mother! It's moonlight just now.
We'll take August with us and go into the wood and
get some sticks.
Mother Baumert. Yes, an' be caught by the forester.
Ansorge, an old weaver of gigantic stature, who has to bend down to get
into the room, puts his head and shoulders in at the door. Long, unkempt
hair and beard.
Ansorge. What's wanted?
Bertha. Light, if you please.
Ansorge {in a muffled voice, as if speaking in a sick-room) .
There 's good daylight yet.
Mother Baumert. Is we to sit in the dark next ?
Ansorge. I've to do the same mayself. [Goes out.]
Bertha. It's easy to see that he's a miser.
Emma. Well, there's nothin' for it but to sit an' wait his
pleasure.
Enter Mrs. Heinrich, a woman of thirty, heavy with child; an expression
of torturing anxiety and apprehension on her worn face.
THE WEAVERS 35
Mrs. Heinrich. Good evenin' t'you all.
Mother Baumert. Well, Jenny, and what's your news?
Mrs. Heinrich {who limps). I've got a piece o' glass into
my foot.
Bertha. Come an' sit dowTi, then, an' I'll see if I c'n get
it out.
[Mrs. Heinrich seats herself. Bertha kneels doivn ^
in front of her, and eocaniines her foot.]
Mother Baumert. How are ye all at home, Jenny?
Mrs. Heinrich {breaks out despairingly) . Things is in a
terrible way with us !
[She struggles in vain against a rush of tears; then
weeps silently.]
Mother Baumert. The best thing as could happen to the
likes o' us, Jenny, would be if God had pity on us an'
took us away out o' this weary world.
Mrs. Heinrich {no longer able to control herself, screams,
still crying). My children's starvin'. [Sobs and
moans.] I don't know what to do no more! I c'n
work till I drops — I'm more dead'n alive — things
don't get different! There's nine hungiy mouths to
fill! We got a bit o' bread last night, but it wasn't
enough even for the two smallest ones. Who was I to
give it to, eh? They all cried: Me, me, mother! give
it to me ! * * * An' if it's like this while I'm still
on my feet, what '11 it be when I've to take to bed?
Our few taters was washed away. We haven't a thing
to put in our mouths.
Bertha {has removed the bit of glass and washed the
wound). We'll put a rag round it. Emma, see if you
can find one.
Mother Baumert. We're no better off'n you, Jenny.
Mrs. Heinrich. You has your girls, any way. You've a
husband as c'n work. Mine was taken with one o' his
fits last week again — so bad that I didn't know what
to do with him, and was half out o ' my mind with fright.
S6 THE GERMAN CLASSICS
And when he's had a turn like that, he can't stir out o'
bed under a week.
Mother Baumeet. Mine 's no better. He 's goin ' to pieces,
too. He's breathin 's bad now as well as his back. An '
there 's not a f arthin ' nor a f arthin 's worth in the house.
If he don't bring a few pence with him today, I don't
know what we 're to do.
Emma. It's the truth she's tellin' you, Jenny. We had to
let father take the little dog with him today, to have
him killed, that we might get a bite into our stomachs
again !
Mrs. Heineich. Haven't you got as much as a handful o'
flour to spare?
Mother Baumert. An' that we haven't, Jenny. There's
not as much as a grain o'^salt in the house.
Mrs. Heinrich. Well, then, I don 't know — [Rises, stands
still, brooding.'] I don't know what'U be the end o'
this! It's more'n I c'n bear. [Screams in rage and
despair.'] I'd be contented if it was no thin' but pigs'
food! — But I can't go home again empty-handed —
that I can't. God forgive me, I see no other way out
of it. [She limps quickly out.]
Mother Baumert {calls after her in a warning voice).
Jenny, Jenny! don't you be doin' anything foolish,
now!
Bertha. She'll do herself no harm, mother. You needn't
be afraid.
Emma. That's the way she always goes on.
[Seats herself at the loom, and weaves for a few
seconds.]
August enters, carrying a tallow candle, and lighting Us father, Om*
Baumert, who follows close behind him, staggering under a heavy bundle
of yarn.
Mother Baumert. Oh, father, where have you been all
this long time? Where have you been?
THE WEAVERS 37
Old Baumeet. Come now, mother, don 't fall on a man like
that. Give me time to get my breath first. An' look
who I've brought with me.
MoRiTz Jaeger comes stooping in at the low door. Reserve soldier, newly
discharged. Middle height, rosy-cheeked, military carriage. His cap
on the side of his head, hussar fashion, whole clothes and shoes, a clean
shirt without collar. Draws himself up and salutes.
Jaeger (in a hearty voice). Grood-evenin ', auntie Baumert!
Mother Baumert. Well, well now! and to think you've
got back ! An ' you 've not forgotten us % Take a chair,
then, lad,
Emma {wiping a wooden chair with her apron, and pushing
it toward Moritz). An' so you've come to see what
poor folks is like again, Moritz?
Jaeger. I say, Emma, is it true that you've got a boy
nearly old enough to be a soldier? Where did you get
hold o' him, eh!
[Bertha, having taken the small supply of provisions
which her father has brought, puts meat into a
saucepan, and shoves it into the oven, while August
lights the fire.']
Bertha. You knew weaver Finger, didn 't you ?
Mother Baumert. We had him here in the house with us.
He was ready enoug-h to marry her; but he was too far
gone in consumption; he was as good as a dead man.
It didn't happen for want o' warnin' from me. But
do vou think she would listen? Not she. Now he's
dead an-' forgotten long ago, an' she's left with the boy
to provide for as best she can. But now tell us how
you've been gettin' on, Moritz.
Old Baumert. You 've only to look at him, mother, to know
that. He's had luck. It'll be about as much as he can
do to speak to the likes o' us. He's got clothes like a
prince, an' a silver watch, an' thirty shillings in his
pocket into the bargain.
/
38 THE GERMAN CLASSICS
Jaeger {stretching himself consequentially, a knowing smile
on his face). I can't complain. I didn't get on so
badly in the regiment.
Old Baumeet. He was the major's own servant. Just
listen to him — he speaks like a gentleman.
Jaeger. I've got so accustomed to it that I can't help it.
Mother Baumert. Well,, now, to think that such a good-
for-nothin' as you was should have come to be a rich
man. For there wasn't nothin' to be made of you.
You would never sit still to wind more than a hank of
yam at a time, that you wouldn't. Oft" you w^ent to
your tomtit boxes an' your robin redbreast snares —
they w^as all you cared about. Isn't it the truth I'm
telling?
Jaeger. Yes, yes, auntie, it 's true enough. It wasn't only
redbreasts. I went after swallows too.
Emma. Though we were always tellin' you that swallows
was poison.
Jaeger. What did I care? — But how have you all been
gettin' on, auntie Baumert?
Mother Baumert. Oh, badly, lad, badly these last four
years. I've had the rheumatics — just look at them
handsj An' it's more than likely as I've had a stroke
o ' some kind too, I 'm that helpless. I can hardly move
a limb, an' nobody knows the pains I suffers.
Old Baumert. She's in a bad way, she is. She'll not hold
out long.
Bertha. We've to dress her in the momin' an' undress
her at night, an' to feed her like a baby.
Mother Baumert (speaking in a complaining,, tearful
voice ) . Not a thing c 'n I do for myself. It 's far worse
than bein' ill. For it's not only a burden to myself I
am, but to every one else. Often and often do I pray
to God to take me. For oh! mine's a weary life. I
don't know — p'r'aps they think — but I'm one that's
been a hard worker all my days. An' I've always been
able to do my turn too; but now, all at once [she vainly
THE WEAVERS 39
attempts to rise] I can't do no thin'. I've a good hus-
band an ' good children, but to have to sit here and se«
them — ! Look at the girls ! There's hardly any blood
left in them — faces the color of a sheet. But on they
must work at these weary looms whether they earn
enough to keep theirselves or not. What sort o' life
is it they lead f Their feet never off the treadle from
year's end to year's end. An' with it all they can't
scrape together as much as '11 buy them clothes that
they can let theirselves be seen in; never a step can
they go to churcli, to hear a word o' comfort. They're
liker scarecrows than young girls of fifteen and twenty.
Beetha [at the stove). It's beginnin' to smoke again!
Old Baumert. There now; look at that smoke. And we
can't do no thin' for it. The whole stove's goin' to
pieces. We must let it fall, and swallow the soot.
We're coughin' already, one worse than the other. We
may cough till we choke, or till we cough our lungs up —
nobody cares.
Jaeger. But this here is Ansorge's business; he must see
to the stove.
Bertha. He'll see us out o' the house first; he has plenty
against us without that.
Mother Baumert. We've only been in his way this long
time past.
Old Baumert. One word of a complaint an' out we go.
He's had no rent from us this last half-year.
Mother Baumert. A well-off man like him needn't be so
hard.
Old Baumert. He's no better off than we is, mother. He's
hard put to it too, for all he holds his tongue about it.
Mother Baumert. He's got his house.
Old Baumert. Wliat are you talkin' about, mother? Not
one stone in the wall is the man's own.
Jaeger {has seated himself, and taken a short pipe with gay
tassels out of one coat-pocket, and a quart bottle of V
brandy out of another). Things can't go on like this.
40 THE GERMAN CLASSICS
I'm dumbfoundered when I see. the life the people live
here. The very dogs in the towns live better.
Old Baumert {eagerly). That's what I says! Eh? eh?
You know it too ! But if you say that here, they '11 tell
you that it's only bad times.
Enter Ansobge, an earthenware pan with soup in one hand, in the other
a half-finished quarter-bushel basket.
Ansoege. Glad to see you again, Moritz !
Jaeger. Thank you, father Ansorge — same to you!
Ansoege {shoving his pan into the oven). Why, lad, you
look like a duke.
Old Baumert. Show him your watch, Moritz. An' he's
got a new suit of clothes, an ' thirty shillings cash.
Ansoege {shaking his head). Is that so? Well, well!
Emma {puts the potato-parings into a hag). I must be off;
I'll maybe get a drop o' buttermilk for these.
{Goes out.'\
Jaeger {the others hanging intently and devoutly on his
words). You know how you all used to be down on me.
It was always: Wait, Moritz, till your soldierin' time
comes — you'll catch it then. But you see how well
I've got on. At the end o' the first half-year I had my
good conduct stripes. You've got to be willin' — that's
where the secret lies. I brushed the sergeant's boots;
I groomed his horse ; I fetched his beer. I was as sharp
as a needle. Always ready, accoutrements clean and
shinin' — first at stables, first at roll-call, first in the
saddle. An' when the bugle sounded to the assault —
why, then, blood and thunder, and ride to the devil with
you ! ! I was as keen as a pointer. Says I to myself :
There's no help for it now, my boy, it's got to be done ;
and I set my mind to it and did it. Till at last the
major said before the whole squadron : There 's a hus-
sar now that shows you what a hussar should be !
[Silence. He lights his pipe.]
THE WEAVERS 41
Ansokge {shaking his head). Well, well, well! You had
luck with you, Moritz !
[Sits down on the floor, with his willow twigs beside
him, and continues mending the basket, which he
holds between his legs.]
Old Baumert. Let's hope you've brought some of it to
us. — Are we to have a drop to drink your health in?
Jaeger. Of course you are, father Baumert. And when
this bottle's done, we'll send for more.
[He flings a coin on the table.']
Ansorge {open mouthed with amazement). Oh my! Oh
my ! What goings on to be sure ! Roast meat frizzlin'
in the oven! A bottle o' brandy on the table! [He
drinks out of the bottle.] Here's to you, Moritz! —
Well, well, well!
[The bottle circulates freely after this.]
Old Baumert. If we could any way have a bit o ' meat on
Sundays and holidays, instead o' never seein' the sight
of it from year's end to year's end! Now we'll have
to wait till another poor little dog finds its way into
the house like this one did four weeks gone by — an'
that's not likely to happen soon again.
Ansorge. Have you killed the little dog?
Old Baumert. We had to do that or starve.
Ansorge. Well, well! That's so!
Mother Baumert. A nice, kind little beast he was, tool
Jaeger. Are you as keen as ever on roast dog hereabouts?
Old Baumert. Lord, if we could only get enough of it !
Mother Baumert. A nice little bit o' meat like that does
you a lot o' good.
Old Baumert. Have you lost the taste for it, Moritz?
Stay with us a bit, and it'll soon come back to you.
Ansorge {sniffing). Yes, yes! That will be a tasty bite —
what a good smell it has !
Old Baumert {sniffing). Fine as spice, you might say.
v.-
42 THE GERMAN CLASSICS
Ansoege. Come, then, Moritz, tell us your opinion, you
that's been out and seen the world. Is things at all
like to improve for ua weavers, ehf
Jaeger. They would need to.
Ansoege. We 're in an awful state here. It's not livin' an*
it's not dyin'. A man fights to the bitter end, but he's
bound to be beat at last — to be left without a roof over
his head, you may say without ground under his feet.
As long as he can work at the loom he can earn some
sort o' poor, miserable livin'. But it's many a day
since I've been able to get that sort o ' job. Now I tries
to put a bite into my mouth with this here basket-
makin '. I sits at it late into the night, and by the time
I tumbles into bed I've earned three-half -pence. I
puts it to you as knows things, if a man can live on that,
when everything's so dear? Nine shillin' goes in one
lump for house tax, three shillin' for land tax, nine
shillin' for mortgage interest — that makes one pound
one. I may reckon my year's earnin at just double
that money, and that leaves me twenty-one shillin' for
a whole year's food, an' fire, an' clothes, an' shoes ; and
I've got to keep up some sort of a place to live in. An'
there's odds an' ends. Is it a wonder if I'm behind-
hand with my interest payments? •
Old Baumeet. Some one would need to go to Berlin an'|
tell the King how hard put to it we are.
Jaeger. Little good that would do, father Baumert.
There's been plenty written about it in the newspapers.
But the rich people, they can turn and twist things
round — as cunning as the devil himself.
Old Baumert {shaking his head). To think they've no
more sense than that in Berlin.
Ansorge. And is it really true, Moritz? Is there no law to
help us? If a man hasn't been able to scrape together
enough to pay his mortgage interest, though he's
worked the very skin off his hands, must his house be
taken from him? The peasant that's lent the money
THE WEAVEES 43
on it, lie wants his rights — what else can you look for
from him? But what's to be the end of it all, I don't
know. — If I'm put out o' the house — [In a voice
choked hy tears.'] I was bom here, and here my father
sat at his loom for more than forty year. Many was
the time he said to mother: Mother, when I'm gone,
keep hold o ' the house. I 've worked hard for it. Every
nail means a night's weavin', every plank a year's dry
bread. A man would think that —
Jaeger. They're just as like to take the last bite out of
your mouth — that 's what they are.
Ansoege. Well, well, well! I would rather be carried out
than have to walk out now in my old days. Who minds
dyin'? My father, he was glad to die. At the very
end he got frightened, but I crept into bed beside him,
an' he quieted down again. Think of it: I was a lad
of thirteen then. I was tired and fell asleep beside
him — I knew no better — and when I woke he was
quite cold.
Mother Baumert {after a pause). Give Ansorge his soup
out o' the oven. Bertha.
Bertha. Here, father Ansorge, it'll do you good.
Ansorge {eating and shedding tears). Well, well, well!
[Old Baumert has hegnn to eat the meat out of tlie
saucepan.]
Mother Baumert. Father, father, can't you have patience
an' let Bertha serve it up properly?
Old Baumert {chewing) . It's two years now since I took
the sacrament. I went straight after that an' sold my
Sunday coat, an' we bought a good bit o' pork, an'
since then never a mouthful of meat has passed my
lips till tonight.
Jaeger. We don't need no meat ! The manufacturers eats
it for us. It's the fat o' the land f/iei/ lives on. Who-
ever don't believe that has only to go dowTi to Bielau
and Peterswaldau. He'll see fine things tliere — palace
upon palace, with towers and iron railings and plate-
\/
U THE GERMAN CLASSICS
glass windows. Who do they all belong to! Why,
of course, the manufacturers! No signs of bad times
there ! Baked and boiled and fried — Lorses and car-
riages and governesses — they've money to pay for all
that and goodness knows how much more. They're
swelled out to burstin' with pride and good livin.'.
Ansorge. Things was different in my young days. Then
the manufacturers let the weaver have his share. Now
they keeps everything to theirselves. An' would you
like to know what 's at the bottom of it all ? It 's that
the fine folks nowadays believes neither in God nor
devil. What do they care about commandments or
punishments? And so they steals our last scrap o'
bread, an' leaves us no chance of earnin' the barest liv-
ing. For it's their fault. If our manufacturers was
good men, there would be no bad times for us.
Jaeger. Listen, then, and I'll read you something that will
please you. [He takes one or two loose papers from
his pocket.] I say, August, run and fetch another
quart from the public-house. Eh, boy, do you laugh
all day long?
Mother Baumert. No one knows why, but our August's
always happy — grins an' laughs, come what may. Off
with you then, quick! [Exit August with the empty
hrandy-hottle.'] You've got something good now, eh,
father?
Old Baumert {still chewing; his spirits are rising from the
effect of food and drink). Moritz, you're the very man
we want. You can read an' write. You understand
the weavin' trade, and you've a heart to feel for the
poor weavers' sufferin's. You should stand up for
us here.
Jaeger. I'd do that quick enough! There's nothing I'd
like better than to give the manufacturers round here
a bit of a fright — dogs that they are! I'm an easy-
goin' fellow, but let me once get worked up into a real
rage, and I'll take Dreissiger in the one hand and Ditt-
THE WEAVERS 45
rich in the other, and knock their heads together till
the sparks fly out o' their eyes. If we could only
arrange all to join together, we'd soon give the manu-
facturers a proper lesson — we wouldn't need no King
an ' no Government. All we 'd have to do would be to
sav: We wants this and that, and we don't want the
other thing. There would be a change of days then.
As soon as they see that there's some pluck in us,
they'll cave in. I know the rascals; they're a pack o'
cowardly hounds.
Mother Baumert. There's some truth in what you say.
I'm not a bad woman. I've always been the one to say
as how there must be rich folks as well as poor. But
when things come to such a pass as this —
Jaeger. The devil may take them all, for what I care. It
would be no more than they deserves.
[Old Baumert has quietly gone out.'\ ^
Bertha. Where's father?
Mother Baumert. I don't know where he can have gone.
Bertha. Do you think he's not been able to stomach the
meat, ^vith not gettin' none for so long?
Mother Baumert {in distress, crying). There now, there!
He's not even able to keep it down when he's got it.
Up it comes again, the only bite o' good food as he's
tasted this many a day. .
Reenter OiSD Baumert, crying with rage.
Old Baumert. It's no good! I'm too far gone! Now
that I've at last got hold of somethin' with a taste in it,
my stomach won't keep it.
{He sits down on the bench by the stove crying.]
Jaeger (with a sudden violent ebullition of rage). An' yet
there's people not far from here, justices they call
themselves too, over-fed brutes, that have nothing to
do all the year round but invent new ways of wastin'
their time. An' these people say that the weavers
would be quite well off if only they wasn't so lazy.
46 THE GERI^IAN CLASSICS
Ansorge. The men as says that are no men at all, they're
monsters.
Jaeger. Never mind, father Ansorge; we're makin' the
place hot for 'em. Becker and I have been and given
Dreissiger a piece of our mind, and before we came
away we sang him " Bloody Justice."
Ansorge. Good Lord! Is that the song?
Jaeger. Yes; I have it here.
Ansorge. They calls it Dreissiger 's song, don't they?
Jaeger. I'll read it to you.
Mother Baumert. Who wrote it?
Jaeger. That's what nobody knows. Now listen.
[He reads, hesitating like a schoolboy, with incorrect
accentuation, hut unmistakably strong feeling.
Despair, suffering, rage, hatred, thirst for revenge,
all find utterance.]
The justice to us weavers dealt
Is bloody, cruel, and hateful ;
Our life 's one torture, long drawn out :
For lynch law we'd be grateful.
Stretched on the rack day after day.
Hearts sick and bodies aching.
Our heavy sighs their witness bear
To spirit slowly breaking.
[The words of the song make a strong impression
on Old Baumert. Deeply agitated, he struggles
against the temptation to interrupt Jaeger. At
last he can keep quiet no longer.]
Old Baumert (to his wife, half laughing, half crying, stam-
mering). Stretched on the rack day after day. Who-
ever wrote that, mother, wrote the truth. You can bear
witness — eh, how does it go? '* Our heavy sighs their
witness bear " — What's the rest?
Jaeger. ' * To spirit slowly breaking. ' '
THE WEAVERS 47
Old Baumeet. You know the way we sigh, mother, day and
night, sleepin' and wakin'.
[Ansorge has stopped working, and cowers on the
floor, strongly agitated. Mother Baumert and
Bertha wipe their eyes frequently during the
course of the reading.']
Jaeger {continues to read).
The Dreissigers true hangmen are,
Servants no whit behind them;
Masters and men with one accord
Set on the poor to grind them.
Yojivillaiiis all, you brood of hell —
Old Baumert {trembling with rage, stamping on the floor).
Yes, brood of hell ! ! !
Jaeger (reads).
You fiends in fashion human,
A curse will fall on all like you,
Who prey on man and woman.
Ansorge. Yes, yes, a curse upon them !
Old Baumert {clenching his fist, threateningly). You prey
on man and woman.
Jaeger (reads).
The suppliant knows he asks in vain,
Vain every word that's spoken.
'' If not content, then go and starve —
Our rules cannot be broken."
Old Baumert. What is it? " The suppliant knows he asks
in vain? " Every word of it's true — every word —
as true as the Bible. He knows he asks in vain.
Ansorge. Yes, yes! It's all no good.
Jaeger (reads).
Then think of all our woe and want,
0 ye who hear this ditty !
Our struggles vain for daily bread
Hard hearts would move to pity.
48 THE GERMAN CLASSICS
But pity's what you've never known, —
You'd take both skin and clothing,
You cannibals, whose cruel deeds
Fill all good men with loathing.
Old Baumeet {jumps up, beside himself with excitement).
Both skin and clothing. It's true, it's all true! Here
I stands, Robert Baumert, master-weaver of Kasch-
bach. Who can bring up anything against met I've
been an honest, hard-workin' man all my life long, an'
look at me now! What have I to show for it? Look
at me! See what they've made of me! Stretched on
the rack day after day. {He holds out his arms.] Feel
that ! Skin and bone ! * ' You villains all, yon brood
of hell!!"
[He sinks down on a chair, weeping with rage and
despair. 1
Ansoege {flings his basket from him into a corner, rises, his
whole body trembling with rage, gasps). An' the
time's come now for a change, I say. We'll stand it
no longer. We'll stand it no longer! Come what may!
ACT III
The common-room of the principal public-house in Petersivaldau. A large
room with a raftered roof supported hy a central wooden pillar, round
which a table runs. In the back wall, a little to the right of the pillar, is
the entrance-door, through the opening of which the spacious lobby or
outer room is seen, with barrels and brewing utensils. To the right of
this door, in the corner, is the bar — a high wooden counter with recep-
tacles for beer-mugs, glasses, etc.; a cupboard with rows of brandy and
liqueur bottles on the wall behind, and between counter and cupboard a
narrow space for the barkeeper. In front of the bar stands a table with
a gay-colored cover, a pretty lamp hanging above it, and several cane
chairs placed around it. Not far off, in the right wall, is a door with
the inscription: Bar Parlor. Nearer the front on the same side an old
eight-day clock stands ticking. At the back, to the left of the entrance-
door, is a table with bottles and glasses, and beyond this, in the corner,
is the great tile-oven. In the left wall there are three small windows.
Below them runs a long bench; and in front of each stands a large
oblong wooden table, with the end towards the wall. There are benches
THE WEAVERS 49
ipith backs along the sides of these tables, and at the end of each facing
the window stands a wooden chair. The walls are washed blue and
decorated with advertisements, colored prints and oleographs, among
the latter a portrait of Frederick William IV.
Welzel, the publican, a good-natured giant, upwards of fifty, stands behind
the counter, letting beer run from a barrel into a glass. Mrs. Welzel
is ironing by the stove. She is a handsome, tidily dressed woman in her
thirty-fifth year. Anna Weilzel, a good-looking girl of seventeen, with
a quantity of beautiful, fair, reddish hair, sits, neatly dressed, with her
embroidery, at the table with the colored cover. She looks up from her
work for a moment and listens, as the sound of a funeral hymn sung by
school-children is heard in the distance. Wiegand, the joiner, in his
working clothes, is sitting at the same table, with a glass of Bavarian
beer before him. His face shows that he understands what the world re-
quires of a man if he is to attain his ends — namely, craftiness, swift-
ness, and relentless pushing forward. A Commeroial Traveler is
seated at the pillar-table, vigorously masticating a beefsteak. He is of
middle height, stout and thrifty-looking , inclined to jocosity, lively, and
impudent. He is dressed in the fashion of the day, and his portmanteau,
pattern-case, umbrella, overcoat and traveling rug lie on chairs beside him.
Welzel {carrying a. glass of beer to the Traveler, but
addressing Wiegand). The devil's broke loose in
Peterswaldau today.
Wiegand {in a sharp, shrill voice). That's because it's
delivery day at Dreissiger's.
Mrs. Welzel. But they don't generally make such an
awful row.
Wiegand. It's may be because of the two hundred new
weavers that he 's going to take on.
Mrs. Welzel {at her ironing). Yes, yes, that'll be it. If
he wants two hundred, six hundred 's sure to have come.
There 's no lack of them.
Wiegand. No, they'll last. There's no fear of their dying
out, let them be ever so badly off. They bring more
children into the world than we know what to do with.
[The strains of the funeral hymn are suddenly heard
more distinctly. ] There 's a funeral today too. Weaver
Nentwich is dead, you know.
Welzel. He 's been long enough about it. He 's been goin'
about like a livin' ghost this many a long day.
Vol. XVni — 4
50 THE GERMAN CLASSICS
WiEGAND. You never saw such a little coffin, Welzel ; it was
the tiniest, miserablest little thing I ever glued together.
And what a corpse! It didn't weigh ninety pounds.
Traveler ( his mouth full ) . What I don 't understand 's this :
Take up whatever paper you like and you'll find the
most heartrending accounts of the destitution among
the weavers. You get the impression that three-quar-
ters of the people in this neighborhood are starving.
Then you come and see a funeral like what's going on
just now. I met it as I came into the village. Brass
band, schoolmaster, school children, pastor, and such a
procession behind them that you would think it was
the Emperor of China that was getting buried. If
the people have money to spend on this sort of thing,
well — ! [He takes a drink of beer; puts down the
glass; suddenly and jocosely.'] What do you say to it,
miss? Don't you agree with me?
[Anna gives an embarrassed laugh, and goes on
working busily.]
Traveler. Now, I'll take a bet that these are slippers for
papa.
Welzel. You're wrong, then; I wouldn't put such things
on my feet.
Traveler. You don't say so! Now, I would give half of
what I'm worth if these slippers were for me.
Mrs. Welzel. Oh, he don 't know nothing about such things.
Wiegand {has coughed once or twice, moved his chair, and
prepared himself to speak). You were sayin', sir, that
you wondered to see such a funeral as this. I tell you,
and Mrs. Welzel here will bear me out, that it's quite
a small funeral.
Traveler. But, my good man, — what a monstrous lot of
money it must cost! Where does all that come from!
Wiegand. If you'll excuse me for saying so, sir, there's a
deal of foolishness among the poorer working people
hereabouts. They have a kind of inordinate idea, if
I may say so, of the respect an' duty an' honor they're
bound to show to such as is taken from their midst.
THE WEAVERS 51
And when it comes to be a case of parents, then there's
no bounds whatever to their superstitiousness. The
children and the nearest family scrapes together every
farthing they can call their own, an' what's still want-
ing, that they borrow from some rich man. They run
themselves into debt over head and ears ; they're owing
money to the pastor, to the sexton, and to all concerned.
Then there's the victuals an' the drink, an' snch like.
No, sir, I'm far from speaking against dutifulness to
parents; but it's too much when it goes the length of
the mourners having to bear the weight of it for the
rest of their lives.
Traveler. But surely the pastor might reason them out of
such foolishness.
WiEGAND. Begging your pardon, sir, but I must mention
that every little place hereabouts has its church an ' its
reverend pastor to support. The^e honorable gentle-
men has their advantages from big funerals. The
larger the attendance is, the larger the offertory is
bound to be. Whoever knows the circumstances con-
nected with the working classes here, sir, will assure
you that the pastors are strong against quiet funerals.
Enter Hornig, the rag dealer, a little handy-legged old man, with a strap
round his chest.
HoRNiG. Good-momin', ladies and gentlemen! A glass o'
schnapps, if you please, Mr. Welzel. Has the young
mistress anything for me today? I've got beautiful
ribbons in my cart. Miss Anna, an' tapes, an' garters,
an' the very best of pins an' hairpins an' hooks an'
eyes. An' all in exchange for a few rags. [In a
changed voice.] An' out of them rags fine white
paper's to be made, for your sweetheart to write you a
letter on,
Anna. Thank you, but I've nothing to do with sweethearts.
Mrs. Welzel (putting a bolt into her iron). No, she's not
that kind. She'll not hear of marrying.
52 THE GERMAN CLASSICS
Traveler {jumps up, affecting delighted surprise, goes for-
ward to Anna's table, and holds out his hand to her
across it). That's sensible, miss. You and I think
alike in this matter. Give me your hand on it We'll
both remain single.
Anna {blushing scarlet, gives him her hand). But you are
married already!
Traveler. Not a bit of it. I only pretend to be. You
think so because I wear a ring. I only have it on my
finger to protect my charms against shameless attacks.
I'm not afraid of you, though. [He puts the ring into
his pocket.] But tell me, truly, miss, are you quite
determined never, never, never to marry?
Anna {shakes her head). Oh, get along with you I
Mrs. Welzel. You may tnist her to remain single unless
something very extra good turns up.
Traveler. And why shouldn 't it ? I know of a rich Silesian
proprietor who ma rried his mother 's lady 's maid. And
there's Dreissiger, the rich manufacturer, his mfe is
an innkeeper's daughter too, and not half so pretty as
you, miss, though she rides in her carriage now, with
servants in livery. And why not ? [He marches about,
stretching himself, and stamping his feet.] Let me
have a cup of coffee, please.
Enter Ansorge and Old Baumert, each vnth a bundle. They seat them-
selves meekly and silently beside Horning, at the front table to the
left.
Welzel. How are you, father Ansorge? Glad to see you
once again.
HoRNiG. Yes, it's not often as you crawl down from that
smoky old nest.
Ansorge {visibly embarrassed, mumbles). I've beenfetchin'
myself a web again.
Baumert. He's goin' to work at a shilling the web.
Ansorge. I wouldn't ha' done it, but there's no more to be
made now by basket-weavin'.
THE WEAVERS 53
WiEGAND. It's always better than no thin'. He does it only
to give you employment. I know Dreissiger very well.
When I was up there takin' out his double windows
last week we were talkin' about it, him and me. It's
out of pity that he does it.
Ansorge. Well, well, well! That may be so.
Welzel, {setting a glass of schnapps on the table before
each of the weavers). Here you are, then. I say,
Ansorge, how long is it since you had a shave? The
gentleman over there would like to know.
Tra\':eler {calls across). Now, Mr. Welzel, you know I
didn't say that. I was only struck by the venerable
appearance of the master-weaver. It isn't often one
sees such a gigantic figure.
Ansorge {scratching his head, embarrassed). Well, well!
Traveler. Such specimens of primitive strength are rare
nowadays. We're all rubbed smooth by civilization —
but I can still take pleasure in nature untampered with 1
— These bushy eyebrows! That tangled length of
beard !
HoRNiG. Let me tell you, sir, that them people haven't the
money to pay a barber, and as to a razor for them-
selves, that's altogether beyond them. What grows,
grows. They haven't nothing to throw away on their
outsides.
Traveler. My good friend, you surely don't imagine that
I would — [Aside to Welzel.1 Do you think I might
offer the hairj^ one a glass of beer?
Welzel. No, no; you mustn't do that. He wouldn't take
it. He's got some queer ideas in that head o' his.
Traveler. All right, then, I won't. With your permission,
miss. [He seats himself at Anna's table.] I declare,
miss, that I've not been able to take my eyes off your
hair since I came in — such glossy softness, such a
splendid quantity! [Ecstatically hisses his finger-
tips.'] And what a color! — like ripe wheat. Come to
Berlin with that hair and you'll create no end of a
54 THE GERMAN CLASSICS
sensation. On my honor, with hair like that you may
go to Court. [Leans back, looking at it.] Glori-ous,
simply glorious !
WiEGAND. They've given her a fine name because of it.
Traveler. And what may that be?
Anna (laughing quietly to herself). Oh, don't listen to
that!
HoRNiG. The chestnut filly, isn't it?
Welzel. Come now, we've had enough o' this. I'm not
goin' to have the girl's head turned altogether. She's
had a-plenty of silly notions put into it already. She '11
hear of nothing under a count today, and tomorrow
it'll be a prince.
Mrs. Welzel. Don't abuse the girl, father. There's no
harm in wantin' to rise in the world. It's as well that
people don't all think as you do, or nol^ody would get
on at all. If Dreissiger's grandfather had been of
your way of thinkin', they would be poor weavers still.
And now they're rollin' in wealth. An' look at old
Tromtra. He was nothing but a weaver, too, and now
he owns twelve estates, an' he's been made a nobleman
into the bargain.
WiEGAND. Yes, Welzel, you must look at the thing fairly.
Your wife's in the right this time. I can answer for
that. I'd never be where I am, with seven workmen
under me, if I had thought like you.
HoRNiG. Yes, you understand the way to get on; that your
worst enemy must allow. Before the weaver has taken
to bed, you're gettin' his coffin ready.
WiEGAND. A man must stick to his business if he 'sio get on.
HoRNiG. No fear of you for that. You know before the
doctor when death's on the way to knock at a weaver's
door.
WiEGAND (attempting to laugh, suddenly furious). And
you know better 'n the police where the thieves are
among the weavers, that keep back two or three bob-
bins full every week. It's rags you ask for but you
don't say No, if there's a little yarn among them.
THE WEAVERS . 55
HoRNiG. An' your com grows in the churchyard. The
more that are bedded on the sawdust, the better for
you. When you see the rows o' little children's graves,
you pats yourself on the belly, and say you ; This has
been a good year ; the little brats have fallen like cock-
chafers off the trees. I can allow myself a quart extra
in the week again.
WiEGAND. And supposin' this is all true, it still don't make
me a receiver of stolen goods.
HoBNiG. No; perhaps the worst you do is to send in an
account twice to the rich fustian manufacturers, or to
help yourself to a plank or two at Dreissiger's when
there's building go in' on and the moon happens not to
be shinin'.
WiEGAND (turning his back). Talk to any one you like, but
not to me. [Then suddenly.] Homig the liar!
HoRNiG. Wiegand the coffin-jobber!
WiEGAND {to the rest of the company). He knows charms
for bewitching cattle.
HoRNiG. If you don't look out, I'll try one of 'em on you.
[WiEGAND turns pale.]
Mrs. Welzel, (had gone out; now returns with the Trav-
eler's coffee; in the act of putting it on the table).
Perhaps you would rather have it in the parlor, sir?
Traveler. Most certainly not! [With a languishing look
at Anna.] I could sit here till I die.
Enter a Young Forester and a Peasant, the latter carrying a whip.
They wish the others " Good Morning," and remain standing at the
counter.
Peasant. Two brandies, if you please.
Welzel. Good-morning to you, gentlemen.
[He pours out their beverage; the two touch glasses,
take a mouthful, and then set the glasses doivn on
the counter.]
Traveler {to Forester). Come far this morning, sir?
Forester. From Steinseiffersdorf — that's a good step.
56 THE GERMAN CLASSICS
Two old weavers enter, and seat themselves beside Ansorge, Baumert,
and HoRNiG.
Traveler. Excuse me asking, but are you in Count Hocli-
lieim's service?
Forester. No. I 'm in Count Keil's.
Traveler. Yes, yes, of course — that was what I meant.
One gets confused here among all the counts and barons
and other gentlemen. It would take a giant's memory
to remember them all. Why do you carry an ax, if I
may ask?
Forester. I've just taken this one from a man who was
stealing wood.
Old Baumert. Yes, their lordships are mighty strict with
us about a few sticks for the fire.
Traveler. You must allow that if every one were to help
himself to what he wanted —
Old Baumert. By your leave, sir, but there's a difference
made here as elsewhere between the big an' the little
... thieves. . There's some here as deals in stolen wood
wholesale, and grows rich on it. But if a poor weaver —
First Old Weaver {interrupts Baumert). We're forbid to
take a single branch; but their lordships, they take the
very skin off of us — we've assurance money to pay,
an' spinning-money, an' charges in kind — we must go
here an' go there, an' do so an' so much field work, all
willy-nilly.
Ansorge. That's just how it is — what the manufacturer
leaves us, their lordships takes from us.
Second Old Weaver {has taken a seat at the next table).
I've said it to his lordship hisself. By your leave, my
lord, says I, it's not possible for me to work on the
estate so many days this year. I comes right out with
it. For why — my own bit of ground, my lord, it 's been
next to carried away by the rains. I've to work night
and day if I'm to live at all. For oh, what a flood that
was! There I stood an' wrung my hands, an' watched
the good soil come pourin' down the hill, into the very
THE WEAVERS 57
house! And all that dear, fine seed ! I could do no thin'
but roar an' cry until I couldn't see out o' my eyes for
a week. And then I had to start an' wheel eighty
heavy barrow-loads of earth up that hill, till my back
was all but broken.
Peasant {roughly). You w^eavers here make such an aw^ful
outcry. As if we hadn't all to put up with what Heaven
sends us. An' if you are badly off just now, whose
fault is it but your own ? What did you do when trade
was good? Drank an' squandered all you made. If
you had saved a bit then, you'd have it to fall back on
now when times is bad, and not need to be goin' stealin'
yarn and wood.
First Young Weaver {standing with several comrades in
the lobby or outer room, calls in at the door). What's
a peasant but a peasant, though he lies in bed till nine?
First Old Weaver. The peasant an' the count, it's the same
story with 'em both. Says the peasant when a weaver
wants a house: I'll give you a little bit of a hole to
live in, an' you'll pay me so much rent in money, an'
the rest of it you'll make up by helpin' me to get in my
hay an' my com — and if that don't please you, why,
then you may go elsewhere. He tries another, and to
the second he says the same as to the first.
Baumert {angrily). The weaver's like a bone that every
dog takes a gnaw at.
Peasant {furious). You starvin' curs, you're no good for
.anything. Can you yoke a plough? Can you draw a
straight furrow or throw a bundle of sheaves on to a
cart. You're fit for nothing but to idle about an' go
after the women. A pack of scoundrelly ne 'er-do-wells I
[He has paid and now goes out. The Forester fol-
lows, laughing. Welzel, the joiner, and Mrs. Wel-
ZEL laugh aloud; the Traveler laughs to himself.
Then there is a moment's silence.]
HoRNiG. A peasant like that's as stupid as his own ox.
As if I didn't know all about the distress in the villages
58 THE GERMAN CLASSICS
round here. Sad sights I've &een ! Four and five lyin*
naked on one sack of straw.
Traveler {in a mildly remonstrative tone). Allow me to
remark, my good man, that there's a great difference
of opinion as to the amount of distress here in the
Eulengebirge. If you can read —
HoRNiG. I can read straight off, as well as you. An' I
know what I've seen with my own eyes. It would be
queer if a man that's traveled the country with a pack
on his back these forty years an' more didn't know
something about it. There was the Fullers, now. You
saw the children scrapin' about among the dung-heaps
with the peasants' geese. The people up there died
naked, on the bare stone floors. In their sore need they
ate the stinking weavers' glue. Hunger carried 'em
off by the hundred.
Traveler. You must be aware, since you are able to read,
that strict investigation has been made by the Govern-
ment, and that —
HoRNiG, Yes, yes, we all know what that means. They
send a gentleman that knows all about it already better
nor if he had seen it, an' he goes about a bit in the
village where the brook flows broad an' the best houses
is. He don't want to dirty his shinin' boots. Thinks
he to hisself : All the rest '11 be the same as this. An'
so he steps into his carriage, an' drives away home
again, an' then writes to Berlin that there's no distress
in the place at all. If he had but taken the trouble
to go higher up into a village like that, to where the
stream comes in, or across the stream on to the narrow
side — or, better still, if he 'd gone up to the little out-
o'-the-way hovels on the hill above, some of 'em that
black an' tumble-down as it would be the waste of a
good match to set fire to 'em^ — it's another kind o'
report he'd have sent to Berlin. They should ha' come
to me, these government gentlemen that wouldn't
believe there was no distress here. I would ha' shown
THE WEAVEES 59
*eni something. I'd have opened their eyes for 'em
in some of these starvation holes.
[The strains of the Weavers' Song are heard, sung
outside.]
Welzel. There they are, roaring at that devil's song
again.
WiEGAND. They're turning the whole place upside down.
Mrs. Welzel. You'd tliink there was something in the air.
Jaeger and Becker arm in arm, at the head of a troop of young weavers,
march noisily through the outer room and enter the bar.
Jaeger. Halt ! To your places !
{The new arrivals sit down at the various tables, and
begin to talk to other weavers already seated
there.]
HoRNiG {calls out to Becker). What's up now, Becker, that
you've got together a crowd like this?
Becker {significantly) . Who knows but something may be
goin' to happen? Eh, Moritz?
HoRNiG. Come, come, lads. Don't you be a-gettin' of
yourselves into mischief.
Becker. Blood's flowed already. Would you like to see it?
\^He pulls up his sleeve and shows bleeding tattoo-
marks on the upper part of his arm. Many of the
other young weavers do the same.'\
Becker. We've been at barber Schmidt's gettin' ourselves
vaccinated.
HoRNiG. Now the thing's explained. Little wonder there's
such an uproar in the place, with a band of young rap-
scallions like you paradin' round.
Jaeger {consequentially, in a loud voice). You may bring
two quarts at once, Welzel! I pay. Perhaps you
think I haven't got the needful. You're wrong, then.
If we wanted we could sit an' drink your best brandy
an' swill coffee till tomorrow morning with any bag-
man in the land.
[Laughter among the young weavers.]
60 THE GERMAN CLASSICS
Traveler {affecting comic surprise). Is the young gentle-
man kind enough to take notice of me?
[Host, hostess, and their daughter, Wiegand, and the
Traveler all laugh.']
Jaeger. If the cap fits, wear it.
Traveler. Your affairs seem to be in a thriving condition.
young man, if I may be allowed to say so.
Jaeger. I can't complain. I'm a. traveler in made-up
goods. I go shares with the manufacturers. The
nearer starvation the weaver is, the better I fare. His
want butters my bread.
Becker. Well done, Moritz ! You gave it him that time.
Here's to you!
[Welzel has hr ought the corn-hrandy. On his way
hack to the counter he stops, turns round slowly,
and stands, an embodiment of phlegmatic strength,
facing the weavers.]
Welzel {calmly hut emphatically) . You let the gentleman
alone. He's done you no harm.
Young Weavers. And we 're doing him no harm.
[Mrs. Welzel has exchanged a few words with the
Traveler. She takes the cup with the remains of
his coffee and carries it into the parlor. The Trav-
eler follows her amidst the laughter of the
weavers.]
Young Weavers {singing).
'' The Dreissigers the hangmen are,
Servants no whit behind them. ' '
Welzel. Hush-sh ! Sing that song anywhere else you like,
but not in my house.
First Old Weaver. He's quite right. Stop that singin,'
lads.
Becker {roars). But we must march past Dreissiger's,
boys, and let him hear it once more.
Wiegand. You'd better take care — you may march once
too often! [Laughter and cries of Ho, ho!]
THE WEAVERS 61
WiTTiG has entered; a gray-haired old smith, hare-headed, with leather
apron and wooden shoes, sooty from the smithy. He is standing at the
counter waiting for his schnapps.
WiTTiG. Let 'em go on with their doin's. The dogs as
barks most, bites least.
Old Weaveks. Wittig, Wittig !
WiTTiG. Here he is. What do you want with him?
Old Weavers. ''It's Wittig! "—" Wittig, Wittig!"—
'' Come here, Wittig." — " Sit beside us, Wittig."
Wittig. Do you think I would sit beside a set of rascals
like you?
Jaeger. Come and take a glass with us.
Wittig. Keep your brandy to yourselves. I pay for my
own drink. [Takes his glass and sits down beside
Baumert and Ansorge. Clapping the latter on the
stomach.'] What's the weavers' food so nice? Sauer-
kraut and roasted lice !
Old Baumert {drunk with excitement). But what would
you say now if they'd made up their minds as how
they would put up with it no longer.
Wittig {with pretended astonishment, staring open-
mouthed at the old weaver). Heinerle ! you don't mean
to tell me that that's you? [Laughs immoderately.]
0 Lord, 0 Lord! I could laugh myself to death. Old
Baumert risin' in rebellion! We'll have the tailors
at it next, and then there'll be a rebellion among the
baa-lambs, and the rats and the mice. Damn it all,
but we'll see some sport.
[He nearly splits with laughter.]
Old Baumert. You needn't go on like that, Wittig. I'm
the same man I've always been. I still say 'twould be
better if things could be put right peaceably.
Wittig. Rot! How could it be done peaceably? Did they
do it peaceably in France? Did Robespeer tickle the
rich men 's palms ? No ! It was : Away with them,
every one! ,To the gilyoteen with 'era! Allongs
62 THE GERMAN CLASSICS
onfong!* You've got your work before you. The
geese '11 not fly ready roasted into your mouths.
Old Baumert. If I could make even half a livin' —
First Old Weaver. The water's up to our chins now,
Wittig.
Second Old Weaver. We're afraid to go home. It's all
the same whether we works or whether we lies abed;
.it's starvation both ways.
First Old Weaver. A man's like to go mad at home.
Old Ansorge. I've come to that pass now that I don't care
how things goes.
Old Weavers {with increasing excitement) . '■'■ We've no
peace anywhere. ' ' — ' * We 've no spirit to work. ' ' — ' ' Up
with us in Steenkunzendorf you can see a weaver sittin'
by the stream washin' hisself the whole day long,
naked as God made him. It's driven him clean out of
his mind."
Third Old Weaver {moved hy the spirit, stands up and
begins to " speak with tongues," stretching out his
hand threateningly). JudgTnent is at hand! Have
no dealings with the rich and the great ! Judgment is
at hand! The Lord God of Sabaoth —
{Some of the weavers laugh. He is pulled down on
to his seat.']
Welzel. That's a chap that can't stand a single glass —
he gets wild at once.
Third Old Weaver {jumps up again). But they — they
believe not in God, not in hell, not in heaven. They
mock at religion.
First Old Weaver. Come, come now, that's enough!
Becker. You let him do his little bit o ' preaching. There 's
many a one would be the better for takin' it to heart.
Voices {in excited confusion). *' Let him alone! " — '' Let
him speak ! ' '
Third Old Weaver {raising his voice). But hell is opened,
saith the Lord; its jaws are gaping wide, to swallow up
* Allans enfants (Marseillaise),
I
I
\»«(JvVW hsi^ ^5 vyminii)^ hiW woi"^
onfo'i ' ' The
-"""V ■ -low,
1 ■-
.._.. I've corn n to that •n;is:s riow tl .re
no V things gof^p.
Oi.D Weavers (im r easing excitement). *' We've no
peace anjn-vdie' ' Ve 've no spirit to work. ' ' — ' ' Up
with ns in 8te« sittin'
by =ay K.ng,
riAko<'1 ao G' olean out of
r^'i-i >? • ■ : his
liave
miigment is
down on
Si and a single glass —
'' ' . ju/mpb 'Up aguw ': ■ But liiay —thQy
- .:oi ii ■■■' •■-■'■ ■■; "f • " * •' ^^- heaven. They
'dt religu
From the Painting hy Karl Hiibner
\-<.'i±:<: lit* Vv 5 <■ i±' . v/Uw !•
slittlebito'- '- '^^...v b
e gapin-; allow up
THE WEAVERS 63
all those that oppress the afflicted and pervert judg-
ment in the cause of the poor. [Wild excitement. '\
Thied Old Weaver {suddenly declaiming, schoolboy
fashion).
When one has thought upon it well,
It's still more difficult to tell
Why they the linen- weaver 's work despise.
Becker. But we're fustian- weavers, man. [Laughter.]
HoRNiG. The linen-weavers is ever so much worse off than
you. They're wanderin' about among the hills like
ghosts. You people here have still got the pluck left
in you to kick up a row.
WiTTiG. Do you suppose the worst's over here? It won't
be long till the manufacturers drain away that little
bit of strength they still has left in their bodies.
Becker. You know what he said: It will come to the
weavers workin' for a bite of bread. [Uproar.]
Several, Old and Young Weavers. Who said that?
Becker. Dreissiger said it.
A Young Weaver. The damned rascal should be hung up
by the heels.
Jaeger. Look here, Wittig. You've always jawed such a
lot about the French Revolution, and a good deal too
about your own doings. A time may be coming, and
that before long, when every one will have a chance to
show whether he's a braggart or a true man.
Wittig (flaring up angrily). Say another word if you dare !
Has you heard the whistle o' bullets'? Has you done
outpost duty in an enemy's country?
Jaeger. You needn 't get angry about it. We 're comrades.
I meant no harm.
Wittig. None of your comradeship for me, you impudent
young fool.
Enter KutsCHE, the policeman.
Several Voices. Hush — sh ! Police !
[This calling goes on for some time, till at last there
is complete silence, amidst ivhich Kutsche takes
his place at the central pillar table.]
64 THE GERMAN CLASSICS
KuTSCHE. A small brandy, please.
[Again complete silence.]
WiTTiG. I suppose you've come to see if we're all beliavin'
ourselves, Kutsche?
KuTscHE {paying no attention to Wittig). Good morning,
Mr. Wiegand.
WiEGAND {still in the corner in front of the counter). Good
morning t'you.
KuTscHE. How's trade?
WiEGAND. Thank you, much as usual.
Becker. The chief constable's sent him to see if we're
spoilin' our stomach on these big wages we're gettin'.
[Laughter.^
Jaeger. I say, Welzel, you will tell him how we've been
feastin' on roast pork an' sauce an' dumplings and
sauerkraut, and now we're sittin' at our champagne
wine. [Laughter.']
Welzel. The world's upside down with them today.
KuTSCHE. An' even if you had the champagne wine and the
roast meat, you wouldn't be satisfied. I've to get on
without champagne wine as well as you.
Becker {referring to Kutsche's nose). He waters his
beet-root with brandy and gin. An' it thrives on it too.
[Laughter.]
Wittig. A p'liceman like that has a hard life. Now it's
a starving beggar boy he has to lock up, then it's a
pretty weaver girl he has to lead astray; then he has to
get roarin' drunk an' beat his wife till she goes
screamin' to the neighbors for help; and there's the
ridin ' about on horseback and the lyin ' in bed till nine
— nay, faith, but it's no easy job!
KuTscHE. Jaw away; you'll jaw a rope round your neck
in time. It's long been known what sort of a fellow
you are. The magistrates knows all about that rebel-
lious tongue o' yours. I know who'll drink wife and
child into the poorhouse an' himself into gaol before
long, who it is that'll go on agitatin' and agitatin' till
he brings down judgment on himself and all concerned.
THE WEAVERS 65 ^
WiTTiG {laughs bitterly). It's true enough — no one knows
what '11 be the end of it. You may be right yet. [Bursts
out in fury.] But if it does come to that, I know who
I've got to thank for it, who it is that's blabbed to the
manufacturers an' all the gentlemen romid, an' black-
ened my character to that extent that they never give
me a hand's turn of work to do — an' set the peasants
an' the millers against me, so that I'm often a whole
week without a horse to shoe or a wheel to put a tire
on. I know who's done it. I once pulled the damned
brute off his horse, because he was givin' a little stupid
boy the most awful flogging for stealin' a few unripe
pears. But I tell you this, Kutsche, and you know me
— if you get me put into prison, you may make your
own will. If I hears as much as a whisper of it, I'll
take the first thing as comes handy, whether it's a
horseshoe or a hammer, a wheel-spoke or a pail; I'll
get hold of you if I've to drag you out of bed from
beside your wife, and I'll beat in your brains, as sure
as my name 's Wittig.
[He has jumped up and is going to rush at Kutsche.]
Old and Young Weavers [holding him back). Wittig,
Wittig ! Don 't lose your head !
Kutsche {has risen involuntarily, his face pale. He backs
toivard the door while speaking. The nearer the door
the higher his courage rises. He speaks the last words
on the threshold, and then instantly disappears) . What
are you goin' on at me about? I didn't meddle with
you. I came to say somethin' to the weavers. My busi-
ness is with them an' not with you, and I've done noth-
ing to you. But I've this to say to you weavers: The
superintendent of police herewith forbids the singing
of that song — Dreissiger's song, or whatever it is you
calls it. And if the yelling of it on the streets isn't
stopped at once, he'll provide you with plenty of time
and leisure for goin' on with it in gaol. You may sing
there, on bread an' water, to your hearts' content.
Vol. XVTTT— 5 [Goes OUt.']
66 THE GERMAN CLASSICS
WiTTiG {roars after him). He's no right to forbid it — not
if we was to roar till the windows shook an' they could
hear ns at Reichenbach — not if we sang till the manu-
facturers' houses tumbled about their ears an' all the
superintendents' helmets danced on the top of their
heads. It's nobody's business but our own. |
[Becker has in the meantime got up, made a signal
for singing, and now leads off, the others joining
in.]
The justice to us weavers dealt
Is bloody, cruel, and hateful;
Our life 's one torture, long drawn out ;
For lynch law we 'd be grateful. |
[Welzel, atte^npts to quiet them, hut they pay no
attention to him. AViegand puts his hands to his
ears and rushes off. During the singing of the
next stanza the weavers rise and form into pro-
cession behind Becker and Wittig, ivho have given
pantomimic signs for a general break-up.']
Stretched on the rack, day after day,
Hearts sick and bodies aching,
Our heavy sighs their witness bear
To spirit slowly breaking.
[Most of the weavers sing the following stanza out
on the street, only a few young fellows, who are
paying, being still in the bar. At the conclusion
of the stanza no one is left in the room except
Welzel. and his wife and daughter, Hornig, and
Old Baumert.]
You villains all, you brood of hell,
You fiends in fashion human,
A curse will fall on all like you,
Who prey on man and woman.
Welzel {phlegmatically collecting the glasses). Their
backs are up today, an^ no mistake.
\
THE WEAVERS 67
HoRNiG {to Old Baumert, ivho is preparing to go). What
in the name of Heaven are they up to, Baumert?
Baumert. They're go in' to Dreissiger's to make him add
something on to the pay.
Welzel. And are you joining in these foolish goings on?
Old Baumert. I've no choice, Welzel. The young men
may an' the old men must.
[Goes out rather shamefacedly.']
HoRNiG. It'll not surprise me if this ends badly.
Welzel. To think that even old fellows like him are goin'
right off their heads !
HoRNiG. We all set our hearts on something!
ACT IV
Peterswaldau. — Private room of Dreissiger, the fustian manufacturer —
luxuriously furnished in the chilly taste of the first hWf of this century.
Ceiling, doors, and stove are white, and the wall paper, with its small,
straight-lined floral pattern, is dull and cold in tone. The furnitvre is
mahogany, richly carved, and upholstered in red. On the right, between
two ivindows with crimson damask curtains, stands the writing-table, a
high bureau with falling flap. Directly opposite to this is the sofa, with
the strong-box beside it; in front of the sofa a table, with chairs and
easy-chairs arranged about it. Against the back wall is a gun-rack. All
three walls are decorated with bad pictures in gilt frames. Above the
sofa is a mirror with a heavily gilded rococo frame. On the left an
ordinary door leads into the hall. An open folding door at the back shows
the drawing-room, over- furnished in the same style of comfortless osten-
tation. Two ladies, Mrs. Dreissiger and Mrs. Kittelhaus, the Pastor's
wife, are seen in the drawing-room, looking at pictures. Pastor Kit-
telhaus is there too, engaged in conversation with Weinhold, the tutor,
a theological graduate.
Kittelhaus {a kindly little elderly man., enters the front
room, smoking and chatting familiarly with the tutor,
who is also smoking; he looks round and shakes his
head in surprise at finding the room empty). You are
young, Mr. Weinhold, which explains everything. At
your age we old fellows held — well, I won't say the
same opinions — but certainly opinions of the same
tendency. And there's something fine about youth —
68 THE GERMAN CLASSICS
youth with its grand ideals. But unfortunately, Mr.
Weinhold, they don't last; they are as fleeting as April
sunshine. Wait till you are my age. When a man has
said his say from the pulpit for thirty years — fifty-
two times every year, not including saints' days — he
has inevitably calmed down. Think of me, Mr. Wein-
hold, when you come to that pass.
Weinhold {nineteen, pale, thin, tall, with lanky fair hair;
restless and nervous in his movements). With all due
respect, Mr. Kittelhaus, I can't think people have such
different natures.
Kittelhaus. My dear Mr, Weinhold, however restless-
minded and unsettled a man may be — [in a tone of
reproof 1 — and you are a case in point — however
violently and wantonly he may attack the existing order
of things, he calms down in the end. I grant you, cer-
tainly, that among our professional brethren individu-
als are to be found, who, at a fairly advanced age, still
play youthful pranks. One preaches against the drink
evil and founds temperance societies, another publishes
appeals which undoubtedly read most effectively. But
what good do they do? The distress among the weav-
ers, where it does exist, is in no way lessened — but the
peace of society is undermined. No, no; one feels
inclined in such cases to say: Cobbler, stick to your
last; don't take to caring for the belly, you who have
the care of souls. Preach the pure Word of God, and
leave all else to Him who provides shelter and food
for the birds, and clothes the lilies of the field. But I
should like to know wh&re our good host, Mr. Dreis-
siger, has suddenly disappeared to.
[Mes. Dreissigek, followed hy Mrs. Kittelhaus, noiu
comes forward. She is a pretty woman of thirty,
of a healthy, florid type. A certain discrepancy
is noticeable between her deportment and way of
expressing herself and her rich, elegant toilette.']
THE WEAVERS 69
Mes. Dreissigek. That's what I want to know too, Mr.
Kittelhans. But it's what William always does. No
sooner does a thing come into his head than off he goes
and leaves me in the lurch. I've said enough about it,
but it does no good.
KiTTELHAUs. It's always the way with business men, my
dear Mrs. Dreissiger.
Weinhold. I'm almost certain that something has hap-
pened doAvnstairs.
Dreissigek enters, hot and excited. ^
Dreissiger. Well, Eosa, is coffee served?
Mrs. Dreissiger {sulkily). Fancy your needing to run away
again !
Dreissiger {carelessly). Ah! these are things you don't
understand.
KiTTELHAUS. Excuse me — has anything happened to an-
noy you, Mr. Dreissiger?
Dreissiger. Never a day passes without that, my dear sir.
I am accustomed to it. What about that coffee, Rosa ?
[Mrs. Dreissiger goes ill-humoredly and gives one
or tu'O violent tugs at the broad embroidered bell-
pull.]
Dreissiger. I wish you had been downstairs just now, Mr.
Weinhold; you'd have gained a little experience. Be-
sides — but now let us have our game of whist.
KiTTELHAUS. By all means, sir. Shake off the dust and
burden of the day, Mr. Dreissiger; forget it in our
company.
Dreissiger {has gone to the window, pushed aside a curtain,
and is looking out. Involuntarily) . Vile rabble!! Come
here, Rosa! [She goes to the window.] Look — that
tall red-haired fellow there — !
KiTTELHAUS. That's the man they call Red Becker.
Dreissiger. Is he the man that insulted you the day before
yesterday? You remember what you told me — when
John was helping you into the carriage?
v/
70 THE GERMAN CLASSICS
Mrs. Dreissigee {pouting, drawls). I'm sure I don't know.
Dreissiger. Come now, drop that offended air! I must
know. I am thoroughly tired of their impudence. If
he's the man, I mean to have him arrested. [The
,/ strains of the Weavers' Song are heard.] Listen to
that ! Just listen !
KiTTELHAUs {highly/ incensed). Is there to be no end to
this nuisance? I must acknowledge now that it is time
for the police to interfere. Permit me. [He goes for-
ward to the window.'] See, see, Mr. Weinhold ! These
are not only young people. There are numbers of
steady-going old weavers among them, men whom I
have known for years and looked upon as most deserv-
ing and G-od-fearing. There they are, taking part in
this unheard-of mischief, trampling God's law under
foot. Do you mean to tell me that you still defend
these people?
Weinhold. Certainly not, Mr. Kittelhaus. That is, sir —
ciim grano salts. For after all, they are hungry and
they are ignorant. They are giving expression to their
dissatisfaction in the only way they understand. I
don't expect that such people —
Mrs. Kittelhaus {short, thin, faded, more like an old maid
than a married woman). Mr. Weinhold, Mr. Weinhold,
how can you ?
Dreissiger. Mr. Weinhold, I am sorry to be obliged to — !
I didn't bring you into my house to give me lectures on
philanthropy, and I must request that you will confine
yourself to the education of my boys, and leave my
other affairs entirely to me — entirely! Do you
understand ?
Weinhold {stands for a, moment rigid and deathly pale,
thenhows, with a strained smile. In alow voice). Cer-
tainly, of course I understand. I have seen this com-
/ ing. It is my wish too. [Goes out.]
Dreissiger {rudely). As soon as possible then, please. We
require the room.
THE WEAVERS 71
Mrs. Dreissigek. William, William!
Dreissigek. Have you lost your senses, Rosa, that you're
taking the part of a man who defends a low, black-
guardly libel like that song?
Mks. Dreissigbr. But, William, he didn't defend it.
Dreissiger. Mr. Kittelhaus, did he defend it or did he not!
Kjttelhaus. His youth must be his excuse, Mr. Dreissiger,
Mrs. Kittelhaus. I can't understand it. The young man
comes of such a good, respectable family. His father
held a public appointment for forty years, mthout a
breath on his reputation. His mother was overjoyed
at his getting this good situation here. And now he
himself shows so little appreciation of it.
Pfeifer {suddenly opens the door leading from the hall v/
and shouts in). Mr. Dreissiger, Mr. Dreissiger! they've
got him! Will you come, please? They've caught one
of 'em.
Dreissiger {hastily). Has some one gone for the police?
Pfeifer. The superintendent's on his way upstairs.
Dreissiger {at the door). Glad to see you, sir. We want
you here.
[Kittelhaus makes signs to the ladies that it will ,
he better for them to retire. He, his wife, and Mrs.
Dreissiger disappear into the drawing-room.]
Dreissiger {exasperated, to the Police Superintendent,
who has now entered). I have at last had one of the
ringleaders seized by my dyers. I could stand it no
longer — their insolence was beyond all bounds — quite
unbearable. I have visitors in my house, and these
blackguards dare to — ! They insult my wife whenever
she shows herself; my boys' lives are not safe. My
visitors run the risk of being jostled and cuffed. Is it
possible that in a well-ordered community incessant
public insult offered to unoffending people like myself
and my family should pass unpunished? If so — then
— then I must confess that I have other ideas of la-w-
and order.
72 THE GERMAN CLASSICS
SuPEEiNTENDENT {a man of fifty, middle height, corpulent,
full-blooded. He wears cavalry uniform with a long
sword and spurs). No, no, Mr. Dreissiger — certainly
not ! I am entirely at your disposal. Make your mind
easy on the subject. Dispose of me as you will. What
you have done is quite right. I am delighted that you
have had one of the ringleaders arrested. I am very
glad indeed that a day of reckoning has come. There
are a few disturbers of the peace here whom I have
long had my eye on.
Dreissiger. Yes, one or two raw lads, lazy vagabonds, that
shirk every kind of work, and lead a life of low dis-
sipation, hanging about the public-houses until they've
sent their ]ast half-penny down their throats. But
I'm determined to put a. stop to the trade of these
professional blackguards once and for all. It's in the
public interest to do so, not only my private interest. '^
Superintendent. Of course it is ! Most undoubtedly, Mr.
Dreissiger! No one can possibly blame you. And
everything that lies in my power —
Dreissiger. The cat-o'-nine tails is what should be taken
to the beggarly pack.
Superintendent. You're right, quite right. We must in-
stitute an example.
KuTSCHE, the policeman, enters and salutes. The door is open, and the
^ sound of heavy steps stumbling up the stair is heard.
KuTSCHE. I have to inform you, sir, that we have arrested
a man.
Dreissiger (to Superintendent). Do you wish to see the
fellow?
Superintendent. Certainly, most certainly. We must be-
gin by having a look at him at close quarters. Oblige
me, Mr. Dreissiger, by not speaking to him at present.
I'll see to it that you get complete satisfaction, or my
name's not Heide.
Dreissiger. That's not enough for me, though. He goes
before the magistrates. My mind's made up.
THE WEAVERS 73
Jaeger is led in by five dyers, who have come straight from their work —
faces, hands, and clothes stained with dye. The prisoner, his cap set ^
jauntily on the side of his head, presents an appearance of im^pudent
gaiety; he is excited by the brandy he has jwst drunk.
Jaeger. Hounds that you are! — Call yourselves working
men! — Pretend to be comrades! Before I would do
such a thing as lay hands on a mate, I'd see my hand
rot off my arm.
l^At a sign from the Superintendent, Kutsche
orders the dyers to let go their victim. Jaeger ^
straightens himself up, quite free and easy. Both
doors are guarded.']
Superintendent {shouts to Jaeger). Off with your cap,
lout! [Jaeger takes it off, but very slowly, still with ^2t.
an impudent grin on his face.] What's your name?
Jaeger. What's vours? I'm not vour swineherd.
[Great excitement is produced by this reply.]
Dreissiger. This is too much of a good thing.
Superintendent {changes color, is on the point of breaking
out furiously, but controls his rage). We'll see about
this afterward. — Once more, what's your name? [Re-
ceiving no answer, furiously.] If you don't answer at
once, f Gliow, I '11 have you flogged on the spot.
Jaeger {perfectly cheerful, not showing by so much as the
twitch of an eyelid that he Jvas heard the Superin- vO-
tendent's angry words, calls over the heads of those
around him to a pretty servant girl, who has brought in
the coffee and is standing open-moutJied with astonish-
ment at the unexpected sight). Hillo, Emmy, do you
belong to this company now? The sooner you find
your way out of it, then, the better. A -^dnd may begin
to blow here, an' blow everything away overnight.
[The girl stares at Jaeger, and as soon as she com-
prehends that it is to her he is speaking, blushes
with shame, covers her eyes with her hands, and
rushes out, leaving the coffee things in confusion
on the table. Renewed excitement among those
present.]
74 THE GERMAN CLASSICS
Superintendent {half beside himself, to Dreissiger).
Never in all my long service — a case of such shameless
effrontery! [Jaeger spits on the floor. ^
Dreissiger. You 're not in a stable, fellow ! Do you under-
stand?
Superintendent. My patience is at an end now. For the
last time: What's your name?
[KiTTELHAUs, ivho has been peering out at the partly
opened drawing-room door, listening to what has
been going on, can no longer refrain from coming
forward to interfere. He is trembling with ex-
citement.]
KiTTELHAus. His name is Jaeger, sir. Moritz — is it not !
Moritz Jaeger. [To Jaeger.] And, Jaeger, you know
me.
Jaeger {seriously). You are Pastor Kittelhaiis.
KiTTELHAus. Yes, I am your pastor, Jaeger ! It was I who
received you, a babe in swaddling clothes, into the
Church of Christ. From my hands you took for the
first time the body of the Lord. Do you remember that,
and how I toiled and strove to bring God's word home
to your heart! Is this your gratitude?
Jaeger {like a scolded schoolboy. In a surly voice). I paid
my half-crown like the rest.
KiTTELHAus. Mouey ! Money! Do you imagine that the
miserable little bit of money — ? Such utter nonsense!
I'd much rather you kept your money. Be a good man,
be a Christian! Think of what you promised. Keep
God's law. Money! Money!!
Jaeger. I'm a Quaker now, sir. I don't believe in nothing.
KiTTELHAus. Quaker! What are you talking about? Try
to behave yourself, and don't use words you don't
understand. Quaker, indeed! They are good Chris-
tian people, and not heathens like you.
Superintendent. Mr. Kittelhaus, I must ask you! — [He
comes between the Pastor and Jaeger.] Kutsche ! tie
his hands !
[Wild yelling outside: "Jaeger, Jaeger! come
out!"l
THE WEAVERS 75
Dreissiger (like the others, slightly startled, goes instinc-
tively to the window). What's the meaning of this
next?
Superintendent. Oh, I understand well enough. It means
that they want to have the blackguard out among them
again. But we're not going to oblige them. Kutsehe,
you have your orders. He goes to the lock-up.
KuTSCHE (luith the rope in his hand, hesitating). By your
leave, sir, but it'll not be an easy job. There's a con- '
founded big crowd out there — a pack of raging devils.
They've got Becker with them, and the smith — • ■
KiTTELHAus. Allow me one more word ! So as not to
rouse still worse feeling, would it not be better if we
tried to arrange tilings peaceably? Perhaps Jaeger
will give his word to go with us quietly, or . . .
Superintendent. Quite impossible ! Think of my respon-
sibility. I couldn't allow such a thing. Come, Kutsche!
lose no more time.
Jaeger (putting his hands together, and holding them out).
Tight, tight, as tight as ever you can ! It's not for long. v^
[Kutsche, assisted by the workmen, ties his hands.]
Superintendent. Now off with you, march! [To Dreis-
siger.] If you feel anxious, let six of the weavers go
with them. They can walk on each side of him, I'll
ride in front, and Kutsche will bring up the rear. Who-
ever blocks the way will be cut down.
[Cries from below: '' Cock-a-doodle-doo-oo-oo ! ^
Bow, wow, wow! "]
Superintendent {with a threatening gesture in the direc-
tion of the ivindow). You rascals, I'll cock-a-doodle-
doo and bow-wow you ! Forward ! March !
[He marches out first, ivith drawn sword; the others^
with Jaeger, follow.']
Jaeger {shouts as he goes). An' Mrs. Dreissiger there may
play the lady as proud as she likes, but for all that she's
no better than us. Many a hundred times she's served
my father with a halfpenny-worth of schnapps. Left
wheel — march! [Exit laughing.]
76 THE GERMAN CLASSICS
Dreissiger {after a pause, with apparent calmness). Well,
Mr. Kittelhaus, shall we have our game now! I think
there will be no further interruption. {He lights a
/ cigar, giving short laughs as he does so; when it is
lighted, bursts into a regidar fit of laughing.] I'm
beginning now to think the whole thing very funny.
That fellow! [Still laughing nervously.] It really is
too comical ! First oame the dispute at dinner with
Weinhold — five minutes after that he takes leave —
off to the other end of the world ; then this affair crops
up — and now we'll proceed with our whist.
Kittelhaus. Yes, but — [Roaring is heard outside.] Yes,
but that's a terrible uproar they're making outside.
Dreissiger. All we have to do is to go into the other room ;
it won't disturb us in the least there.
Kittelhaus (shaking his head). I wish I knew wliat has
come over these people. In so far I must agree with
Mr. Weinhold, or at least till quite lately I was of his
opinion, that the weavers were a patient, humble,
easily-led class. Was it not your idea of them, too, Mr.
Dreissiger ?
Dreissiger. Most certainly that is what they used to be —
patient, easily managed, well-behaved and orderly
people. They were that as long as these so-called
humanitarians let them alone. But for ever so long
now they've had the awful misery of their condition
held up to them. Think of all the societies and associa-
tions for the alleviation of the distress among the weav-
ers. At last the weaver believes in it himself, and his
head's turned. Some of them had better come and turn
it back again, for now he's fairly set a-going there's
no end to his complaining. This doesn't please him,
and that doesn't please him. He must have everything
of the best.
y [A loud roar of ** Hurrah!" is heard from the
crowd.]
THE WEAVERS 77
KiTTELHAUs. So that with all their humamtarianism they
have only succeeded in almost literally turning lambs
over night into wolves.
Dreissiger. I won't say that, sir. When you take time to
think of the matter coolly, it's possible that some good
may come of it yet. Such occurrences as this will not
pass unnoticed by those in authority, and may lead
them to see that things can't be allowed to go on as they
are doing — that means must be taken to prevent the
utter ruin of our home industries.
KiTTELHAUs. Possibly. But what is the cause, then, of this
terrible falling off of trade 1
Dreissiger. Our best markets have been closed to us by the
heavy import duties foreign countries have laid on our
goods. At home the competition is a struggle of life
and death, for we have no protection, none whatever.
Pfeifer (staggers in, pale and breathless) . Mr. Dreissiger, ^
Mr. Dreissiger!
Dreissiger {in the act of walking into the drawing-room,
turns round, annoyed). Well, Pfeifer,. what now?
Pfeifer. Oh sir ! Oh, sir ! — It's worse than ever !
Dreissiger. What are they up to next?
KiTTELHAUs. You 're really alarming us — what is it?
Pfeifer (still confused). I never saw the like. Good Lord
— the superintendent himself ! They'll catch it for this
vet.
Dreissiger. What's the matter with you, in the devil's
name? Is any one's neck broken?
Pfeifer (almost crying with fear, screams). They've set
Moritz Jaeger free — they've thrashed the superin-
tendent and driven him away — they've thrashed the
policeman and sent him off too — without his helmet —
his sword broken ! Oh dear, oh dear !
Dreissiger. I think you've gone crazy, Pfeifer.
KiTTLEHAUs. This is actual riot.
78 THE GERMAN CLASSICS
Pfeifer {sitting on a chair, his ivhole body trembling) . It's
turning serious, Mr. Dreissiger! Mr. Dreissiger, it's
serious now !
Dreissigee. Well, if that's all the police —
Pfeifee. Mr. Dreissiger, it's serious now!
Dreissiger. Damn it all, Pfeifer, will you hold your
tongue?
Mrs. Dreissiger {coming out of the drawing-room with Mrs.
Kittelhaus). This is really too bad, William. Our
whole pleasant evening's being spoiled. Here's Mrs.
Kittelhaus saying that she'd better go home.
Kittelhaus. You mustn't take it amiss, dear Mrs. Dreis-
siger, but perhaps, under the circumstances, it woidd
be better —
Mrs. Dreissiger. But, William, why in the world don't you
go out and put a stop to it?
Dreissiger. You go and see if you can do it. Try! Go
and speak to them ! [Standing in front of the pastor,
abruptly.^ Am I such a tyrant? Am I a cruel master?
Enter John the coachman.
John. If you please, m'm, I've put to the horses. Mr.
Weinhold 's put Georgie and Charlie into the carriage.
If it comes to the worst, we're ready to be off.
Mrs. Dreissiger. If what comes to the worst?
John. I'm sure I don't know, m'm. But I 'm thinkin ' this
way: The crowd's gettin' bigger and bigger, an'
they've sent the superintendent an' the p'liceman to
the right-about.
Pfeifer. It's gettin' serious now, Mr. Dreissiger! It's
serious !
Mrs. Dreissiger {with increasing alarm). What's going to
happen? — "\Aniat do the people want? — They're never
going to attack us, John?
John. There's some rascally hounds among 'em, ma'am.
Pfeifer. It's serious now! serious!
THE WEAVERS 79
Dreissiger. Hold your tongue, fool! — Are the doors
barred ?
KiTTELHAus. I ask you as a favor, Mr. Dreissiger — as a
favor — I am deterrained to — I ask you as a favor —
[To John.] What demands are the people making?
John {awkwardly). It's higher wages they're after, the
blackguards.
KiTTELHAus. Grood, good ! — I shall go out and do my duty.
I shall speak seriously to these people.
JoHX. Oh, sir, please, sir, don't do any such thing. Words
is quite useless.
KiTTELHAus. One little favor, Mr. Dreissiger. May I ask
you to post men behind the door, and to have it closed
at once after me?
Mrs. Kittelhaus. 0 Joseph, Joseph! you're not really
going out?
Kittelhaus. lam. Indeed I am. I know what I'm doing.
Don't be afraid. God will protect me.
[Mrs. Kittelhaus presses his hand, draws back, and
wipes tears from her eyes.']
Kittelhaus {while the dull murmur of a great, excited
crowd is heard uninterruptedly outside). I'll go — I'll
go out as if I were simply on my way home. I shall
see if my sacred office — if the people have not sufficient
respect for me left to — I shall try — [He takes his
hat and stick.] Forward, then, in God's name!
[Goes out accompanied by Dreissiger, Pfeifer and
John.]
Mrs. Kittelhaus. Oh, dear Mrs. Dreissiger ! [She bursts
into tears and embraces her.] I do trust nothing will
happen to him.
Mrs. Dreissiger {absently). I don't know how it is, Mrs.
Kittelhaus, but I — I can't tell you how I feel. I didn't
think such a thing was possible. It's — it's as if it
was a sin to be rich. If I had been told about all this
beforehand, Mrs. Kittelhaus, I don't know but what
80 THE GERMAN CLASSICS
I would rather have been left in- my own humble posi-
tion.
Mrs. Kittelhaus. There are troubles and disappointments
in every condition of life, Mrs. Dreissiger.
Mrs, Dreissiger. True, true, I can well believe that. And
suppose we have more than other people — goodness
me! we didn't steal it. It's been honestly got, every
penny of it. It's not possible that the people can be
goin ' to attack us ! If trade 's bad, that 's not William 's
fault, is it!
[A tumult of roaring is heard outside. While the
V two women stand gazing at each other, pale and
startled, Dreissiger rushes in.']
Dreissiger. Quick, Rosa — put on something, and get into
the carriage. I'll be after you this moment.
/ [He rushes to the strong-box, and takes out papers
and various articles of value.]
Enter John.
John. We're ready to start. But come quickly, before
they gets round to the back door.
Mrs. Dreissiger {in a transport of fear, throwing her arms
around John's neck). John, John, dear, good John!
Save us, John. Save my boys ! Oh, what is to become
of us?
Dreissiger. Rosa, try to keep your head. Let John go.
John. Yes, yes, ma'am! Don't you be frightened. Our
good horses '11 soon leave them all behind; an' whoever
doesn't get out of the way '11 be driven over.
Mrs. Kittelhaus (in helpless anxiety). But my husband —
my husband? But, Mr. Dreissiger, my husband?
Dreissiger. He's in safety now, Mrs. Kittelhaus. Don't
alarm yourself; he's all right.
Mrs. Kittelhaus. Something dreadful has happened to
him. I know it. You needn't try to keep it from me.
Dreissiger. You mustn't take it to heart — they'll be sorry
for it yet. I know exactly whose fault it was. Such
THE WEAVERS 81
an unspeakable, shameful outrage will not go unpun-
ished. A eonmiunity laying hands on its own pastor
and maltreating him — abominable! Mad dogs they
are — raging brutes — and they'll be treated as such.
[To his ivife ivlio still stands petrified.'] Go, Eosa, go
quickly! [Heavy bloius at the lower door are heard.] s/
Don't you hear? They've gone stark mad ! [The clat-
ter of windoiv-panes being smashed on the ground-floor
is heard.] They've gone crazy. There's nothing for
it but to get away as fast as we can.
[Cries of '' Pfeifer, come out!" — ** We want ^
Pfeifer!" — " Pfeifer, come out!" are heard.]
Mrs. Dreissiger. Pfeifer, Pfeifer, they want Pfeifer!
Pfeifer {dashes in). Mr. Dreissiger, there are people at
the back gate already, and the house door won't hold
much longer. The smith's battering at it like a maniac
wdth a stable, pail.
[The erg sounds louder and clearer: ''Pfeifer!
Pfeifer ! Pfeifer ! come out ! ' ' Mrs. Dreissiger
rushes off as if pursued. Mrs. Kittelhaus fol-
loivs. Pfeifer listens, and changes color as he
hears what the cry is. A perfect panic of fear
seizes him; he weeps, entreats, ivhimpers, writhes,
all at the same moment. He overwhelms Dreis-
siger with childish caresses, strokes his cheeks and
arms, kisses his hands, and at last, like a drowning
man, throws his arms round him and prevents him
moving.']
Pfeifer. Dear, good, kind Mr. Dreissiger, don't leave me
behind. I've always served you faithfully. I've
always treated the people well. I couldn't give 'em
more wages than the fixed rate. Don't leave me here —
they'll do for me! If they finds me, they'll kill me.
0 God ! 0 God ! My wife, my children !
Dreissiger {making his way out, vainly endeavoring to free
himself from Pfeifer 's clutch). Can't you let me go,
fellow? It'll be all right; it'll be all right.
Vol. XVIII— 6
82 THE GERMAN CLASSICS
For a few seconds the rooiH is empty. Windows are shattered in the
drawing-room. A loud crash resounds through the house, followed by a
^ I roaring " Hurrah ! " For an instant there is silence. Then gentle,
cautious steps are heard on the stair, then timid, hushed ejaculations:
" To the left ! "— " Up with you ! "— " Hush ! "— " Slow, slow ! "— " Don't
shove like that ! " — " It's a wedding we're goin' to ! " — " Stop that
crowdin' ! " — " You go first ! " — " No, you go ! "
Young weavers and weaver girls appear at the door leading from the hall,
not daring to enter, but each trying to shove the other in. In the
course of a few moments their timidity is overcome, and the poor, thin,
ragged or patched figures, many of them sickly-looking, disperse them-
f selves through Dreissiger's room and the drawing-room, first gazing
timidly and curiously at everything, then beginning to touch things.
Girls sit down on the sofas, ivhole groups admire themselves in the
mirrors, men stand up on chairs, examine the pictures and take them
down. There is a steady influx of miserable-looking creatures from
the hall.
FiBST Old Weavek (entering). No, no, this is oarryin' it
/ too far. They've started smashin' things downstairs.
There's no sense nor reason in that. There'll be a bad
end to it. No man in his wits would do that. I'll keep
clear of such goings on.
Jaeger, Becker, Wittig carrying a wooden pail, Baumert, and a number
\ of other old and young weavers, rush in as if in pursuit of something,
shouting hoarsely.
Jaeger. Where has he gone?
Becker. Where 's the cruel brute ?
Baumert. If we can eat grass he may eat sawdust.
Wittig. We '11 hang Mm when we catch him.
First Young Weaver. We'll take him by the legs and fling
him out at the window, onto the stones. He'll never
get up again.
Second Young Weaver (enters). He's off!
All. Who?
Second Young Weaver. Dreissiger.
Becker. Pfeifer tool
Voices. Let's get hold o' Pfeifer! Look for Pfeifer!
Baumert. Yes, yes ! Pfeifer ! Tell him there 's a weaver
here for him to starve. [Laughter.']
THE WEAVERS 83
Jaeger. If we can't lay hands on that brute Dreissiger
himself, we '11 make him poor !
Baumert, As poor as a church mouse ; we '11 see to that !
[All, bent on the work of destruction, rush toivard
the drawinff-room door.]
Becker {who is leading, turns round and stops the others).
Halt ! Listen to me ! This is nothing but a beginnin'.
When we're done here, we'll go straight to Bielau, to
Dittrich's, where the steam power-looms is. The whole
mischief's done by them factories.
Old Ansorge {enters from hall. Takes a few steps, then v
stops and looks round, scarcely believing his eyes;
shakes his head, taps his forehead). Who am I?
Weaver Anton Ansorge. Has he gone mad, Old
Ansorge? My head's goin' round like a hnmming-top,
sure enough. What's he doin' here. He'll do what-
ever he's a mind to. Where is Ansorge? [He taps
his forehead repeatedly.'] Something's wrong! I'm
not answerable! I'm off my head! Off with you, oif
with you, rioters that you are! Heads off, legs off,
hands off! If you takes my house, I takes your house.
Forward, forward !
[Goes yelling into the drawing-room, followed by a ^/
yelling, laughing mob.]
ACT V
Langen-Bielau. — Old Weiaver Hilse's workroom. On the left a small
window, in front of which stands the loom. On the right a bed, with a
table pushed close to it. Stove, with stove-bench, in the right-hand
corner. Family worship is going on. HiLSE, his old, blind, and almost
deaf wife, his son Gottlieb, and Luise, Gottlieb's wife, are sitting at
the table, on the bed and wooden stools. A winding-wheel and bobbins
on the floor betiveen table and loom. Old spinning, weaving, and winding
implements are disposed of on the smoky rafters; hanks of yarn are
hanging down. There is much useless lumber in the low, narrow room.
The door, which is in the back wall, and leads into the big outer passage,
or entry-room of the house, stands open. Through another open door on
the opposite side of the passage, a second, in most respects similar
weaver's room is seen. The large passage, or entry-room of the house,
84 THE GERMAN CLASSICS
is paved with stone, has damaged plaster, and a tumble-down wooden
stair-ease leading to the attics; a washing-tub on a stool is partly visible;
linen of the most miserable description and poor household utensils lie
about untidily. The light falls from the left into all three apartments.
Old Hilse is a bearded man of strong build, but bent and wasted with age,
toil, sickness, and hardship. He is an old soldier, and has lost an arm^i
His nose is sharp, his complexion ashen-gray, and he shakes; he is noth-^^
ing but skin and bone, and has the deep-set, sore weaver's eyes.
Old Hilse {stands up, as do his son and daughter-in-law ;
prays). 0 Lord, we know not how to be thankful
enough to Thee, for that Thou hast spared us this night
again in Thy goodness, an' hast had pity on us, an'
hast suffered us to take no harm. Thou art the All-
merciful, an' we are poor, sinful children of men —
S' that bad that we are not worthy to be trampled under
Thy feet. Yet Thou art our loving Father, an' Thou
will look upon us an' accept us for the sake of Thy
dear Son, our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ. " Jesus'
blood and righteousness, Our covering is and glorious
dress." An' if we're sometimes too sore cast down
under Thy chastening — when the fire of Thy purifica-
tion burns too ragin' hot — oh, lay it not to our charge;
forgive us our sin. Give us patience, heavenly Father,
that after all these sufferin's we may be made par-
takers of Thy eternal blessedness. Amen.
Mother Hilse [who has been bending forward, trying hard
to hear). What a beautiful prayer you do say, father!
[Luise goes off to the wash-tub, Gottlieb to the room
on the other side of the passage."]
Old Hilse. Where's the little lass?
Luise. She's gone to Peterswaldau, to Dreissiger's. She
finished all she had to wind last night.
Old Hilse {speaking very loud). You'd like the wheel now,
mother, eh?
Mothee Hilse. Yes, father, I'm quite ready.
Old Hilse {setting it down before her). I wish I could do
the work for you.
THE WEAVERS 85
Mother Hilse. An ' what would be the good o ' that, father ?
There would I be, sittin' not knowin' what to do.
Old Hilse. I'll give your fingers a wipe, then, so that
they'll not grease the yarn.
[He wipes her hands with a rag.]
LuiSE {at the tub). If there's grease on her hands, it's not
from what she's eaten.
Old Hilse. If we've no butter, we can eat dry bread —
when we've no bread, we can eat potatoes — when
there's no potatoes left, we can eat bran.
LuiSE (saucily). An' when that's all eaten, we'll do as the
Wenglers did — we'll find out where the skinner's
buried some stinking old horse, an' we'll dig it up an'
live for a week or two on rotten carrion — how nice
that'll be!
Gottlieb {from the other room). There you are, lettin'
that tongue of yours run away with you again.
Old Hilse. You should think t^\^ce, lass, before you talk
that godless way. [He goes to his loom, calls.] Can
you give me a hand, Gottlieb ? — there 's a few threads
to pull through.
LuiSE {from her tub). Gottlieb, you're wanted to help
father.
[Gottlieb comes in, and he and his father set them-
selves to the troublesome task of " drawing and
slaying,''^ that is, pulling the strands of the warp
through the *' heddles " and ^' reed " of the loom.
They have hardly begun to do this when Hornig
appears in the outer room.]
Hornig (at the door). Good luck to your work!
Hilse and His Son. Thank you, Hornig.
Old Hilse. I say, Hornig, when do you take your sleep?
You're on your rounds all day, an' on watch all night.
Hornig. Sleep 's gone from me nowadays.
LuiSE. Glad to see you, Hornig!
Old Hilse. An ' what 's the news ?
86 THE GERMAN CLASSICS
HoENiG. It's queer news this momin'. The weavers at
Peterswaldau has taken the law into their ovm hands,
an' chased Dreissiger an' his whole family out of the
place.
LuiSE {perceptibly agitated). Homig's at his lies again.
HoRNiG. No, missus, not this time, not today. — I've some
beautiful pinafores in my cart. — No, it's God's truth
I'm tellin' you. They've sent him to the right-about.
He came down to Reichenbach last night, but. Lord
love you! they daren't take hhn in there, for fear of
the weavers — off he had to go again, all the way to
Schweidnitz.
Old Hilse {has been carefully lifting threads of the web
and bringing them to the holes, through which, from
the other side, Gottlieb pushes a ivire hook, with which
he catches them and draws them through). It's about
time you were stoppin' now, Hornig?
HoKNiG. It's as sure as I'm a livin' man. Every child in
the place '11 soon tell you the same story.
Old Hilse. Either your wits are a-wool-gatherin' or mine
are.
HoRNiG. Not mine. What I'm tellin' you's as true as the
Bible. I wouldn't believe it myself if I hadn't stood
there an ' seen it with my own ejes, — as I see you now,
Gottlieb. They've wrecked his house from the cellar
to the roof. The good china came flyin' out at the
garret windows, rattlin' down the roof. God only
knows how many pieces of fustian are lying soakin' in
the river! The water can't get away for them — it's
running over the banks, the color of washin'-blue witli
all the indigo they've poured out at the windows.
Clouds of sky-blue dust was flyin' along. Oh, it's a
terrible destruction they've worked ! And it's not only
the house — it's the dye-works too — an' the stores!
They've broken the stair rails, they've torn up the fine
flooring — smashed the lookin '-glasses — cut an ' hacked
an' torn an' smashed the sofas an' the chairs. — It's
awful — it 's worse than war.
THE WEAVERS 87
Old Hilse. An' you would have me believe that my fellow
weavers did all that ?
[He shakes his head incredulously. Other tenants
of the house have collected at the door and are
listening eagerly.]
HoRNiG. Who else, I'd like to know? I could 'put names
to every one of 'em. It was me took the sheriff through
the house, an' I spoke to a whole lot of 'em, an' they
answered me back quite friendly like. They did their
business with little noise, but my word ! they did it well.
The sheriff spoke to 'em, and they answered him man-
nerly, as they always do. But there wasn't no stoppin'
of them. They hacked on at the beautiful furniture
as if they was workin' for wages.
Old Hilse. You took the sheriff through the house?
HoRNiG. An' what would I be frightened of? Every one
knows me. I'm always tumin' up, like a bad penny.
But no one has anything agin' me. They're all glad
to see me. Yes, I went the rounds with him, as sure
as my name 's Homig. An' you may believe me or not
as you like, but my heart's sore yet from the sight —
an' T could see by the sheriff's face that he felt queer
enough too. For why? Not a livin' word did we
hear — ^^they was doin' their work and holdin' their
tongues. It was a solemn an' a woeful sight to see the
poor star\dn' creatures for once in a way takin' their
revenge.
LuisE (ivith irrepressible excitement, trembling , wiping her
eyes with her apron). An' right they are! It's only
what should be !
Voices Among the Crowd at the Door. " There's some of
the same sort here." — *' There's one no farther away
than across the river." — *' He's got four horses in his
stable an' six carriages, an' he starves his weavers to
keep 'em."
Old Hilse {still incredulous). What was it set them off?
HoRNiG. Who knows? who knows? One says this, another
says that.
/
/
88 THE GERMAN CLASSICS
Old Hilse. What do they say?
HoENiG. The story as most of 'em tells is that it began
with Dreissiger say in' that if the weavers was hungry
they might eat grass. But I don't rightly know.
[Excitement at the door, as one person repeats this
to the other, with signs of indignation.]
Old Hilse. Well now, Hornig — if you was to say to me:
Father Hilse, says you, you'll die tomorrow, I would
answer back : That may be — an ' why not ? You might
even go to the length of saying: You'll have a visit
tomorrow from the King of Prussia. But to tell me
that weavers, men like me an' my son, have done
such things as that — never! I'll never in this world
believe it.
MiELCHEN {a pretty girl of seven, with long, loose flaxen
hair, carrying a basket on her arm, comes running in,
holding out a silver spoon to her mother). Mammy,
mammy! look what I've got! An' you're to buy me a
new frock with it.
LuiSE. AVhat d'you come tearing in like that for, girl?
[With increased excitement and curiosity.] An' what's
that you've got hold of now? You've been runnin'
yourself out o' breath, an' there — if the bobbins aren't
in her basket yet? What's all this about?
Old Hilse. Mielchen, where did that spoon come from?
LuiSE. She found it, maybe.
HoRNiG. It's worth its seven or eight shillin's at least.
Old Hilse (in distressed excitement). Off with you, lass —
out of the house this moment — unless you want a
lickin'! Take that spoon back where you got it from.
Out you go ! Do you want to make thieves of us all, eh?
I '11 soon drive that out o ' you.
[He looks round for something to beat her ivith.]
Mielchen (clinging to her mother's skirts, crying). No,
grandfather, no! don't lick me! We — we did find it.
All the other bob — bobbin — girls has — has some too.
LuiSE {half frightened, half excited). I was right, you see.
She found it. Where did you find it, Mielchen?
THE WEAVERS 89
M.iELC'HEi)! (sobbing). At — at Peterswal — dau. We — we
found them in front of — in front of Drei — Dreis-
siger's house.
Old HiLSE. This is worse an' worse. Get off with you thia
moment, unless you want me to help you.
Mother Hilse. What's all the to-do about?
HoRNiG. I'll tell you what, father Hilse. The best way '11
be for Gottlieb to put on his coat an' take the spoon
to the police-office.
Old Hilse. Gottlieb, put on your coat.
Gottlieb (pulling it on, eagerly). Yes, an' I'll go right
into the office an' say they're not to blame us for it, for
how c'n a cliild like that understand about it? an' I
brought the spoon back at once. Stop your crying
now, Mielchen !
[The crying child is taken into the opposite room by -^
her mother, ivho shuts her in and comes back.]
Hornig. I believe it's worth as much as nine shillin's.
Gottlieb. Give us a cloth to wrap it in, Luise, so that it'll
take no harm. To think of the thing bein' worth all
that money !
[Tears come into his eyes while he is wrapping up
the spoon.]
Luise. If it was only ours, we could live on it for many
a day.
Old Hilse. Hurry up, now! Look sharp! As quick as
ever you can. A fine state o ' matters, this ! Get that
devil's spoon out o' the house.
[Gottlieb goes of with the spoon.] ^
HoRNiG. I must be off now too.
[He goes, is seen talking to the people in the entry-
room before he leaves the house.]
Surgeon Schmidt (a jerky little ball of a man, with a s/
red, knotving face, comes into the entry-room) . Good-
morning, all 1 These are fine goings on ! Take care !
take care! [Threatening with his finger.] You're a
sly lot — that's what you are. [At Hilse 's door tvith-
out comimg in.] Morning, father Hilse. [To a woman
90 THE GERMAN CLASSICS
in the outer room.l And how are the pains, mother?
Better, eh! Well, well. And how's all with you, father
Hilse? [Enters.] Why the deuce! what's the matter
with mother?
LuiSE. It's the eye veins, sir — they've dried up, so as she
can't see at all now.
Surgeon Schmidt. That's from the dust and weaving by
candle-light. Will you tell me what it means that all
Peterswaldau's on the way here? I set off on my
rounds this morning as usual, thinking no harm; but
it wasn't long till I had my eyes opened. Strange
doings these! WTiat in the devil's name has taken
possession of them, Hilse? They're like a pack of
raging wolves. Riot — why, it's revolution! they're
getting refractory — plundering and laying waste right
and left! Mielchen! where 's MielchenI [Mielchen,
her face red with crying, is pushed in hy her mother.']
Here, Mielchen, put your hand into my coat pocket.
[Mielchen does so.] The ginger-bread nuts are for
you. Not all at once, though, you baggage! And a
song first! The fox jumped up on a — come, now —
The fox jumped up — on a moonlight — Mind, I've
heard what you did. You called the sparrows on the
churchyard hedge a nasty name, and they're gone and
told the pastor. Did any one ever hear the like? Fif-
teen hundred of them agog — men, women, and chil-
\/ dren. [Distant hells are heard.] That's at Reichen-
bach — alarm-bells! Fifteen hundred people! Un-
comfortably like the world coming to an end !
Old Hilse. An' is it true that they're on their way to
Bielau?
SuEGEON Schmidt. That's just what I'm telling you. I've
driven through the middle of the whole crowd. What
I'd have liked to do would have been to get down and
give each of them a pill there and then. They were
following on each other's heels like misery itself, and
their singing was more than enough to turn a man's
THE WEAVERS 91
stomach. I was nearly sick, and Frederick was shak-
ing on the box like an old woman. We had to take a
stiff glass at the first opportunity. I wouldn't be a
manufacturer, not though I could drive my carriage
and pair. [Distant singing.] Listen to that! It's
for all the world as if they were beating at some broken
old boiler. We'll have them here in five minutes,
friends. Good-by ! Don't you be foolish. The troops
will be upon them in no time. Keep your wits about
you. The Peterswaldau people have lost theirs. [Bells
ring close at hand,] Good gracious! There are our
bells ringing too ! Every one 's going mad.
[He goes upstairs.']
Gottlieb {comes back. In the entry-room, out of breath).
I've seen 'em, I've seen 'em! [To a ivoman.] They're
here auntie, they're here! [At the door,] They're
here, father, they're here! They've got bean poles,
an' ox-goads, an' axes. They're standin' outside the
upper Dittrich's kickin' up an awful row. I think he's
pajan' 'em money. 0 Lord! whatever 's goin' to hap-
pen ? What a crowd ! Oh, you never saw such a crowd !
Dash it all — if once they makes a rush, our manu-
facturers '11 be hard put to it.
Oij) HiLSE. What have you been runnin' like that for?
You'll go racin' till you bring on your old trouble, and
then we'll have you on your back again, strugglin' for
breath.
Gottlieb {almost joyously excited). I had to run, or they
would ha' caught me an ' kept me. They was all roarin'
to me to join 'em. Father Baumert was there too, and
says he to me: You come an' get your sixpence ^vith
the rest — you're a poor starvin' weaver too. An' I
was to tell you, father, from him, that you was to come
an' help to pay out the manufacturers for their grindin'
of us down. [Passionately.] Other times is comin',
he says.' There's goin' to be a change of days for us
weavers. An' we're all to come an' help to bring it
92 THE GERMAN CLASSICS
about. We're to have our half-pound o' meat on Sun-
days, and now and again on a holiday sausage with our
cabbage. Yes, things is to be quite different, by what
he tells me.
Old Hilse {with repressed indignation). An' that man
calls hisself your godfather! And he bids you take
part in such works o' wickedness? Have notliing to
do with them, Gottlieb. They've let themselves be
tempted by Satan, an' it's his works they're doin'.
LuiSE {no longer able to restrain her passionate excitement,
vehemently). Yes, Gottlieb, get into the chimney cor-
ner, an' take a spoon in your hand, an' dish o' skim
milk on your knee, an' put on a petticoat an' say your
prayers, and then father '11 be pleased with you. And
he sets up to be a man !
[Laughter from the people in the entry-room.l
Old Hilse {quivering with suppressed rage). An' you set
up to be a good wife, ehf You calls yourself a mother,
an' let your evil tongue rmi away with you like that?
You think yourself fit to teach your girl, you that would
egg on your husband to crime an' wickedness?
LuiSE {has lost all control of herself). You an' your piety
an' religion — did they serve to keep the life in my
poor children? In rags an' dirt they lay, all the four —
it didn't as much as keep 'em dry. Yes ! I sets up to be
a mother, that 's what I do — an ' if you 'd like to know
it, that's why I'd send all the manufacturers to hell —
because I'm a mother! — Not one of the four could I
keep in life! It was cryin' more than breathin' with
me from the time each poor little thing came into the
world till death took pity on it. The de\^l a bit you
cared! You sat there prayin' and singin', and let me
run about till my feet bled, tryin ' to get one little drop
o' skim milk. How many hundred nights has I lain
an' racked my head to think what I could do to cheat
the churchyard of my little one? What harm has a
baby like that done that it must come to such a miser-
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THE WEAVERS 93
able end — eh? ] An' over there at Dittrich's they're
bathed in wine an' washed in milk. No ! you may talk
as you like, but if they begins here, ten horses won't
hold me back. An' what's more — if there's a rush
on Dittrich's, you'll see me in the forefront of it — an'
pity the man as tries to prevent me — I've stood it long
enough, so now you know it.
Old Hilse. You're a lost soul — there's no help for you.
LuiSE {frenzied). It's you that there's no help for! Tat-
ter-breeched scarecrows — that's w^hat you are — an'
not men at all. Whey-faced gutter-scrappers that take
to your heels at the sound of a child's rattle. Fellows
that says ** thank you" to the man as gives you a
liidin'. They've not left that much blood in you as
that you can turn red in the face. You should have the
whip taken to you, an' a Kttle pluck flogged into your
rotten bones.
[She goes out quickly. Embarrassed pause.']
Mother Hilse. What's the matter wdth Liesl, father?
Old Hilse. Nothin', mother! What should be the matter
with herf
Mother Hilse. Father, is it only me that's thinkin' it, or
is the bells ringin'?
Old Hilse. It'll be a funeral, mother.
Mother Hilse. An' I've got to sit waitin' here yet. Why
must I be so long a-dyin', father? [Pause.]
Old Hilse {leaves his work, holds himself up straight;
solemnly). Gottlieb! — you heard all your wife said
to us. Look here, Gottlieb! [He bares his breast.] v
Here they cut out a bullet as big as a thimble. The
King knows where I lost my arm. It wasn't the mice
as ate it. [He walks up and down.'] Before that wife
of yours w^as ever thought of, I had spilled my blood
by the quart for King an' country. So let her call
what names she likes — an' welcome! It does me no
harm — Frightened? Me frightened? What would I
be frightened of, will you tell me that? Of the few
94 THE GERMAN CLASSICS
soldiers, maybe, that'll be comin' after the rioters?
Good gracious me ! That would be a lot to be fright-
ened at ! No, no, lad ; I may be a bit stiff in the back,
but there's some strength left in the old bones; I've
got the stuff in me yet to make a stand against a few
rubbishin' bay 'nets. — And if it came to the worst!
Willin', willin' would I be to say good-by to this weary
world. Death 'd be welcome — welcomer to me today
than tomorrow. For what is it we leave behind ? That
old bundle of aches an' pains we call our body, the care
an' the oppression we call by the name o' life. We
may be glad to get away from it! But there's some-
thing to come after, Gottlieb! — an' if we've done our-
selves out o' that too — why, then it's all over with us!
Gottlieb. Who knows what's to come after? Nobody's
seen it.
Old HiLSE. Gottlieb! don't you be thro win' doubts on the
one comfort us poor people have. Why has I sat here
an' worked my treadle like a slave this forty year an'
more — sat still an' looked on at him over yonder livin'
in pride an' wastefulness — why? Because I have
a better hope, something as supports me in all my
troubles. [Points out at the ivindoiv.'] You have your
good things in this world — I'll have mine in the next.
That's been my thought. An' I'm that certain of it —
I'd let myself be torn to pieces. Have we not His
promise? There's a Day of Judgment comin'; but
it's not us as are the judges — no : Vengeance is mine,
saith the Lord.
[A cry of '* Weavers, come out! " is heard outside
the window. '\
Old Hilse. Do what you will for me. [He seats himself
at his loom.'] I stay here.
Gottlieb {after a short struggle). I'm going to work too —
come what- may. [Goes out.]
[The Weavers' Song is heard, sung by hundreds of
voices quite close at hand; it sounds like a dull,
monotonous wail.]
THE WEAVERS 95
Inmates of the House {in the entry -room). *' Oh, mercy
on us ! there they come swarmin ' like ants ! " — ' ' Where
can all these weavers be fromf " — '* Don't shove like
that, I want to see too." — " Look at that great may-
pole of a woman leadin' on in front! " — " Gracious!
they're comin' thicker an' thicker! "
HoRNiG {cofnes into the entry-room from outside). There's
a theayter play for you now! That's what you don't
see every day. But you should go up to the other
Dittrich's an' look what they've done there. It's been
no half work. He's got no house now, nor no factory,
nor no wine-cellar, nor nothin'. They're drinkin' out
o' the bottles — not so much as takin' the time to get
out the corks. One, two, three, an' off with the neck,
an' no matter whether they cuts their mouths or not.
There's some of 'em runnin' about bleedin' like stuck
pigs. — Now they're goin' to do for Dittrich here.
[The singing has stopped.]
Inmates of the House. There's nothin' so very wicked
like about them.
HoRNiG. You wait a bit! you'll soon see! All they're
doin' just now is makin' up their minds where they'll
begin. Look, they're inspectin' the palace from every
side. Do you see that little stout man there, him with
the stable pail? That's the smith from Peterswal-
dau — an' a dangerous little chap he is. He batters
in the thickest doors as if they were made o' pie-crust.
If a manufacturer was to fall into his hands it would
be all over with him!
House Inmates. ** That was a crack! " — ** There went
a stone through the window! " — *' There's old Ditt-
rich, shakin' with fright." — " He's hangin' out a
board." — " Hangin' out a board? " — '* What's writ-
ten on it? " — '' Can't vou read? " — '' It'd be a bad
job for me if I couldn't read!" — "Well, read it,
then ! " — " ' You — shall have — full — satis-f ac-tion I
You — you shall have full satisfaction.' "
^
/
96 THE GERMAN CLASSICS
HoRNiG. He might ha' spared hisself the trouble — that
won't help him. It's something else they've set their
minds on here. It's the factories. They're goin' to
smash up the power-looms. For it's them that is
ruinin' the hand-loom weaver. Even a blind man
might see that. No ! the good folks knows what they're
after, an' no sheriff an' no p'lice superintendent '11
bring them to reason — much less a bit of a board.
Him as has seen 'em at work already knows what's
comin '.
House Inmates. ' ' Did any one ever see such a crowd ! ' ' —
* ' What can these be wantin' ? ' ' — [Hastily.] ' ' They're
crossin ' the bridge ! ' ' — [Anxiously. ] ' ' They 're never
comin' over on this side, are they? " — [In excitement
and terror.] " It's to us they're comin'! They're
comin' to us! They're comin' to fetch the weavers
out o ' their houses ! ' '
[General flight. The entry-room is empty. A crowd
of dirty, dusty rioters rush in, their faces scarlet
with brandy and excitement ; tattered, untidy-look-
ing, as if they had been up all night. With the
shout: '' Weavers come out!" they disperse
themselves through the house. Becker and sev-
eral other young weavers, armed with cudgels and
poles, co7ne into Old Hilse's room. When they
see the old man at his loom they start, and cool
doivn a little.]
Becker. Come, father Hilse, stop that. Leave your work
to them as wants to work. There's no need now for
you to be doin' yourself harm. You'll be well taken
care of.
First Young Weaver. You'll never need to go hungry to
bed again.
Second Young Weaver. The weaver's goin' to have a roof
over his head an' a shirt on his back once more.
Old Hilse. An' what's the devil sendin' you to do now,
with your poles an' axes?
THE WEAVERS 97
Becker. These are what we 're goin' to break on Dittrich's
back.
Second Young Weaver. We'll heat 'em red hot an' stick
'em down the manufacturers' throats, so as they'll
feel for once what burnin' hunger tastes like.
Third Young Weaver. Come along, father Hilse! We'll
give no quarter.
Second Young Weaver. No one had mercy on us — neither
God nor man. Now we're standin' up for our rights
ourselves.
OliD Baumebt enters, somewhat shaky on the legs, a newly killed cock
under his arm.
Old Baumert (stretching out his arms). My brothers —
we 're aU brothers ! Come to my arms, brothers !
[Laughter.']
Old Hilse. And that's the state you're in, WiUem?
Old Baumert. Gustav, is it you? My poor starvin' friend.
Come to my arms, Gustav!
Old Hilse (mutters). Let me alone.
Old Baumert. I'll tell you what, Gustav. It's nothin'
but luck that's wanted. You look at me. What do I
look like? Luck's what's wanted. Don't I look like
a lord? [Pats his stomach.] Guess what's in there!
There's food fit for a prince in that belly. When luck's
with him a man gets roast hare to eat an' champagne
wine to drink. — I'll tell you all something: AVe've
made a big mistake — we must help ourselves.
At.t. (speaking together). We must help ourselves, hurrah!
Old Baumert. As soon as we gets the first good bite inside
us we're different men. Damn it all ! but you feels the
power comin' into you till you're like an ox, an' that
wild with strength that you hit out right an' left with-
out as much as takin' time to look. Dash it, but it's
grand !
Jaeger (at the door, armed with an old cavalry sword).
We've made one or two first-rate attacks.
Vol. XVIII— 7
98 THE GERMAN CLASSICS
Becker. We knows how to set about it now. One, two,
three, an' we're inside the house. Then, at it like
lightnin' — bang, crack, shiver! till the sparks are
flyin' as if it was a smithy.
FiEST Young Weaver. It wouldn't be half bad to light a
bit o' fire.
Second Young Weaver. Let's march to Reichenbach an'
burn the rich folks' houses over their heads!
Jaeger. That would be nothin' but butterin' their bread.
Think of all the insurance money they'd get.
[Laughter.]
Becker. No, from here we'll go to Freiburg, to Tromtra's.
Jaeger. What would you say to givin' all them as holds
Government appointments a lesson? I've read some-
where as how all our troubles come from them biro-
crats, as they calls them.
Second Young Weaver. Before long we'll go to Breslau,
for more an' more '11 be joinin' us.
Old Baumert {to Hilse). Won't you take a drop, Gustav?
Old Hilse. I never touches it.
Old Baumert. That was in the old world ; we 're in a new
world today, Gustav.
First Young Weaver. Christmas comes but once a year.
[Laughter.]
Old Hilse (impatiently). What is it you want in my
house, you limbs of Satan?
Old Baumert {a little intimidated, coaxingly). I was
bringin' you a chicken, Gustav. I thought it would
make a drop o' soup for mother.
Old Hilse (embarrassed, almost friendly). Well, you can
tell mother yourself.
Mother Hilse (who has been making efforts to hear, her
hand at her ear, motions them off). Let me alone. I
don't want no chicken soup.
Old Hilse. That's right, mother. An' I want none, an'
least of all that sort. An' let me say this much to you,
Baumert : The devil stands on his head for joy when
he hears the old ones jabberin' and talkin' as if they
THE WEAVERS 99
was infants. An' to you all I say — to every one of
you: Me and you, we've got nothing to do with each
other. It's not with my will that you're here. In law
an' justice you've no right to be in my house.
A Voice. Him that's not with us is against us.
Jaeger {roughly and threateningly) . You're on the wrong
track, old chap. I'd have you remember that we're
not thieves.
A Voice. We're hungry men, that's all.
First Young Weaver. We wants to live — that's all. An'
so we 've cut the rope we was hung up with.
Jaeger. And we was in our right! {Holding his fist in
front of the old man's fa^e.'] Say another word, and
I'll give you one between the eyes.
Becker. Come, now, Jaeger, be quiet. Let the old man
alone. — What we say to ourselves, father Hilse, is this :
Better dead than begin the old life again.
Old Hilse. Have I not lived that life for sixty years an'
more ?
Becker. That doesn't help us — there 's got to be a change.
Old Hilse. On the Judgment Day.
Becker. What they'll not give us willingly we're goin' to
take by force.
Old Hilse. By force. {Laughs.'\ You may as well go an'
dig your graves at once. They'll not be long showin'
you where the force lies. Wait a bit, lad !
Jaeger. Is it the soldiers you're meanin'? We've been
soldiers too. We'll soon do for a company or two
of 'em.
Old Hilse. With your tongues, maybe. But supposin'
you did — for two that you'd beat off, ten '11 come back.
Voices {call through the window). The soldiers arecomin'I
Look out!
[General, sudden silence. For a moment a faint
sound of fifes and drums is heard; in the ensuing
silence a short, involuntary exclamation: ^' The
devil! I'm off! " followed by general laughter.']
Becker. Who was that? Who speaks of runnin' away?
100 THE GERMAN CLASSICS
Jaeger. Which of you is it that's afraid of a few paltry
helmets ? You have me to command you, and I've been
in the trade. I know their tricks.
Old Hilse. An' what are you go in' to shoot with? Your
sticks, ehf
First Young Weaver. Never mind that old chap; he's
wrong in the upper story.
Second Young Weaver. Yes, he's a bit off his head.
Gottlieb {has made his way unnoticed among the rioters;
catches hold of the speaker). Would you give your
impudence to an old man like him?
Second Young Weaver. Let me alone. 'Twasn't anything
bad I said.
Old Hilse (interfering). Let him jaw, Gottlieb. What
would you be meddlin' with him for? He'll soon see
who it is that's been off his head today, him or me.
Becker. Are you comin', Gottlieb!
Old Hilse. No; he's goin' to do no such thing.
LuiSE {comes into the entry-room, calls). What are you
puttin' off your time with prayin' hypocrites like them
for? Come quick to where you're wanted! Quick!
Father Baumert, run all you can ! The major 's speakin '
to the crowd from horseback. They're to go home. If
you don't hurry up, it'll be all over.
Jaeger {as he goes out). That's a brave husband o' yours.
LuiSE. Where is he? I've got no husband!
{Some of the people in the entry-room sing:
Once on a time a man so small.
Heigh-ho, heigh!
Set his heart on a wife so tall.
Heigh diddle -di-dum-di!]
WiTTiG^ THE Smith {comes downstairs, still carrying the
stable pail; stops on his way through the entry-room).
Come on ! all of you that is not cowardly scoundrels ! —
hurrah !
{He dashes out, followed by Luise, Jaeger, and
others, all shouting " Hurrah! "]
THE WEAVERS 101
Becker. Good-by, then, father Hilse; we'll see each other
again. [Is going.]
Old Hilse. I doubt that. I've not five years to live, and
that'll be the soonest you'll get out.
Becker {stops, not understanding). Out o' what, father
Hilse?
Old Hilse. Out o' prison — where else I
Becker (laughs wildly). Do you think I'd mind that?
There's bread to be had there, anyhow ! [Goes out.]
Old Baumert {has been cowering on a low stool, painfully
beating his brains; he now gets up). It's true, Gustav,
as I've had a drop too much. But for all that I knows
what I 'm about. You think one way in this here mat-
ter; I think another. I say Becker's right: even if it
ends in chains an' ropes — we'll be better off in prison
than at home. You're cared for there, an' you don't
need to starve. I wouldn't have joined 'em, Gustav,
if I could ha' let it be; but once in a lifetime a man's
got to show what he feels. [Goes slowly toivard the
door.] Good-by, Gustav. If anything happens, mind
you put in a word for me in your prayers.
[Goes out. The rioters are now all gone. The entry- /
room gradually fills again with curious onlookers
from the different rooms of the house. Old Hilse
knots at his web. Gottlieb has taken an ax from
behind the stove and is unconsciously feeling its
edge. He and the old man are silently agitated.
The hum and roar of a great crowd penetrate into
the room.]
Mother Hilse. The very boards is shakin', father —
what's goin' on? What's goin' to happen to us?
[Pause.]
Old Hilse. Gottlieb!
Gottlieb. What is it?
Old Hilse. Let that ax alone.
Gottlieb. Who's to split the wood, then?
[He leans the ax against the stove. Pause.]
102 THE GERMAN CLASSICS
Mother Hilse. Gottlieb, you listen to what father says
to you.
[Some one sings outside the window:
Our little man does all that he can,
Heigh-ho, heigh !
At home he cleans the pots an' the pan,
Heigh-diddle-di-dum-di ! [Passes on.]
Gottlieb (jumps up, shakes his clenched fist at the window).
Beast! Don't drive me crazy!
[A volley of musketry is heard.']
Mother Hh,se {starts and trembles). Good Lord! is that
thunder again?
Old Hn.SE {instinctively folding his hands). Oh, our Father
in heaven! defend the poor weavers, protect my poor
brothers. [A short pause ensues.]
Old Hn:,sB {to himself, painfully agitated). There's blood
flowin' now.
Gottlieb {had started up and grasped the ax when the
shooting was heard; deathly pale, almost beside him-
self ivith excitement). An' am I to lie to heel like a
dog still?
A Girl {calls from the entry-room) . Father Hilse, father
Hilse! get away from the window. A bullet's just
flown in at ours upstairs. [Disappears.]
Mielchen {puts her head in at the ivindow, laughing).
Gran 'father, gran 'father, they've shot with their guns.
Two or three's been knocked down, an' one of 'em's
turnin' round and round like a top, an' one's tmstin'
hisself like a sparrow when its head 's bein ' pulled off.
An' oh, if you saw all the blood that came pourin' — !
[Disappears.]
A Weaver's Wipe. Yes, there's two or three '11 never get
up again.
An Old Weaver {in the entry-room) . Look out! They're
goin' to make a rush on the soldiers.
THE WEAVERS 103
A Second Weaver {wildly). Look, look, look at the women!
skirts up, an' spittin' in the soldiers' faces already!
* . A Wea\':er's Wife (calls in). Gottlieb, look at your wife.
She's more pluck in her than you. She's jumpin'
about in front o' the bay 'nets as if she was dancin' to
music.
[Four men carry a wounded rioter through the entry-
room. Silence, which is broken by some one say-
ing in a distinct voice, " It's weaver Ulbrich. "
Once more silence for a few seconds, when the
same voice is heard again: '* It's all over with
him; he's got a bullet in his ear." The men are
heard climbing the wooden stair. Sudden shout-
ing outside: '^ Hurrah, hurrah! "]
Voices in the Entry-room. ' ' Where did they get the
stones from?" — ''Yes, it's time you were off!" —
'' From the new road." — ^' Ta-ta, soldiers! " — " It's
rainin ' paving-stones. ' '
[Shrieks of terror and loud roaring outside, taken up
by those in the entry-room. There is a cry of fear,
and the house door is shut with a bang.]
Voices in the Entry-room. '' They're loadin' again." —
'* They'll fire another volley this minute." — " Father
Hilse, get away from that window."
Gottlieb {clutches the ax). What! is we mad dogs? Is we
to eat powder an' shot now instead o' bread? [Hesi-
tating an instant: To the old man). Would you have
me sit here an' see my wife shot? Never! [As he
rushes out.] Lookout! I'm coming!
Old Hilse. Gottlieb, Gottlieb !
Mother Hilse. Where's Gottlieb gone?
Old Hilse. He's gone to the devil.
Voices from the Entry-room. Go away from the window,
father Hilse.
104 THE GERMAN CLASSICS
Old Htlse. Not I! Not if you all goes crazy together!
[To Mother Hilse, with rapt excitement.] My heavenly
Father has placed me here. Isn't that so, mother?
Here we'll sit, an' do our bounden duty — ay, though
the snow was to go on fire.
[He begins to weave. Rattle of another volley. Old
HiLSE, mortally wounded, starts to his feet and then
falls forward over the loom. At the same moment
loud shouting of ' ' Hurrah ! " is heard. The peo-
ple who till now have been standing in the entry-
room dash out, joining in the cry. The old woman
repeatedly asks: " Father, father, what's wrong
with you? " The continued shouting dies away
gradually in the distance. Mielchen comes rush-
ing in.]
Mielchen. Gran 'father, gran 'father, they're drivin' the
soldiers out o' the village; they've got into Dittrich's
house, an' they're doin' what they did at Dreissiger's.
Gran 'father! [The child grows frightened, notices
that something has happened, puts her finger in her
mouth, and goes up cautiously to the dead man.]
Gran 'father!
Mother Hn.sE. Come now, father, can 't you say something?
You're frightenin' me.
I
THE SUNKEN BELL*
DRAMATIS PERSONiE
HiaxRicH, a bell-founder
Magda, his wife
Two Childbex, hoys, aged five and
nine
The Vicab
The Schoolmasteb
The Babbeb
Old Wittikix
Rautendeleix, an elfin creature
The Nickelmann, an elemental spirit
The Wood- Sprite
FouB Elves
Teolds and Dwarfs
Villagers
The scenes are laid in, the mountains and in a village below.
* From The Dramatic Works of Gerhart Hauptmann, edited by Ludwig Lewisohn.
Permission, B. W. Huebscif, New York.
[105]
THE SUNKEN BELL (1897)
By Gerhart Hauptmann
TRANSLATED BY CHARL.ES HENRY MELTZER
ACT I
A fir-clad glade in the mountains. To the left, in the background, beneath
an overhanging rock, a hut. An old well to the right in the foreground.
Rautendelein is seated on the edge of the well, combing her thick golden
locks and addressing a bee which she is trying to drive away. In one
hand she has a mirror.
Rautendelein. Thou buzzing, golden wigM — whence
com'st thou here?
Thou sipper of sweets, thou little wax-maker!
Nay! Tease me not, thou sun-born good-for-
naught !
Dost hear? . . . Begone! . . . 'Tis time I combed
my hair
With Granny's golden comb. Should I delay,
She '11 scold me when she comes. Begone, I say !
What ? . . . Loit 'ring still ? . . . Away — away
with thee!
Am I a rose bush? . . . Are my lijjs a rose?
Off to the wood with thee, beyond the brook !
There, there, my pretty bee, bloom cowslips fair,
And crocuses, and violets — thou canst suck
Thy fill of them. Dost think I jest? No. No.
Quick! Get thee home. Thou'rt not in favor
here.
Thou knowest Granny's cast a spell on thee
For furnishing the Church with altar-lights.
Come! Must I speak again? Go not too far!
[106]
THE SUNKEN BELL 107
Hey! . . . Cliimney! Puff some smoke across
the glade,
To drive away this naughty, wilful bee.
Ho! Gander! Hither! Hither! . . . Hurry!
Hurry !
Away! Away! [Bee flies off.] . . . At last! . . .
[Rautendelein comhs her hair quietly for a
moment or two. Then, leaning over the
well, she calls down.]
Hey ! Nickelmann !
[Pause.]
He does not hear me. Well — 1 11 sing to myself.
Where do I come from ? . . . Whither go ?
Tell me — I long to know !
Did I grow as the birds of the woodland gay?
Am I a fay?
Who asks the sweet flower
That blooms in the dell.
And brightens the bower,
Its tale to tell?
Yet, oft, as I sit by my well, alone,
I sigh for the mother I ne 'er have known.
But my weird I must dree —
And I'm fair to see —
A golden-haired maid of the -forest free !
[Pause. She calls.]
Hey! Nickelmann! Come up! 'Tis lonely here.
Granny's gone gathering fir-apples. I'm dull!
Wilt keep me company and tell me tales 1
Why then, tonight, perhaps, as a reward . . .
I'll creep into some farmer's yard and steal
A big, black cock for thee! . . . Ah, here he
comes
The silver bubbles to the surface mount !
If he should bob up now, the glass he'd break,
That such bright answer to my nod doth make.
[Admiring her reflection in the well.]
108 THE GERMAN CLASSICS
Godden' to thee, my sweet maid o' the well!
Thy name? . . . Rautendelein? . . . Indeed!
I see —
Thou'rt jealous of my beauty. Look at me.
For I, not thou, Rautendelein should be.
What didst thou answer? Didst thou dare to
point
Thy finger at thy soft twin-breasts? . . . Nay,
nay —
I'm fairer; fair as Freya. Not for naught
My hair was spun out of the sunbeams red,
To shine, in golden glory, even as the sun
Shines up at us, at noon, from out a lake.
Aha! Thou spread 'st thy tresses, like a net,
All fiery-scarlet, set to catch the fishes !
Thou poor, vain, foolish trull . . . There! Catch
this stone.
[Throwing pebhle down the well and disturb-
ing the reflection.']
Thy hour is ended. Now — I 'm fair alone !
(Calling.)
Ho! Nickelmann! Come — help me pass the
time!
[The Nickelmann, a water-spirit, half
■ emerges from the well, and flops over the
edge. He is streaming with water. Weeds
cling to his head. He snorts like a seal,
and his eyes blink as if the day-light hurt
them.]
He's here! . . . Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! How dread-
fully plain
He is ! . . . Didst thou not hear me call ! Dear,
dear —
It makes one 's flesh creep but to know him near !
Nickelmann [croaking).
Brekekekex !
THE SUNKEN BELL
109
Rautend. (mocking). Brekekekex! Ay, ay —
It smells of springtide. Well, is that so strange I
Why — every lizard, mole, and worm, and
mouse —
The veriest water-rat — had scented that.
The quail, the hare, the trout, the fly, the weeds,
Had told thee Spring was here.
NicKELM. (touchily). Brekekekex!
Be not too nosey-wise. Dost understand?
Thou ape, thou midge, thou tomtit, irk me not t
I say, beware! . . . So, Quorax! Quack! Quack!
Quack !
Rautend. If Master Uncle's cross today,
I'U leave him all alone to play.
And I'll go dance a ring-a-round.
Partners a-plenty, I'll be bound,
For pretty maidens may be found.
(Calling.)
Heigh-a-aye !
Voice of Wood-Sprite (heard without).
Heigh-a-o !
Rautend. My merry faun, come — dance with me, I pray !
Enter the Wood-Sprite, skipping comically across the glade.
W.-Sprite. Nay, I 'm no dancer ; but I know a leap
Would make the mountain-goat with envy weep.
If that won't do for thee, I know a game
Will please thee more, my nixey. Fly with me ;
I'll show thee in the woods a willow tree
All hollowed out with age, where never came
The sound of babbling brook, nor crow of cock.
There, in the shadow of some friendly rock,
I'll cut for thee, my own, the wondrous pipe
All maids must dance to.
Rautend. (eluding him). Thanks, I'm not yet ripe
For such as thou ! An' thou must play thy pranks.
Go — woo thy wood-wench. She may like thy
shanks !
110
THE GERMAN CLASSICS
NiCKELM.
W.-Speite
NiCKELM.
W.- Sprite.
NiCKELM.
W.- Sprite.
Or — go to thy dear partner, who — they say —
Another baby bears thee every day;
Except on Sundays, when, at early morn,
Three dirty little brats to thee are born !
Ha! Ha! Ha!
[She runs off into the hut, laughing. The
Wood-Sprite vainly pursues her and re-
turns disconsolate.'}
Brekekekex ! How mad the baggage seems !
The lightning blast thee !
(sitting). Ay! . . . I'd love to tame her.
[He produces a short pipe and lights it hy
striking a match on his hoof.}
And how go things at home ?
So so. So so.
It 's warmer here than on the hills. You 're snug.
Up yonder the wind shrieks and howls all day ;
The swollen clouds drift damp about the peaks,
And burst at last, like sponges, when they're
squeezed.
A foul time we have of it !
And is that all?
No . . . Yesterday I cut
My first spring salad. It grew near my hut.
This morning, early, I went out,
And, roaming carelessly about,
Through brush and brier,
Then climbing higher,
At last I reached the topmost wood.
There I espied a hateful brood
Of mortals, who did sweat and stew,
And dig the earth, and marble hew.
A curse upon their church and creed —
Their chapels, and their clanging bells * —
* The sprites and dwarfs hated bells, especially church bells, as disturbers
of their ancient privacy.
THE SUNKEN BELL 111
NiCKELM. Their bread they mix with cummin-seed ! *
W.-Speite. They plagTie us in our woods and wells.
But vain is all our wrath and woe.
Beside the deep abyss 'twill grow
With tower and spire, and, overhead,
The cross that you and I do dread.
Ay! . . . The noisy monster was all but hung
In the lofty steeple, and soon had rung.
But I was alert ! We s|iall never hear
That bell ! It is drowned in the mere !
{Changing tone.)
By cock and pie !
A devil of a joke! ... I stood on the brink
Of the cliff, chewing sorrel, to help me think.
As I rested against a stump of birch,
'Mid the mountain grasses, I watched the church.
When, all of a sudden, I saw the wing
Of a blood-red butterfly, trying to cling
To a stone. And I marked how it dipped, and
tipped.
As if from a blossom the sweet it sipped.
I called. It fluttered, to left and to right,
Until on my hand I felt it light.
I knew the elf. It was faint with fright.
We babbled o ' this.
And we babbled o' that.
Of the frogs that had spawned
Ere the day had dawned, —
We babbled and gabbled, a-much, I wis :
Then it broke
Into tears! . . .
I cahned its fears.
And again it spoke.
** Oh, they're cracking their whips,
And they gee! and they whoa!
* Cummin-seed was obnoxious to the sprites.
112 THE GERMAN CLASSICS
As they drag it aloft
From the dale below.
'Tis some terrible tub, that has lost its lid,
All of iron! Will nobody rid
Our woods of the horrible thing ? 'Twould make
The bravest moss-mannikin shudder and quake.
They swear they will hang it, these foolish
people.
High up in the heart of the new church steeple.
And they'll hammer, and bang, at its sides all
day
To frighten good spirits of earth away ! ' '
I hummed, and I hawed, and I said, ho, ho !
As the butterfly fell to the earth : while I
Stole off in pursuit of a herd near by.
I guzzled my fill of good milk, I trow !
Three udders ran dry. They will seek in vain
So much as a drop of it more to drain.
Then, making my way to a swirling stream,
I hid in the brush, as a sturdy team
Came snorting, and panting, along the road —
Eight nags, tugging hard at their heavy load.
We will bide our time, quoth I — and lay
Quite still in the grass, till the mighty dray
Rumbled by: — when, stealing from hedge to
hedge.
And hopping and skipping from rock to rock,
I followed the fools. They had reached the edge
Of the cliff when there came — a block !
With flanks all a-quiver, and hocks a-thrill,
They hauled and they lugged at the dray until,
Worn out by the struggle to move the bell.
They had to lie down for a moment. Well —
Quoth I to myself, the Faun will play
Them a trick that will spare them more work
today.
THE SUNKEN BELL
113
One clutch at the wheel — I had loosened a
spoke —
A wrench, and a blow, and the wood-work broke.
A wobble, a crack, and the hateful bell
Rolled over — and into the gulf it fell!
And oh, how it sounded,
And clanged, as it bounded.
From crag to crag, on its downward way :
Till at last in the welcoming splash and the
spray
Of the lake it was lost — for aye !
[During The Wood-Sprite's speech night has
drawn near. It is now dusk. Several times,
toward the end of the narrative, faint cries
for help have been heard, coming from the
wood. Enter from hack, Heinrich. As he
approaches the hut, The Wood-Sprite van-
ishes in the wood and The Nickelmann
disappears in the well. Heinrich is about
thirty years of age. His face is pale and
careworn.]
Heinrich. Good people — open! Quick! I've lost my way!
Help! Help! I've fallen! . . . I am weak . . .
I faint !
Will no one answer ? . . . Help ! Kind people I
Help!
[He sinks to the ground, unconscious, near
the hut. The sun has set- — dark purple
clouds hang over the hills. The wind rises.
Enter from the wood, carrying a basket on
her back, Old Wittikin.]
WiTTiKiN. Rautendel ' ! Come and help me with my load !
I've too much on my shoulders. Come, I say!
I'm scant o' breath! . . . Where can the girl
be dawdling?
[A bat flies across the glade.^
Vol. XVIII— 8
114 THE GERMAN CLASSICS
Ho ! Stop thy gadding, flitter-mouse, and list !
Thou 'It fill thy greedy craw quite soon enough.
Come hither. Fly through yonder hole and see
If she 's within. Then send her quick to me !
[Faint lightning. Wittikin shakes her fist
at the sky.']
Ay, ay, I see thee, Father Thor! . . . 'Twill
storm !
But give thy noisy goats not too much rope.
And see thy great red beard gleams not too
bright.
EautendeP! Hey! Rautendel' . . . Dost not
hear?
[A squirrel skips across the path.']
Hey ! Squirrel ! Thou hast fleet and nimble feet.
Hop thou into the hut, and, shouldst thou meet
Rautendel', send her hither. As a treat,
I'll give thee, for thy pains, a nut to eat !
[Wittikin sees Heinrich and touches him
contemptuously with her foot,]
What's this? A stranger? Well, well, I declare !
And pray, what brings you here, my man, so
late?
Rautendel'! . . . Hey! Rautendel'! (To Hein-
rich.) Are you dead?
Plague take you ! As if I 'd not more 'n enough
To worry me — what wi' the Bailiff and the
Priest
Hunting me down like a mad dog. And now
I find a dead man at my door — Rautendel'!
A rare time I'd have of it, I'll be bound.
If they should find this fellow lying here.
They'd burn my house about my ears. {To
Heinrich.) Art dumb?
Ay. Ay.
[Rautendelein enters from hut, and looks
out inquiringly.]
THE SUNKEN BELL
115
Heineich.
Rautend.
Heineich.
Rautend.
Oho ! Thou 'rt come at last. Look there !
We have a visitor. And what a one !
He's still enough. Go! Fetch a truss of hay,
And make a litter.
Rautend. In the hut I
WiTTiKiN (grumbling). What next?
Nay, nay. We've no room in the hut for him.
[Exit into hut. Rautendelein follows her.
She reappears a moment later, with an
armful of hay, and is about to kneel beside
Heineich when he recovers consciousness.]
Where am II Maiden — wilt thou answer me?
Why, in the mountains.
In the mountains? Ay —
But how . . . and why? What brought me here
tonight ?
Nay, gentle stranger, naught know^ I of that.
Why fret thyself about such trifles? See —
Here I have brought thee hay. So lay thy head
Down and take all the rest thou need'st.
Heineich. Yes ! Yes !
'Tis rest I need. Indeed — indeed — thou'rt
right.
But rest will come to me no more, my. child!
( Uneasily. )
Now . . . tell me . . . what has happened?
Rautend, Nay, if I knew . . .
Heineich. Meseems . . . methinks . . . and . . . then . . .
all ends in dreams.
Ay, surely, I am dreaming.
Rautend. Here is milk.
Thou must drink some of it, for thou art weak.
Heineich (eagerly).
Thanks, maiden. I will drink. Give me the milk.
[He drinks from a bowl which she offers him.]
Rautend. (while he drinks).
Thou art not used to mountain ways. Thy home
Lies in the vale below, where mortals dwell.
116
THE GERMAN CLASSICS
And, like a hunter who once feU from the cliff
While giving chase to some wild mountain fowl,
Thou hast climbed far too high. And yet . . .
that man
Was not quite fashioned as the man thou art.
Heinrich {after drinking and looking ecstatically and
fixedly at Rautendelein).
Speak on! Speak on! Thy drink was very
sweet.
But sweeter still thy voice . . .
[Again becoming anxious.]
She said — a man
Not fashioned like myself. A better man —
And yet he fell! . . . Speak on, my child.
Rautend. Why speak?
What can my words avail! I'll rather go
And fetch thee water from the brook, to wash
The blood and dust from off thy brow . . .
Heinrich {pleading and grasping her by the wrist. Rau-
tendelein stands undecided). Ah, stay!
And look into mine eyes with thy strange eyes.
For lo, the world, within thine eyes renewed,
So sweetly bedded, draws me back to life !
Stay, child. 0 stay!
Rautend. {uneasy).
Then ... as thou wilt. And yet . . .
Heinrich {fevered and imploring).
Ah, stay with me ! Thou wilt not leave me so ?
Thou dost not dream how dear to me thou art.
Oh, wake me not, my child. I'll tell thee all.
I fell . . . Yet — no. Speak thou ; for thy dear
voice
Has Heaven's own music. God did give it thee.
And I will listen. Speak! . . . Wilt thou not
speak?
Wilt thou not sing to me? Why then ... I
must . . .
THE SUNKEN BELL 117
I fell. I know not how — I've told thee that —
Whether the path gave way beneath my feet ;
Whether 'twas willingly I fell, or no —
God wot. Enough. I fell into the gulf.
[More fevered.]
And then I clutched at a wild cherry-tree
That grew between the rocks. It broke — and I,
Still clasping a bough tightly, felt a shower
Of pale pink blossoms riot round my head ;
Then swift was hurled to the abyss — and died !
And even now I'm dead. It must be so.
Let no one wake me!
Rautend. (uncertainly). Yet thou seem'st alive!
Heinrich. I know — I know — what once I did not know:
That Life is Death, and only Death is Life.
[Collapsing again.']
I fell. lUved — andfell. The bell fell, too !
We two — the bell and I. Was I the first —
To slip, and next — the bell ? Or — the reverse ?
Who seeks to know ? And who could prove the
truth?
And even were it proven, what care I?
Then I was living. Now — ah, now ... I'm
dead.
(Tenderly.)
Ah, go not yet!
[Looks at his hand.]
My hand ! . . . 'Tis white as milk !
My hand I . . . It hangs so heavy ! . . . It seems
dead.
I cannot lift it ! . . . Yet — How sweet thou art !
The touch of thy soft hair doth bring relief,
As water of Bethesda ! . . . Nay, do not fear !
My hand shall never harm thee — thou art holy !
Where have we met? ... I surely know thy
face.
Somewhere, but where, or when, I cannot tell,
118 THE GERMAN CLASSICS
I wrought for thee, and strove — in one grand
Bell,
To wed the silver music of thy voice
With the warm gold of a Sun-holiday.
It should have been a master-work ! . . . I failed.
Then wept I tears of blood.
Rautend. Wept tears of blood?
I cannot follow thee. What be these tears?
Heinrich {trying to raise his head).
Thou lovely picture ! . . . Help me to sit up.
[Rautendelein stoops and supports his head.]
Dost thou bend down to me ? Then, with love 's
arms,
Do thou release me from this cruel Earth,
Whereunto the hour nails me, as to a cross.
Release me! For thou canst. I know thou canst !
And, with thy tender hands, pluck off the thorns
That crown my head. No crown ! Love — only
Love!
[His head is slightly raised. He seems ex-
hausted.']
Thanks ! Thanks I
[Gently and in a lost kind of way as he looks
at the landscape.]
Here all is beautiful ! The rustling boughs
Have such a strange, full sound. The darkling
arms .
Of the great firs move so mysteriously.
How solemnly their heads sway to and fro !
The very soul of fairy fantasy
Sighs through the wood. It murmurs low, and
then.
Still gently whisp'ring, stirs the tiny leaves.
Now it goes singing through the green wood-
grass.
And now, veiled all in misty white, it nears —
It stretches out its long white hand and points
THE SUNKEN BELL
119
r
. 'Tisgone! Yet
Kiss me, sweet
[He faints.}
At me! . . . Now closer, it draws! It touches
my ear . . .
My tongue . . . my eyes ! .
thou art here!
Thou art my fantasy! .
fantasy !
Rautend. {half to herself).
Thy speech is strange. I know not what it means.
[She suddenly resolves to go.']
Lie thou, and sleep.
Heineich {dreaming) . Kiss me, sweet fantasy!
[Rautendelein stops, and gazes at Heinrich.
The darkness deepens. Rautendelein sud-
denly grows frightened and calls.]
Rautend. 0 grandmother !
WiTTiKiN {from within the hut ) . Well, girl ?
Rautend. Come here ! Come here !
WiTTiKiN {as above).
Nay, come thou here, and help me make the fire !
Rautend. 0 Granny!
WiTTiKiN. Hark 'ee, wench. Dost hear me? Come.
'Tis time we fed the goat. And then to milk it !
Rautend. Grandmother ! Help him ! Help him ! He is
dying!
[Enter from hut, Wittikin. She stands on
the threshold, holding a milk pail in her left
hand, and calls to her cat.]
Wittikin. Here! Puss, Puss, Puss!
[She looks carelessly at Heinrich.]
He hasn't budged, I see.
Well — mortals all must die. No help for it.
What matter? Let him be. He's better so.
Come — pussy! pussy! . . . Here is milk for
thee —
Why, where is pussy?
{Calling.)
Hurry, hurry, wood-folk, when I call!
Here, I've milk a-plenty for ye all!
120 THE GERMAN CLASSICS
Hurry, hurry, hurry, trold and sprite !
[Enter ten droll little Trolds, male and female.
They hustle about the milk pail.^
Here is bread — for every one a bite !
Here 's enough to drink, and here 's to eat :
Food that dukes and earls 'ud count a treat.
{To the other Trolds.)
Thou, go !
Thou art full, I trow.
{To the other Trolds.)
For thee a sop —
And for thee a drop —
Now enough ye Ve guzzled.
And off ye hop !
[They riot and shout.~\
I'll have ye muzzled.
Unless ye stop !
Nay, this won 't do —
Ye riotous crew!
Enough for today!
Away ! Away !
[The Trolds vanish into the wood. Moon-
light. The Wood-Sprite appears, seated
on the rocks beyond the hut. Putting his
horny hands to his mouth, he imitates the
echo of a cry for help.]
W.-Sprite. Help ! Help !
WiTTiKiN, Why, what's amiss?
Distant Voices {from the wood). Heinrich! Heinrich!
W.-Sfritb {as above). Help! Help!
WiTTiKiN {threateningly to The Wood-Sprite).
Fool, thy knavish antics cease !
Leave our mountain-folk in peace!
Ay, ay. It pleases thee to vent thy spite
On the poor glass-workers ! . . . Thou lov 'st to
bite
Stray dogs — to lead lost travelers into fogs.
And see them floundering in the moorland bogs.
THE SUNKEN BELL 121
W.-Sprite. Granny, never heed my jests.
Soon thou shalt have noble guests !
Who rides on the goose's down?
The barber, light as lather.
Who rides on the goose's crown?
The parson, reverend father —
The teacher, with his cue —
Three screech-owls — all for you !
The Voices (nearer).
Heinrich !
W.-Speite (as before). Help!
WiTTiKiN. Now may the lightning strike thee !
Wouldst hang a schoolmaster about my neck.
And eke a parson?
[Shaking her fist at The Wood-Sprite.]
Thou shalt smart for this.
I'll send thee swarming gnats, and stinging flies,
To plague thee till thou shalt be so distraught
Thou 'It long to hide thyself.
W.-Sprite {with malignant glee).
They're coming. Granny!
[He disappears.]
WiTTiKiN. Well, and what then? They're no concern o'
mine.
[To Rautendelein, who is gazing fixedly at
Heinrich.]
Into the hut ! Blow out the light ! To bed !
Quick, wench !
Rautend. {sullen and defiant).
I won't!
WiTTiKiN. What? Disobey me?
Rautend. Yes !
WiTTiKiN. And why?
Rautend. They '11 take him from me.
WiTTiKiN. Well? What of 't?
Rautend. They must not take him. Granny !
122
THE GERMAN CLASSICS
WiTTiKiN. Girl, ha' done!
And let them deal wi ' him as they may list.
Dust will to dust, and some day he must die.
So let him die. He'll be the better for 't.
See how life irks him, how it rends his heart,
Wi' pain and agony.
HJEiNRiCH (dreaming). The Sun sets fast!
WiTTiKiN. He never saw the Sun, girl. Let him be.
Come. Follow me. Be warned, or thou wilt rue !
[Exit into hut. Cries of " Heinrich! Hein-
rich! " Rautendelein listens for a mo-
ment. Then she suddenly breaks a flowery
twig from a hough, and draws a circle with
it round Heinrich as she speaks the fol-
lowing lines.']
Rautend. With the first fresh buds of Spring,
Lo, I draw the magic ring!
Safe from every harm and ill.
Thus thou art. It is my will !
Thou art thine, and thine, and mine.
None may cross the mystic line !
Be thou youth, or man, or maid,
Here thou surely must be stayed !
\^She hides behind the trees in shadoiv. Enter
one after the other, from the wood. The
Vicar, The Barber, and The School-
master.]
Vicar. I see a light.
ScHooLM. And I !
Vicar. Where are we now?
Barber. God only knows. Again I hear that cry
Of Help! Help! Help!"
Vicar. It is the Master's voice!
ScHooLM. I heard no cry.
Barber. It came from yonder height.
ScHOOLM. If one fell up to Heaven, that might be.
But, as a general rule, one tumbles — down:
Fcrinisstun Amilcr & KuthaiJt, Deilin
INTERMEZZO I
.Max Ki.iNuKK
THE SUNKEN BELL 123
From cliff to vale, and not from vale to cliff.
The Master lies — I'd stake my soul upon 't —
Full fifty fathoms deeper: not up here.
Baeber. 'Ods bodikins ! Did you not hear him then?
If that was not the voice of Master Heinrich,
May I be set to shave old Eiibezahl !
As I'm a living barber, I will swear
I heard a cry.
ScHOOLM. Where from?
ViCAE. • What place is this?
Ere we continue, tell me that, my friends.
My face is bleeding; I can hardly drag
One foot after another. How they ache !
I'll go no further.
A Voice. Help!
Vicar. Again that voice !
Barber. And this time it was close to where we stand!
Vicar {sitting ivearily).
I'm racked with pain. Indeed, my worthy
friends,
I can no more. So leave me, in God's name.
In truth, though you should beat me black and
blue.
You could not make me budge another step.
I am worn out. Alack, that this glad day
Should end so sadly! Who had ever thought
Such things could happen! And the mighty
bell —
The noblest of the Master's master-works — !
Thy ways, 0 Lord, indeed pass finding out
And are most wonderful!
Barber. Ay, Father, ay.
And do you wish to know what place this be?
Well, I will tell you. If you '11 be advised,
You '11 get from hence — and that without delay.
'Twere better far we spent the livelong night
Bare-backed, and in a hornet's nest, than here.
124
THE GERMAN CLASSICS
For, by the Lord, we 're on the Silver Hill !
Within a hundred steps should stand the house
Of that accursed witch. So — let's away!
Vicar. I cannot budge.
ScHooLM. Nay, come, I pray you, come.
Worse things than witches are encountered
here.
If they were all, I should not turn a hair.
Ah, there's no wilder spot for leagues around —
A paradise of smugglers, thieves, and rogues —
A trysting-place for cut-throat murderers —
So infamous that Peter — he who longed
To know what fear and trembling meant —
might learn
Both easily — if he but came this way.
Barber. Yes. One and one make two — we all know that.
But that is not the only thing worth knowing.
I hope, my master, you may never learn
What witchcraft means ! . . . The hellish sluts
who lurk,
Like toads in a hole, hatching their evil plots,
May send you illnesses, and plague your ox,
Make blood flow from the udders of your cows
Instead of milk, and rot your sheep with
worms —
Or curse your children with unwholesome wens.
And horrible ulcers. All this they can do.
ScHOOLM. You're wandering, sirs. The night has turned
your heads.
While you go babbling here of witches ' games,
Your ears grow dull. Heard you not moans?
By Heaven!
I see the very man we seek !
Vicar. See whom?
ScHOOLM. Why, Master Heinrich.
Barber. Oh, he 's lost his wits I
Vicar. 'Twas witchcraft.
THE SUNKEN BELL
125
ScHooLM. Nay, then two and two 's not four,
But five. And that's impossible. Prate not
Of witches. For, as I do hope for Heaven,
There lies the master bell-founder himself !
Look ! Now the clouds have ceased to hide the
moon.
Look, gentlemen! Now! Now! Well — was
I right?
ViCAE. Indeed you were, my master.
Baebek. 'Tis the bell-founder !
[All three hurry toward Heineich, hut recoil
on reaching the edge of the magic ring.']
ViCAE. Oh !
Baebee. Oh !
ScHooLM. Oh! Oh!
Rautend. {becoming visible for a moment among the trees).
Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha!
[She vanishes amid peals of mocking laughter.
A pause.]
ScHooLM. (beivildered).
What was it!
Baebee. Ay. What was 't ?
ViGAE. I heard a laugh !
ScHooLM. The bright light dazzled me. I do believe
It's made a hole in my head as big as my fist.
ViCAE. You heard the laughter?
Baebee. Ay, and something cracked.
ViCAE. The laughter seemed to come from every pine
That rustles round us in the growing gloom.
There! Yonder! Where the horn-owl hoots
and flies !
Baebee. Didn't I tell you of these devilish folk?
0 Lord, 0 Lord ! I warned you of their spells.
D'ye think we're safe here? As for me, I
quake —
My flesh creeps. Curses on the hag, say I !
Vicar (raising the crucifix which hangs round his neck, and
moving steadfastly toward the hut).
126 THE GERMAN CLASSICS
You may be right. Yet, thougli the Devil him-
self
Dwelt here, I 'd still say : Courage ! On 1 Still on !
Against him we will pit God 's Holy Word !
Ah! never yet w^as Satan's craft more clear
Than when he hurled the Master and the bell
To death — God's servant and his instrument —
The bell that, from the edge of the abyss
Had sung the hymn of everlasting Love,
And Peace, and Mercy, through the firmament !
Here stand we as true soldiers of the Lord !
I'll knock!
Baebek. D — d — don 't risk it !
ViCAE. Yes ! I say, I '11 knock !
[He knocks at the door of the hut.']
WiTTiKiN {from within the hut).
Who's there!
ViCAE. A Christian!
WiTTiKiN. Christian or no Christian,
What d'you want?
ViCAE. Open !
WiTTiKiN {appearing in the doorway, carrying a lighted
lantern). Well! What 's your will?
VicAE. In God's name, w^oman, whom thou dost not
know —
WiTTiKiN. Oho ! A pious opening, I declare !
ScHooLM. Thou carrion-crow, how durst thou wag thy
tongue 1
The measure's fuU — thy time is meted out.
Thy evil life and thy accursed deeds
Have made thee hated through the countryside.
So — an' thou do not now as thou art bid —
Ere daAvn the red cock* from thy roof shall
crow —
Thy den of thieves shall flame and smoke to
Heaven !
In Germany " der rothe Hahn " is a symbol of incendiarism.
THE SUNKEN BELL 127
Barber (crossing himself repeatedly) .
Thou wicked cat ! I 'm not afraid of thee !
Ay — scowl, and glare, and glower, as thou wilt !
Though thy red eyes should light upon my
corpse,
They'll find the Cross before them. Do as
thou 'rt bid !
Vicar. I charge thee, woman, in God's holy name,
Have done with all thy devilish juggleries.
And help this man ! Here lies a child of God,
A Master, gifted with a wondrous art
That him doth honor, while it puts to shame
The damned companies of air and Hell.
WiTTiKiN {who has been prowling round Heineich with her
lantern).
And, what's all that to do wi' me? Enough !
You're welcome to the creature. Take him
hence.
What harm did I to him? For aught I care,
He may live on, till he has spent his breath.
I'll wager that won't be so very long!
Ye name him ' ' Master, ' ' and ye love the sound
0 ' the big iron bells the creature makes.
Ye all are hard o ' hearin ', or ye 'd know
There 's no good in his bells. He knows it, too.
Ah, I could tell ye, an I would, what 's wrong.
The best and worst o ' them ring false. They 're
cracked.
There ! Take the litter. Bear the man away —
The ' * Master, " as ye call him ! Master Milksop !
{To Heinrich.)
Get up ! Go home and help the parson preach !
Go — help the schoolmaster to birch his boys —
Go — mix the lather in the barber's shop!
[The Barber and The Schoolmaster lift
Heinrich onto the litter.']
128
THE GERMAN CLASSICS
ViCAB. Thou wicked, scolding hag! Restrain thy
tongue !
Thy way shall lead thee straight to Hell. Be-
gone!
WiTTiKiN. Oh, spare your sermons. I ha 'heard ye preach.
I know, I know. 'Tis sinful to ha' senses.
The earth's a coffin, and the Heavens above
Are but a coffin-lid. The stars are holes ;
The sun's a bigger hole in the blue sky.
The world 'ud come to grief wi'out the priests,
And God Himself ye 'd make a bug-a-boo !
The Lord should take a rod to ye — poor fools !
Ay, fools are ye — all, all! and nothing more!
[She bangs open her door and goes into hut.]
Vicar. Thou beldame !
Baebeb. For Heaven's sake — don't vex her more !
If you should goad her further, we are lost.
[Exeunt The Vicae, The Schoolmaster, and
The Barber into the wood, hearing away
Heineich on the litter. The moon shines
out, and lights up the peaceful landscape.
First, Second, and Third Elves steal out
of the wood one after the other and join
hands in a dance.]
1st Elf (whispering).
Sister !
2d Elf (as above). Sister!
1st Elf (as above). White and chill
Shines the moon across the hill.
Over bank, and over brae.
Queen she is, and Queen shall stay.
2d Elf. Whence com'st thou?
1st Elf. From where the light
In the waterfall gleams bright.
Where the glowing flood doth leap.
Roaring, down into the deep.
THE SUNKEN BELL 129
Then, from out the mirk and mist,
Where the foaming torrent hissed,
Past the dripping rocks and spray,
Up I swiftly made my way.
3d Elf {joining them).
Sisters, is it here ye dance!
1st Elf. Wouldst thou join us? Quick — advance!
2d Elf. And whence com'st thou?
3d Elf. Hark and hist !
Dance, and dance, as ye may list !
'Mid the rocky peaks forlorn
Lies the lake where I was born.
Starry gems are mirrored clear
On the face of that dark mere.
Ere the fickle moon could wane,
Up I swept my silver train.
Where the mountain breezes sigh.
Over cliff and crag came I!
4th Elf (entering).
Sisters !
1st Elf. Sister ! Join the round !
All (together). Ring-a-ring-a-ring-around !
4th Elf. From Dame HoUe's flowery brae,
Secretly I stole away.
1st Elf. Wind and wander, in and out!
All (together). Ring-a-ring-a-round-about !
[Lightning and distant thunder. Enter sud-
denly, from the hut, Rautendeleix. Clasp-
ing her hands behind her head, she watches
the dance from the doorway. The moon-
light falls full on her.']
Rautend. Ho, my fairies !
1st Elf. Hark ! A cry !
2d Elf. Owch! My dress is all awry!
Rautend. Ho, ye fairies!
3d Elf. Oh, my gown !
Flit and flutter, up and down.
Vol. XVIII— 9
130 THE GERMAN CLASSICS
Rautend. (joining in the dance).
Let me join the merry round,
Ring-a-ring-a-ring-around !
Silver nixie, sweetest maid,
See how richly I'm arrayed.
All of silver, white and rare.
Granny wove my dress so fair.
Thou, my fairy browm, I vow.
Browner far am I than thou.
And, my golden sister fair,
I can match thee with my hair,
Now I toss it high — behold.
Thou hast surely no such gold.
Now it tumbles o 'er my face :
Who can rival me in grace ?
All (together). Wind and wander, in and out,
Ring-a-ring-a-round-about !
Rautend. Into the gulf there fell a bell.
Where is it lying ? Will ye tell ?
All (together). Wind and wander, in and out,
Ring-a-ring-a-round-about !
Daisy and forget-me-not,
Fairy footsteps injure not.
[Enter The Wood-Sprite, skipping. Thunder
— this time louder. During the following
speech, a storm rages — thunder and hail.l
W.-Sprite. Daisy and forget-me-not
Crush I in the earth to rot.
If the moorland's all a-drip
'Tis because I leap, and skip!
Now the bull doth seek his mate.
Bellows at the stable gate.
And the heifer, sleeping by,
Lifts her head and lows reply.
On the stallion's warm brown hide
Every fly doth seek his bride,
While the midges dance above,
Fill the air with life and love.
THE SUNKEN BELL
131
NiCKELM.
Rautend.
NiCKELM.
Rautend.
NiCKELM.
Rautend.
See ! The ostler woos the maid !
Buss her, fool! Dost fear the jade?
With the rotting straw for bed,
Soft and tender, lo they wed !
Hul 'lo ! Hul 'lo ! Heigh-o-hey !
Whisp 'ring's over for today.
Done the dancing, hushed and chill,
Lusty life is master still!
Be it early, be it late,
Mews the tom-cat, mews its mate.
Stork, and thrush, and nightingale,
Hart, and hare, and hen, and quail,
Snipe, and hawk, and swan, and duck.
Crane, and pheasant, doe and buck.
Beetle, moth, and mole, and louse.
Toad, and frog, and bat, and mouse,
Bee, and gnat, and moth, and fly —
All must love, and all must die !
[The Wood-Speite snatches up one of the
Elves and carries her off into the wood.
The three other Elves vanish in different
directions. Rautendelein remains stand-
ing alone and sad, in the middle of the
glade. The storm gradually dies away.
The Nickelmann rises from the well, as
before.]
Brekekekex ! — Brekekekex ! Hey ! Ho !
Why dost thou stand there?
Thou dear water-sprite —
Alas, I am so sad. So sad am I !
(mockingly).
Brekekekex! And which eye hurts thee, dear?
(gaily).
The left eye. But, perhaps, thou think 'st I jest ?
Ay, surely, surely.
(pointing to a tear in her eye).
Look — what can it be ?
132
THE GERMAN CLASSICS
NiCKELM. What dost thou mean?
Rautend. Why — see what's in my eye I
NicKELM. What 's in thine eye ? Come — let me see it close.
Eautend. a warm, wet drop has fallen on my lid.
NicKELM. The deuce it has! Come nearer — let me see.
Rautend. (holding out the tear to him).
A tiny, pure, warm, glitt'ring drop of dew.
There, only see!
Nickelm. By Heaven ! 'Tis beautiful.
How would it please thee an' I took the thing
And set it in a fine, pink shell for thee?
Rautend. Why, as thou wilt. I'll lay it on the edge
Of the weU. What can it be?
Nickelm. A wondrous gem 1
Within that little globe lies all the pain,
And all the joy, the world can ever know.
'Tis called — a tear!
Rautend. A tear ! . . . I must have wept.
So now at last I've learned what these tears
be . . ,
Oh, tell me something !
Nickelm. Come to me, dear child!
Rautend. Not I, forsooth. What good were that to me!
The edge of thine old well is wet and rough ;
'Tis overrun with spiders, worms and — worse.
They irk me — aU of them. And so dost thou.
Nickelm. Brekekekex! I grieve to hear it, dear.
Rautend. Another of those drops ! How strange !
Nickelm. More rain !
Behold ! Now Father Thor is all ablaze.
The lightnings from his beard fall soft, and
bhnk
Like babies' eyes, setting the misty train
Of rolling clouds aglow with purple flame.
And yonder, near the gray, mark how a flight
Of ravens rushes madly through the night
To keep him company. With every flash
THE SUNKEN BELL
133
Their wings gleam wetter in the whirling rain.
Hark, child, how thirstily our Mother Earth
Drinks every drop! And how the trees and
grass,
The flies and worms, grow glad in the quick light !
[Lightning. 1
Quorax ! Now in the valley ! Master ! Hail !
Old Thor is kindling a rare Easter fire.
His hammer flares — twelve thousand miles it
sweeps !
The church-tower totters — now the belfry
cracks !
The smoke pours out! . . .
Rautend. Enough ! Enough ! No more !
Come, tell me something else. I 'm tired of Thor.
NiCKELM. Thou saucy sparrow, thou — Brekekekex!
What ails the creature? When it's stroked —
it pecks.
A pretty way to thank one ! When you 're done,
You're no bit further than ere you'd begun!
Am I not right? . . . Still pouting, eh? . . .
Well, well.
What wouldst thou know ?
Rautend. Oh, nothing. Do but go !
NicKELM. Naught thou wouldst know?
Rautend. Naught !
NiCKELM. (imploringly). Then, speak thou, I pray.
Rautend. I long to leave you all and go away !
[Her eyes fill with tears and she stares into
the distance.']
NiCKELM. {with anguish).
What have I done to thee? Where wouldst
thou go?
Is it the world of men that thou wouldst know?
I warn thee, maiden. Man's a curious thing.
Who naught but woe to such as thee could bring.
134
THE GERMAN CLASSICS
Although, perchance, with ours his fate's en-
twined,
He is, yet is not quite, of our own kind.
His world is ours — and yet, I say, beware !
Half here, he lives — half, no one could tell
where !
Half he 's our brother ; yet, this many a day,
A foe he 's been, and lost to us for aye.
Woe, woe to all who our free mountains flee
To join these mortals, hoping bliss to see !
Man's feet are in the Earth. In toil and pain
He lives his fleeting life. And yet — he 's vain.
He 's like a plant that in a cellar shoots,
And needs must pluck and pluck at its own roots.
So, languishing for light, he rots away,
Nor ever knows the joy of one sun-ray.
The breath of Spring that kisses the green leaf,
To sickly boughs brings death, and not relief.
Pry thou no further, but let Man alone :
Lest thou should hang about thy neck — a stone.
Man will but sadden thee with his gray skies,
And turn thy happy laugh to tears and sighs.
Thou shalt be chained unto an ancient Book.
Accurst — no more upon the Sun thou 'It look!
Rautend. Grandmother says thou art a learned seer.
Yet, an' thou wilt but in thy waters peer, *
Thou 'It see that never yet a rill did flow
But longed into the world of men to go.
NiCKELM. {angrily).
Quorax ! Brekekekex ! Be not so bold.
Hear now the words of one ten centuries old!
Let slavish streams pursue their fated way,
Work, wash, for men, and grind their corn each
day.
Water their cabbages and garden stuff.
And swallow — Heav 'n knows what ! And now
. . . enough!
{Warmly and earnestly.)
THE SUNKEN BELL
135
But, 0 my dear Princess Rautendelein,
For tliee a King's chamber were none too fine.
I know a rare crown, all of crystal so green,
In a great golden hall, thou shalt wear it, my
queen.
The floor and the roof are of clear blue stone,
Red coral the coffers and chests I own. . . .
Rautend. And what though thy coffers of coral be
wrought ?
Life lived with the fishes were good for naught.
And though thy King's crown of pure sapphire
should be.
Thy daughters should prink it alone with thee.
My own golden tresses are far more dear;
Their touch a caress is; my crown is- — here!
[She turns to go.]
NiCKELM. Where art thou going?
Rautend. {airily and indifferently). What is that to thee?
NiCKELM. (sorrowfully).
Much. Much. Brekekekex !
Rautend. Oh, whither I will,
Go I.
NiCKELM. And whither wouldst go ?
Rautend. Away and away !
NiCKELM. Away and away?
Rautend. {flinging her arms aloft). To the world — of men !
[She vanishes in the wood.]
NiCKELM. {terrified).
Quorax!
{Whimpering.)
Quorax!
(Softltj.)
Quorax !
{Shaking his head sadly.)
Brekekekex!
136 THE GERMAN CLASSICS
ACT II
An oldr fashioned room in the house of Heinrich the hell-founder. A
deep recess occupies half the hack wall. In the recess is a large open
fireplace, with a chiirmey above it. A copper kettle is suspended above
the unlighted fire. The other half of the back wall, set at an angle, is
lighted by a large old-fashioned window, with bottle-glass panes. Below
this vnndow, a bed. Doors right and left. That on the right leads to
the workshop, while that on the left leads to the courtyard. In the fore-
ground, right, a table and chairs placed. On the table: a full jug of
milk, mugs, and a loaf of bread. Near the table, a tub. The room is
decorated with works by Adam Kraft, Peter Fischer, etc., conspicuous
among them a painted wooden image of Christ on the Cross. Seated at
the farther side of the table, and, in their Sunday best, the two Children
of Heinrich (boys aged respectively five and nine), with their rrmgs
of milk before them. Magda, their mother, also in her Sunday best,
enters from the right, with a bunch of cowslips in her hand.
Early mornmg. The light grows brighter as the action progresses.
Magda. See, children, what I've brought you from the
fields!
Beyond the garden — a whole patch grew wild.
Now we can make ourselves look fine and gay,
In honor of your father's birthday feast.
1st Child. Oh, give me some!
2d Child. And me !
Magda. There ! Five for each !
And every single one they say's a key*
That opens Heaven. Now drink your milk, my
dears.
And eat your bread. 'Tis almost time to start.
The road to church, you know, is long and steep.
Neighbor [a woman; looking in at the windotv).
What! Up already, neighbor!
Magda {at the window). Yes, indeed.
I hardly closed my eyes the livelong night.
But, 'twas not care that kept me wide-awake.
* In Germany the cowslip is called " Himmelschliissel," i. e., " the key of
Heaven."
THE SUNKEN BELL
137
So now I'm just as fresh as if I'd slept
Sound as a dormouse. Wliy, how bright it is !
Neighbor, Ay. Ay. You're right.
Magda. You '11 come with us, I hope ?
Now don't say no. You'll find it easy walking
On the road . . . These tiny children's feet
Shall lead the way, and gently mark our steps.
If you must have the truth, I long for wings :
I'm wild today with joy and eagerness!
Neighbor. And has your good-man not been home all night ?
Magda. What are you dreaming of? I'll be content
If only the big bell is safely hung
In time to ring the people in to mass !
You see — the time was short. They'd none to
waste.
And as for sleeping — if the Master snatched
So much as one short wink in the wood-grass —
Why, Heaven be praised ! But, oh, what does
it matter?
The work was hard : but great is the reward.
You cannot think how pure, and clear, and true.
The new bell sounds. Just wait until you hear
Its voice ring out today from the church-tower.
'Tis like a prayer, a hynm, a song of praise —
Filling the heart with comfort and with glad-
ness.
Neighbor. No doubt, ma'am. Yet one thing amazes me.
From my front door, as doubtless you 're aware,
The church upon the hill is plainly seen.
Now — I had heard that when the bell was hung
A white flag would be hoisted from the tower.
I've seen no sign of tliat white flag. Have you ?
Magda. Oh, look again. It must be there by now.
Neighbor. No, no. It's not.
Magda. Well, even were you right,
It would not frighten me. Did you but know
The fret and toil and pain, by night and day.
138
THE GERMAN CLASSICS
Neighbor.
Magda.
Neighbor.
Magda.
It cost the Master to complete his work,
You would not wonder if the final stroke
Should be delayed a bit. I understand.
By this time, I '11 be bound, the flag is there.
Why, yes, I'm sure it is, could we but see 't.
I can't believe it. In the village streets
They do say something dreadful has occurred.
Dark omens, boding evil, fill the air.
But now, a farmer saw a naked witch,
Perched on a boar's back, riding through his
corn.
Lifting a stone, he cast it at the hag —
Straightway his hand dropped — palsied to the
knuckles !
'Tis said that all the mischievous mountain
sprites
Are leagued and up in arms against the bell.
How strange you have not heard all this before !
Well — now the Bailiff's gone into the hills,
With half the village at his heels, to see . . .
The Bailiff? Merciful God! What can be
wrong?
Why, nothing's certain. All may yet be well.
There — don't take on so, neighbor. Come —
be calm!
It's not scT bad as that. Now don't 'ee fret.
It seems the wagon and the bell broke down . . .
That's all we've heard.
Pray Heav 'n that be the worst !
What matters one bell more or less ! ... If he.
The Master, be but safe — these flowers may
stay.
Yet — till we know what 's happened . . . Here,
prithee.
Take the two children . . .
[She lifts the two Children through the
window.]
Will vou?
THE SUNKEN BELL 139
Neighbob. Why, to be sure.
Magda. Thanks. Take them home with you. And, as
for me.
Ah, I must go, as fast as go I can,
To see what may be done — to help. For I
Must be with my dear Master — or, I die!
[Exit hurriedly. The Neighbor retires with
the Children. Confused noise of voices
without. Then a piercing cry from Magda. ]
Enter quickly The Vicar, sighing, and wiping the tears from his eyes. He
looks around the room hastily, and turns down the coverlet of the hed.
Then, hurrying to the door, he meets The Schoolmaster and The
Barber, carrying Heinrich in on the litter seen in Act One. Heinrich
reclines on a rude bed of green branches. Magda, half beside herself
with anguish, follows, supported by a Man and a Woman, Crowd of
Villagers presses in behind Magda. Heinrich is laid on hie oivn bed.
Vicar {to Magda).
Bear up, my mistress ! Put your trust in God !
We laid him on our litter as one dead ;
Yet, on the way, he came to life again,
And, as the doctor told us, only now,
Hope's not yet lost.
Magda (moaning). Dear God, who speaks of hope?
A moment since, I was so happy ! . . . Now —
What 's come to me 1 What 's happened ! Won 't
you speak?
Where are the children?
Vicar. Put your trust in God.
Do but have patience, mistress. Patience and
faith !
Often — remember — in our direst need
God's help is nearest. And, forget not this:
Should He, of His all-wisdom, have resolved,
In His owTi time, to call the Master hence.
Still there shall be this comfort for your soul —
Your husband goes from Earth to endless bliss.
140 THE GERMAN CLASSICS
Magda. Why do you speak of comfort, reverend sir!
Do I need comfort? Nay — he will get well.
He must get well.
ViCAE. So all of us do hope.
But . . . should he not . . . God's holy will be
done.
Come now what may, the Master's fight is won.
To serve the Lord, he fashioned his great bell.
To serve the Lord, he scaled the mountain-
heights —
Where the malignant powers of Darkness dwell,
And the Abyss defies the God of Hosts.
Serving the Lord, at last he was laid low —
Braving the hellish spirits in his path.
They feared the gospel that his bell had rung :
So leagued themselves against him, one and all,
In devilish brotherhood. God punish them !
Babber. a wonder-working woman lives hard by,
Who heals, as the Disciples healed of old.
By prayer and faith.
Vicae. Let some one search for her :
And when she 's found, return with her at once.
Magda. What's come to him? Why do you stand and
gape?
Off with you all ! You shall not stare at him
With your unfeeling eyes. D'you hear? Be-
gone !
Cover him — so — with linen, lest your looks
Should shame the Master. Now — away with
you!
Get to the juggler 's, if you needs must gape.
Ah, God! What's happened? . . . Are ye all
struck dumb?
ScHOOLM. Truly, 'tis hard to tell just what took place.
Whether he tried to stop the bell — or what . . .
This much is certain : if you could but see
How deep he fell, you would go down on your
knees
THE SUNKEN BELL 141
And thank the Lord. For, if your husband lives,
'Tis nothing short of the miraculous !
Heineich (feeblij).
Give me a little water !
Magda (driving out the Villageks quickly). Out you go!
ViCAK. Go, my good people. He has need of rest.
[Villagers withdraw.']
If I can serve you, mistress, why, you know
Where you may find me.
Barber. Yes, and me.
ScHOOLM. And me.
No. On reflection, I '11 stay here.
Magda. You '11 go !
Heinrich. Give me some^water!
[The Vicar, Schoolmaster, and Barber with-
draiv slowly, talking low, shaking their
heads, and shrugging their shoulders.]
Magda (hastening to Heinrich with water).
Heinrich, are you awake?
Heinrich. I'm parched. Give me some water. Can't you
hear?
Magda (unable to control herself).
Nay, patience.
Heinrich. Magda, all too soon I'll learn
What patience means. Bear with me yet awhile.
It will not be for long. [He drinks.]
Thanks, Magda. Thanks.
Magda. Don't speak to me so strangely, Heinrich.
Don't!
I ... I'm afraid.
Heinrich (fevered and angry). Thou must not be afraid.
When I am gone, thou 'It have to live alone.
Magda. I cannot . . . no, I will not . . . live without
thee !
Heinrich. Thy pain is childish. Torture me no more !
It is unworthy, — for thou art a mother.
Bethink thee what that word means, and be
brave !
142 THE GERMAN CLASSICS
Magda. Ah, do not be so stern and harsh with me !
Heinkich (painfully).
The x^lain truth harsh and stern 1 Again I say —
Thy place is by the bedside of thy boys.
There lies thy joy, thy peace, thy work, thy life.
All — all is tucked up in their fair, white sheets.
Could it be otherwise, 'twere infamous !
Magda {falling on his neck).
So help me Heav'n, I love thee far, far, more
Than our dear children, and myself, and all !
Heinkich. Then woe unto ye all, too soon bereaved !
And thrice-unhappy I, untimely doomed
To snatch the milk and bread from your poor
lips ! »
Yet, on my tongue, I feel them turn to poison.
That, too, is just ! . . . Farewell. Thee I com-
mend
To one from whom none living may escape.
Many a man has found Death's deepest shadow
Prove but a welcome light. God grant it be !
{Tenderly.)
Give me thy hand. I've done thee many a
wrong
By word and deed. Often I've grieved thy
heart, »
Far, far, too often. But thou wilt forgive me !
I would have spared thee, had I but been free.
I know not what compelled me ; yet I know
I could not choose but stab thee — and myself.
Forgive me, Magda!
Magda. I forgive thee ! What ?
If thou dost love me, Heinrich, be less sad :
Or thou wilt bring the tears back. Rather —
scold.
Thou knowest well how dear —
Heinrich {painfully). I do not know!
Magda. Nay, who, but thou, did wake my woman's soul?
Till thou didst come, I was a poor, dull clod.
THE SUNKEN BELL 143
Pining away beneath a cheerless sky.
Thou — thou — didst rescue me and make me
live,
Fill me with joy, and set my heart in the sun.
And never did I feel thy love more sure
Than when, with thy strong hand, thou'dst
draw my face
Out of the dark, and turn it toward the light.
And thou wouldst have me pardon thee ! For
what?
Do I not owe thee all I love in life ?
Heinrich. Strangely entangled seems the web of souls.
Magda {stroking his hair tenderly).
If I have ever been a help to thee —
If I have sometimes cheered thy working
hours —
If favor in thine eyes I ever found . . .
Bethink thee, Heinrich : I, who would have given
Thee everything — my life — the world itself —
1 had but that to pay thee for thy love !
Heineich {uneasily).
I'm dying. That is best. God means it well.
Should I live on . . . Come nearer, wife, and
hear me.
'Tis better for us both that I should die.
Thou think 'st, because we blossomed out to-
gether,
I was the sun that caused thy heart to bloom.
But that the eternal Wonder-Worker wrought,
A\nio, on the wings of His chill winter-storms.
Rides through a million million woodland
flowers.
Slaying them, as He passes, in their Spring !
'Tis better for us both that I should die.
See : I was cracked and ageing — all misshaped.
If the great Bell-Founder who molded me
Tosses aside His work, I shall not mourn.
144 THE GERMAN CLASSICS
When He did hurl me down to the abyss,
After my own poor, faulty handiwork,
I did not murmur : for my work was bad !
Good wife — the bell that sank into the mere
Was not made for the heights — it was not fit
To wake the answering echoes of the peaks!
Magda. I cannot read the meaning of thy words.
A work — so highly prized, so free from flaw.
So clear and true that, when it first rang out
Between the mighty trees from which it hung.
All marveled and exclaimed, as with one voice,
' ' The Master 's bell sings as the Angels sing ! ' '
Heinrich (fevered).
'Twas for the valley, not the mountain-top!
Magda. That is not true ! Hadst thou but heard, as I,
The Vicar tell the Clerk, in tones that shook,
' ' How gloriously 'twdll sound upon the heights ! ' '
Heinrich. 'Twas for the valley — not the mountain-top !
I only know 't. The Vicar does not know.
So I must die — I wish to die, my child.
For, look now: should I heal — as men would
call 't —
Thanks to the art of our good village leech,
I'd be at best a botch, a crippled wretch;
And so the warm and generous draught of life —
Ofttimes I've found it bitter, ofttimes sweet,
But ever it was strong, as I did drink 't —
Would turn to a stale, flat, unsavory brew,
Thin and grown cold and sour. I '11 none of it !
Let him who fancies it enjoy the draught.
Me it would only sicken and repel.
Hush! Hear me out. Though thou shouldst
haply find
A doctor of such skill that he could cure me.
Giving me back my joy — nerving my hand,
Till it could turn to the old, daily task —
Even then, Magda, I were still undone.
THE SUNKEN BELL
145
Magda. For God's sake, husband, tell me what to think !
What has come over thee — a man so strong,
So blessed, so weighted down with Heaven's
best gifts;
Respected, loved, of all — of all admired,
A master of thy craft ! . . . A hundred bells
Hast thou set ringing, in a hundred towers.
They sing thy praise, witli restless industry ;
Pouring the deep, glad beauty of thy soul
As from a hundred wine-cups, through the land.
At eve, the purple-red — at dawn, God's gold —
Know thee. Of both thou art become a part.
And thou — rich, rich, beyond thy greatest
need —
Thou, voicing God — able to give, and give,
Rolling in happiness, where others go
Begging their daily dole of joy or bread —
Thou look'st unthankfuUy upon thy work!
Then, Heinrich, why must I still bear the life
That thou dost hate so ? . . . What is life to me f
What could that be to me which thou dost
scorn —
Casting it from thee, like a worthless thing!
Heinrich. Mistake me not. Now thou thyself hast sounded
Deeper and clearer than my loudest bells.
And many a one I 've made ! . . . I thank thee,
Magda.
Yet thou shalt understand my thought. Thou
must.
Listen ! . . . The latest of my works had failed.
With anguished heart I followed where they
climbed,
Shouting and cursing loudly, as the bell
Was dragged toward the peak. And then —
it fell.
It fell a hundred fathoms deep, ay, more,
Into the mere. There, in the mere, now lies
Vol. X^^II— 10
146 THE GERMAN CLASSICS
The last and noblest work my art could mold !
Not all my life, as I have lived it, Magda,
Had fashioned, or could fashion, aught so good.
Now I have thrown it after my bad work.
While I lie drinking the poor dregs of life.
Deep in the waters of the lake it's drowned.
I mourn not for what's lost. And then — I
mourn :
Knowing this only — neither bell, nor life,
Shall evermore come back. Alas ! woe 's me !
My heart 's desire was bound up in the tones —
The buried tones — I never more shall hear.
And now the life to which I clung so tight
Is turned to bitterness, and grief, and rue.
Madness, and gloom, confusion, pain, and gall !
Well, let life go ! The service of the valleys
Charms me no longer, and no more their peace
Calms my wild blood. Since on the peak I stood,
All that I am has longed to rise, and rise.
Cleaving the mists, until it touched the skies !
I would work wonders with the power on high :
And, since I may not work them, being so weak ;
Since, even could I, with much straining, rise,
I should but fall again — I choose to die!
Youth — a new youth — I'd need, if I should
live:
Out of some rare and magic mountain flower
Marvelous juices I should need to press —
Heart-health, and strength, and the mad lust
of triumph,
Steeling my hand to work none yet have
dreamed of !
Magda. 0 Heinrich, Heinrich, did I but know the spot
AATiere that thou pantest for, the Spring of
Youth,
Lies hid, how gladly would these feet of mine
Wear themselves out to find it for thee ! Yea,
THE SUNKEN BELL
147
Even though the waters which restored thy life
Should bring me death !
Heinbich {tormented, collapsing and delirious).
Thou dearest, truest ! . . . No, I will not drink !
Keep it ! . . . The Spring is full of blood ! . . .
blood! . . . blood!
I will not! . . . No! . . . Leave me . . . and
... let me . . . die!
[^He becomes unconscious. Enter The Vicar.]
ViCAK. How goes it wdth the patient, mistress?
Magda. ,i. 111!
Terribly ill ! He 's sick in every part.
Some strange, mysterious pain's consuming
him.
I know not what to fear, and what to hope.
[Hurriedly throwing a scarf over her shoul-
ders.]
Did you not speak of a woman who works
miracles ?
ViCAK. I did. Indeed, 'tis that has brought me back.
She lives ... at most a mile away from here . . .
Her name ... I can't recall it. But she lives,
If I mistake not, in the pinewood . . . Ay . . .
Her name . . .
Magda. Not Wittikin?
Vicar. How can you ask !
Why, she's a wicked witch, the Devil's dam.
And she must die. By now they're up in arms,
Eager for battle with the pestilent fiend.
With cudgels, torches, stones, they're hurrjdng
fast
To make an end of her. For you must know
She 's charged with all the evil that afflicts us.
No. I was thinking of . . . Dame Findeklee . . .
A shepherd's widow . . . and a worthy soul . . .
Her husband left her an old recipe
Which, as I am assured by many here.
Has wondrous virtues. Will vou go for her?
148 THE GERMAN CLASSICS
Magda. Yes, yes, most reverend sir !
VicAE. You '11 go at once ?
[Enter Rautendelein, disguised as a peasant
girl, and carrying a basket of berries in her
hand.']
Magda {to Rautendelein).
What wouldst thou, child? . . . Who art thou?
ViCAE. Why — 'tis Anna,
Anna — the maiden from the wayside inn.
Nay, 'twould be vain to question her. Alas,
She's dumb. A good girl. Ah, she's brought
some berries.
Magda. Come here, my child . . . What was 't I wished
to say . . .
Ah, yes ! This man lies sick. When he awakes
Be near to help him. Dost thou understand me ?
Dame Findeklee . . . That was the name, you
said? . . .
But, no ; I cannot go. It is too far.
If you '11 stay here a moment, I am sure,
My neighbor will go for me ... I '11 come back.
And don't forget ... 0 God, my heart will
break! [Exit.']
ViCAK {to RaUTENDELEIn).
Stand here, my child ; or, if thou wilt, sit down,
Be good and do the very best thou canst.
Make thyself helpful, while they need thy help.
God mil reward thee for the work thou doest.
Thou art greatly changed, dear child, since last
I saw thee.
But keep thou honest — be a good, true maid —
For the dear Lord has blessed thee with much
beauty.
In truth, my dear, now that I look at thee,
Thou art, yet art not, Anna. As a princess.
Stepped from the pages of some fairy book,
THE SUNKEN BELL 149
Thou seem 'st. So quickly changed ! Who would
have thought
It possible! Well, well! . . . Thou 'It keep him
cool?
He 's burning ! ( To Heinrich. ) May God bring
thee back to health! \_Exit.'\
[Rautendelein, wJio till now has seemed shy
and meek, changes suddenly and hustles
ahout the hearth.']
Eautend. Flickering spark in the ash of death,
Glo\Y with life of living breath !
Red, red wind, thy loudest blow!
I, as thou, did lawless grow !
Simmer, sing, and simmer!
[ T/ie flame leaps up on the hearth.]
Kettle swaying left and right —
Copper-lid, thou 'rt none too light !
Bubble, bubble, broth and brew.
Turning all things old to new !
Simmer, sing, and simmer!
Green and tender herbs of Spring,
In the healing draught I fling.
Drink it sweet, and drink it hot —
Life and youth are in the pot !
Simmer, sing, and simmer!
And now to scrape the roots and fetch the water.
The cask is empty . . . But we need more light !
[She throws the window wide open.]
A glorious day! But there'll be wind anon.
A mighty cloud, in shape like some huge fish,
Lies on the hills. Tomorrow it will burst;
And roystering spirits will ride madly down,
Sweeping athwart the pines, to reach the vale.
150
THE GERMAN CLASSICS
Hbinrich
Rautend.
Heinrich
Rautend.
Heinrich
Rautend.
Heinrich
Rautend.
Cuckoo! Cuckoo! . . . Here, too, the cuckoo
calls.
And the swift swallow darts across the sky . . .
[Heinrich has opened his eyes, and lies star-
ing at Rautendelein.]
But now to scrape my roots, and fetch the water.
I've much to do since I turned waiting-maid.
Thou, thou, dear flame, shalt cheer me at my
work.
(amazed).
Tell me . . . who art thou?
(quickly and unconcernedly) . II Rautendelein.
Rautendelein? I never heard that name.
Yet somewhere I have seen thee once before.
Where was it?
Why, 'twas on the mountain-side.
True. True. 'Twas there — what time I fevered
lay.
I dreamt I saw thee there . . . Again I dream.
At times we dream strange dreams! See.
Here's my house.
There burns the fire upon the well-known hearth.
Here lie I, in my bed, sick unto death.
I push the window back. There flies a swallow.
Yonder the nightingales are all at play.
' Sweet scents float in — of jasmine . . . elder-
blossom . . .
I see ... I feel ... I know . . . the smallest
thing —
Even to the pattern of this coverlet . . .
Each thread . . . each tiny knot ... I could
describe —
And yet I'm dreaming.
Thou art dreaming? Why?
(in anguish).
Because ... I must be dreaming.
Art thou so sure?
THE SUNKEN BELL
151
Heinrich. Yes. No. Yes. No. I'm wandering. Let me
dream on !
Thou askest if I am so sure. I know not.
Ah, be it what it will : or dream, or life —
It is. I feel it, see it — thou dost live !
Real or unreal, within me or without.
Child of my brain, or whatsoe'er thou art.
Still I do love thee, for thou art thyself.
So stay with me, sweet sf)irit. Only stay!
Rautend. So long as thou shalt choose.
Heineich. Then ... I do dream.
Rautend. (familiarly).
Take care. Dost see me lift this little foot
With the rosy heel? Thou dost? Why, that is
well.
Now — here's a hazel nut. I take it — so —
Between my finger and my dainty thumb ■ —
I set my heel on it. Crack ! Now, 'tis broken.
Was that a dream?
That only God can tell.
Now watch me. See. I'll come quite close to
thee,
And sit upon thy bed. So. Here I am ! . . .
Feasting away as merrily as thou wilt . . .
Hast thou not room enough ?
I've all I need.
But tell me whence thou 'rt sprung and who has
sent thee!
What would 'st thou of a broken, suffering man,
A bundle of sorrow, drawing near the end
Of his brief pilgrimage . . . ?
Rautend. I like thee.
Whence I did spring I know not — nor could tell
Whither I go. But Granny said one day
She found me lying in the moss and weeds.
A hind did give me suck. My home 's the wood,
The mountain-side, the crag, the storm-swept
moor^ —
Heineich.
Rautend.
Heinrich.
152
THE GERMAN CLASSICS
Heineich,
Rautend.
Heinkich.
Rautend.
Where the wind moans and rages, shrieks and
groans,
Or purrs and mews, like some wild tiger-cat !
There thou wilt find me, whirling through the
air;
There I laugh loud and shout for sheer mad joy ;
Till faun and nixie, gnome and water-sprite,
Echo my joy and split their sides with laughter.
I'm spiteful when I'm vexed, and scratch and
bite:
And who should anger me had best beware.
Yet — 'tis no better when I 'm left alone :
For good and bad in me's all mood and impulse.
I'm thus, or thus, and change with each new
whim.
But thee I am fond of . . . Thee I would not
scratch.
And, if thou wilt, I'll stay. Yet were it best
Thou camest with me to mv mountain home.
Then thou should 'st see how faithfully I'd serve
thee.
I'd show thee diamonds, and rubies rare.
Hid at the bottom of unfathomed deeps.
Emeralds, and topazes, and amethysts —
I 'd bring thee all — I 'd hang upon thy lids !
Forward, unruly, lazy, I may be ;
Spiteful, rebellious, waj^ward, what thou wilt!
Yet thou shouldst only need to blink thine eye.
And ere thou 'dst time to speak, I 'd nod thee —
yes.
And Granny tells me . . .
Ah, thou dear, dear child.
Tell me, who is thy Granny ?
Dost thou not know?
No.
Not know Granny?
■w
A, J
o
N
W
■ J#:,?"!S!li^3
•T3
OS
5
— ^^..mS^-x^
THE SUNKEN BELL
153
Heinrich. No, I am a man,
And blind.
Rautend. Soon thou sLalt see ! To me is given
The power to open every eye I kiss
To the most hidden mysteries of earth
And air.
Heinrich. Then . . . kiss me !
Rautend. Thou 'It keep still?
Heinrich. Nay, try me !
Rautend. {kissing his eyes).
Ye eyes, be opened!
Heinrich. Ah, thou lovely child,
Sent to enchant me in my dying hour —
Thou fragrant blossom, plucked by God's own
hand
Li the forgotten dawn of some dead Spring —
Thou free, fair bud — ah, were I but that man
"Who, in the morn of life, fared forth so glad —
How I would press thee to this leaping heart !
Mine eyes were blinded. Now^, they're filled
with light.
And, as by instinct, I divine thy w^orld.
Ay, more and more, as I do drink thee in.
Thou dear enigma, I am sure I see.
Rautend. Why — look at me, then, till thine eyes are tired.
Heinrich. How golden gleams thy hair! How dazzling
bright! . . .
With thee for company, thou dearest dream,
Old Charon's boat becomes a bark for kings.
That spreads its purple sails to catch the sun
Lighting it eastward on its stately way.
Feel'st thou the Western breeze that creeps
behind us.
Flecking with foam from tiny w^aterf alls
The swelling bosom of the blue South seas.
And showering diamonds on us? Dost thou
not feel it?
154
THE GERMAN CLASSICS
And we, reclining here on cloth of gold,
In blissful certitude of what must be.
Do scan the distance that divides us twain . . .
Thou knowest well from what! . . . For thou
hast seen
The fair green island, where the birch bends
down.
Bathing- its branches in the azure flood —
Thou hearest the glad song of all Spring's
choirs,
Waiting to welcome us . . .
Rautend. Yes! Yes! I hear it!
Heinrich (collapsing).
So be it. I am readv. When I awake,
A voice shall say to me — Come thou with me.
Then fades the light! . . . Here now the air
grows chill.
The seer dies, as the blind man had died.
But I have seen thee . . . seen . . . thee . . . . !
Rautend. (with incantations) .
Master, sleep is thine !
When thou wakest, thou art mine.
Happy dreams shall dull thy pain,
Help to make thee whole again.
[She hustles about by the hearth.^
Hidden treasures, now grow bright !
In the depths ye give no light.
Glowing hounds in vain do bark.
Whine and whimper in the dark !
We, who serve him, glad will be :
For the Master sets us free !
[Addressing Heinrich, and with gestures.]
One, two, three. A new man be !
For the future thou art free!
Heinrich (awahing).
What's happened to me! . . . From what won-
drous sleep
THE SUNKEN BELL 155
Am I aroused? . . . Wliat is this glorious sun
That, streaming through the window, gilds my
hand?
0 breath of morning ! Heaven, if 'tis thy will —
If 'tis thy strength that rushes through my
veins —
If, as a token of thy power, I feel
This strange, new, beating heart within my
breast?
Then, should I rise again — again I'd long
To wander out into the world of life :
And wish, and strive, and hope, and dare, and
do . . .
And do . . . and do . . . !
[Rautendelein has meanwhile moved to
right and stands, leaning against the wall,
gazing fixedly at Heinrich. A dazzling
light falls on her face. Enter Magda.]
Ah, Magda. Is it thou?
Magda. Is he awake?
Heinrich. Yes, Magda. Is it thou?
Magda (delightedly).
How is it with thee?
Heinrich {overcome with emotion).
Well. Ah, well! I'll live!
1 feel it. I shall live . . . Yes! I shall . . .
live!
[^5 he speaks, he gazes fixedly, not at Magda,
hut at Rautendelein, ivho stands in an
elfin attitude, looking toward him, ivith an
unnatural light on her face.']
Magda {overjoyed and embracing Heinrich, who seems un-
conscious of her presence).
He lives! He lives! 0 dearest Heinrich!
Dearest !
156
THE GERMAN CLASSICS
ACT III
A deserted, glass-works in the mountains, near the snow fields. To the
right an earthenware pipe, through which water from the natural rock
runs into a natural stone trough. To the left a smith's forge, with
chimney and bellows. Through the open entrance to the glass-works
at back, left, is seen a mountain landscape, with peaks, moors, and dense
fir-woods. 'Close to the entrance is a precipitous descending slope. In
the roof is an outlet for the smoke. At the right the rock forms a rude,
pointed vault.
The Wood-Speite, after throwing a stump on a heap of pinewood out-
side, enters, reluctantly, and looks around. The Nickelmann rises
from the water-trough, remaining immersed up to his breast.
NiCKELM.
W.- Sprite.
NiCKELM.
W.-Speite.
NiCKELM.
W.-Sprite.
NiCKELM.
W.- Sprite.
NiCKELM.
W.-Sprite.
NiCKELM.
W.-Sprite.
NiCKELM.
W.-Sprite.
NiCKELM.
W.-Sprite.
NiCKELM.
W.-Sprite
Brekekekex! Come in!
Ah, there thou art !
Ay. Plague upon this nasty smoke and soot !
Have they gone out?
Have who gone out?
Why — they.
Yes. I suppose so. Else they would be here.
I've seen old Horny.
Ugh!
. . . With saw and ax.
What did he say?
He said . . . thou croakedst much.
Then let the booby keep his ears closed tight.
And then he said . . . thou quackedst dismally.
I'll wring his neck for him.
And serve him right !
More necks than one I 'd wring —
( laughing ) . Accursed wight !
He crowds us from our hills. He hacks and hews,
Digs up our metals, sweats, and smelts, and
brews.
The earth-man and the water-sprite he takes
To drag his burdens, and, to harness breaks.
THE SUNKEN BELL
157
NiCKELM.
W.-Sprite.
NiCKELM.
W.-Sprite.
Our fairest elf's his sweetheart. As for us,
We must stand by, and watch them — as they
buss.
She steals my cherished flowers, my red-brown
ores,
My gold, my precious stones, my resinous stores,
Siie serves him like a slave, by night and day.
'Tis him she kisses — us she keeps at bay.
Naught stands against him. Ancient trees he
fells.
The earth quakes at his tread, and all the dells
Ring with the echo of his thunderous blows.
His crimson smithy furnace glows and shines
Into the depths of my most secret mines.
What he is up to, only Satan knows !
Brekekekex ! Hadst thou the creature slain,
A-rotting in the mere long since he had lain —
The maker of the bell, beside the bell.
And so when next I had wished to throw the
stones,
The bell had been m}' box- — the dice, his bones !
By cock and pie ! That, truly, had been well.
But, as it is, he's hale and strong, and works.
Each hammer-stroke my marrow thrills and irks.
{Whimpering.)
He makes her rings, and chains, and bracelets
rare —
Kisses her neck, her breast, her golden hair.
Now, by my goat}-^ face, thou must be crazed.
An old chap whine and whimper ! I 'm amazed.
He has a fancy for the child? What then!
'Tis plain she does not love you water-men.
Cheer up ! Although she shall not be thy bride,
The sea is deep : the earth is long and wide.
Catch some fair nixie, and your passion slake.
158
THE GERMAN CLASSICS
Live like a pacha : riot — be a rake !
Soon thou 'It be cured : and when they hie to bed,
Thou wilt not even turn to wag thy head.
NicKELM. I'll have his blood, I sav! . . .
W.-Sprite. She dotes on him.
Thou'rt powerless.
NicKELM. I'll tear him limb from limb!
W.-Sprite. She will not have thee, and thy rage is vain.
While Granny stands his friend, thy cries of pain
Will all be wasted. Ay, this loving pair
Is closely guarded. Patience ! and beware !
NiCKELM. Patietice ? I hate the word !
W.-Sprite. Time runs on fast :
And men are men. Their passion is soon past.
Rautend. {heard singing without).
A beetle sat in a tree!
Zum ! Zum !
A coat all black and white had he !
Zum! Zum! [She enters.]
Oho ! We 've company. Godden, Godden to you.
Hast washed that gold for me, good Nickelmann ?
Hast brought the pine-stumps, as I ordered thee,
Dear Goat's Foot? . . . See: I bend beneath
the weight
Of the rare treasures I have found today.
Oh, I'm no laggard when I set to work!
Here I have diamonds : here, crystals clear.
This little bag is filled with gold-dust. Look!
And here is honeycomb . . . How warm it grows !
Nickelm. Warm days are followed by still warmer nights.
Rautend. Maybe. Cold water is thine element :
So get thee whence thou cam'st, and cool thy-
self.
[The Wood-Sprite laughs. The Nickel-
mann sinks silently down into his trough
and disappears.]
He will not stop until he 's angered me.
THE SUNKEN BELL
159
Rautend.
W.-Speite
Rautexd.
W.-Sprite {still laughing).
'Ods bobs !
My garter's twisted at the knee.
It cuts me. Oh !
Shall I untwist it, dear ?
A pretty page thou'dst make! . . . No. Go
away.
Thou bring 'st ill smells with thee . . . and oh,
the gnats !
Why, they are swar-ming round thee now, in
clouds.
I love them better than the butterflies
That flap their dusty wings about thy face.
Now hanging on thy lips — now on thy hair,
Or clinging to thy hip and breast at night.
Rautend. ( langhing ) .
There ! That will do. Enough !
A happy thought !
Give me this cart-wheel ! How did it come here ?
That thou couldst answer best, thou mischiev-
W.-Sprite.
W.-Sprite.
Rautend.
ous rogue.
W.-Sprite.
Rautend.
W.-Sprite.
Rautend.
W.-Sprite.
Rautend.
W.-Sprite.
Had I not broken down the dray, I trow,
Thy falcon were not now meshed in thy net.
So give me thanks — and let me take the thing.
I'll have it tied with ropes, and smeared with
pitch.
And when it's lighted, I will roll it down
The steepest hillside. Ah ! That were a joke !
Their huts would flame.
The red, red wind !
So — get thee gone !
. Must I really go?
Then tell me first — what is the Master doing?
He 's working a great work !
Ay, yes, no doubt !
We know how bells are cast : by day
Ye work — at night, ye kiss and play.
Not for the village-folk
The flame of sacrifice !
But I'll not hear of it.
Thou'rt in a hurry? .
160
THE GERMAN CLASSICS
Rautend.
W.-Speite.
Rautend.
Hill pines for dale, dale pines for hill,
Then, quick, the Master works his will:
A bastard thing, half brute, half God —
The pride of Earth — to Heaven a clod.
Come to the hazelwoods with me!
What he could be to thee, I'll be.
To honor thee shall be my pleasure —
Ape not the Virgin pure, my treasure !
Thou beast ! Thou rogue ! I '11 blind thy thank-
less eyes.
Should 'st thou not cease that Master to despise
Whose hammer, clanging through the dark,
long night.
Strikes to redeem thee! . .
For, without his
might.
Thou, I, and all of our unhappy race,
Are curst, and kept beyond the pale of grace.
Yet, stay ! ... Be what thou wilt, thy strength
is vain.
Here he, the Master, and his will, must reign !
What's that to me? . . . My greeting to thy
love.
Some day, thou 'It see, I'll be thy turtle-dove.
[Exit laughing. Short pause.]
WTiat ails me? . . . Here the air seems close
and warm.
I'll hie to some cool grot beside the snow.
The dripping water, green and cold as ice,
Will soon refresh me . . . Today I trod on a
snake,
As it lay sunning itself on a green stone.
It bit at me — up yonder by the falls.
Heigho! How close it is ! . . . Steps! . . . Hark!
Who comes?
Enter The Vicar, in mountain costume. He pants for breath as he stands
outside the door.
Vicar. Ho! Master Barber! Follow me. This way!
The road was rough. But here I stand, at last.
THE SUNKEN BELL 161
Well, well. I've come to do God's own good
work.
My pains will be repaid a hundred-fold
If, like the Blessed Shepherd, I should find
One poor, lost sheep, and bring him safely home.
So, courage! Courage! [He enters.] Is there
no one here? [He sees Rautendelbin.]
Ah, there thou art. I might have known as much !
Rautend. (pale and angry).
What do you seek?
ViCAB. That thou shalt quickly learn.
Ay, soon enough, as God shall be my witness.
Give me but time to get my breath again
And dry my face a bit. And now, my child —
I praj^ thee, tell me — art thou here alone ?
Rautend. Thou hast no right to question me !
Vicar. Oho !
A pretty answer, truly. But thou art frank —
Thou showest me thy very self at once.
So much the better. Now my course is plain.
Thou creature ! . . .
Rautend. Man, beware !
Vicar {folding his hands and approaching her).
I fear thee not !
My heart is pure and true. Thou canst not
harm me.
He who did give my poor old limbs the strength
To brave thee in thy hidden mountain home
Will not forsake me now. Thou devilish thing,
Think not to daunt me with thy scornful
glance —
Waste thy infernal witchcraft not on me !
Thou — thou hast lured him hither — to thy
hills !
Rautend. Whom ?
Vicar. Whom? Why, Master Heinrich. Canst thou
ask?
Vol. XVITI— II
162 THE GERMAN CLASSICS
With magic spells, and sweet unhallowed
draug-hts,
Thou hast witched him, till he obeys thee like
a dog.
A man so upright, pious to the core ;
A father and a husband! Thou great God!
This mountain trull had but to raise her hand
And, in a trice, she had tied him to her skirts,
Dragged him away with her, where'er she
pleased.
Shaming the honor of all Christendom.
Rautend. If I'm a robber, 'twas not thee I robbed!
ViCAE. What! 'Tis not me thou hast robbed? Thou
insolent jade,
Not me alone, not only his wife and the boys —
No — all mankind thou hast cheated of this man !
Rautend. {suddenly transformed and in triumph).
Ah, look before thee ! See who comes this way !
Dost thou not hear the free and even sound
Of his firm footsteps? Shall thy sland'rous
flouts
Not even now be turned to joyous shouts!
Dost thou not feel my Balder 's conqu'ring
glance
Dart through thy soul, and stir thee, as the
dance ?
The grass his foot treads down is proud and
glad.
A King draws nigh! Thou, beggarly wretch,
art sad?
Hail ! Hail ! 0 Master, Master ! Thee I greet !
[^She runs to meet Heinrich, and throws her-
self into his arms as he enters.']
Heinrich is attired in a picturesque working costume. In his hand he
holds a hammer. He enters hand in hand with Rautendelein, and
recognizes The Vicar,
Heinrich. Welcome! Thrice welcome, friend!
THE SUNKEN BELL
163
ViCAE.
Heinrich.
Vicar.
Heinrich.
Vicar.
Heinrich.
Now God be praised !
Beloved Master; is it yourself I see?
You, who but lately came so near to death,
Now stand before me, beaming with rude
strength.
Straight as af stout young beech, and hale and
well —
You, who did seem a sickly, tottering man,
Hopeless, and ageing? Wliat has wrought this
change ?
How, in a moment, has the grace of God,
With but a puff of His all-quickening breath,
Helped you to spring from your sick-bed to life.
Ready to dance, as David danced, and sing,
Praising the Lord, your Saviour and your King !
'Tis even as you say.
You are a marvel !
That also is true. In all my frame I feel
Wonders are being worked.
{To Rautendelein.)
Go thou, my dear.
The Vicar must be thirsty. Bring some wine.
I thank you. But — I will not drink today.
Go. Bring the wine. I '11 vouch for it. 'Tis good.
Well — as you please. I pray you, do not stand.
This is my first encounter with a friend
Since I released myself from the distress
And shame that sickness brings. I had not
hoped
To welcome you, before all others, here —
Within the narrow sphere that bounds my work.
Now am I doubly glad : for now 'tis clear
You have learned what strength, and love, and
duty mean.
I see you breaking, with one resolute blow,
The murderous chains of worldly interest —
Fleeing mankind, to seek the one true God.
164
THE GERMAN CLASSICS
Heinrich.
Vicar.
Heinrich.
Vicar.
Heinrich.
Vicar.
Heinrich.
Vicar. Now, God be thanked! You are the old, true
Heinrich.
They lied, who, in the valley, had proclaimed
You were no more the man that once we knew.
That man am I, and yet . . . another man.
Open the windows — Light and God stream in !
A goodly saying.
Ay. The best I know.
I know some better. Yet your saying's good.
Then, if you are ready, give me your right hand.
I swear, by Cock and Swan and Head of Horse,
With all my soul to serve you as your friend.
I'll open to you wide the gates of Spring —
The Spring that fills my heart.
Do as you say.
'Twill not be the first time. You know me well.
I know you. Yes. And though I knew you not,
Yea, though a vulgar soul your face should hide,
So boundless is my craving to do good.
That I — Enough. Gold always will be gold.
And even on the souls of sycophants
Good seed's not wasted.
Vicar. Master, tell me this :
What was the meaning of your curious oath ?
Heinrich. By Cock and Swan?
Vicar. Ay ; and by Head of Horse ?
Heinrich. I know not how the words came to my lips ...
Methinks . . . the weathercock on your church
steeple —
The horse 's head upon your neighbor 's roof —
The swan that soared into the bright blue sky —
Or . . . something else — was in my mind just
then.
What does it matter! . . . Ah, here comes the
wine.
Now, in the deepest sense of every word,
I drink to our good health . . . yours . . . thine
. . . and mine.
THE SUNKEN BELL
165
Vicar.
Heinrich
Vicar.
Heineich.
Vicar.
Heinrich.
I thank you : and once more I wish good health
To him who has so wondrously been healed.
{pacing to and fro).
Yes. I am healed — indeed. I feel it here —
Here, in my breast, that swells as I draw in
Strength and new rapture with each living
breath.
It is as though the very youth of May
Gladdened my heart and streamed into my being.
I feel it in my arm — 'tis hard as steel ;
And in my hand, that, as the eagle 's claw.
Clutches at empty air, and shuts again,
Wild with impatience to achieve great deeds.
Saw you the sanctuary in my garden!
What do you mean?
Vicar.
Heinrich.
Look!
There !
I see nothing.
'Tis another marvel.
I mean yonder tree,
That seems so like a glowing evening-cloud.
For the god Freyr once rested in its boughs.
From its green branches, and from round its
stem.
Comes the voluptuous hum of countless bees —
Hark how they buzz and swarm about the flowers
Eager to sip sweet draughts from every bud!
I feel that I am like that wondrous tree . . .
Even as he came down into those boughs,
So did the god descend into my soul,
And, in an instant, it was all a-bloom.
If any bees go thirsting, let them suck !
Go on, go on, my friend. I love to listen.
You and your blossoming tree indeed may boast.
Whether your fruit shall ripen, rests with God !
Surely, dear friend. Does He not order all?
He hurled me down the precipice. 'Twas He
Who raised me up and caused my life to bloom.
166
THE GERMAN CLASSICS
ViCAE.
Heinrich.
ViCAE.
Heinrich.
ViCAB.
He made the fruit, and flowers, and all that
grows.
Yet — pray that He may bless my new-born
Summer !
What's germed within me*s worthy of the
blessing —
Worthy of ripening : really and indeed.
It is a work like none I had yet conceived ;
A chime, of all the noblest metals wrought,
That, of itself, shall ring and, ringing, live.
If I but put my hand up to my ear,
Straightway I hear it sing. I close my eyes —
Form after form at once grows palpable.
Behold! What now is freely given to me.
Of old — when ye were wont to acclaim me
''Master" —
In nameless agony, I vainly sought.
I was no Master then, nor was I happy.
Now am I both ; I am happy and a Master !
I love to hear men call you by that name.
Yet it seems strange that you yourself should
do so.
For what church are you making your great
work 1
For no church.
Then — who ordered it, my friend?
He who commanded yonder pine to rise
In strength and majesty beside the abyss ! . . .
But — seriously: the little church you had built
Lies half in ruins — half it has been burned.
So I must find a new place on the heights :
A new place, for a new, a nobler, temple !
0 Master, Master! . . . But, I will not argue.
Perchance we have misunderstood each other.
To put things plainly, what I mean is this :
As your new work must cost so very dear . . .
THE SUNKEN BELL
167
Heinrich. Yes. It is costly.
Vicar. Such a chime as yours . . .
Heinrich. Oh, call it what you will.
Vicar. You said — a chime ?
Heinrich. A name I gave to that which none may name,
Nor can, nor shall baptize, except itself.
Vicar. And tell me, pray — who pays you for your
work?
Heinrich. Who pays me for my work! Oh, Father!
Father!
Would you give joy to joy — add gold to gold?
If I so named it, and the name you love —
Call my great work — a chime ! . . . But 'tis a
chime
Such as no minister in the world has seen.
Loud and majestic is its mighty voice.
Even as the thunder of a storm it sounds.
Rolling and crashing o 'er the meads in Spring.
Ay, in the tumult of its trumpet-tones,
All the church-bells on earth it shall strike dumb.
All shall be hushed, as through the sky it rings
The glad new Gospel of the new-born light !
Eternal Sun!* Thy children, and my children.
Know thee for Father, and proclaim thy power.
Thou, aided by the kind and gentle rain.
Didst raise them from the dust and give them
health !
So now — their joy triumphant they shall send
Singing along thy clear, bright path to Heaven !
And now, at last, like the gray wilderness
That thou has warmed, and mantled with thy
green.
Me thou hast kindled into sacrifice !
* In the German the Sun is feminine. The original passage has conse-
quently been modified.
168 THE GERMAN CLASSICS
I offer thee myself, and all I am! . . .
0 Day of Liglit — when, from the marble halls
Of my fair Temple, the first waking peal
Shall shake the skies — when, from the sombre
clouds
That weighed upon us through the winter night,
Rivers of jewels shall go rushing down
Into a million hands outstretched to clutch !
Then all who drooped, with sudden power in-
flamed,
Shall bear their treasure homeward to their
huts.
There to unfurl, at last, the silken banners,
Waiting — so long, so long — to be upraised,
And, pilgrims of the Sun, draw near the Feast !
0, Father, that great Day! . . . You know the
tale
Of the lost Prodigal! ... It is the Sun
That bids his poor, lost children to my Feast.
With rustling banners, see the swelling host
Draw nearer, and still nearer to my Temple.
And now the wondrous chime again rings out.
Filling the air with such sweet, passionate sound
As makes each breast to sob with rapturous pain.
It sings a song, long lost and long forgotten,
A song of home — a childlike song of Love,
Born in the waters of some fairy well —
Known to all mortals, and yet heard of none !
And as it rises, softly first, and low.
The nightingale and dove seem singing, too ;
And all the ice in every human breast
Is melted, and the hate, and pain, and woe,
Stream out in tears.
THE SUNKEN BELL
169
Vicar.
Heinrich.
Vicar.
Then shall we all draw nearer to the Cross,
And, still in tears, rejoice, until at last
The dead Redeemer, by the Sun set free.
His prisoned limbs shall stir from their long
sleep,
And, radiant -vvith the joy of endless youth.
Come down. Himself a youth, into the May !
[Heinrich 's enthusiasm has swelled as he
has spoken the foregoing speech, till at last
it has become ecstatic. He walks to and
fro. Rautendelein, who has been silently
watching him all this time, showing her
love and adoration by the changing expres-
sion of her face, noiv approaches Heinrich,
with tears in her eyes, kneels beside him,
and kisses his hand. The Vicar has listened
to Heinrich with growing pain and horror.
Toward the end of Heinrich 's speech he
has contained himself with difficulty. After
a brief pause he answers. At first he
speaks with enforced calm. Gradually, how-
ever, his feeling carries him away.'\
And now, dear Master, I have heard you out:
Now every syllable those worthy men
Had told me of your state, alas, is proved.
Yea, even to the storv of this chime of bells.
I cannot tell you all the pain I feel ! . . .
A truce to empty words ! If here I stand,
'Tis not because I thirsted for your marvels.
No ! 'Tis to help vou in vour hour of need !
My need f . . . And so you think I am in need 1
Man! Man! Bestir yourself. Awake! You
dream !
A dreadful dream, from which you '11 surely wake
To everlasting sorrow. Should I fail
To rouse you, with God's wise and holy words,
You are lost, ay, lost forever, Master Heinrich !
170
THE GERMAN CLASSICS
Heinrich.
Vicar.
Heinrich.
Vicar.
Heinrich.
ViCAE.
Heinhich,
Vicar.
Heinrich
I do not think so.
What saith the Good Book?*
* Those whom He would destroy, He first doth
blind."
If God so willed it — you 'd resist in vain.
Yet, should I own to blindness.
Filled as I feel myself with pure, new life,
Bedded upon a glorious morning cloud.
Whence with new eyes I drink in all the heavens ;
Why, then, indeed, I should deserve God 's curse,
And endless Darkness.
Master Heinrich — friend,
I am too humble to keep pace with you.
A simple man am I — a child of Earth:
The superhuman lies beyond my grasp.
But one thing I do know, though you forget,
That wrong is never right, nor evil, good.
And Adam did not know so much in Eden!
Fine phrases, sounding well, but meaningless.
They will not serve to cloak your deadly sin.
It grieves me sore — I would have spared you
this.
You have a wife, and children . . .
Well — what more?
You shun the church, take refuge in the moun-
tains ;
This many a month you have not seen the home
Where your poor wife sits sighing, while, each
day.
Your children drink their lonely mother's tears !
[A long pause.]
{with emotion).
Could I but wipe awaj^ those sorrowful tears.
How gladly would I do it!
But I cannot.
In my dark hours, I've digged into my soul.
Only to feel, I have no power to dry them.
So it stands in the original.
THE SUNKEN BELL
171
I, who am now all love, in love renewed,
Out of the overflowing wealth I own,
May not fill up their cup ! For, lo, my wine
Would be to them but bitter gall and venom !
Should he whose hand is as the eagle's claw
Stroke a sick child's wet cheek? . . . Here none
but God
Could help!
ViCAB. For this there is no name but madness.
And wicked madness. Yes. I speak the truth.
Here stand I, Master, overcome with horror
At the relentless ci-uelty of your heart.
Now Satan, aping God, hath dealt a blow —
Yes, I must speak my mind — a blow so dread
That even he must marvel at his triumph.
That work, Almighty God, whereof he prates —
Do I not know 't? . . . 'Tis the most awful crime
Ever was hatched within a heathen brain !
Far rather would I see the dreadful plagues
Wherewith the Lord once scourged rebellious
Egypt
Threaten our Christendom, than watch your
Temple
Rise to the glory of Beelzebub.
Awake ! Arise ! Come back, my son, to Christ !
It is not yet too late ! Cast out this witch !
Renounce this wanton hag — ay, cast her out!
This elf, this sorceress, this cursed sprite !
Then in a trice, the evil spell shall fade
And vanish into air. You shall be saved!
Heinkich. What time I fevered lay, a prey to death,
She came, and raised me up, and made me well.
Vicar. 'Twere better you had died — than live like this !
Heinrich. Why, as to that, think even as you will.
But, as for me — I took life's burden up.
I live anew, and, till death comes, must thank
Her who did give me life.
172 THE GERMAN CLASSICS
Vicar, Now — I have done!
Too deep, yea to the neck, you are sunk in sin !
Your Hell, decked out in beauty as high Heaven,
Shall hold you fast. I will not waste more words.
Yet mark this. Master : witches make good fuel,
Even as heretics, for funeral-pyres.
Vox populi, vox Dei! Your ill deeds.
Heathen, and secret once, are now laid bare.
Horror they wake, and soon there shall come
hate.
So it may happen that the storm, long-curbed.
All bounds shall overleap, and that the people
Whom you have outraged in their holiest faith,
Shall rise against you in their own defense.
And crush you ruthlessly! [Pause.~\
Heinrich (calmly). And now hear me . . .
I fear you not! . . . Should they who panting lie
Dash from my hand the cup of cooling wine
I bore to them : if they would rather thirst —
Why, then, it is their will — perhaps their fate —
And none may justly charge me with their act.
I am no longer thirsty. I have drunk.
If it is fitting that, of all men, you —
Who have closed your eyes against the truth —
should be
That man who now assails so hatefully
The blameless cup-bearer, and flings the mud
Of Darkness 'gainst his soul, where all is light :
Yet I am I ! . . . What I would work, I know.
And if, ere now, full many a faulty bell
My stroke has shattered, once again will I
Swing my great hammer for a mightier blow,
Dealt at another bell the mob has made —
Fashioned of maUce, gall, and all ill things.
Last but not least among them ignorance.
Vicar. Then, go your way! Farewell. My task is done.
The hemlock of your sin no man may hope
To rid your soul of. May God pity you !
THE SUNKEN BELL
173
Heineich.
Vicar.
But this remember ! There 's a word named rue !
And some day, some day, as your dreams you
dream,
A sudden arrow, shot from out the blue,
Shall pierce your breast! And yet you shall
not die.
Nor shall you live. In that dread day you'll
curse
All you now cherish — God, the world, your
work.
Your wretched self you'll curse. Then . . .
think of me !
Had I a fancy to paint phantoms. Vicar,
I'd be more skillful in the art than you.
The things you rave of never shall come true.
And I am guarded well against your arrow.
No more it frets me, nor my heart can shake,
Than that old bell, which in the water rolled —
Where it lies buried now, and hushed — forever !
That bell shall toll again ! Then think of me !
ACT IV
The glass-works as in Act Three. A rude door has been hewn out of the
rocky wall at the right. Through this, access is obtained to a mountain
cave. At the left the open forge, with bellows and chimney. The fire
is lighted. Near the forge stands an anvil.
Heinrich, at the anvU, on which he is laying a bar of red-hot iron which
he holds tight with his tongs. .Near him stand six little Dwarfs attired
as mountaineers. The First Dwarf holds the tongs with Heinrich ;
the Second Dwarf lifts the great forge hammer and brings it down
with a ringing blow on the iron. The Third Dwarf works the bellows.
The Fourth Dwarf stands motionless, intently watching the progress
of the work. The Fifth Dwarf stands by, waiting. In his hand he
holds a club, ready to strike. The Sixth Dwarf sits perched on the
stump of a tree. On his head he wears a glittering crown. Here and
there lie fragments of forged iron and castings, models and plans.
Heineich {to Second Dwarf).
Strike hard! Strike harder! Till thy arm
hangs limp.
174
THE GERMAN CLASSICS
Thy whimpering does not move me, thou poor
sluggard —
Shouldst thou relax before the time I set,
I'll singe thy beard for thee in these red flames.
[Second Dwarf throws his hammer down.]
Oho ! 'Tis as I thought. Well, wait, thou imp !
And thou shalt see I mean what I have threat-
en'd!
[Second Dwabf struggles and screams as
Heinrich holds him over the fire. Third
Dwarf goes to work more busily than ever
at the bellows.]
1st Dwarf {ivith the tongs).
I can't hold on. My hand is stiff, great Master !
Heinrich. I'm coming. [He turns to Second Dwarf.]
Well, dost thou feel stronger now?
[Second Dwarf nods reassuringly, and ham-
mers away for dear life.]
Heinrich. By Cock and Swan ! I'll have no mercy on you !
[He clutches the tongs again.]
No blacksmith living could a horseshoe shape
An he should stand on trifles with such rogues.
No sooner have they struck the first good stroke
When off they'd go, and leave the rest to chance.
And as for counting on them for the zeal
That spurs an honest workman to attempt
Ten thousand miracles — why, 'twould be mad.
To work ! To work ! Hot iron bends — not cold !
{To First Dwarf.)
What art thou at?
1st Dwarf {busily trying to mold the red-hot iron with his
hand). I'm molding it with my hand.
Heinrich. Thou reckless fool. What ? Hast thou lost thy
wits?
Wouldst thou reduce thy clumsy paw to ashes?
THE SUNKEN BELL
175
Thou wretched dwarf, if thou shouldst fail me
now,
What power had I? . . . Without thy helping
art,
How could I hope to see my cherished work
Rise from the summit of my temple towers
Into the free and sunlit air of heaven ?
1st Dwaef. The iron is well forged. The hand is whole —
Deadened and numbed a little : that is all.
Heinrich. Off to the well with thee ! the Nickelmann
Will cool thy fingers with his water-weeds.
{To the Second Dwarf.)
Now take the rest thou 'st earned, thou lazy imp,
And make the most of it. I'll comfort seek
In the reward that comes of honest effort.
[//e picks up the neivly forged iron, sits, and
examines it.']
Ah, here's rare work for you! The kindty
powers
Have crowned our labor with this good result.
I am content. Methinks I have cause to be,
Since, out of shapelessness, a shape has gro^vn.
And, out of chaos, this rare masterpiece :
Nicely proportioned — here . . . above . . .
below . . .
Just what was needed to complete the work.
[T/?e Fourth Dwarf clambers onto a stool
and whispers in Heinrich 's ear.]
What art thou muttering, imp ? Disturb me not,
Lest I should tie thy hands and feet together,
And clap a gag into thy chattering throat !
[Dwarf retreats in alarm.']
What 's out of joint in the great scheme ? What 's
wrong?
What irks thee I
tioned, dwarf!
Speak when thou art ques-
176 THE GERMAN CLASSICS
Never as now was I so filled with joy;
Never were heart and hand more surely one.
What art thou grumbling at ? Am I not Master ?
Wouldst thou, poor hireling, dare to vie with me ?
Well — out with it! Thy meaning — Speak!
Be plain!
[Dwarf returns and whispers. Heinbich
turns pale, sighs, rises, and angrily lays
the iron on the anvil.]
Then may the Devil end this work himself !
I'll grow potatoes, and plant cabbages.
I'll eat and drink and sleep, and then — I'll die!
[Fifth Dwauf approaches the anvil.}
Thou, fellow, do not dare to lay thy hand on 't !
Ay, burst with fury, an thou wilt. I care not.
And let thy hair stand straight on end — thy
glance
Dart death. Thou rogue ! Who yields but once
to thee,
Or fails to hold thee tightly in his clutch,
Might just as well bow down and be thy slave,
And wait till, with thy club, thou end his pain !
[Fifth Dwarf angrily shatters the iron on
the anvil; Heinrich grinds his teeth with
rage.]
Well, well ! Run riot ! No more work tonight.
A truce to duty. Get ye hence, ye dwarfs !
Should morning, as I hope, put fresh, new life
Into this frame of mine — I'll call ye back.
Go ! — Work unbidden would avail me naught.
(To Thhid Dwarf.)
Come — drop thy bellows, dwarf. With aU thy
might,
Thou'dst hardly heat me a new iron tonight.
Away ! Away !
[All the Dwarfs, with the exception of the
one with the crown, vanish through the
door, right.]
THE SUNKEN BELL 177
And thou, cro\\Tied King, who only once shalt
speak —
Why dost thou linger ? Get thee gone, I say.
Thou wilt not speak today, nor yet tomorrow :
Heaven only knows if thou wilt ever speak !
My work! . . . My work! When will it end!
. . . I'm tired!
I love thee not, sad twilight hour, that liest
Pressed 'twixt the dying day and growing night,
Thou wringest from my nerveless hand the
hammer,
Yet bring 'st me not the sleep, the dreamless
sleep,
That gives men rest. A heart athirst for work
Knows it must wait, and wait in idleness :
And so — in pain — it waits . . . for the new
day.
The sun, wrapped round in purple, slowly sinks
Into the depths . . . and leaves us here alone.
While we, who are used to light, look helpless on,
And, stripped of everything, must jdeld to night.
Rags are the coverlets that cloak our sleep.
At noon we're kings ... at dusk we're only
beggars.
\_He throws himself on a couch and lies
dreaming, with wide-open eyes. A white
mist comes in through the open door. When
it disappears, The Nickelmann is discov-
ered leaning over the edge of the water-
trough.]
NiCKELM. Quorax ! . . . Brekekekex ! ... So there he lies —
This Master Earth- Worm — in his mossgrown
house.
He's deaf and blind, while crookback imps do
creep
Like the gray mists upon the mountain-side.
Vol. XVTII— 12
178 THE GERMAN CLASSICS
Now they uplift their shadowy hands, and
threaten !
Now they go wringing them, as though in pain !
He sleeps ! He does not heed the moaning pines ;
The low, malignant piping of the elves
That makes the oldest fir-trees quake and thrill.
And, like a hen that flaps her foolish wings,
Beat their own boughs against their quivering
flanks . . . !
Now, he grows chiller, as the winter-gray
Searches the marrow in his bones. And still,
Even in sleep, he toils!
Give over, fool ! Thou canst not fight with God !
'Twas God that raised thee up, to prove thy
strength ;
And now, since thou art weak, He casts thee
down!
[Heinrich tosses about and moans in his
sleep.]
Vain is thy sacrifice. For Sin is Sin.
Thou hast not wrung from God the right to
change
Evil to good — or wages give to guilt.
Thou'rt foul with stains. Thy garments reek
with blood.
Now, call thou ne'er so loud, the gentle hand
That might have washed thee clean, thou 'It
never see !
Black spirits gather in the hills and dales.
Soon in thine anguished ear the sound shall ring
Of the wild huntsmen and the baying hounds!
They know what game they hunt! . . . And
now, behold!
The giant builders of the air upraise
Castles of cloud, with monstrous walls and
towers.
THE SUNKEN BELL
179
Frowning and grim, they move against thy
heights,
Eager to crush thy work, and thee, and all !
Heinrich. Rautendelein ! Help! The nightmare! Oh, I
choke !
NicKELM. She hears thee — and she comes — but brings
no help!
Though she were Freya, and though thou w^ert
Balder —
Though sun-tipped shafts did fill thy radiant
quiver,
And ev'ry shaft that thou shouldst point went
home —
Thou must be vanquished. Hear me !
A sunken bell in the deep mere lies,
Under the rocks and the rolling:
And it longs to rise —
In the sunlight again to be tolling !
The fishes swim in, and the fishes swim out,
As the old bell tosses, and rolls about.
It shudders and sways as they come and go,
And weeping is heard, and the sound of woe.
A mufiled moan, and a throb of pain.
Answer the swirling flood —
For the mouth of the bell is choked with
blood!
Woe, woe, to thee, man, when it tolls again !
Bim I . . , Boom !
The Lord save thee from thy doom!
Bim! . . . Boom!
Hark to the knell!
Death is the burden of that lost bell !
Bim ! . . . Boom !
The Lord save thee from thy doom !
[The Nickelmann sinks into the well.]
180 THE GERMAN CLASSICS
«
Heinrich. Help ! Help ! A nightmare chokes me ! Help !
Help !' Help ! [He awakes.^
Where am I? . . . Am I living'?
[He rubs his eyes and looks round him.']
No one here ?
Rautend. {entering).
I'm here! Did'st call?
Heinrich. Yes ! Come ! Come here to me.
Lay thy dear hand upon my forehead — so,
And let me stroke thy hair . . . and feel thy
heart.
Come. Nearer. In thy train thou bring 'st the
scent
Of the fresh woods and rosemary. Ah, kiss me !
Kiss me !
Rautend. What ails thee, dearest?
Heinrich, Nothing, nothing!
Give me a coverlet ... I lay here chilled . . .
Too tired to work . . . My heart grew faint . . .
And then
Dark powers of evil seemed to enter in . . .
Laid hold of me, possessed me, plagued me sore.
And tried to throttle me . . . But now I'm well.
Have thou no fear, child. I 'm myself again !
Now let them come !
Rautend. Who ?
Heinrich. Why, my foes.
Rautend. What foes?
Heinrich. My nameless enemies — ay, one and all !
I stand upon my feet, as once I stood,
Ready to brave them, though they filled my sleep
With crawling, creeping, cowardly terrors full !
Rautend. Thou'rt fevered, Heinrich!
Heinrich. Ay, *tis chill tonight.
No matter. Put thy arms around me. So.
Rautend. Thou, dearest, dearest I
THE SUNKEN BELL
181
Heinkich. Tell me this, my child.
Dost trust in me?
Eautend. Thou Balder ! Hero ! God !
I press my lips against the fair white brow
That overhangs the clear blue of thine eyes.
[Pause.l
Heinhich. So — I am all thou say 'stf . . . I am thy Balder?
Mate me believe it — make me know it, child !
Give my faint soul the rapturous joy it needs,
To nerve it to its task. For, as the hand.
Toiling with tong and hammer, on and on.
To hew the marble and to guide the chisel,
Now bungles here, now there, yet may not halt,
And nothing, small or great, dare leave to chance.
So do we ofttimes lose our passionate faith,
Feel the heart tighten, and the eyes grow dim,
Till, in the daily round of drudging work.
The clear projection of the soul doth vanish.
For, to preserve that Heaven-sent gift is hard.
No clamp have we, no chain, to hold it fast.
'Tis as the aura that surrounds a sun.
Impalpable. That being lost, all's lost.
Defrauded now we stand, and tempted sore
To shirk the anguish that foreruns fruition.
What, in conception, seemed all ecstasy,
Now turns to sorrow. But — enough of this.
Still straight and steady doth the smoke ascend
From my poor human sacrifice to Heaven.
Should now a Hand on high reject my gift,
Why, it may do so. Then the priestly robe
Falls from my shoulder — by no act of mine ;
While I, who erst upon the heights was set.
Must look my last on Horeb, and be dumb !
But now bring torches! Lights! And show
thine art
Enchantress ! Fill the winecup ! We will drink !
182
THE GERMAN CLASSICS
Ay, like the common herd of mortal men,
With resolute hands our fleeting joy we'll grip !
Our unsought leisure we will fill with life,
Not waste it, as the herd, in indolence.
We will have music!
Rautend. 0 'er the hills I flew :
Now, as a cobweb, on the breezes drifting,
Now frolicking as a bee, or butterfly.
And darting hungrily from flower to flower.
From each and all, from every shrub and plant,
Each catch-fly, harebell, and forget-me-not,
I dragged the promise, and I forced the oath,
That bound them never to do harm to thee.
And so — the blackest elf, most bitter foe
To thee, so good and white, should vainly seek
To cut thy death-arrow!*
Heinkich. What is this arrow?
I know the spirit! . . . Yes, I know 't! . . .
There came
A spirit to me once, in priestly garb.
Who, threat 'ning, raised his hand, the while he
raved
Of some such arrow that should pierce my heart.
Who'll speed the arrow from his bow, I say?
WTio — who will dare?
Rautend. Why, no one, dearest. No one.
Thou'rt proof against all ill, I say — thou'rt
proof.
And now, blink but thine eye, or .only nod,
And gentle strains shall upward float, as mist,
Hem thee about, and, with a wall of music,
Guard thee from call of man, and toll of bell :
Yea, mock at even Loki's mischievous arts.
* It was an old belief that dangerous arrows were shot down from the air
by elves.
/"v.
' k'
*!C^->
«ta*
■"*':^^-^'^^-^.
■•"i*i5j.
^-^ ri r
Permission Theo. Stroefer, Niirnberg
Max Klixger
BEAR AND SPRITE
THE SUNKEN BELL 183
Make the most trifling gesture with thy hand,
These rocks shall turn to vaulted palace-halls,
Earth-men unnumbered shall buzz round, and
stand
Ready to deck the floor, the walls, the board !
Yet — since by dark, fierce foes we are beset.
Wilt thou not flee into the earth with me?
There we need fear no icy giant's breath —
There the vast halls shall shine with dazzling
light —
Heinrich. Peace, child. No more. What were thy feast
to me
So long as solemn, mute, and incomplete.
My work the hour awaits, wherein its voice
Shall loudly usher in the Feast of Feasts ! . . .
I'll have one more good look at the great
structure.
So shall new fetters bind me to it fast.
Take thou a torch, and light me on my way.
Haste ! Haste ! . . . Since now I feel my name-
less foes
Busy at work to do me injury —
Since now the fabric's menaced at the base —
'Tis meet the Master, too, should toil — not
revel !
For, should success his weary labor crown.
The secret wonder stand at last revealed.
In gems and gold expressed, and ivory.
Even to the faintest, feeblest, of its tones —
His work should live, triumphant, through the
ages!
'Tis imperfection that draws down the curse.
Which, could we brave it here, we'd make a
mock of.
Ay, we will make a mock of 't !
[He moves to the door and halts.]
Well, child! . . .
Why dost thou linger ! . . . Have I grieved thee I
184
THE GERMAN CLASSICS
Rautend.
No!
Nol No!
Heinrich. What ails thee?
Rautend. Nothing !
Heinrich. Thou poor soul !
I know what grieves thee. — Children, such as
thou,
Run lightly after the bright butterflies.
And often, laughing, kill what most they love.
But I am not a butterfly. I am more.
Rautend. And I? Am I a child? . . . No more than that ?
Heinrich. Ay, truly, thou art more! . . . That to forget
Were to forget the brightness of my life.
The dew that glistened in thy shining eyes
Filled me with pain. And then I pained thee, too.
Come ! 'Twas my tongue, not I, that hurt thee so.
My heart of hearts knows naught, save only
love.
Nay — do not weep so. See — now I am armed ;
Thou hast equipped me for the game anew.
Lo, thou hast filled my empty hands with gold ;
Given me courage for one more last throw I
Now I can play with Heaven ! . . . Ah, and I feel
So blessed, so wrapped in thy strange love-
liness —
Yet, when I, wond'ring, seek to grasp it all,
I am baffled. For thy charm's unsearchable.
And then I feel how near joy's kin to pain —
Lead on ! And light my path !
W.-Sprite (without). Ho! Holdrio!
Up! Up! Bestir yourselves! Plague o' the
dawdlers !
The heathen temple must be laid in ashes !
Haste, reverend sir! Haste, Master Barber,
haste !
Here there is straw and pitch a-plenty. See!
The Master 's cuddling his fair elfin bride —
And while he toys with her, naught else he heeds.
THE SUNKEN BELL 185
Heineich. The deadly nightshade must have made him
mad,
What art thou yelling in the night, thou rogue ?
Beware !
W.-Sprite {defiantly). Of theef
HEmRicH. Ay, fool. Beware of me !
I know the way to manage such as thou,
I'll grab thee by thy beard, thou misshaped oaf ;
Thou shalt be shorn and stripped, and when
thou'rt tamed,
When thou hast learned to know who 's master
here,
I'll make thee work and slave for me — thou
goat-shank !
What? . . . Neighing, eh? . . . Dost see this
anvil, beast?
And, here, this hammer? It is hard enough
To beat thee to a jelly.
W.-Sprite {turning his back on Heinrich insolently).
Bah ! Hammer away !
Many and many a zealot's flashing sword
Has tickled me, ere it was turned to splinters.
The iron on thy anvil's naught but clay,
And, like a cow's dung, at the touch it bursts.
Heinrich. We'll see, thou windbag, thou hobgoblin
damned !
Wert thou as ancient as the Wester wood.
Or did thy power but match thy braggart
tongue —
I'll have thee chained, and make thee fetch and
carry,
Sweep, drudge, draw water, roll huge stones
and rocks,
And shouldst thou loiter, 'beast, I'll have thee
flayed !
Bautend. Heinrich! He warns thee I
186
THE GERMAN CLASSICS
W.-Sprite. Ay! Goto! Goto!
'Twill be a mad game when they, drag tliee hence
And roast thee, like an ox ! And I'll be by !
But now to find the brimstone, oil, and pitch,
Wherewith to make a bonfire that shall smoke
Till daylight shall be blotted out in darkness.
[Exit. Cries and murmurs of many voices
heard from below, without.']
Rautend. Dost thou not hear them, Heinrich? Men are
coming !
Hark to their boding cries ! . . . They are for
thee !
[A stone flung from without strikes Rauten-
DELEIN.]
Help, grandmother!
Heinrich. So that is what was meant !
I dreamed a pack of hounds did hunt me down.
The hounds I hear. The hunt has now begun !
Their yelping, truly, could not come more pat.
For, though an angel had hung down from
Heaven,
All lily -laden, and, with gentle sighs,
Entreated me to tireless steadfastness,
He had convinced me less than those fierce cries
Of the great weight and purport of my mission.
Come one, come all I What's yours I guard for
you!
I'll shield you from yourselves! ... Be that
mv watchword! [Exit with hammer.]
Rautend. {alone and in excitement).
Help, help, Bush-Grandmother! Help, Nickel-
mann !
[The Nickelmann rises from the well.]
Ay, my dear Nickelmann, I beg of you —
Bid water, quick, come streaming from all the
rocks.
Wave upon wave, and drive them all away!
Do! Do!
THE SUNKEN BELL
187
NiCKELM. Brekekekex! What shall I do?
Eautend. Let thy wild waters sweep them to the abyss !
NicKELM. I cannot.
Eautend. But thou canst, good Nickelmann!
NiCKELM. xlnd if I should — what good were that to me?
I have no cause to wish well to the Master.
He'd love to lord it over God and men.
'Twould suit me if the fools should strike him
down!
Rautend. Oh, help him — help! Or it will be too late!
NicKELM. What wilt thou give me, dear?
Rautend. I give thee ?
NicKELM, Yes.
Rautend. Ah, what thou wilt!
NiCKELM. Oho ! Brekekekex !
Then strip thy pretty gown from thy brown
limbs,
Take off thy crimson shoon, thy dainty cap.
Be what thou art ! Come down into my well —
I'll spirit thee a thousand leagues away.
Rautend. Forsooth ! How artfully he 'd made his plans !
But now I tell thee once, and once for all ;
Thou 'dst better clear thy pate of all thy schemes.
For, shouldst thou live to thrice thy hoary age —
Shouldst thou grow old as Granny — shouldst
thou forever
Prison me close in thine own oyster shells,
I would not look at thee !
NicKELM. Then ... he must die.
Rautend. Thou liest! ... I'm sure of 't. Thou liest!
Hark!
Ah, well thou knowest his clear-sounding voice !
Dost think I do not see thee shrink in fear?
[The Nickelmann disappears in the well.]
188
THE GERMAN CLASSICS
Enter Heinrich in triumph, and flushed with the excitement of the strife.
He laughs.
Heinrich.
Rautend.
Heinrich.
Rautend.
Heinrich.
Rautend.
They came at me like hounds, and, even as
hounds,
I drove them from me with the flaming brands !
Great boulders then I rolled upon their heads :
Some perished — others fled ! Come — give me
drink !
War cools the breast — 'tis steeled by victory.
The warm blood rushes through my veins.
Once more
My pulse throbs joyously. War does not tire.
War gives a man the strength of twenty men,
And hate and love makes new !
Here, Heinrich. Drink!
Yes, give it me, my child. I am athirst
For wine, and light, and love, and joy, and thee !
[He drinks.]
I drink to thee, thou airy elfin sprite !
And, with this drink, again I thee do wed.
Without thee, my invention would be clogged,
I were a prey to gloom — world-weariness.
My child, I entreat thee, do not fail me now.
Thou art the very pinion of my soul.
Fail not my soul!
Ah, do not thou fail me !
That God forbid! ... Ho! Music!
Hither! Hither!
Come hither, little people ! Elves and gnomes !
Come! Help us to make merry! Leave your
homes !
Tune all your tiny pipes, and harps, and flutes,
[Faint elfin music heard withoiif]
And watch me dance responsive to your lutes !
With glowworms, gleaming emerald, lo, I deck
My waving tresses and my dainty neck.
So jeweled, and adorned with fairy light,
I'll make e 'en Freya's necklace seem less bright !
THE SUNKEN BELL
189
Heinkich
Rautend.
Heineich.
Rautend.
Heineich.
Rautend.
Heineich.
Rautend.
Heineich.
{interrupiing).
Be still! . . . Methought . . .
What?
Didst not hear it then?
Hear what ?
Why — nothing.
Dearest, what is wrong?
I know not . . . But, commingling w^ith thy
music . . .
Methought I heard ... a strain ... a sound . . .
What sound?
A plaint ... a tone ... a long, long, buried
tone . . .
No matter. It was nothing ! Sit thou here !
Give me thy rose-red lips. From this fair cup
I'll drink forgetfulness !
[They kiss. Long and ecstatic pause. Then
Heineich and Rautendelein move, locked
in each other's arms, through the door-
ivay.']
See ! Deep and cool and monstrous yawns the
gulf
That parts us from the world where mortals
dwell.
I am a man. Canst understand me, child ? . . .
Yonder I am at home . . . and yet a stranger —
Rautend.
Heineich.
Rautend.
Heineich.
Rautend.
Heineich.
Here I am strange
Canst understand?
and yet I seem at home.
Yes!
Yet thou eyest me
So wildly. Why?
I'm filled with dread — with horror !
With dread? Of what?
Of what? I cannot tell.
'Tis nothing. Let us rest.
[Heineich leads Rautendelein toward the
doorway in the rocks, right. He stops sud-
denly, and turns toward the open country.^
190
THE GERMAN CLASSICS
Rautend.
Heinrich.
Rautend.
Heinkich.
Rautend.
Heinrich.
Rautend.
Heinrich.
Rautend.
Heinrich.
Yet may the moon,
That hangs so chalky-white in yonder heavens,
Not shed the still light of her staring eyes
On what's below . . . may she not flood with
brightness
The valley whence I rose to these lone heights !
For what lies hid beneath that pall of gray
I dare not gaze on! . . . Hark! Child! Didst
hear nothing?
Nothing ! And what thou saidst was dark to me !
•What! Dost thou still not hear 'tf
What should I hear? —
The night wind playing on the heath, I hear —
I hear the cawing of the carrion-kite —
I hear thee, strangely uttering strange, wild
words,
In tones that seem as though they were not thine !
There! There! Below . . . where shines the
wicked moon
Look! Yonder! — Where the light gleams on
the waters !
Nothing I see! Nothing!
With thy gerfalcon eyes
Thou seest naught? Art blind? What drags
its way
Slowly and painfully along .
Thy fancy cheats thee !
No! . .
As God shall pardon me! .
I say!
Now it climbs over the great boulder, yonder —
Down by the footpath . . .
Heinrich ! Do not look !
I'll close the doors and rescue thee by force!
No! Let me be! . . . I must look down ! I will!
There ... See !
It was no cheat,
Peace ! Peace !
THE SUNKEN BELL
191
Rautend.
Heinrich.
Rautend.
Heinrich.
Rautend.
Heinrich.
Rautend.
Heinrich.
Rautend.
Heinrich.
Rautend.
Heinrich.
1st Child
See — how the fleecy clouds whirl round and
round,
As in a giant cauldron, 'mid the rocks !
Weak as thou art, beware ! Go not too near !
I am not weak! . . . 'Twas fancy. Now 'tis
gone!
That 's well ! Now be once more our Lord and
Master !
Shall wretched visions so undo thy strength 1
No ! Take thy hammer ! Swing it wide and
high! . . .
Dost thou not see them, where they climb and
climb?
Where?
There! . . . Now they have reached
the rocky path . . .
Clad only in their little shifts they come !
Who come?
Two little lads, with bare, white feet.
They hold an urn between them . . . 'Tis so
heavy !
Now one, and now the other, bends his knee . . .
His little, baby knee, to raise it up . . .
Oh, help him, mother — help him in his need !
A halo shines about their tiny heads . . .
Some will-o'-the-wisp!
No ! . . . Kjieel, and clasp thy hands !
Now . . . see . . . they are coming. Now . . .
they are here!
IHe kneels, as the phantom forms of two
Children, barefooted and clad only in their
nightshifts, ascend from beloiv and advance
painfully toward him. Betiveen them they
carry a two-handled pitcher.^
{faintly).
Father!
192 THE GERMAN CLASSICS
Heinkich. My cliild !
1st Child. Our mother sends thee greeting.
Heinrich. Thanks, thanks, my dear, dear lad! All's well
with her?
1st Child {slowly and sadly).
All 's very well ! . . .
[The first faint tones of the sunken hell are
heard from the depths. 1^
Heinrich. What have you brought with you I
2d Child. A pitcher.
Heinrich. Is 't for me I
2d Child. Yes, father dear.
Heinrich. What is there in the pitcher, my dear boy?
2d Child. 'Tis something salt! . . .
1st Child . . . And bitter!
2d Child. Mother's tears!
Heinrich. Merciful God!
Rautend. What art thou staring at?
Heinrich. At them ... at them ...
Rautend. At whom?
Heinrich. Hast thou not eyes.
At them!
{To the Children.)
Where is your mother? Speak, oh, speak!
1st Child. Our mother?
Heinrich. Yes! Where is she!
2d Child. With . . . the . . . lilies . . .
The water-lilies . . . [The hell tolls loudly.']
Heinrich. Ah! The bell!
Rautend. What bell?
Heinrich. The old, old, buried beU ! . . . It rings! It tolls!
Who dealt this blow at me? ... I will not
listen !
Help ! Help me ! . . . Help ! . . .
Rautend. Come to your senses, Heinrich !
THE SUNKEN BELL 193
Heinrich. It tolls ! . . . God help me ! , . . Who has dealt
this blow?
Hark, how it peals ! Hark, how the buried tones
Swell louder, louder, till they sound as thunder,
Flooding the world ! . . .
{Turning to Rautendelein.)
I hate thee ! I abhor thee !
Back! Lest I strike thee ! Hence! Thou witch!
Thou truU:
Accursed spirit ! Cursed be thou and I !
Cursed be my work! . . . And all! . . . Here!
Here am I . . .
I come ! . . . I come ! . . . Now may God pity
me! . . .
[He makes an effort, rises, stumbles, rises
again, and tears himself away. The Chil-
DEEN have vanished.]
Rautend. Stay! Heinrich! Stay! . . . Woe's me! Lost!
. . . Lost for aye!
ACT V
The fir-clad glade seen in the first act. It is past midnight. Three Elves
are resting near the well.
1st Elf. The flame glows bright!
2d Elf. The wind of sacrifice —
The red, red wind — blows in the vale !
3d Elf. And lo.
The dark smoke from the pine-clad peak
streams down
Into the gulf!
1st Elf. And, in the gulf, white clouds
Lie thickly gathered ! From the misty sea
The wond'ring herds lift up their drowsy heads,
Lowing, impatient, for their sheltered stalls !
Vol. X\^ni— 13
194 THE GERMAN CLASSICS
2d Elf. A nightingale within the beech wood sang:
It sang and sobbed into the waning night —
Till, all a-quiver with responsive woe,
I sank upon the dewy grass and wept.
3d Elf. 'Tis strange! I lay npon a spider's web.
Between the blades of meadow-grass it hung,
All woven out of marvelous purple threads,
And softer than a royal shift it clung.
I lay, and rested, while the glistening dew
Flashed up at me from the green mead below :
And so, my heavy lids did gently droop,
Until at last I slept. When I awoke.
The light had faded in the distant west :
My bed had turned to gray. But, in the east.
Thick clouds went up, and up, that hid the
moon.
While all the rocky ridge was covered o'er
With molten metal, glowing in the night.
And, in the bloody glare that do\^Tiward
streamed,
Methought — 'twas strange — the fields did stir
with life,
And whisp 'rings, sighs, and voices low I heard
That filled the very air with wretchedness.
Ah, it was pitiful! . . . Then, quick, I hailed
A fire-fly, who his soft, green lamp had trimmed.
But on he flew. And so alone I lay.
Trembling with fear, and lost in wonderment.
Till, winged and gleaming as the dragon-fly,
The dearest, loveliest, of all the elves.
Who from afar his coming had proclaime4,
Rustled and fell into my waiting arms.
And, as we prattled in our cosy bed,
Warm tears were mingled with our kisses
sweet,
And then he sighed, and sobbed, and pressed me
tight.
Mourning for Balder . . . Balder, who was dead !
THE SUNKEN BELL 195
1st Elf {rising).
The flame glows bright !
2d Elf (rising). 'Tis Balder 's funeral pyre!
3d Elf (who meamvhile has moved slowly to the edge of
the wood).
Balder is dead! ... I'm chill!
[She vanishes.]
1st Elf. A curse doth fall
Upon the land — as Balder 's funeral pall!
[Fog drifts across the glade. When it clears
aivay the Elves have vayiished.']
Enter Rautendeleix. slowln and icearihf descending from the hillside.
She drags herself toward the ivell, halting to rest, sitting and rising
again with an effort, on her loay. When she speaks, her voice is faint
and strange.
Rautend. Whither? . . . iUi, whither? . . . I sat till late,
While the gnomes ran wild in my hall of state.
They brought me a red, red cup to drain —
And I drank it down, in pain.
For the wine I drank was blood!
And, when I had drained the last red drop,
My heart in my bosom seemed to stop :
For a hand of iron had gripped the strings —
And still with a burning pain it wrings
The heart that I long to cool !
Then a crown on my wedding-board they laid —
All of rose-red coral and silver made.
As I set it upon my brow I sighed,
Woe's me! Now the Water-man's won his
bride !
And I'll cool my burning heart!
Three apples fell into my lap last night,
Rose-red, and gold, and white —
Wedding-gifts from my water-sprite.
196 THE GERMAN CLASSICS
I ate the white apple, and white I grew:
I ate the gold apple, and rich I grew —
And the red one last I ate !
Pale, white, and rosy-red,
A maiden sat — and she was dead.
Now, Water-man, unbar thy gate —
I bring thee home thy dead, dead mate.
Deep down in the cold, damp darkness, see —
With the silver fishes I come to thee . . .
Ah, my poor, burnt, aching heart!
[She descends slowly into the well.]
The Wood-Sprite enters from the wood, crosses to the well, and calls
down.
W.-Spkite. Hey ! Holdrio ! Old frog-king ! Up with thee !
Hey ! Holdrio ! Thou web-foot wight bewitched !
Dost thou not hear me, monster? Art asleep f
I say, come up! — and though beside thee lay
Thy fairest water-maid, and plucked thy beard,
I'd still say, leave thy reedy bed and come!
Thou 'It not repent it : for, by cock and pie.
What I've to tell thee is worth many a night
Spent in the arms of thy most lovesick sprite.
NiCKELM. {from below).
Brekekekex !
W.-Sprite. Up ! Leave thy weedy pool !
NiCKELM. {from heloiv).
1 have no time. Begone, thou chattering fool !
W.-Sprite. What? What? Thou toad-i'-the-hole, thou
hast no time
To spare from wallowing in thy mud and slime I
I say, I bring thee news. Didst thou not hear?
Wliat I foretold 's come true. I played the seer !
He's left her! . . . Now, an thou wilt but be
' spry,
Thou 'It haply catch thy wondrous butterfly!
THE SUNKEN BELL
197
W.-Sprite.
NiCKELM.
W.-Sprite
A trifle jaded — ay, and something worn:
But, Lord, what care the Nickelmann and Faun?
Rare sport thou 'It find her, comrade, even
now —
Ay, more than thou hadst bargained for, I'll
vow.
NiCKELM. {rising from the well and blinking slyly).
Forsooth! ... He's tired of her, the minx!
And so
Thou'dst have me hang upon her skirts? . . .
No, no !
What? . . . Hast thou wearied of this beauty,
too?
Why, then — I would her whereabouts I knew!
Go hunt for her!
I've sought her, like a dog:
Above — below, through mirk, and mist, and
fog.
I've climbed where never mountain-goat had
been,
And every marmot far and near I've seen.
Each falcon, glede, and finch, and rat, and
snake,
I've asked for news. But none could answer
make.
Woodmen I passed — around a fire they slept —
From them I stole a brand, and upward crept :
Till, grasping in my hand the burning wood,
At last before the lonely forge I stood.
And now the smoke of sacrifice ascends!
Loud roar the flames — each rafter cracks and
bends !
The power the Master boasted once is fled :
For ever and for aye, 'tis past and dead!
I know. I know. Thy news is old and stale.
Hast thou disturbed me with this idle tale?
NiCKELM.
198
THE GERMAN CLASSICS
Much more I'd tell thee — ay, who tolled the
bell!
And how the clapper swning that rang the knell !
Hadst thou but seen, last night, as I did see,
What ne 'er before had been, nor more shall be,
The hand of a dead woman, stark and cold.
Go groping for the bell that tossed and rolled.
And hadst thou heard the bell then make reply,
Peal upon peal send thundering to the sky — ■
Till, like the lioness that seeks her mate,
It thrilled the Master, even as the Voice of Fate !
I saw the woman — drowned. Her long, brown
hair
Floated about her face : 'twas wan with care.
And alway, when her hand the bell had found.
The awful knell did loud, and louder, sound !
I'm old, and used to many a gruesome sight :
Yet horror had seized me, and — I took to flight !
Hadst thou but seen, last night, what I have
seen.
Thou wouldst not fret about thine elfin quean.
So, let her flit at will, from flower to flower :
I care not, I ! Her charm has lost its power.
W.-Sprite. 'Ods bodikins ! I care, though, for the maid.
So — each to his own taste. I want the jade.
And once I hold her panting in these arms,
'Tis little I shall reck of dead alarms !
NicKELM. Quorax! Brekekekex! Oho, I see.
So that is still the flea that 's biting thee ?
Well — kill it, then. Go hunt her till thou'rt
spent.
Yet, though a-hunting twice ten years thou
went.
Thou shouldst not have her. 'Tis for me she
sighs !
She has no liking for thy goaty eyes.
A hen-pecked water-man, alack, I'm tied
By every whim and humor of my bride.
THE SUNKEN BELL 199
Now fare thee well. Thou'rt free, to come, or
go:
But, as for me — 'tis time I went below!
[He disappears in the well.]
W.-Speite {calling down the well).
So sure as all the stars in heaven do shine —
So sure as these stout shanks and horns are
mine —
So sure as fishes swim and birds do fly —
A man-child in thy cradle soon shall lie !
Good-night. Sleep well! And now, be off to
bed!
On ! On ! Through brush and brier ! . . . The
flea is dead!
[The Wood-Sprite skips off. Old Wittikin
issues from the hut and takes down her
shutters.']
Wittikin. 'Twas time I rose. I sniff the morning air.
A pretty hurly there has been to-night.
[A cock crows.]
Oho! I thought so. Kikereekikee !
No need to give thyself such pains for me —
Thou noisy rogue — as if we did not know
What 's coming, ere such cocks as thou did crow.
Thy hen another golden egg has laid?
And soon the sun shall warm the mirky glade?
Ay. Crow thy loudest, gossip ! Sing and sing !
The dawn draws near. So strut thy fill and
sing.
Another day 'sat hand. But — here 'tis dark . . .
Will no mad jack-o '-lantern give me a spark ? . . .
I'll need more light to do my work, I wis . . .
And, as I live, my carbuncle I miss.
[She fumbles in her pocket and produces a
carbuncle.]
Ah, here it is.
Heinrich {heard without).
Rautendelein !
200
THE GERMAN CLASSICS
WiTTiKiN. Ay, call her !
She '11 answer thee, I wager, thou poor brawler !
Heinrich (without).
Rautendelein ! I come. Dost thou not hear?
WiTTiKiN. Thou 'It need to call her louder, man, I fear.
[Heinrich, worn and weary, appears on the
rocks above the hut. He is pale and in tat-
ters. In his right hand he holds a heavy
stone, ready to hurl it back into the depths.]
Heinrich. Come, if you dare ! Be it priest, or be it barber.
Sexton, or schoolmaster — I care not who!
The first who dares another step to take.
Shall fall and headlong plunge into the gulf !
'Twas ye who drove my wife to death, not I !
Vile rabble, witless wretches, beggars, rogues —
Who weeks together mumble idle prayers
For a lost penny ! Yet, so base are ye.
That, where ye can, God's everlasting love
Ye cheat of ducats! . . . Liars! Hypocrites!
Like rocks ye are heaped about your nether-
land,
Ringing it round, as with a dam of stone,
Lest haply God's own waters, rushing in,
Should flood your arid Hell with Paradise.
When shall the great destroyer wreck your
dam I
I am not he . . . Alas! I am not the man.
[He drops the stone and begins to ascend.]
WiTTiKiN. That way is barred. So halt ! And climb no
more.
Heinrich. Woman, what burns up yonder?
WiTTiKiN. Nay, I know not.
Some man there was, I've heard, who built a
thing.
Half church, half royal castle. Now — he's
gone!
THE SUNKEN BELL
201
And, since he's, left it, np it goes in flame.
[Heinkich makes a feeble effort to press
uptvard.]
Did I not tell thee, man, the road was barred!
He who would pass that way had need o' \\dngs.
And thy wings have been broken.
Heinrich. Ah, broken or no,
I tell thee, woman, I must reach the peak !
What flames up yonder is my work — all mine!
Dost understand me? ... I am he who built it.
And all I was, and all I grew to be,
Was spent on it ... I can ... I can ... no
more! [Pause.]
WiTTiKiN. Halt here a while. The roads are still pitch-
dark.
There is a bench. Sit down and rest.
Heinrich. I? . . . Rest? . . .
Though thou shouldst bid me sleep on silk and
down,
That heap of ruins still would draw me on.
The kiss my mother — long she's joined the
dust —
Did press years since upon my fevered brow,
Would bring no blessing to me now, no peace :
'Twould sting me like a wasp.
WiTTiKiN. Ay, so it would !
Wait here a bit, man. I will bring thee wine.
I've still a sup or two.
Heinrich. I must not wait.
Water! I thirst! I thirst!
WiTTiKiN. Go, draw, and drink !
[Heinrich moves to the ivell, draws, sits on
the edge of the well, and drinks. A faint,
sweet voice is heard from below, singing
mournfully.']
202
THE GERMAN CLASSICS
The Voice {from beloiu).
Heinrich, my sweetheart, I loved thee true.
Now thou art come to my well to woo.
Wilt thou not go?
Love is all woe —
Adieu ! Adieu !
Heinrich. Woman, what voice was that! Speak —
answer me !
What called and sang to me in such sad tones ?
It murmured, ' ' Heinrich ! " . . . from the
depths it came . . .
And then it softly sighed, ' ' Adieu ! Adieu ! ' '
Who art thou, woman? And what place is this ?
Am 1 awaking from some dream? . . . These
rocks.
Thy hut, thyself, I seem to know ye all !
Yet all are strange. Can that which me befell
Have no more substance than a peal that sounds.
And, having sounded, dies away in silence?
Woman, who art thou?
WiTTiKiN. I? . . . And who art thou I
Heinrich. Dost ask me that? . . . Yes! Who am I? God
wot!
How often have I prayed to Heaven to tell
me! . . .
Who am I, God ! . . . But Heaven itself is mute.
Yet this I do know : that, whatsoe 'er I be,
Hero or weakling, demi-god or beast —
I am the outcast child of the bright Sun —
That longs for home: all helpless now, and
maimed,
A bundle of sorrow, weeping for the Light
That stretches out its radiant arms in vain.
And yearns for me ! . . . What dost thou there ?
WiTTiKiN. Thou 'It learn that soon enough.
Heinrich (rising). Nay, I'll begone!
Now, with thy bloody lamplight, show me a way
Will lead me onward, upward, to the heights!
THE SUNKEN BELL
203
Once I am there, where erst I Master stood,
Lonely I'll live^ — thenceforth a hermit be —
Who neither rules, nor serves.
WiTTiKiN. I doubt it much !
What thou would 'st seek up yonder is not that.
Heinrich. How canst thou know?
WiTTiKiN. We know what we do know.
They'd almost run thee down, my friend! . . .
Ay, ay!
When life shines bright, like wolves ye men do
act,
Eend it and torture it. But, when death comes,
No bolder are ye than a flock of sheep,
That tremble at the wolf. Ay, ay, 'tis true !
The herds that lead ve are but sorrv carles
Wlio with the hounds do hunt and loudly yelp :
They do not set their hounds to hunt the wolf:
Nay, nay: their sheep they drive into its
jaws! ...
Thou'rt not much better than the other herds.
Thy bright life thou hast torn and spurned
away.
And when death fronted thee, thou wast not
bold.
Heinrich. Ah, woman, list ! . . . I know not how it cam^e
That I did spurn and kill my clear bright life :
And, being a Master, did my task forsake,
Like a mere 'prentice, quaking at the sound
Of my own handiwork, the bell which I
Had blessed with speech. And yet 'tis true!
Its voice
Rang out so loud from its great iron throat.
Waking the echoes of the topmast peaks,
That, as the threatening peal did rise and swell,
It shook my soul! . . . Yet I was still the
Master !
204
THE GERMAN CLASSICS
Ere it had shattered me who molded it,
With this same hand, that gave it form and life,
I should have crushed and ground it into atoms.
WiTTiKiN. What's past, is past: what's don,e, is done, for
aye.
Thou 'It never win up to thy heights, I trow.
This much I '11 grant : thou wast a sturdy shoot,
And mighty — yet too weak. Though thou wast
called.
Thou 'st not been chosen ! . . . Come. Sit down
beside me.
Heinrich. Woman ! Farewell !
WiTTiKiN. Come here, and sit thee down.
Strong — yet not strong enow!
Who lives, shall life pursue. But be thou sure,
Up yonder thou shalt find it nevermore.
Then let me perish here, where now I stand !
Ay, so thou shalt. He who has flown so high,
Into the very Light, as thou hast flown.
Must perish, if he once fall back to Earth!
I know it. I have reached my journey's end.
So be it.
Yes ! Thou hast reached the end !
Then tell me —
Thou who dost seem to me so strangely wise —
Am T to die and never more set eyes
On what, with bleeding feet, I still must seek?
Thou dost not answer me? . . . Must I go
hence —
Leave my deep night, and pass to deepest dark-
ness—
Missing the afterglow of that lost light ?
Shall I not see her once . . . ?
WiTTiKiN. Whom wouldst thou see ?
Heinrich. I would see her. Whom else? . . . Dost not
know that?
WiTTiKiN. Thou hast one wish! ... It is thy last! . . .
So — wish.
Heinrich.
WiTTIKIN.
Heinrich.
WiTTIKIN.
Heinrich.
THE SUNKEN BELL 205
Heinkich (quickly).
I have wished!
WiTTiKiN. Then thou shalt see her once again.
Heinrich (rising and ecstatically).
Ah, mother! . . . Why I name thee thus, I know
not . , .
Art thou so mighty? . . . Canst thou do so
much? . . .
Once I was ready for the end, as now :
Half hoping, as each feeble breath I drew,
That it might be the last. But then she came —
And healing, like the breeze in early Spring,
Rushed through my sickly frame; and I grew
well . . .
All of a sudden, now I feel so light,
That I could soar up to the heights again.
WiTTiKiN. Too late ! [Heineich recoils in terror.']
Thy heavy burdens weigh thee down :
Thy dead ones are too mighty for thee. See !
I place three goblets on the table. So.
The first I fill with white wine. In the next,
Red wine I pour : the last I fill with yellow.
Now, shouldst thou drain the first, thy vanished
power
Shall be restored to thee. Shouldst drink the
second.
Once more thou shalt behold the spirit bright
"Whom thou hast lost. But an thou dost drink
both.
Thou must drain down the last.
{She turns to enter the hut. On the threshold
she halts and utters the next zvords tvith
solemn emphasis.']
I say thou must !
[She (foes into the hut. Heinrich has listened
to the preceding speech like a man dazed.
As Old Wittikin leaves him, he rouses
himself and sinks on a bench.]
206 THE GERMAN CLASSICS
Heinrich. Too late ! . . . She said, ' ' Too late ! " . . . Now
all is done !
0 heart, that knowest all, as ne'er before:
Why dost thou question? . . . Messenger of
Fate!
Thy fiat, as the ax, doth sharply fall,
Cutting the strand of life! . . . It is the end!
What 's left is respite ! . . . But I '11 profit by 't.
Chill blows the wind from the abyss. The day
That yonder gleam so faintly doth forerun,
Piercing the sullen clouds with pale white shafts,
1 shall not see. So many days I have lived :
Yet this one day I shall not live to see !
[He raises the first goblet.^
Come then, thou goblet, ere the horror come !
A dark drop glistens at the bottom. One !
A last one . . . Why, thou crone, hadst thou no
morel
So be it! [He drinks. ~\ And now to thee, thou
second cup ! [He raises the second goblet.~\
It was for thee that I did drain the first.
And, wert thou missing, thou delicious draught.
Whose fragrance tempts to madness, the carouse
Whereunto God has bid us in this world
Were all too poor, meseems — unworthy quite.
Of thee, who dost the festal board so honor.
Now I do thank thee — thus ! [He drinks.']
The drink is good.
[A murmur as of ceolian harps floats on the
air ivhile he drinks. Rautendelein rises
slowly from the well. She looks iveary and
sad. She sits on the edge of the ivell, comb-
ing her long flowing locks. Moonlight.
Rautendelein is pale. She sings into
vacancy. Her voice is faint. ~\
THE SUNKEN BELL
207
Eautend. All, all alone, in tlie pale moon-shine,
I comb my golden hair,
Fair, fairest Rautendelein !
The mists are rising, the birds take flight,
The fires burn low in the weary night . . .
NiCKELM. {from beloiv).
Eautendelein !
Rautend. I'm coming!
NiCKELM. (from below). Come at once!
Rautend. Woe, woe is me !
So tight I am clad,
A maid o ' the well, bewitched and so sad !
NiCKELM. (from below).
Eautendelein !
Rautend. I'm coming!
NiCKELM. {from beloiv). Come thou now!
Rautend. I comb my hair in the moonlight clear.
And think of the sweetheart who loved me
dear.
The blue-bells all are ringing.
Ring they of joy? Ring they of pain?
Blessing and bane —
Answers the song they are singing!
Now dowD. I go, to my weedy w^ell —
No more I may wait: ,
I must join my mate —
Farewell ! Farewell !
[She prepares to descend.]
\\Tio calls so softly?
Heineich. I.
Eautend. Who 'rt thou?
Heinrich. Why — I.
Do but come nearer — ah, why wouldst thou fly?
Eautend. I dare not come ! . . . I know thee not. xlway !
For him who speaks to me, I am doomed to slay.
208 THE GERMAN CLASSICS
Heinrich. "Why torture me? Come. Lay thy hand in mine,
And thou shalt know me.
Rautend. I have never known thee.
Heinrich. Thou know 'st me not?
Rautend. No !
Heinrich. Thou hast never seen me ?
Rautend. I cannot tell.
Heinrich. Then may God cast me off !
I never kissed thee till thy lips complained?
Rautend. Never.
Heinrich. Thou'st never pressed thy lips to mine?
NicKELM. {from below).
Rautendelein!
Rautend. I'm coming!
NiCKELM. Come. I wait.
Heinrich. Who called to thee?
Rautend. 'Twas the Water-man — my mate!
Heinrich. Thou seest my agony — the pain and strife
That rend my soul, and eat away my life !
Ah, torture me no longer. Set me free !
Rautend. Then, as thou wilt. But how ?
Heinrich. Come close to me !
Rautend. I cannot come.
Heinrich. Thou canst not?
Rautend. No. I am bound.
Heinrich. By what ?
Rautend. {retreating).
I must begone to join the round,
A merry dance — and though my foot be sore,
Soon, as I dancing go, it burns no more.
Farewell ! Farewell !
Heinrich. Where art thou? Stay, ah stay!
Rautend. {disappearing behind the well).
Lost, lost, forever !
^
h
2S[aOMS.
f^\ mo'\'»\
Nick ..
1?
.ay thy hand ia mine,
\ ■ ^lever known thee.
e BOt's
i nou iiiist never seen me t
.iieii iiiii) vTUvi .'10 Oil' 1
,,-,. t
THE MESSENGERS rvl strife
No
From flip Poni^vri ^y^]if(^^.^l{;nyer
I
THE SUNKEN BELL 209
Heinrich. The goblet — quick, I say !
There . . . there . . . the goblet! . . . Magda?
Thou? . . . So pale!
Give me the cup. Who brings it, I will hail
My truest friend.
Rautend. {reappearing). I bring it.
Heinrich. Be thou blessed.
Rautend. Yes. I will do it. Leave the dead to rest !
[She gives Heinrich the gohlet.l
Heinrich. I feel thee near me, thou dear heart of mine !
Rautend. ( retreating ) .
Farewell ! Farewell ! I never can be thine 1
Once I was thy true love — in May, in May —
Now all is past, for aye ! . . .
Heinrich. For aye !
Rautend. For aye !
Who sang thee soft to sleep with lullabies ?
Who woke thee with enchanting melodies f
Heinrich. Who, who — but thou?
Rautend. Who am I ?
Heinrich. Rautendelein !
Rautend. Who poured herself into thy veins, as wine ?
AAliom didst thou drive into the well to pine?
Heinrich. Thee, surely thee !
Rautend. Who am I?
Heinrich. Rautendelein !
Rautend. Farewell! Farewell! [He drinks.]
Heinrich. Nay : lead me gently down.
Now comes the night — the night that all would
liee.
[Rautendelein hastens to him, and clasps
him about the knees.]
Rautend. (exultingly) .
The Sun is coming !
Heinrich. The Sun!
Vol. XVIII— 14
210 THE GERMAN CLASSICS
Rautend. {half sobbing, half rejoicing ) . Ah, Heinrich !
Heineich. Thanks !
Rautend. {embracing Heineich, she presses her lips to his,
and then gently lays him down as he dies).
Heinrich !
Heineich ( ecstatically ) .
I hear them ! 'Tis the Sun-bells ' song !
The Sun . . . the Sun . . . draws near! . . .
The Night is . . . long!
[Daivn breaks. He dies.]
;
MICHAEL KRAMER*
DRAMATIS PERSONS
Michael Kramer, teacher at the Royal College of Art, painter
Mrs. Kramer, his w-ife
MiCHALiNE Kramer, his daughter, painter
Arnold Kramer, his son, painter
Lachmann, painter
Alwine Lachmann, his toife
I^iese Bansch, daughter of the restaurant keeper Baxsch
Assistant Judge Schnabel, ~
Frequenters of Bansch's restaurant
Architect Ziehn,
Vox Kkautheim,
QUANTMEYER,
Krause, chief janitor in the College of Art
^Bertha, maid at the Kramers'
Fritz, waiter in Baxsch's restaurant
The events of this drama take place in a promncial capital
TO
THE MEMORY OF MY DEAR FRIEXD
HUGO ERNST SCHiHDT
Permission B. W. Huebsch, New York.
[211]
MICHAEL KRAMER (1900)
By Gebhardt Hauptmann
translated by ludwig lewisohn, a.m.
Assistant Professor of the German Language and Literature, Ohio State University
ACT I
A large room, having a single window in one corner, in Kramer's apart-
ment. Time: A winter morning toward nine o'clock. On a table beside
the window that looks out on the court a burning lamp and the breakfast
dishes are still standing. The furnishings of the room are quite ordinary.
MiCHALiNE, a dark girl with an interesting face, having pushed her
chair slightly away from the table, is smoking a cigarette and holding a
book in her lap. Mrs. Kramer enters by the door in the rear on some
household errand. She is a white-haired woman about fifty-six years old.
Her demeanor is restless and anxious.
Mrs. Kramer. Are you still there, Michaline? Isn't it
time for you to go?
MicHALiNE {pausing before she answers). No, mother, not
yet. — Anyhow, it's quite dark outside yet.
Mrs. Kramer. Be careful that you don't neglect anything,
Michaline; that's all.
MiCHALiNE. There's no danger, mother.
Mrs. Kramer. Because really . . . you shouldn't miss
any opportunity ; there 's worry enough left anyhow.
Michaline. Yes, mother, surely! [She smokes and looks
into her book.]
Mrs. Kramer. What are you reading there? You always
have your nose in a book !
Michaline. Am I not to read?
Mrs. Kramer. You may read for all I care! — I'm only
surprised that you have the peace of mind to do it.
Michaline. Dear me, if one were to wait for that ! Would
one ever get to do anything?
[212]
MICHAEL KRAMER 213
Mes. Keamer. Didn't papa say anything at all when he
went?
MiCHALINE, No.
Mrs. Kramer. That's always the worst sign when he
doesn't say anything.
MiCHALINE. Oh yes, he did though. I almost forgot.
Arnold is to come to him at the studio at eleven o'clock
sharp.
Mrs. Kramer {opens the door of the stove and fastens it
again. As she draws herself up, she sighs). Ah, yes,
yes! Oh, dear, dear, dear!
MiCHALINE. Do as I do, mother. Divert your mind ! —
There's nothing new ! it's the same old story. Arnold's
not going to change in that respect either.
Mrs. Kramer {sits doivn at the table, supports her head
with her hand and sighs). Oh, you don't understand
the boy — none of you! You don't understand him!
And as for father — he'll be the ruin of him.
MiCHALINE. Oh, I don't think it right for you to make
such an assertion. You're bitterly unjust. Papa does
his very best by Arnold. He's tried every way. If
/you and Arnold fail to recognize that, mother — why,
so much the worse.
Mrs. Kramer. You 're your father 's daughter ; I know that
very well.
MiCHALINE, Yes, I'm your daughter and father's.
Mrs. Kramer. No, you're father's daughter much more
than mine. Because if you were more my daughter
you wouldn't always be taking sides with father.
MiCHALINE. Mother, we'd better not excite ourselves by
such talk. — One tries merely to exercise simple justice
and at once one is told: You take sides with so and
so or so and so. — You make life pretty difficult, you
can believe me.
Mrs. Kramer. I side with my boy and there's an end to it !
You can all of you do what you please.
MiCHALINE. I don't see how one can bear to say a thing
like that.
214 THE GERMAN CLASSICS
Mrs. Kramer. Michaline, you 're not a woman at all ; that 's
it ! You 're not like a woman ! You talk like a man !
nYou think like a man! What comfort can a woman
get of such a daughter?
Michaline {shrugging her shoulders). Well, mother, if
that's really true . . . ! I don't suppose I'll be able
to alter that either,
Mrs. Kramer. You can alter it, only you don't want to!
Michaline. Mama . . .I'm afraid it's time for me to
go. And do, mother, be sensible and don't excite your-
self. You don't really mean what you've just been
saying.
Mrs. Kramer. As truly as that I 'm standing here — every
syllable !
Michaline. Then I'm very sorry for us all, mother.
Mrs. Kramer. The truth is we all suffer under papa.
Michaline. Do me a favor, mother, once and for all: I
have never suffered under papa and I do not suffer
under him now. I honor father as you very well know !
And it would be the damndest lie . . . ■
Mrs. Kramee. I'm ashamed of the way you swear,
Michaline.
Michaline. . , . if I were to say that I am suffering
under him. There isn't any human being in the world
to whom I am so boundlessly grateful.
Mrs. Kramer. Not to me either!
Michaline. No. I'm sorry. What father really is and
what he is to me seems clearer to strangers than to
you — I mean you and Arnold, mother. That's just
the fatality of it. Those who ought to be closest to
papa are most aUen to him. He'd be lost among you
alone.
Mrs. Kramer. As if I didn't remember how often you
cried when father . . .
Michaline. That's true. I cried often. He did hurt me
at times. But I always had to admit to myself finally
that, though he hurt me, he was never unjust, and that
I always learned something in the process.
MICHAEL KRAMER 215
Mrs. Kramer, Whether you learned anything or not,
j father has never helped you to be happy. If you had
I a comfortable home of your own, a husband and
•children . . . and all that . . .
Mich ALINE. Father didn't rob me of that!
Mrs. Kramer. And now you work yourself sick just as
papa does and nothing comes of it except discontent
and worry.
MiCHALiNE. Oh, mother, when I hear such talk I always
feel so shut in! So caged and throttled and depressed,
you would scarcely believe it! {With bitter sadness.)
^ If Arnold weren't just — Arnold, how grateful would
he be to father!
Mrs. Kramer. Why, he whipped the boy when he was
fifteen !
Michaline. I don't doubt that father can be hard, and that
he lost control of himself at times. I neither palliate
nor excuse. But I ask you, mother, whether on that
occasion Arnold hadn't provoked father's anger! He
forged his signature that time !
Mrs. Kramer. In the terror of his soul ! Because he was
so frightened of papa!
Michaline. No, mother, that doesn't quite explain it all.
Mrs. Kramer. The boy is wretched; he isn't well; he's
been sickly from the beginning.
Michaline. That may be true. He must resign himself
and settle that with his own soul. That's the fate of
vail men, mother. To keep a grip on oneself and fight
one's way through to something higher — that's what
everybody has had to do. He has the best example
of that in father. — By the way, mother, here are twenty
marks; I can't spare more this month. I've had to
pay the bill for paint ; that alone mounted up to twenty-
three marks. I must have a winter hat, too. I've had
to trust two pupils for their tuition.
Mrs. Kramer. That's it. You work yourself to death for
those women and then thev cheat you of vour little
earnings.
216 THE GERMAN CLASSICS
MiCHALiNE. No, mother, there's, no question of cheating
at all. One is a poor, hunch-backed girl without means,
and Miss Schaffer saves the fees from her food. [The
outer door-bell rings.] The bell just rang; who could
it be?
Mes. Kramer. I don't know. I'll just blow out the lamp.
— wish I were lying in my grave.
[Bertha goes through the room.]
MiCHAiiiNE. Ask what name first. Bertha.
Mrs. Kramer. Is Mr. Arnold still asleep?
Bertha. He didn't stop to lie down at all.
[Bertha exit.]
MiCHALiNE. But who do you think it can be, mama?
[Bertha returns.]
Bertha. A painter named Lachmann and his wife. He
used to study with the professor.
MicHALiNE. Papa is not a professor. You know that he
wants to be called simply Mr. Kramer.
[Michaline goes out into the hall.]
Mrs. Kramer. Just wait a bit ! I just want to straighten
up here a little. Hurry, Bertha! Then I'll look in
later.
[She and Bertha leave the room, carrying dishes
with them.]
The sounds of greeting are heard from the outer hall. Thereupon appear
the painter Ernest Lachmann, his wife Alwine, and finally Michaline.
Lachmann wears a top-hat and overcoat and carries a stick; Mrs.
Lachmann wears a dark, small hat with feathers, a feather hoa, etc.
The clothes of hoth show signs of wear.
MicHAL,iNE. Where do you come from, and what are you
doing here?
Lachmann {introducing the two women). Alwine: Mich-
aline Kramer.
Mrs. Lachmann {thoroughly surprised). Well! Is it pos-
sible ? So that 's you !
Michaline. Does that surprise you so greatly?
MICHAEL KRAMER 217
Mes. Lachmann. Yes! If I'm to be honest. A little bit,
anyhow. I had such a different idea of you,
MicHALiNE. Did you think I was even older and more
wrinkled than I really am ?
Mrs. Lachmann (immediately). No, quite the contrary,
to tell vou the truth.
[MiCHALiNE and Lachmann laugh with amusement.]
Lachmann. I foresee great things. You're making a fine
start,
Mrs. Lachmann. Why? What did I do again?
Lachmann. How is your father, Michaline?
MiCHALiNE. Well. He is about as usual. I doubt whether
you'll find him at all changed. — But please, sit dow^n!
Won't you, please, Mrs. Lachmann? And you will
pardon us, won't you? Everj^thing is still a bit upset
here. [Thei/ all sit down at the table.'] Do you smoke?
[She offers Lachmann cigarettes.] Or did you drop
the habit? Do forgive me; I've been puffing away!
I know it isn't womanly, but the realization came to me
too late. I dare say you don't smoke? No? And
doesn't it annoy you, either?
Mrs. Lachmann (shakes her head) . Ernest sucks away at
something all day at home.
Lachmann (taking a cigarette from Michaline 's case).
Thank you. — You don't understand that.
Mrs. Lachmann. Wliat is there about it to understand?
Lachmann. A great deal, dear Alwine.
Mrs. Lachmann. How's that? I don't see.
Michaline. It's much easier to talk freely if one smokes.
Mrs. Lachmann. Then it's a mighty good thing I don't
smoke. According to my husband I chatter too much
as it is.
Lachmann. It all depends on what one says.
Mrs. Lachmann. Well, you talk nonsense yourself some-
times, dear Ernest.
218 THE GERMAN CLASSICS
Lachmann {changing the subject violently). Yes . . .
what is it I wanted to say! . . . Oh, yes: So your
father is well; I'm glad of that.
MiCHALiNE. Yes; as I said before: He is as usual. By
and large, anyhow. I suppose you Ve come here to see
your mother?
Mrs. Lachmann {talkatively). What he wanted to do was
to look around here a bit — if there wasn't something
, or other to be done here. There 's absolutely no chance
in Berlin any longer. Are things just as dull here, do
you think?
MicHALiNE. In what respect? I don't know. . . . Just
what do you mean?
Mes. Lachmann. Well, I thought you'd established a
school. Doesn't that pay you pretty well?
Lachmann. Look here! Tell me when you're through!
Will you?
Michaline. My school? I earn something. Oh, yes. Not
much. But something, no doubt; I get along. {To
Lachmann.) Do you intend to offer me competition!!
Mrs. Lachmann. Why, of course not ! Gracious ! What
do you think? My husband's crazy about you, I can
tell you. My husband would never do that. But a
man's got to do something, you know. People have to
eat and drink, don't .they? My husband . . .
Lachmann. My husband; I am not your husband. That
expression always makes me nervous.
Mrs. Lachmann. Did you ever hear the like of that?
Lachmann. Ernest is my name, Alwine. Try to remem-
ber that. You may say my coal shovel or my coffee
strainer or my false hair. But slavery is abolished.
Mrs. Lachmann. But hubby . . .
Lachmann. That sounds like a dog's name.
Mrs. Lachmann. Now you see how it is. That's the
kind of husband a woman has. Do me one favor —
don't marry at any price! Old maids are a sight
better off. [Michaline laughs heartily.]
MICHAEL KRAMER 219
Lachmann. Alwine, that ends it ! You '11 kindly take your
boa and wait somewhere else for me. Do you under-
stand! For otherwise my coming here will be quite
futile ! Just take your boa, that most tasteful favorite
adornment of yours. Then have the kindness either
to ride out to mother's or wait in the restaurant across
the way. I'll even come for you.
Mrs. Lachmann. Did you ever? That's the way a wife's
treated, you see. I don't hardly say a word, but what
— Lord, Lord!
Lachmann. It isn't necessary for you to say anything.
There's nothing but folly at the bottom of it, anyhow.
Mrs. Lachmann. I'm not as clever as you, to be sure.
Lachmann. Agreed! I agree with everjiihing you're
about to say.
Michaline. But please, Mrs. Lachmann, won't you stay?
Mrs. Lachmann. For heaven's sake ! AVhat are you think-
ing of ! But you needn't feel a bit sorry for me. He'll
come running after me again. Good-by. — There's a
pastry-cook at the corner across the street. You under-
stand, hubby? That's w^here you report.
[Exit, accompanied hy Michaline.]
Lachmann. But don't eat thirteen pieces of pastry again.
[Michaline returns.']
Michaline. Old maids are a sight better off ! She really
is a little direct,
Lachmann. She babbles like a brook.
Michaline [sitting dotvn again). You do make short work
with her, though. Not every woman would endure that,
Lachmann.
Lachmann. Michaline, she presses me hard. I have no
choice. — She wanted to make your acquaintance ;
otherwise I wouldn't have brought her with me. — How
are you, anyhow?
Michaline. Well, thank you. And 3^ouf
Lachmann. Oh, so, so. Not brilliant.
220 THE GERMAN CLASSICS
MicHALiNE, I feel the same way. — You're getting gray
about the temples, too.
) Lachmann. The donkey reveals itself more and more.
[Both laugh.l
MicHALiNE. And so you think of settling down here 1
Lachmann. I never dreamed of such a thing. She fancies
all kinds of things, bubbles over with them, and then
asserts roundly that I had expressed myself to the same
purpose. [Pmise.] How's your brother?
Michaline, Well, thank you.
Lachmann. Does he work steadily at his painting?
Michaline. On the contrary.
Lachmann. What else does he do?
Michaline. He dawdles about, of course. He wastes his
time. What else do you think!
Lachmann. Why didn't he stay in Munich? He succeeded
in doing something there now and then.
Michaline. Do you still expect anything of Arnold?
Lachmann. Why do you ask? I don't quite understand.
I thought that was pretty well settled.
Michaline. Well, if he has talent . . . then he isn't
worthy of it. — By the way, to change the subject:
Father has asked after you repeatedly. He will be
glad to see you again. And leaving myself quite out
of the question, of course, I'm very glad, for father's
sake, that you came over again. He is really in need
of some intellectual refreshment.
Lachmann. And so am I. Probably more than he is.
And — leaving you out of the question once more —
what exclusively drew me here — everything else could
well have waited — was the wish to be with your father
once again. To be sure I'd like to have a look at his
picture too.
Michaline. Who told you anything about the picture?
Lachmann. There's a report that the public gallery has
bought it.
MICHAEL KRAMER 221
MiCHALiNE. The director of the gallery was here, but I
don 't know whether he bought it. Father is excessively
reticent and conscientious. I hardly think so. I think
he'll want to finish it entirely first.
Lachmann. You know the picture? Of course you do.
MicHALiNE. It 's two years ago that I saw it. I can 't quite
judge it any longer. Papa has been at work on it a
very long time. [Pause. 1
Lachmann. Do you think he will show it to me? I don't
know why, but I have a presentiment that it is some-
thing extraordinary. I can't help it: I have great
faith in it. I have known many men, but no other of
i whose inner life one has so deep a wish to see a bit.
And anyhow — if I haven't quite gone under artist-
ically — and really, I still have some grip on myself —
I owe it primarily to your father alone. The things
he said to a fellow, and the way he said them — no one
can forget. There isn't another teacher like him. I
always say that any one whom your father has once
influenced can never become quite shallow again.
MicHALiNE. That's what I always think, Lachmann; just
that.
Lachmann. He stirs one up to the very depths. One
• learns a good many things from different men; I've
known some excellent ones. But your father always
seemed to loom up behind them and then not one could
hold his own any longer. He ploughed up the very
souls of us, his pupils, he turned us inside out, made us
over again — thoroughly. He knocked all the wretched
Philistinism out of one. A man can feed on his teach-
' ing for a lifetime. For instance, to any one who has
known his unflaggingly loyal seriousness in the service
of art, the outside world seems at first entirely friv-
olous . . .
MicHALiNE. Well, and you see, father's deep seriousness
. . . you say yourself that you feel it in your very
222 THE GERMAN CLASSICS
blood; it's become my best possession: his seriousness
has made an impression on the shallowest donkeys, but
' not on Arnold. He doesn't profit by it. [She has
arisen during her last words. ^ I must correct my
pupils' work now, Lachmann. You're laughing be-
cause you think my own ability is pretty small.
Lachmann. You're your father's daughter, after all. But
it's something I was always shy of. I imagine it must
be terribly bleak to bother oneself with women who
want to paint.
MicHALiNE. Oh, there's something to be accomplished.
They make the most honest efforts. That in itself is
a reconciling element. What more do you want?
Whether in the end they really achieve something — I
The striving in itself is an achievement. And, beyond
that, I feel the way father does — it amuses me to influ-\
ence people. Then, too, one grows young again in
one's pupils. And, as time goes on, that's rather
necessary. \^She opens the door and calls out into the
rear of the apartment.'] Good-by, mama, we're going
now.
Arnold {outside in a mocking voice). Good-by, mama,
we're going now.
Lachmann. Why, who was that?
MiCHALiNE. Arnold. He won't stop that kind of thing.
There 's no good dwelling on it. Come on !
[Lachmann and Michaline leave.]
Arnold enters. He is a homely fellow with black, fiery eyes behind
spectacles, dark hair and indications of a beard. His figure is slightly
bowed and slightly deformed. The color of his face is a dirty i^ale. He
is dressed only in coat, trousers and bedroom slippers. He shuffles up
to the mirror, takes off his spectacles and regards the impurities in his
skin, making faces the while. His whole appearance is slovenly.
Michaline returns.
Michaline (taken by surprise). Why, Arnold! — I forgot
my umbrella. — By the way, do you know that Lach-
mann is here?
MICHAEL KRAMER 223
Arnold {with gestures warding off her interference and
demanding silence). That worthy is in the highest
degree indifferent to me.
Mich ALINE. Will you kindly tell me what Lachmann has
done to you?
[Arnold does not answer.l
MicHALiNE {shrugging her shoulders, hut calmly). Don't
forget to meet father at eleven.
[Arnold puts his fingers into both ears.']
MiCHALiNE. Look here, Arnold, do you think that decent?
Arnold. Yes. — You'd better lend me a mark.
MiCHALiNE. Surely I can lend it to you. Why not? Only
in the end I have to reproach myself that I . . .
Arnold. Run along! Take to your heels, Michaline! I
know your miserliness.
[MiCHALiNE is about to answer, shrugs her shoulders
instead and leaves the room. Arnold shuffles up
to the breakfast table, nibbles a bit of sugar and
glances carelessly at his mother who has just
entered. Thereupon he returns to the mirror.]
Mrs. KJRAMER {dries her hands on her apron and sits down
on a chair, sighing heavily and anxiously). Oh, dearie
me! Yes, yes.
Arnold {turns around, pushes his spectacles forward on
his nose, draws up his shoulders, and assumes a comical
attitude in keeping with his remarks). Mother, don't
I look like a marabout?
Mrs. Kramer. Oh, Arnold, I don't feel a bit like fooling.
I can't laugh at your nonsense. — Who unlocked the
door for you last night?
Arnold {approaching her and still keeping the mock-grav-
ity of the animal he is imitating). Father.
Mrs. Kramer. He went down all the three flights of stairs ?
Arnold {still staring comically through his spectacles).
Yes.
224 THE GERMAN CLASSICS
Mrs. Kramer. No, really, Arnold, the way you act is re-
pulsive! Do please stop your nonsense. Can't you
be serious for once ? Be sensible ! Tell me what papa
said.
Arnold. Everything's repulsive to you people. Well,
you're all of you pretty repulsive to me now and then.
Mrs. Kramer. Was father very angry when he opened the
door for you?
[Arnold, absent-minded, does not answer.'\
Mrs. Kramer. What did he say to you I
Arnold. Nothing.
Mrs. 'Kramwel [approaching him with tenderness). Arnold,
try to do better. Try for the love of me. Lead a
different kind of life !
Arnold. How do I live ?
Mrs. Kramer. Dissolutely! Idly! Whole nights long
you're out of the house! You gad about . . . 0
Lordy, Lord. You 're leading a horrible life, Arnold !
Arnold. Don't take on so frightfully, mother. I'd like
to know where you get your information.
Mrs. Kramer. It's very nice, I must say, the way you
treat your mother.
Arnold. Then have the kindness to leave me in peace!
The whole crowd of you is always yelping at me ! It 's
enough, actually, to drive any one crazy.
Mrs. Kramer. You call it yelping at you, Arnold, when
we come to you for your own sake"? Isn't your own
mother to plead with you? Arnold, Arnold, you're
sinning and blaspheming!
Arnold. Mother, all that doesn't do me any good! The
eternal whining can't help me. And, anyhow, I have
a horrible headache ! Let me have a bit of money of
my own and I'll manage to get along without you . . .
Mrs. Kramer. Is that so? You want a chance to go to
the dogs entirely? [^Pause.']
Arnold [at the table, picks up a roll). Supposed to be a
roll? The thing's hard as a rock!
MICHAEL KEAMER 225
Mks. Kramer. Get up earlier and you'll find them fresher.
Arnold ( yawning ) . The day 's disgustingly long and empty
enough as it is.
Mrs. Kramer. With your carrying on it's no wonder you
feel that way. Take a decent night's rest and you'll
be refreshed through the day. — Arnold, I won't let you
go this way today! Oh, yes, you can fly up at me if
you want to, I know that! But I can't bear to see
things going on this way any longer. [Arnold has
sat down by the table and she pours him a cupful of
coffee.] You can make faces all you want to; I'm up
to your tricks. There's something wrong with you.
I ought to know you. There's something that weighs
on you and worries you. D'you think I haven't heard
you sigh ! You do nothing but sigh all the time. You
don't seem to realize it yourself any longer!
Abnold. Good Lord, this eternal spying! The devil, I
say ! The number of times a fellow sneezes and things
like that ; the number of times a fellow spits and sighs
and so forth! It's enough to make one want to jump
out of the window!
Mrs. Kramer. You can say what you please, I care little
about that. I know what I know and that's all about it.
Something or other, Arnold, is weighing you down.
I know that from your very restlessness. Of course,
you always were a little restless, but not the way you
are now. I know that!
Arnold {beats his fist on the table). Mother, leave me in
peace, d'you understand? — Otherwise you'll drive me
out into the street entirely — What business is it of
yours how I carry on, mother? I'm not a child any
longer and what I don't want to tell, I won't. I'm sick
of your nagging ! I 've been pestered by you all long
enough. Your help I don't want either. You can't
help me, I tell you. The most you can do is to cry:
Help ! Murder !
Vol. XVIII— 15
226 THE GERMAN CLASSICS
Mks. Keamer {dissolved in tears). Arnold, did you do
something awful! Merciful God! Arnold, for God's
sake, what have you done?
Arnold. Murdered an old Jew, mama.
Mrs. Kramer;. Don't jeer, Arnold. Don't mock me! Tell
me, if you've done something. I know very well that
you're not really bad, but sometimes you're so full of
hate and so rash. And when you act in rage and
rashness . . . who knows what misfortunes you '11 be
guilty of yet.
Arnold. Mama, mama ! Calm yourself ! I haven 't mur-
dered an old Jew. I haven 't even sold a forged pawn-
ticket, although I needed a bit of money pretty badly.
Mrs. Kramer. I stick to my point : You 're keeping some-
thing from us! Why, you can't look into any one's
eyes ! You always did have something shrinking and
secretive about you, but now, Arnold — you don 't notice
it yourself, of course — now you act as if you were
branded. You're drinking. You couldn't bear the
i sight of beer formerly. Now you drink to deaden your
soul, Arnold!
Arnold {has been standing at the windoiv and drumming
on the panes). Branded! Branded! And what else,
I'd like to know? — Say what you please, for all I
care. — I'm branded, you're quite right there. But in
that respect, at least, it seems to me that I'm not to
blame.
Mrs. Ivramer. You always thrust about you and hit out
at us and try to stab, and sometimes you stab deep —
to our very hearts. Surely, w^e've done our best by
you. That you grew up to be what you are now . . .
One has to bear that, as God wills it.
Arnold. Very well! Then kindly go ahead and bear it!
[•Pawse.]
Mrs. Kramer. Arnold, listen to me! Don't harden your-
self ! Do tell me what the trouble is. We live in fear
and trembling day and night. You don't know how
MICHAEL KRAMER 227
papa tosses about at night. And I haven't slept either
these many days. Take this burden from us that drags
us down, my boy. Maybe you can do it by one frank
word. You're frail, I know that well . . .
Arnold. Oh, mother, let the whole business be. Other-
wise I'll sleep in my studio after this — in my hayloft,
I should have said. I'd rather freeze stiff. There is
something! Very well. I don't deny that at all. But
do you want me to raise a row on that account ? That
would only make the whole business still worse.
Mrs. Kramer. Arnold, vou are . . . Is it still the same
7 V
thing? Weeks ago you betrayed yourself once ! Then
you tried to hush it all up. — Is it still the affair with
that girl, Arnold?
Arnold. Mother, are you quite crazy?
Mrs. Kramer. My boy, don't inflict that misery on us!
Don't entangle yourself in love affairs. If you fasten
your heart to a creature like that, you'll be dragged
through all the slime on earth. I know how great the
temptation is here. You find these pitfalls here wher-
ever you set your foot. You hear that wild rabble
when you pass. And the police tolerate all that!^ —
And if you don't listen to your mother's warning,
you'll come to harm some day. There are crimes com-
mitted daily in those places.
ARNOLD. Just let any one try to touch me, mother, that's
all. [With a gesture toward his hack pocket.'] I've
provided myself against that contingency.
Mrs. Kramer. What do you mean by that?
Arnold. I mean that I'm prepared for anything. There
are ways and means to be had nowadays, thank heaven.
Mrs. Kramer. Doesn't the very sight and sound of it all
disgust you — the strumming on the piano, the red
lanterns, the whole vile, repulsive atmosphere ! Arnold,
if I had to believe that you pass your nights there
... in such holes, I mean ... in such vile resorts
. . . then I'd rather die and be out of it.
228 THE GEEMAN CLASSICS
Arnold. Oh, mother, I wish the day were over. You make
me feel confused; my ears just buzz. I've got to keep
a firm hold on myself not to fly up the chimney. I'll
buy a knapsack and drag you all around with me.
Mrs. Kramer. Very well. But I tell you this one thing.
You won't leave this house tonight.
Arnold. No? Then I'll leave it this minute.
Mrs. Kramer. You go to meet papa at eleven and then
come back here.
Arnold. I wouldn't dream of doing such a thing! Good
heavens !
Mrs. Kramer. Where do you intend to go then?
Arnold. I don't know yet.
Mrs. Kramer. So you don 't want to come home to dinner ?
Arnold. With your faces around the table! No. And
anyhow I don't eat anything.
Mrs. Kramer. And tonight you mean to stay out again?
Arnold. I'll come and go exactly as I please.
Mrs. Kramer. Very well, my son. In that case it's all
over between us. And, besides, I'll track you down!
I won't rest before I do; depend upon it! And if I
find out that it 's a wench like that, I swear to you and
God is my witness — I'll turn her over to the police.
Arnold. Well, mother, you 'd better not do that.
Mrs. Kramer. On the contrary, I'll tell father. And
father, he'll know how to bring you to reason. You
just let him find this out: he'll be beside himself.
Arnold. All I have to say is : You 'd better not. When
father thunders out his moral preachments all I do,
as you know, is to put my fingers in my ears. It
doesn't affect me in the slightest. Good Lord! Any-
how, you've all grown to be so strange to me . . .
How did I get here — tell me that !
Mrs. Kramer. Is that . . . ?
Arnold. How? How? Where am I when I'm here, mother?
Michaline, father, you — what do you want of me?
What have you to do with me? How, when all's said
and done, do you concern me?
MICHAEL KRAMEE 229
Mrs. Kramer. How? What?
AnNOLD. Yes, what is it? What do you want of me?
Mrs. Kramer. What shocking talk that is.
Arnold. Oh, yes, shocking; I'll admit that. But true,
mother, true! No lying about that. You can't help
me, I tell you. And if, some day, you cut up too rough
for me, then, maybe, something will happen, mama
. . . something, some day, that'll leave you all with
foolish faces! — That'll put an end to all this trouble.
ACT II
The studio of Michael Kramee in the College of AH. The studio proper
is shut off from the room visible to the spectator by drawn hangings of
gray. To the right of the hangings a door which is led up to by several
steps. Also to the right but farther forward an old leather sofa with a
covered table before it. To the left one-half of a great studio' window,
of which the other half is hidden by the hangings. Beneath this window
a small table on tvhich are lying etching tools and an unfinished plate.
On the table in front of the sofa writing utensils, paper, an old candle-
stick with candle, etc. On the wall are hanging plaster casts: An arm,
a foot, a female bust, as well as the death mask of Beethoven. All these
casts have a bluish-gray hue. Emerging from behind the hangings which
reach to only about two-thirds the height of the room, the top of a great
easel is visible. — Above the table by the sofa a gas-pipe. — Two simple
cane chairs complete the furnishings of the room. Cleanliness and the
nicest order predominate. Michael Kramer is sitting on the sofa and,
heavily groaning, is signing a number of documents for which Krause,
the head janitor, is waiting, cap in hand. Krause is broad and com-
fortably stout. Kramer is a bearded man over fifty, with many white
splotches in his black beard and hair. Hi's shoulders are high, his neck
is bent forward as if under a yoke. His eyes lie deep in their sockets;
they are dark, glowing and at the same time restless. He has long arms
and legs; his gait is ungraceful, with long steps. His face is pale and
thought-worn. He has a habit of groaning. In his speech there is an
unconscious fierceness. He keeps the points of his ugly, highly polished
shoes far outward. His garb consists of a long black coat, black waist-
coat, black trousers, old-fashioned turn-down collar, topshirt and small,
black string-tie, all scrupulously laundered and kept. He has taken off
his cuffs and placed them on the window-sill. All in all, his appearance
is odd, distinguished, and at first glance repellent rather than attractive.
Lachmann w; standing by the window at the left, his back turned to the
room. He is waiting and looking out.
230 THE GEEMAN CLASSICS
Keamer {to Lachmann). You see, we worry along just as
w^e used to. {To Krause.) So. Give my best regards
to the director. [He rises, puts the documents together
and hands them to Krause. Then he sets about restor-
ing the disturbed order of his little table.'] You're
looking at my poplars, eh?
Lachmann {ivho has been looking at the copper-plate, is
slightly startled and draws himself up). I beg your
pardon.
Krause. Good-mo rnin', Mr. Kramer. Good-mornin', Mr.
Lachmann.
Lachmann. Good-morning, Mr. Krause.
Kramer. Good-by. [Krause exit.]
Kramer. Five years ago Bocklin visited me. He stood
by that very window, I tell you . . . and he couldn't
look enough.
Lachmann. The poplars are really remarkably beautiful.
Years ago, when I first came here, they used to impress
me greatly. The rows stand there with so much dig-
nity, that the grove has almost something of a temple
about it.
Kramer. That's deceptive, I tell you.
Lachmann. Oh, but only partly so. — I didn 't know, though,
that Bocklin was ever here.
Kramer. At that time they had the notion that he was to
provide the grand entrance over there, in the Museum
of the province, with mural paintings. In the end one
of their professors did it. Ah, I tell you, there's a
great deal of sinning done about such things.
Lachmann. Oh, it's boundless!
Kramer. But let me tell you this : It was always so. Only
one feels especially sorry nowadays. What treasures
the present could lay up for the future with the huge
expenditure and display that are going on in the coun-
try today. As it is, the best men must stand aside.
[Lachmann has picked up the proof of an etching and
Kramer continues to speak, referring to it.] That's a
't>niTV\l\ XX?^l V5 TVNVA'>i^ JA-» W0%'^
vj along just as
^To K.KAUSE.) 'oy best regards
. :/e rises, ogeiher
fhem to K.KAVTSE- about restor-
table,'} Yod're
sopiai-
<)eeM looking at the copper-plate, is
'4 and draws himseij g your
lornm', Mr. Kramer, Good-mornin', Mr,
•lorning, Mr. Krause.
['Krause exit.}
ed me. He stood
'\e couldn't
MOONLIGHT NIGHT
uiaeh dig-
^ Tuple
t '■■ » i r-i '■ ■:
. . .. « the Museum
;i-ni5-n a the end otk^
-L. , ^ . .-- .yOU, ther<
■l\9 ahoiit such thinars.
as ahvsvfs so. Only
aday; easures
the fiitn? w liuir*^
From> an Etching by Max KUn^cr
and
i 'hat's a
MICHAEL KRAMER 231
page for my decorative work. But the plate wasn't
properly prepared. The whole thing doesn't suit me
yet. I must get a better insight first.
Lachmann. I tried my hand at etching too, once, but I
soon gave it up.
Kramer. What have you been working at, Lachmann?
Lachmann. Portraits and landscapes, one thing and an-
other. Not much has come of it, God help me !
Kjiamer. Always work, work, work, Lachmann. I tell you,
we must work, Lachmann. Or the dry rot '11 eat into
our living bodies. Look at a life like Bocklin's. The
work that man does. But something's accomplished
in such a life. Not only what he paints; the whole
man ! I tell you — work is life, Lachmann.
Lachmann. I'm thoroughly conscious of that, too.
Kramer. I'm a wretched creature without my work. In
my work I become something.
Lachmann. With me, unfortunately, the time slips by and
I can't get down to any real work.
Kramer. Why so? Tell me that!
Lachmann. Because I have other things to do — work
which is no work at aU.
Kramer. How am I to understand that, eh ?
Lachmann. I used to be a painter and nothing else. Now-
adays I'm forced to sling copy.
Kramer. ^AHiat does that mean?
Lachmann. I write for the papers.
Kramer. Is that so?
Lachmann. In other words, Mr. Kramer, I use most of
my precious time to earn a little dry bread by writing.
There isn't enough to be made for butter too. When
a man has a wife and child . . .
Kramer. A man ought to have a family, Lachmann.
That's quite right and quite befitting. And as for
your scribbling : Write from your conscience ! You
I have a sense for the genuine in art. You can advance
the cause not a little.
232 THE GERMAN CLASSICS
Lachmann. But it's only a kind of Sisyphus labor. No
change takes place in the public taste. There you drag
up your stone daily . . .
Kramer. Tell me, what would we be without that?
Lachmann. And after all, it's a sacrifice of one's very
self. Then, too, if one fails to make an impression by
one's real work, this . . .
Kramer. I tell you, it doesn't matter a jot. If my son
^ had become a cobbler and did his duty in that station,
I'd honor him, I tell you, just as much. Have you any
children ?
Lachmann. One. A son.
Kramer. Then you've accomplished something, I tell you.
What better thing can a man do ? Your articles must
almost write themselves, eh?
Lachmann. I can hardly say that, Mr. Kramer.
Kramer. Duties, duties — they're the main thing. That's
what makes a man into a man, I tell you. To realize
'the nature of life in all its seriousness — that's it.
When you've done that, you can rise above it.
Lachmann. Often enough that's not easy, though.
Kramer. That ought to be hard, I tell you. It 's meant to
bring out the manhood in us. A fellow can show, in
ithat struggle, what he's made of. These vagabonds
'of today think the whole world is a whore's bed! A
man must recognize duties, I tell you.
Lachmann. But surely the duties he owes himself, too.
Kramer. You're right. Yes, there's no doubt. And a
man who recognizes the duties he owes himself, will
not fail to recognize those he owes to others. How old
is your son?
Lachmann. Three years old, Mr. Kramer.
Khamer. I tell you, that time when my boy was born . . .
I'd set my heart on a son . . . and I waited fourteen
long years till my wife gave birth to one. I tell you,
I trembled on that day. And I wrapped up the man-
child, I tell you, and I took him into my chamber and
MICHAEL KRAMER 233
locked the door, and it was like a temple, Lachmann.
I placed him there before God, You fellows don't
know what it is to have a son. I knew it, by the
Eternal ! And I thought to myself : Not I, but you !
Not I, I thought to myself, you — perhaps ! — {Bitterly. )
My son is a good-for-nothing, Lachmann! But I tell
you I would do the same thing over again.
Lachmann. Surely, Mr. Kramer, he isn't that.
Kramer (vehemently and grimly). I tell you: Let that
be! He's a vagabond and nothing else. But let's not
talk about it any more. — And I'll tell you something,
Lachmann: That's the worm that eats into my life,
gnaws at my marrow ! But let 's say no more.
Lachmann. Surely all that will change.
Kramer {vehemently, bitterly and fiercely). It will not
change ! It wall not change ! There 's not a sound
fibre in his being! The boy's nature is poisoned at
\the root. A bad fellow he is; a vulgar soul. That
can't change; that doesn't change. I tell you, I can
I forgive anything, but I can't forgive the fundamentally
ignoble. A vulgar soul revolts me, and that's what
he has, I tell you, a vulgar soul — cowardly and low.
It revolts me. \^He goes to a simple, gray wall closet.']
And, oh, I tell you, the scamp has gifts. It's enough
to make one want to tear one's hair out! Where we
have to toil and torment ourselves days and nights —
the finished product seems to fall down to him from
heaven. Look here! See his sketches and studies!
Isn't it tragic? He has but to sit down to accomplish
something. Whatever he does has quality and solidity.
Look at the firmness, the perfection of it ! One could
shed bitter tears. [He strides up and doivn in the fore-
ground repeatedly while Lachmann looks through the
sketches and studies. A knocking at the door is heard.]
Come in ! [Michaline enters in street costume.']
MicHALiNE. Father, I've come for Lachmann.
\
234 THE GERMAN CLASSICS
Kramer (looking over his spectacles). Eh? And you leave
your school in the lurch?
MiCHALiNE. I've just bceu correcting. — Lachmann, I've
just met your wife. She said she didn't want to grow
fast to the restaurant, so she went out to your mother.
Kramer. Why didn't you bring her with you?
Lachmann. Her social presentableness isn't exactly of
the . . .
Kramer. Nonsense! What's that mean? Don't under-
stand that.
MiCHALiNE {has stepped up behind Lachmann and looks
at the study which he is just scrutinising) . I painted
that mill, too, once.
Kramer. Hm. But differently.
MiCHALiNE. It was a different view of it.
Kramer. Yes, yes, I am of the same view.
[Lachmann laughs.^
MiCHALiNE. Father, that doesn't hit me in the least. If
one does the very best that is in one — more than that
can't be required.
Kjiamer. Girl, you know how things are.
MiCHALiNE. To be sure, I know. I know very well indeed.
Your opinion of me is of the smallest.
Kramer. Listen, how do you infer that? If Arnold were
half as industrious as you are and half as well pro-
vided in the matter of brains — the boy would be all
of a man. In those respects he simply can't be coni-
\ pared with you. But beyond that — the spark — you
'haven't it. Every human being should be quite clear
about himself. You are that and that is your advan-
tage. For that reason one can speak seriously with
you. You've made the best of yourself that can be
made by industry and tenacity of purpose and char-
^acter, and with that you may be satisfied. [He con-
sults his ivatch.] Ten o'clock, — Lachmann, there's no
more chance for work this morning. I'm glad that
MICHAEL KRAMER 235
you've come. I'll be glad to go with you later; we
could even go and drink a glass of beer somewhere. I
must first look in at my class once more and at eleven
I have an appointment with my son.
MiCHALiNE {earnestly) . Father, aren't you going to show
your picture to Lachmann?
Kramer {turning swiftly). No, Michaline! What made
you think of it!
Michaline. It's quite simple. He heard of it and told me
he would like to see it.
Kramer. Don't bother me with such things. There they
all come and want to see my picture. Paint your owm
pictures, as many as you please! I can't show it to
you, Lachmann.
Lachmann. Mr. Kramer, I didn't mean to be insistent . . .
Kramer. This is getting too much for me, too much ! I 've
been living with this picture for seven years. Micha-
line has seen it just once — the boy never asked after
it — now Director Miiring comes along! No, it's get-
ting too much for me. That won't do, I tell you; that
can't be done. Suppose you have a mistress, and
everybody wants to get into bed with her ... a sty
is the result, no more, no less. AVhat ardor will you
have left? — Lachmann, it isn't possible! I don't
like it.
Michaline. I don't understand how your illustration ap-
plies. That kind of reticence strikes me as weakness.
Kramer. Think of it as you please! On the other hand,
mark well what I say: The original, the genuine, the
deep and strong in art grows only in a hermitage —
is born only in utter solitude. The artist is always the
true hermit. So ! And now go and bother me no more.
Michaline. It's a pity, father. I'm very sorry. If you
barricade yourself in that way, even keep Lachmann
out . . .I'm surprised. You deny yourself any pos-
) sible stimulus. And in addition, if you were to be
quite frank you would admit that Director Miiring 's
236 THE GERMAN CLASSICS
visit the other day did really refresh you. You were
quite jolly afterward.
Kramer. There's nothing to it. It isn't anything yet. I
tell you, don't make me unhappy. You must have
something to show before you show it. Do you think
it's a jest? I tell you, if a man has the impudence to
want to paint that Man with the Crown of Thorns —
he needs a lifetime to do it, I tell you. And not a life,
pL tell you, of revelry or noise, but lonely hours, lonely
Idays, lonely years, I tell you. The artist must be alone
with his sorrow and with his God. He must sanctify
himself daily, I tell you! Nothing low or mean must
be about him or within him! Then, I tell you, the
Holy Ghost may come — when a man digs and strives
in his solitude. Something may come to him then ; the
w^ork begins to take shape, I tell you, and one feels it.
You rest in the Eternal, I tell you, and it lies before
you in quietness and beauty. It comes to you without
your knowing. You see the Saviour then and you feel
him. But when once the doors begin to slam, Lach-
mann, then you see him no longer, you feel him no
longer. He is gone, I tell you, gone far away.
Lachmann. I assure you, Mr. Kramer, I'm truly sorry I
ever . . .
Kramer. There's nothing to feel sorry about, I tell you.
In that respect each man must go his own way. The
place on which you stand is holy ground — that 's what
you must say to yourself at your work. You others:
Out with you ! Away with you ! There is space enough
in the world for your vanity fair. Art is religion. If
thou prayest, go into thy secret chamber. Money-
changers and chafferers — out from the temple !
[He turns the key in the entrance doorj]
MiCHALiNE. We are hardly moneychangers and chafferers.
Kramer. You are not. God forbid. But for all that and
all that ! It 's getting too much for me. I understand
it very well in Lachmann. He wants to see what's
MICHAEL KRAMER 237
behind it all. He's had to swallow big words all this
I time; he wants to see something tangible at last.
There 's nothing behind all the talk, I tell you. There 's
nothing in the old fellow. Sometimes he gets a glimpse,
a hint — then he takes a scalpel and scratches it all off
again. [A knocking is heard.] Some one is knocking.
Perhaps later, another time, Lachmann! Come in! —
Nothing more to be done this morning, anyhow. —
D'you hear! Some one has knocked — Come in!
MicHALiNE. But you locked the door, father.
Kramer. I? When?
MicHALiNE. Just now; this moment. Just as you were
walking through the room.
KJRAMER. Open the door and look.
MicHALiNE {opens the door slightly). A lady, papa.
Kjiamer. a model, probably. I need none.
LiESE Bansch (still without). Might I speak to the
professor?
MicHALiNE. Would you mind telling me your errand?
LiESE Bansch. I'd like to speak to the professor himself.
MiCHALiNE. What professor do you mean?
ICramer. Tell her that no professor lives here.
LiESE Bansch. Doesn't Professor Kramer live here?
Kramer. My name is Kramer. Please come in.
LiESE Bansch enters, a slender, good-looking young woman, tricked out in
the finery of the half-world.
LiESE Bansch. If you'll permit me, I'll take the liberty.
Kramer. Go over into the museum, children. That's
where you intended to go. I'll expect you at twelve
o'clock, Lachmann. IHe accompanies Lachmann and
MicHALiNE to the door. They leave.'} With whom have
I the honor? I'm at your service.
LiESE Bansch (not without embarrassment, but with a good
deal of affectation). Professor, I'm Liese Bansch.
I've come to you about a delicate matter.
Khamer. Please sit down. You are a model?
238 THE GERMAN CLASSICS
LiESE Bansch. oil, no, professor; you're mistaken there.
I don't have to do things like that, thank heaven. No,
I'm not a model, professor.
Kramer. And I, thank heaven, am no professor. Well
then, to what am I to attribute the honor of your visit ?
LiESE Bansch, You want to know that, right straight off?
You don't mind my getting my breath a bit! I just
wore myself out, that's a fact. First I really wanted
to turn back at the door downstairs, but then I got up
my courage.
Kramer. As you please. Whenever you're ready.
LiESE Bansch {has taken a seat, coughs, and taps her
rouged face under her veil carefully with her handker-
chief). No, to think that you'd imagine such things
of me ! It's a good thing that George didn't hear that !
My intended, you know, he's in the legal profession,
he gets awful angry at the least thing. Do I really look
like a model?
KJRAMER {drawing a window-shade) . That depends entirely
on who wants to paint you. In certain circumstances
any one may be a model. If you imagine, however,
that being a model involves a slur, you are guilty of a
mistake.
LiESE Bansch. No, you know, I'm really scared. Don't
be offended, Mr. Kramer, but I was that frightened
of you !
Kramer. Let's come to the point, however. What brings
you here?
Liese Bansch. I made inquiries about you and they all
acted as if you were, well, I don't know what ... a
kind of old Nick or something.
Kramer. Sincerely obliged. What do you wish? I can
give you the assurance that not a hair of your head
will be harmed.
Liese Bansch. And Arnold is so frightened of you, too.^
Kramer {stunned and confused). Arnold? What's the
meaning of that? What's the fellow's name?
MICHAEL KRAMER 239
LiESE Bansch {rises fearfully). Oh, but what eyes you're
making, Mr. Kramer ! I 'd much rather get out of this.
Arnold has just that expression in his eyes . . .
Kramer. Arnold! I don't know the fellow.
LiESE Bansch {frightened and soothingly). Please, Mr.
Kramer, I'm not doing anything special. I'd rather
let it all go. I've come here without telling my parents
. . . it is, as I said, a delicate matter. But I'd rather
not speak of it at all.
Kramer {mastering himself). I see you for the first time
today. You must be so kind as to pardon me there-
fore. I have a son who is named Arnold. And if you
speak of Arnold Kramer . . .
Liese Bansch. I'm talking about Arnold Kramer, of
course !
Kramer. Very well, then. That doesn't . . . after all
. . . surprise me. — And what have you to tell me
about him?
I LiESE Bansch. Oh, he 's so silly and so crazy and he just
^ won't leave me alone.
Ejramer. H-m. Is that so? In w^hat respect? How do
you mean?
Liese Bansch. Why, he makes me a regular laughing-
stock. I can't make him behave sensible any way I try.
Kramer. Is that so? Yes, that is difficult. I can believe
that.
Liese Bansch. I've said to him: Go home, Arnold! Not
he ! There he squats all night long.
Kramer. So he was with you last night?
Liese Bansch. Why, nobody can get him to move an inch.
Papa's tried it, mama's tried it, the gentlemen who
are our regular guests have tried it, and I've tried it —
but it's no use. There he sits and glowers just the
way you do and he won't move or budge till the last
guest is gone.
Kramer. Your fatlier is an innkeeper?
Liese Bansch. Proprietor of a restaurant.
240 THE GERMAN CLASSICS
Kramer. And who are these gentlemen who are your regu-
lar guests?
LiESE Bansch. Assistant Judge Schnabel, architect Ziehn,
my intended and several other gentlemen.
Kramer. And these gentlemen have taken all possible
pains, so to speak, to assist him out?
LiESE Bansch. They always call him the marabout.
{Laughing.) That's a kind of a bird, you know. They
think he looks exactly like one. I suppose that's be-
cause he's a little deformed . . .
Kramer. Ah, yes, quite true! — And these gentlemen, I
take it, are very jolly?
LiESE Bansch. Awfully! Fit to kill! I should say so!
Sometimes it's such a joke — you can hardly imagine
it. Enough to make you split your sides, I tell you.
You know Arnold always eats an awful lot of the
bread that stands around free in little baskets on the
tables. So the other day they took the basket and
hung it up from the ceiling right over the place where
he always sits. You see? But high enough up so he
couldn't reach it from where he was. Everybody in
the place just fairly roared.
Kramer. And so my son sits at the same table with these
gentlemen ?
LiESE Bansch. Oh, no. My intended wouldn't stand that.
He just crouches alone in a comer. But sometimes he
takes out a leaf of paper and looks over at the gentle-
men so spiteful! And they don't like it, of course.
Once one of them got up and went over to him and
called him to account.
Kjramer. The gentlemen are of the opinion that he ought
not to draw?
LiESE Bansch. Yes, because they're such horrid pictures.
People can't allow such things, Mr. Kramer. Why, he
once showed me a drawing — a little dog, you know,
and a lot of big ones after it. It was so vulgar . . .
horrible.
MICHAEL KRAMER 241
Kramer. Does Arnold pay for what he eats and drinks ?
LiESE Bansch. Oh, yes. I didn't come on that account.
He drinks a couple of glasses of beer, three at most —
and if there wasn't nothing more, Mr. Kramer . . .
Kjiamer. But you're a sensitive soul, as it were. — If I
understand you correctly, then, my son is a kind of —
what shall I call it — a kind of butt in your house, but
one that one would rather, after all, be rid of. Fur-
thermore, I may probably assume that neither the
gentlemen who are your regular guests — most esti-
mable gentlemen, doubtless — nor yet the beer or the
bread of your excellent father form the attraction that
draws Arnold to you — 1
Liese Bansch {coquettishly) . But it really isn't my fault.
Kramer. No, no, assuredly not. Why should it be? — But
what am I to do in the matter?
Liese Bansch. Mr. Kramer, I'm that scared of him! He
lies in wait for me at all corners and then I can't get
rid of him for hours and I just feel sometimes, I do
declare, as if he might do me some harm.
Kramer. H-m. Has he ever uttered a definite threat?
LiESE Bansch. No, not exactly. I can't say that. But
anyhow, it 's in the way he acts. Sometimes I just get
frightened all over when I look at him. When he sits
that way, too, just brooding, . . . for hours and don't
say a word, half the night through, just as if he didn't
have good sense! And then, too, when he tells his
stories. He tells such awful lies! . . . Ugh! And
then, you know, he looks at me so . . .
Kramer. And you're not drawn to him either, eh?
[^4 bell rings.]
Liese Bansch. . . . Oh, heavens alive ! Surely not !
Kramer. Very well. Do you wish to meet Arnold here?
Liese Bansch. For heaven's sake! On no account!
Vol. XVIIT— 10
242 THE GERMAN CLASSICS
Kramer. It is exactly eleven o 'clock and tlie bell has rung.
Arnold has been ordered to come here at eleven.
[Opening the door of a small side room and ushering
LiESE Bansch into it.] Step in here, please. I can
assure you that everything in my power will be done.
[LiESE Bansch disappears. Kramer opens the main
\door and admits Arnold in whose feeble countenance
\defiance, repugnance and fear are struggling.'] "Wait
in the rear; I'll come to you in a moment. [Kramer
leads Arnold behind the hangings, closes them and
opens the door of the side room. Liese appears. He
lays his finger on his lips and points to the hangings.
LiESE imitates the gesture. He leads her to the main
door through which she slips out. Kramer remains
standing, groans heavily, grasps his forehead and then
begins to walk up and down in the foreground. It is
evident that it takes all his will poiver to become master
of his profound emotion and to suppress a moan of
spiritual pain. After several struggles he controls
himself. He opens the hangings and speaks through
them.] Arnold, I simply wanted to talk to you.
[Arnold comes slowly forward. He has a gay colored
tie on and betrays other attempts at foppishness.]
Why are you so tricked out?
Arnold. How ?
Kramer. I mean your red tie, for instance.
Arnold. Why 1
Kramer. I 'm not used to seeing such things on you. You
had better let them be, Arnold.— Have you made your
designs f
Arnold. What designs, father? I don't know of any.
Kramer. H-m. To be capable of forgetting such things!
You have forgotten. Well, if it's not too much trouble,
perhaps you wouldn't mind trying to think a little.
Arnold. Oh, yes; you mean those for the cabinet maker?
MICHAEL KRAMER 243
Keamer. Yes, those for the cabinet maker, for all I care.
It's not to the purpose what they were for. So I sup-
pose you haven't made much progress with them?
Say: No, quite simply, please. Don't think of ex-
cuses. But how do you pass your time?
Ani^OL.D {feigning astonishment). I work, father.
Kramer. What do you work at?
Arnold. I draw, I paint — the usual thing.
Kjiamee. I thought you were wasting your days. I am
glad to know that I've been deceived. Furthermore, I
won't keep watch on you any longer. I'm not your
gaoler. — And I want to take the opportunity of telling
you that, if you have anything on your heart, I am,
after all — if you don't mind my saying it — your
father. Do you understand? Remember that, please.
Arnold. But I haven't anything on my heart, father.
Kramer. I didn't say 3'ou had. I made no such assertion.
I said : If you have ! In that case I might be of some
little help to you. I know the world somewhat more
thoroughly than you do. I was trying to take a pre-
caution; do you understand! — You were away from
home again last night. You are ruining yourself. You
are making yourself ill. Take care of your health. A
sound body means a sound spirit ; a sound life means
I sound art. Wliere were you so long yesterday ? Never
mind; it doesn't concern me after all. I don't want to
know what you don't care to tell me. Tell me volun-
tarily or be silent.
Arnold. I was out of town with Alfred Frankel.
Kramer. Is that so? Where? In Pirscham, or where?
Arnold. No; over by Scheitnig and thereabouts.
Kramer. And you were both there all night?
Arnold. No, later we were at Frankel 's house.
Kramer. Until four o'clock in the morning.
Arnold. Yes, almost until four. Then we took a stroll
through the streets.
244 THE GERMAN CLASSICS
Kramer. You and Frankel? You two alone? Then you're
very great friends indeed. And what do you do to-
gether when you sit there while other people are in
their beds ?
Arnold. We smoke and talk about art.
Kramer. Is that so? — Arnold, you're a lost soul!
Arnold. Why?
Kramer. You're a lost soul! You're depraved to the
very core.
Arnold. You've said that more than once.
Kramer. Yes, yes; I have been forced to say it to you.
I have been forced to say it a hundred times and, w^hat
is worse, I have felt it. Arnold, prove to me that I am
lying; prove to me that I am doing you wrong! I'll
kiss your feet in gratitude !
Arnold. It doesn't much matter what I say, I believe . . .
Kramer. What? That you are rotten?
[Arnold, very pale, shrugs his shoulders.']
Kramer. And what's to be the end of it all, if that's true?
Arnold {in a cold and hostile voice). I don't know that
myself, father.
Kramer. But I know ! You 're going straight to your ruin !
[i?e walks about violently, stops at the window, hold-
ing his hands behind him and tapping his foot
nervously on the floor. Arnold, his face ashy pale
and distorted, grasps his hat and moves toward
the door. As he presses the knob of the door.
Kjramer turns around.]
Kramer. Have you nothing else to say to me?
[Arnold releases the knob. He has hardened him-
self and peers watchfully at his father.]
Kramer. Arnold, does nothing stir in you at all this ? Do
you not feel how we are all in torment for your sake ?
Say something! Defend yourself! Speak to me as
man to man! Or as friend to friend! I am willing!
Do I wrong you? Teach me to deal more justly, then;
but speak! You can speak out like the rest of us.
MICHAEL KRAMER 245
Why do you always slink away from me I You know
liow I despise cowardice ! Say : My father is a tyrant.
My father torments me and worries me ; my father is
at me like a fiend! Say that, but say it out openly.
Tell me how I can do better by you! I will try to
improve, I give you my word of honor. Or do you
think that I am in the right in all I say?
Aenold {strangely unmoved and indifferent). Maybe it's
true that you're right.
Kramer. Very well, if that is your opinion. Won't you,
then, try to do better! Arnold, here I give you my
hand. There ; take it ; I want to help you. Let me be
your comrade; let me be your friend at the eleventh
hour. But don't deceive yourself! The eleventh hour
has come; it has come now! Pull yourself together;
rise above yourself! You need only to will it and it
can be done. Take the first step toward good; the
second and third will cost no effort. Will you? Won't
you try to be better, Arnold?
Aenold {with feigned surprise). Yes, but how? In what
respect?
Kramer. In all respects . . .
Arnold (bitterly and significantly) . I don't object. Why
should I? I'm not very comfortable in my own skin.
I^AMER. I gladly believe that you're not comfortable.
You haven't the blessing of labor. It is that blessing,
lArnold, that you must strive for. You have alluded
/to your person! \^He takes down the death mash of
Beethoven.'] Look, look at this mask! Child of God,
dig for the treasures of your soul ! Do you believe he
was handsome? Is it your ambition to be a fop? Or
I do you believe that God withdraws himself from you
because you are near-sighted and not straight? You
can have so much beauty within you that the fops
round about you must seem beggars in comparison. —
Arnold, here is my hand. Do you hear? Confide in
me this one time. Don't hide yourself from me; be
246 THE GERMAN CLASSICS
open with me — for your own sake, Arnold! What do
I care, after all, where you were last night? But tell
me, do you hear, tell me for your sake ! Perhaps you
will learn to see me as I truly am. Well, then : Where
were you last night?
AnxoLD {after a pause, deathly pale, with visible strug-
gles). Why . . .I've told you already, father.
Keamer. I have forgotten what you said. So: Wliere
were you? I don't ask you in order to punish you. I
ask you for the sake of truth itself! Prove yourself
truthful! That is all!
AnNOLD {with hold front, defiantly). Wliy, I was with
Alfred Friinkel.
Kjiamer. Is that so?
Arnold {wavering again). Why, where should I have
been?
jEjEiAMER. You are not my son! You can't be my son!
^ Go ! Go ! My gorge rises at you ! My gorge . . . !
[Arnold slinks out at once.]
ACT III
The restaurant of Bansch. A moderately sir.ed tap-room with old German
decorations. Wainscoting. Tables and chairs of stained wood. To the
left a neat bar with a marble top and highly polished faucets. Behind
the bar a stand for cordial bottles, glasses, etc. Within this stand a
small square window to the kitchen. To the left, behind the bar, a door
that leads to the inner rooms. A large show window with neat hangings;
next to it a glass door opening on the street. To the right a door to the
adjoining room. Twilight.
LiESE Bansch, neatly and tastefully dressed, with long white apron, comes
slowly thrcmgh the low door behind the bar. She looks up carelessly
from her crocheting work and perceives Arnold tvho is sitting over his
glass of beer at a table in the foreground to the right. Shaking her
head she continues to crochet.
Arnold {very pale, tapping gently and nervously ivith his
foot, stares over at her as if in ambush and says) :
Good evening.
[LiESE Bansch sighs ostentatiously and turns aivay.']
•vaA-jftUu'^i \ .yj ^^i ^iulivt-w'^ & Ai iwo-v'^l
Wlmt do
mgiit .
pause, dtiaildy pah
igoiweii vvJL
■' ''^ ask you ai oruti ;o p...
MELODY
^'Prom the Painting by O. Zwirdsclier
MICHAEL KRAMER 247
Arnold {ivith emphasis). Good evening. [Liese does not
reply.] Well, if you don't want to answer, you needn't.
I'm not exactly crazy about it. [Continues to regard
her with feverish excitement.] But why do you open
a hole like this if you're going to be rude to your
customers ?
Liese Bansch. I'm not rude. Leave me alone.
Arnold. I said, good evening to you.
Liese Bansch. And I answered you.
Arnold. That isn't true.
Liese Bansch. Is that so ? Very well, then ! Your opinion
don't bother me.
[Pause.]
[Arnold shoots a paper arrow at Liese from a rub-
ber sling. Liese Bansch shrugs her shoulders
arrogantly and contemptuously .]
Arnold. D'you think that kind of thing impresses me?
Liese Bansch. I suppose I'll think what I please.
Arnold. I pay for my beer as well as anybody else. D 'you
understand me ! I want you to remember that ! — Does
one have to wear a monocle here"? — I'd like to know
who frequents this grand place of yours, after all?
D'you think I'm going to be driven out? By those
Philistines? Not at all!
Liese Bansch (threatening). Well, you better not carry
on too much !
Arnold. Aha ! I 'd like to see one of them do anything
about me. He'd be surprised, I give you my word.
Provided he had time left to be surprised.
[Liese Bansch laughs.]
Arnold. If any one touches me — d'you understand —
there '11 be a bang !
Liese Bansch. Arnold, some fine day soon I'll give notice
to the police, if you go on making such threats.
Arnold. What about? — If some one touches me, I say! —
And if I box their ears that'll bang too.
Liese Bansch. Don't insult our guests.
248 THE GERMAN CLASSICS
Arnold {laughs maliciously to himself, sips his beer and
says:) Bah! How do these nonentities concern me!
LiESE Bansch. Why, what are you, that you act so high
and mighty? What have you accomplished, tell me
that!
Arnold. Unfortunately you don't understand that.
LiESE Bansch. Oh, yes, anybody could say that. Go ahead
first and do something ! And when you Ve shown what
you can do, then you can abuse the others.
[Pause.'l
Arnold. Liese, listen to me. I'll explain all that to you.
LiESE Bansch. Oh, pshaw! You criticize everybody!
According to you Mr. Quantmeyer isn't the right kind
of lawyer, and Mr. Ziehn is no architect! Why that's
pure rot!
Arnold. On the contrary, it's the solemn truth. In this
place, of course, a plaster slinger like that can put on
airs even if he hasn't a notion of what art is. If he
goes among artists he doesn't count for more than a
cobbler.
LiESE Bansch. But you're an artist, I suppose? (Pity-
ingly.) Lord, Lord!
Arnold. Surely I am an artist; that's just what I am!
All you have to do is to come to my studio . . .
LiESE Bansch. I'll take good care not to do that . . .
Arnold. You just go to Munich and ask the professors
there about me. They're people of international fame !
And they have a most thorough respect for me.
LiESE Bansch. Well, it's you who do the boasting, not Mr.
Ziehn . . .
Arnold. They respect me and they know why. I can do
more than all these fellows together . . . with one
hand. Ten thousand times more than they — including
my own father.
LiESE Bansch. Anyhow, it's you who boast and not Mr.
Ziehn. If you were really such a very big man you'd
look a bit different, I think.
MICHAEL KRAMER 249
Arnold. How?
LiESE Bansch. How? Well, that 's simple enough : famous
painters make a great deal of money.
Arnold (vehemently). Money? And do you suppose I
haven't made money! Money like dirt. Just ask!
All you need do is to ask my father! Go and ask him;
I give you my word.
LiESE Bansch. Well, what do you do with all that money?
Arnold. I? Just wait till I'm of age. If a fellow has a
miserly father — ? Liese, do be a bit decent.
LiESE Bansch. Fritz!
Fritz {starts up from his sleep). Yes!
Liese Bansch. Fritz ! Go into the kitchen, will you ? New
champagne glasses have come, and I believe the gen-
tlemen are going to drink champagne today.
Fritz. Certainly ! With pleasure, Miss Bansch.
[Exit.]
[Liese Bansch stands hy the bar, her back turned to
Arnold, takes several hairpins from her hair and
arranges it anew.']
Arnold. You do that in a dashing way !
Liese Bansch. You can be as vain as you please. [Sud-
denly she turns around and observes Arnold glaring
at her from over his glasses.] Dear Lord, there he
glares again!
Arnold. Liese !
Liese Bansch. I'm not '* Liese " to you!
Arnold. Oh, you little Liese, if you'd only be a bit sen-
sible. You good for nothing little bar maid! I feel
so awful horrible.
[Liese Bansch laughs, half amused, half jeering.]
Arnold (more passionately). Laugh, laugh if you can!
Laugh! Go on laughing! Maybe I am really ridicu-
lous. On the outside, I mean ; not within. If you could
look within me you'd see that I could scorch all those
fellows off the earth.
250 THE GERMAN CLASSICS
LiESE Bansch. Arnold, don't excite yourself. I believe
you ; I 'm willing to believe you. But in the first place
you're far too young, and in the second, third, fourth,
fifth place . . . why, it's just madness, child! Now
listen and be sensible, won't you? I do feel sorry for
you. But what can I do ?
Arnold {moaning heavily). It's like a pestilence in my
blood. . . .
LiESE Bansch. Nonsense ! — Get up on that bench and hand
me down the pail. [Arnold does it groaning.^ I'm
just a girl like many others. There ! Come on ! \^8'he
has stretched out her hand to him; he grasps it and
jumps down. He holds her hand and as he bends down
to kiss it, LiESE withdraws it.] Can't be done, little
boy ! That 's it ! You can get ten others instead of me,
my dear.
Arnold. Liese, what do you want me to do for you —
plunder, rob on the highway, steal? What? What?
LiESE Bansch. You are kindly to leave me alone.
[The door is heard opening in the next room.]
LiESE Bansch {listens. With suddenly changed demeanor
she withdraws behind the bar and calls into the
kitchen:) Fritz! Customers! Quick, hurry up !
[The door resounds again and a noisy company is
heard to enter the adjoining room.]
Arnold. Please : I would like another glass of beer. But
I 'm going into the other room.
Liese Bansch {adopting a formal tone). But you're very
comfortable here, Mr. Kramer.
Arnold. Yes, but I can draw much better inside.
Liese Bansch. Arnold, you know there'll only be trouble
again. Do be sensible and stay here.
Arnold. For nothing in the world, Miss Bansch.
Architect Ziehn enters in a very jolly mood.
Ziehn. Hurrah, Miss Lizzie, the crowd is here, the whole
moist and merry brotherhood. What are you doing?
MICHAEL KRAMER 251
How are you? Your intended is already languishing
after you! [He observes Arnold.] Well, well, the
deuce! I beg your pardon!
LiESE Bansch. Fritz ! Fritz ! Our gentlemen are here !
ZiEHN (cuts the end of his cigar on the cigar-cutter).
Fritz! Beer! Beer's what's wanted, in the devil's
name! — How's your papa?
LiESE Bansch. Oh, not at all well. We've had to call in
the doctor twice today.
Assistant Judge Schnabel enters.
ScHNABEL. Well, sir, are we going to have a game of skat
tonight f
ZiEHN. I thought we were going to throw dice today and
drink a bottle of champagne.
Schnabel {raises his arms, sings and prances).
'' Lizzie had a little birdie.
And a cage to keep it in. ' '
Don't let your friend in there perish with longing.
ZiEHN {softly, with a side glance at Arnold). He'll get
his share.
Schnabel {noticing Arnold, also furtively). Ah, yes!
There is our stony guest — our pocket edition of
Raphael. — Please let me have a great deal of bread,
Miss lizzie! With my order I want a great deal of
bread.
[Fritz has entered and busies himself behind the
bar.']
LiESE Bansch. What was your order?
Schnabel. Oh, yes. A veal chop with paprika and bread.
A tremendous lot of bread, dear Lizzie. You know
what huge quantities of bread I eat.
Ziehn. They should hang the bread-basket out of your
reach, then.
Von Krautheim enters; he is a law-student of long standing.
Von Kr-^utheim. For heaven's sake, where 's the stuff,
Fritz?
252 THE GEEMAN CLASSICS
Fritz. Gentlemen, we've just broached a new keg.
ScHNABEL {peers at the beer faucet through his monocle).
Nothing for the present but air, air, air! Nothing
but air!
[Arnold takes his hat, rises, and goes into the
adjoining room.']
Von Krautheim. Now the air is not contaminated, at
least. It's air still, but pure air.
ScHNAEEL (sings).
' ' You 're a crazy kid
Berlin is your home."
Thank heaven, he fleeth, he departeth from hence !
Fritz. Don't you believe that. He just goes in there to
be sitting where you gentlemen sit.
LiESE Bansch (affectedly). 1 think that's really ridiculous.
ZiEHN. Let's take up our rest in this room.
VoN Krautheim. Well now, look here, I beg of you, that
would be the last straw for us to run away from any
monkey that happens to turn up.
QuANTMEYER enters. Dashing exterior. Monocle.
Quantmeyer. Good evening. Ho\. * are you, my dear?
[He takes hold of Liese's hands; she turns her head
aside.] That wretched feUow Kramer is here again
too . . .
ScHNABEL. And I would like to have you see where that
fine fellow passes his time ! Early yesterday morning
I saw him — a sight for gods and men, I assure you —
'way out, in the vilest kind of a hole, in an incredible
condition. When he leaves here, he just begins.
Quantmeyer. Are you angry at me, sweetheart, tell me !
LiESE Bansch (frees herself from him, laughs, and calls
out through the windoiv into the kitchen). Veal chop
with paprika for Mr. Schnabel.
ScHNABEL. But bread, too — a lot of bread. Don't forget
that. A tremendous lot of bread — a gigantic lot!
[General laughter.]
MICHAEL KRAMER 253
Fritz (enters, carrying four full heer glasses). Here is
the beer, gentlemen!
[He goes into the adjoining room. Ziehn, Schnabel,
and Von Krautheim follow the waiter.]
[Pause.]
QuANTMEYER. Look here, you kitten, why are you so spite-
ful today?
LiESE Bansch. Me? Spiteful? Do I act spiteful? You
don't say so?
QuANTMEYER. CoHie, you little devil, don't pout. Come, be
sensible and hold up your little snout quickly. And
day after tomorrow you can come to see me again.
Day after tomorrow is Sunday, as you know. My land-
lady ajid her husband '11 both be out. Not a mouse at
home, I give you my word.
LiESE Bansch (still resisting a little). Are we engaged to
be married or not?
QuANTMEYER. To bc sure we are! Why shouldn't we be,
I 'd like to know ? I 'm independent ; I can marry whom
I please.
LiESE Bansch (permits herself to he kissed, taps him lightly
on the cheek, an^ then escapes from his arms). Oh,
go on! I don't believe a word you say any more.
QuANTMEYER (about to follow her). Kiddie, what makes
you so pert today?
The street door opens and Michaline enters.
LiESE Bansch. Sh!
QuANTMEYER (with fcigncd innocence, cutting the end of
his cigar). You just wait, Lizzie ; I'll have my revenge.
[Exit into the other room. Michaline comes farther
forivard into the tap-room. Liese Bansch has
taken up her position behind the bar and observes.]
Liese Bansch (after a brief pause). Are you looking for
any one. Miss?
Michaline. Is this the restaurant of Bansch?
Liese Bansch. Certainly.
254 THE GERMAN CLASSICS
MiCHALiNE. Thank you. In that case it's all right. The
friends whom I'm expecting will be here.
[She is about to go into the adjoining room.]
LiESE Bansch. Only the gentlemen who come every night
are in there.
MicHALiNE. Ah? I'm expecting a young couple. So I'll
sit down somewhere here.
LiESE Bansch. Here, please? Or here! Or, maybe, over
there?
Michaune {sitting down on a bench that runs along the
wall). Thank you, I'll sit down here.— A small glass
of beer.
LiESE Bansch {to Feitz, luho is just returning). Fritz, a
small glass of beer. [She leans back, assumes a very
decent and dignified air, adjusts details of her toilet,
observes Michaline with great interest, and then
sags:] The weather is very bad out, isn't it?
Michaline {taking off first her overshoes, then her coat
and finally her hat). Yes, I'm grateful that I put on
my galoshes. It looks very bad in the streets.
[She sits down, straightens her hair and dries her
face.]
Liese Bansch. May I offer you a comb? I'd be pleased to
fetch you one.
[She approaches and hands her comb to Michaline.]
Michaline. You are very good. Thank you.
[She takes the comb and busies herself rearranging
her hair.]
Liese Bansch {gathering some strands of Michaline 's
hair). Let me help you, won't you?
Michaline. Thank you. I'll be able to adjust it now.
[Liese Bansch returns to the bar and continues to
observe Michaline with interest. Fritz brings the
beer and places it in front of Michaline. Then he
takes up a box of cigars and carries it into the
next room. Loud laughter is heard from within.]
MICHAEL KRAMER 255
LiESE Bansch {shrugs her shoulders and speaks not with-
out affectation). Oh, yes; there's nothing to be done
about that. The gentlemen can't get on any other way.
[She comes fonvard a little again.] You see, I don't
like all this: the noise and the roughness and all that.
But you see, my father was taken sick; my mother
can't stand the smoke and, of course, she nurses papa.
So what is there left to do? I had to come in and
help out.
MicHALiNE. Surely; that w^as your duty in the circum-
stances.
LiBSE Bansch. And, anyhow, I'm young, don't you see?
And there are some very nice gentlemen among them,
really well-educated, nice gentlemen. And you do learn
a great deal from people.
MiCHALiNE. Surely. Of course you do.
LiESE Bansch. But do you know what is horrid? {Sud-
denly confidential.) They can't get along without
quarreling. First they drink and then they quarrel.
Heavens, I have to be careful then! Sometimes I'm
supposed to be too pleasant to one of them, or not to
give my hand to another, or not touch a third with
my arm. Half the time I don't know that I've done
all that. And another one I'm not to look at, and
another I'm to get out of the place. And you can't
please every one, can you? But oh, in just a minute,
they'll all be fighting.
Voices {from the adjoining room). Liese! Liese! Where
are you keeping yourself?
Liese Bansch {to Michaline). I'll stay with you; I won't
go in. I'm never comfortable any more with them.
One of the gentlemen is my intended. Now, I leave
it to you: that isn't very nice, is it? Of course, he
wants to take liberties with me. Now I ask any one
. , . that isn't possible?
256 THE GEEMAN CLASSICS
MicHALiNE. Surely he can't demand such things of you,
your intended.
LiESE Bansch. No, no, and of course he doesn't demand
it, but even so . . . [She looks up again as Fkitz
returns with the empty beer glasses.] Do take my
advice and don't get mixed up with men admirers.
[Lachmann enters from the street, observes Michal-
iNE at once and holds out his hand to her.]
Lachmann {hanging up his overcoat and hat). Michaline,
we've grown real old.
Michaline (amused). Heavens, how suddenly you come
out with that!
Lachmann. I have, at least; I. Not you, but I. Surely
so if I compare myself with your father.
[He sits down.]
Michaline. Just why? .
Lachmann. There are reasons and reasons. — D'you re-
member when I entered the school of art here . . .
by heaven! . . . And look at me today. I've ad-
vanced backward a bit !
Michaline. But why? That's the question after all:
Why?
Lachmann. Well, in those days . . . what didn't a fel-
low want to do! Reconcile God and the devil! What
didn't we feel equal to doing! What a noble and
exalted idea of ourselves didn't we have? And now?
Today we're pretty well bankrupt.
Michaline. Why bankrupt? In respect of what?
Lachmann. In respect of a good many things and a few
more. Our illusions, for instance.
Michaline. H-m. I'm under the impression we get along
very fairly without them! Do you still lay so much
weight on that?
Lachmann. Yes. Everything else is doubtful. The power
to nurse illusions, Michaline ^ — that is the best posses-
sion in the world. If you think it over, you'll agree
with me.
MICHAEL KRAMER 257
MiCHALiNE. What you really mean is imagination. With-
out that, of course, no artist can exist.
Lachmann. Yes. Imagination and faith in its workings.
— A pint of red wine please, the same as yesterday.
LiESE Bansch {wJio has the tvine in readiness and has
opened the bottle). I recognized you again right away.
[She places the bottle and glass in fi'ont of
Lachmann.]
Lachmann. Is that so? Very happy, I'm sure. If I had
the necessary wherewithal we 'd be drinking champagne
today.
[^Pause.^
MicHALiNE. You go from one extreme to another, Lach-
mann. What connection is there between these things!
Lachmann. There isn't any. That's the joke of the whole
business. — It's all over with me, that's all. There
you are! All that's left is to have a jolly time.
[Laughter and noise resound again from the adjoin-
ing room. LiESE Bansch shaJces her head disap-
provingly and goes in.]
MicHALiNE. You're strangely excited.
Lachmann. Do you think so? Really? Well, usually my
soul's asleep. I thank God that I'm a bit wrought up.
Unfortunately, it won't last very long. — "Age with his
stealing steps ! ' ' We 're dying slowly.
MicHALiNE, You don't impress me as being so old,
Lachmann.
Lachmann. Very well, Michaline. Then marry me!
MiCHALiNE {surprised and amused). Well, hardly that!
I wouldn't go that far. We're both really too old for
such things. — But it seems to me that so long as you
keep your good humor, as you seem to do, you can't
be so badly off.
Lachmann. Oh, yes, I am, though ; I am ! I am ! But the
less said about that the better.
Michaline. Tell me : What has depressed you so ?
Vol. XVIII— 17
258 THE GERMAN CLASSICS
Lachmann. Nothing. Because I'm not really depressed.
Only I've looked back over the past today and I've seen
that we're really no longer among the living.
MiCHALiNE. But why? I must ask you again.
Lachmann. Fishes are adapted to a life in water. Every
living thing needs its proper atmosphere. It's just
the same in the life of the spirit. And I've been
thrust into the w^rong atmosphere. When that hap-
pens, whether you want to or not, you must breathe
it in. And then your real self is suffocated. You cease
to have the sensation of your owti individuality ; you 're
no longer acquainted with yourself; you know nothing
about yourself any longer.
MicHALiNE. In that case I seem to be better off in my
voluntary loneliness.
Lachmann. You're better off here for other reasons —
all of you. You see nothing and you hear nothing of
the great philistine orgy of the metropolis. When once
you've sunk into that, it whirls you hither and thither
through — everything! — Wlien one is young, one wants
to go out into the wide world. I wish I had stayed at
home. — The world is not wide, at all, Michaline! It
is no wider anywhere than here ! Nor is it smaller
here than elsewhere. He for whom it is too small,
must make it wider for himself. That's what your
father has done here, Michaline. — As I was saying,
when I entered the art school here, long ago, in
spring . . .
Michaline. It was in autumn.
Lachmann. Nothing but spring remains in my memory.
Ah, weren't we liberated from the philistine yoke.
And it really seemed in those days ... we could
truly say . . . the world opened itself to us, great
and wide. Today one is back again in it all — buried
in domesticity and marriage.
Michaline. I seem still to see you standing there, Lach-
mann, with your fair, silken hair — there, in the pas-
MICHAEL KRAMER 259
sage, do you remember, at father's door? Father's
studio was still upstairs in those days ; not in the small
wing by itself. Do you remember that or have you
forgotten ?
Lachmann. Forgotten? I? One doesn't forget such
things. I've forgotten nothing that happened then.
The least little detail still clings to my memory. But
those were our great days. — It isn't possible to express
— to come near to expressing — the mysterious change
that came over us then. A fellow had been a flogged
urchin: suddenly he became a knight of the spirit.
MiCHALiNE. Not every one felt that as you did, dear Lach-
mann. Many felt oppressed by father's personality.
Lachmann. Yes. But what kind were they ! There wasn't
one who had a grain of promise, but he ennobled him
at one stroke. For he opened the world of heroes to
lis. That was enough. He deemed us worthy of
striving to emulate their work. He made us feel to-
ward the lords of the realm of art, that we and they
were of one blood. And so a divine pride came upon
us, Michaline! — Ah, well. — I drink to you! How do
the fairy tales say : It was — once upon a time ! [He
observes that Michaline has no glass and turns to
Fritz who is about to carry champagne into the other
room.] Let us have another glass, please.
[Fritz brings it at once and then hurries off ivith
the champagne.]
Michaline. Something very special must have happened
to you, Lachmann.
Lachmann (filling her glass). I have seen your father's
picture.
Michaline. Is that so? You have been with him?
Lachmann. Yes. Just now. I came straight here.
Michaline. Well, and did the picture impress you so
deeply ?
Lachmann. As deeply as possible. Yes.
Michaline. Quite honestly?
260
THE GERMAN CLASSICS
Lachmann. Honestly. Honestly. Without doubt.
MicHALiNE. And you are not at all disappointed?
Lachmann. No. No. By no means. — I know what you
mean and why you ask. But all art is fragmentary.
What there is, is beautiful ; beautiful and deeply mov-
ing. And all that is yet unattained but felt, Michaline,
is equally so. The final expression in which all is to
culminate — therein one recognizes most fully what
your father is. — The great failure can be more mean-
ingful— we see it in the noblest works — can move us
more deeply, can lead us to loftier heights — deeper
into immensity — than the clearest success.
Michaline. And what was father's state of mind about
other things ?
Lachmann. He dragged me over the coals thoroughly; a
futile process, unfortunately. But do you know, if a
fellow were to close his eyes and let those great repri-
mands and encouragements pour down upon him he
might imagine, if he cared to, that it is still the first
storm of his spiritual spring and that he might still
grow to touch the stars.
ZiEHN and ScHNABEL enter. They are both tipsy, speak loudly and freely
and then again whisper suddenly as if communicating secrets, yet dis-
tinctly enough for all to hear. Laughter in the next room.
ZiEHN. Fritz, hurry! Another bottle of that extra dry!
Eight marks per bottle — small matter ! This thing is
beginning to amuse me.
Schnabel. a deuce of a fellow, this Quantmeyer, eh?
He 's got notions like I don 't know what !
ZiEHN {laughing). I thought I'd roll under the table!
Schnabel {looking at Michaline). Fritz, is the circus in
town again?
Fritz {busy with the champagne bottle). Why, your honor?
I didn't hear nothing.
Schnabel. Why? Why? Why, you can almost smell it!
Don't you scent the stables?
ZiEHN. To the noble art of bareback riding! May it
flourish !
MICHAEL KRAMER 261
Von Keautheim {enters on his way to the bar. In passing
he says to Ziehn and Schnabel), Man and woman
created he them. Which is that?
Ziehn. Better go and investigate. {Whispering to Schna-
bel.) Tell me, how is that about Quantmeyer? Is that
fellow really a lawyer! I can't make head or tail of
it all. What's he live on?
Schnabel {shrugging his shoulders). Money, I suppose.
Ziehn. Yes, but who gives it to him?
Schnabel. He's got plenty of it, anyhow, and that's the
main thing.
Ziehn. And this talk about an engagement, d'you believe
in that?
Schnabel. Ziehn! You must be pretty far gone!
Ziehn. Well, in that case the girl is damned stupid. A
girl may be a bit of a fool — all right ! But, look here,
to throw herself away . . . well! [He ivhispers
something into Schnabel 's ear upon which both break
out into ribald laughter and blow great clouds of
smoke. Then Ziehn continues.'] I want you to look
around here. [He draws his arm through Schnabel 's
and leads him, regardless of Lachmann and Michaline,
close up to their table. Without asking pardon, he
presses close up to them and poi^its with outstretched
arm and loud and boastful speech to the details of the
room.] This whole business here — I designed it all.
Made it all myself: wainscoting, ceiling, bar, whole
thing! Designed it all myself; all my work. That's
the reason I like to come here. We've got some taste,
eh? Don't you think so? Damned tasteful tap-room,
this ! [He releases Schnabel and lights a cigar with
a match ivhich he strikes with rude circumstantiality
against the table at which Lachmann and Michaline
are sitting. Again the sound of laughter is heard from
the other room. Fritz carries in the champagne.
Ziehn turns around and says:] He'll end by driving
that young man quite crazy.
[Schnabel shrugs his shoulders.]
262 THE GERMAN CLASSICS
ZiEHN. Come on in. It's starting again.
[Both go into the adjoining room. Michaline and
Lachmann look at each other significantly. Pause.^
Lachmann {taking his cigar-case from his pocket. Drily).
These types are rather deficient in interest. ... Do
you mind if I smoke a little?
MiCHALiNE {somewhat disquieted) . Not at aU.
Lachmann. Will you smoke too?
MicHALiNE. No, thank you, not here.
Lachmann. Yes, there's no doubt, we've made admirable
progress — we wonderful fellows of this generation!
Or, tell me, do you doubt it?
Michaline. I don't think it's very comfortable here.
Lachmann {smoking). And if you were to take the wings
of the morning, you would not escape these or their
kind. — Heavens, how we started out in life ! And to-
day we chop fodder for a society of this kind. There 's
not a point concerning which one thinks as they do.
They stamp into the mud all that is pure and bare.
The meanest rag, the most loathsome covering, the
most wretched tatter is pronounced sacred. And we
must hold our tongues and work ourselves weary for
this crowd. — Michaline, I drink to your father ! And
to art that illuminates the world. — In spite of every-
thing and everything! — [They clink their glasses.] —
Ah, if I were five years younger than I am today. . . .
I would have secured one thing which is now lost to me,
alas, and then much would look brighter now.
Michaline. Do you know what is sometimes hardest to
bear?
Lachmann. What?
Michaline. Among friends?
Lachmann. Well, what?
Michaline. The command not to divert each other from
their erring ways! Well, then, again: Once upon a
time . . . !
[She touches her glass significantly to his.l
MICHAEL KRAMER 263
Lachmann. Surely. Surely. I deserve your reproach.
That time is irrevocably past. Once upon a time we
were so near it . . . Oh, you may shake your head
today. I need but have beckoned to you then.
[Hallooing and laughter in the next room.]
MiCHALiNE {grows pale and starts up). Lachmann, listen!
Did you hear that?
Lachmann. Yes ; does that really excite you, Michaline?
MiCHALiNE. I really don't know myself why it should. I
suppose it's connected with the fact that the relations
between father and Arnold are very much strained
just now and that I have been worrying over it.
Lachmann. Yes, yes. But just how, just why does that
occur to you here ?
Michaline. I don't know. Wouldn't it be better for us
to go? Oh, yes, your wife! Oh, yes, we will wait, of
course. But really, I have an uncanny feeling here.
Lachmann. Don't pay any attention to that vulgar crowd.
[LiESE Bansch comes from the next room.]
LiESE Bansch. 0 dear Lord ! No, no, such things ! Those
gentlemen drink so much champagne that they don't
know what they're doing any longer. I tell you, it's
a miserable business.
[Unembarrassed, she sits down at Lachmann 's and
Michaline 's table. Her great excitement makes
it clear that some incident has taken place which
really annoys her.]
Lachmann. I dare say the gentlemen are not very tactful
in their behavior.
LiESE Bansch. Oh, they're not so bad as far as that goes.
They're decent enough. But you see, there's a young
fellow, they just make him . . . [Imitating what she
is trying to describe she lets her head hang back, shakes
it in a kind of unconsciousness and makes ivild gestures
with her hands.] . . . They make him . . . oh, I
don't know what!
Lachmann. I suppose that is your betrothed?
264 THE GERMAN CLASSICS
LiESE Bansch {acts as though shaken with cold, looks down
upon her bosom and pulls the laces straight). Oh, no,
he 's just a foolish fellow that 's taken all kinds of silly
things into his head. The young fool is no concern of
mine, is he I I wish he'd go where he belongs! [To
MicHALiNE.] Or would you stand it if some one always
sat there like a marabout! I can do what I please,
can't I? What do I care for a spy like that! [She
looks up in her excitement.'] And, more'n that, my
intended is drunk; and if he wants to get drunk I'd
thank him to do it elsewhere and not here.
[She crouches in a corner behind the bar.]
Lachmann. You may imagine how the contrast impresses
me: your father in his studio and here this — let us
say, this noble company.- — And if you imagine his
picture, in addition, the solemn, restful picture of the
Christ, and imagine it in this atmosphere in all its
sublime quietude and purity — it gives you a strange
feeling . . . most strange. — I'm glad my other half
isn't here. I was actually afraid of that.
MicHALiNE. If we only knew whether she is coming.
Otherwise I'd propose . . . Do you feel at ease here?
Lachmann {replacing his cigar-case in his overcoat pocket).
Oh, yes. Since we clinked our glasses awhile ago, I do.
In spite of everything and everything. For if two
people can say, as we have said: Once upon a time!
. . . something of that old time is not quite dead, and
to that remnant we must drink again.
After a last outburst of laughter, there takes place in the adjoining room,
with growing hoisterousness, the following colloquy:
QuANTMEYER. What 's your name ? What are you? What?
Why d 'you always sit here and glare at us? Eh? And
stare at us? Why? What? It annoys you, eh, if I
kiss my intended? Is that it? Well, d'you think I'm
going to ask you for permission? Why, you're, you're
crazy! Crazy! That's what you are!
MICHAEL KRAMER 265
Voices {of the others amid confused laughter). G-ive him
a cold douche ! A cold douche ! That 's what he needs !
QuANTMEYER. Can't I show my owu gaitcr here ? Do you
think that I may not! [Laughter.]
Lachmann. That seems to be a nice crowd, I must say.
QuANTMEYER. So you think I oughtn't to, eh? Well, I
wear lady's garters. That's all. And if it isn't mine,
then it isn't. Maybe it's even Lizzie's, come to think
of it! [Laughter.]
LiESE Bansch {to MiCHALiNE and Lachmann). He lies.
Oh, what meanness to lie so. And that fellow pretends
to be my intended !
QuANTMEYER. What 's that ? What ? All right ! Come on !
Come ahead ! I don't care if you look like a chalk wall,
my boy, that 's not going to upset me a little bit ! A
dauber like that ! A sign painter ! Just say one more
word and out you fly ! You can all depend on it !
Liese Bansch {hastily and confused in her overeagerness).
It all came about this way, you know . . . You mustn 't
think that I'm to blame for all this scandalous business.
But it happened this \\2ij. Just as I'm going to tell
you. My intended, you know, he's just a bit tipsy and
so he kept pinching my arm because they'd all made
up their minds that they'd make him jealous . . .
Lachmann. Whom did they w^ant to make jealous?
Liese Bansch. The young fellow that I was talking about.
I've been to see his father about him. What haven't
I tried to do ? But nothing does any good ! He comes
here and sits in a corner and carries on till things hap-
pen this way.
Lachmann. What exactly does he do?
Liese Bansch. Why, nothing, really. He just sits there
and watches all the time. But that isn't very nice,
is it? He needn't be surprised if they try to scare and
worry him out in the end. [Quantmeyer is heard
speaking again.] There you are. It's starting up
again. I'm really going up to father. I don't know
what to do no more.
266 THE GEEMAN CLASSICS
QuANTMEYER. D 'you hear what I said to you just now!
You didn't? You forgot it, eh? Well, I'll say it
again, word for word: I can kiss my intended how I
want to — where I want to — when I want to! I'd
like to see the devil himself come and prevent me.
There! Now you just say one more word, and when
you 've said it you '11 be flying out at the end of my boot !
LiESE Bansch. Oh, goodness me! And that fellow pre-
tends to be my intended ! And then he goes and teUs
such lies and behaves that way !
[From a sudden violent outcry of the voices in the
next room the following words are distinguishable:^
ZiEHN. Hold on, my good fellow, that's not the way we do
business !
ScHNABEL. What's that? What? Call the police! Put
that scamp in jail!
Von Krautheim. Take it away, Quantmeyer. No use
fooling !
Quantmeyee. Try it ! Just try ! I advise you !
ZiEHN. Take it away from him !
ScHNABEL. Grab it! One, two, three.
Quantmeyer. Put it down! Do you hear? Put it down,
I tell you!
ZiEHN. Are you going to put that thing down or not?
ScHNABEL, You scc that fellow, just simply an anarchist.
[A brief, silent struggle begins in the next room.l
MiCHALiNE {has suddenly jumped up in inexplicable dread
and grasps her garments) . Lachmann, I beg of you.
Come, come away from here.
ZiEHN. There, fellows, I've got it! Now we've got you.
ScHNABEL. Hold Mm! Hold the scoundrel!
[Arnold, deathly pale, rushes madly in and out at the
street door. Ziehn, Schnabel a7id Von Krattt-
HEiM pursue him with the cry: Hold him! Stop
him! Get hold of him! They run out into the
street after him and disappear. Their cries and
the cries of several passersby are still heard for
some moments. Then, growing fainter and fainter,
the sounds die away.']
MICHAEL KRAMER 267
MicB.M.mE {as if stunned) . Arnold! Wasn't that Arnold?
Lachmann. Don't speak.
QuANTMEYER and The Waiter enter.
QuANTMEYER {exhibiting a small revolver). You see, Lizzie,
that 's the kind of a scoundrel he is. I wish you 'd come
and look at this thing. Dirt cheap article no doubt,
but it could have done harm enough.
LiESE Bansch. I wish you'd leave me alone.
Fritz. Beggin' your pardon, if you please. But I don't
hold with servin' customers who pull out revolvers and
put them down next to their glasses.
LiESE Bansch. If you don't want to, you don't have to —
that's all.
Lachmann {to Fritz). Did the gentleman threaten you!
QuANTMEYER {regards Lachmann with a look of official
suspicion). Oho! Did he? The gentleman! Maybe
you doubt it! By God, that's a fine state of affairs!
Maybe it's we who'll have to give an account of our-
selves !
Lachmann. I merely ventured to address a question to
the waiter — not to you.
QuANTMEYER. You veutured, did youf Who are you, any-
how? Have you any reason to interfere? Maybe
you're related to that fine little product, eh? Then we
could make a clean sweep of the crowd, so to speak. —
The gentleman! [Laughing derisively.'] I think he
has enough for today, the gentleman! I think that
lesson '11 stick in his mind. But do you imagine the
coward defended himself . . .
MiCHALiNE {aivakening from her stunned condition arises
and, as if beside herself, walks up to Quantmeyer).
Arnold ! ! Wasn 't that Arnold ! !
LiESE Bansch {suspecting the connection, steps with light-
ning like rapidity between Quantmeyer and Mich aline.
To Quantmeyer). Go on! Don't interfere with our
guests or I'll call papa this minute!
268 THE GERMAN CLASSICS
MicHALiNE {approaches the door in intense dread with a crq^
of pain and despair). Arnold!! Wasn't that Arnold?
Lachmann {following her and holding her). No! No, no,
Michaline ! Control yourself !
ACT IV
The studio of Michael Kramer as in the second act. It is afternoon,
toward five o'clock. The hangings which conceal the studio proper are
drawn, as always. Kramer vs working at his etching. He is dressed as
in the second act. Krause is taking blue packages of stearin candles
from a basket which he has brought with him.
Kjramer {without looking up from his work). Just put
down the packages, back there, by the candlesticks.
Keause {has placed the packages on the table upon which
stand several branched candlesticks of silver. He now
produces a letter and holds it in his hands). I suppose
there's nothing else, professor?
Kramer. Professor? What does that mean?
Krause. Well, I suppose it's that. Because this here let-
ter 's from the ministry.
[He places the letter in front of Kramer on the little
table.']
Kramer. H-m. Eh? Addressed to me? [He sighs deeply.]
All due respect.
[He lets the letter lie unopened and continues to
work.]
Krause {picking up his basket and about to go). Don't
you want me to watch tonight, professor? You ought
to take a bit o ' rest, really.
Kramer. We'll let things be as they have been, Krause.
In regard to the watching too, I tell you. And, any-
how, it's provided for. I've made an agreement with
Lachmann. You recall him, don't you?
MICHAEL KRAMER 269
Krause {takes up his cap and sighs). Merciful Father in
Heaven! Dear! Dear! So there's nothing else just
now, I suppose?
Keamee, Is the director in his office?
Keause. Yes, sir, he's there.
Kramee. Thank you; that's aU. — Hold on. Just wait a
moment. On Monday evening . . . where was that!
Where did your wife meet Arnold?
Krause. Why, it was down by the river, where the boats
are lying . . . right under the brick bastion. Where
they rent boats by the hour.
Kramee. On the little path that leads around down there!
Close by the Oder?
KjiAUSE. Yes ; that 's where it was.
Kramer. Did she address him or he her?
Krause. No, sir. He was sittin', you see, on the parapet
or on the wall, you might say, where people sometimes
stand an' look down to watch the Polacks cooking
potatoes on their rafts. An' he seemed so queer to
my wife an' so she just said good-ev'nin' to him.
Kjlamer. And did she say anything else to him?
KJRAUSE. She just said as how he'd catch a cold.
Kramer. H-m. And what did he answer?
Krause. Why, the way she says, he just laughed. But he
laughed in a kind o' way, she was thinkin', that was ter-
I rible. Kind o' contemptuous. That's all I know.
Kjiamee. He who desires to scorn all things, I tell you,
will find good reasons for his scorn. — I wish you had
come to me. — But I believe it was too late even then.
KJBAUSE. If only a body had known. But how is you to
know? Who'd be thinkin' of a thing like that straight
off? When Mich aline came to me — she came to me,
you know, with Mr. Lachmann — then the fright got
hold o' me. But by that time it was half-past twelve
at night.
270 THE GERMAN CLASSICS
KJRAMER. I tell you, I will remember that night. When my
daughter wakened me, it was one o'clock. — And when,
at last, we found the poor boy, the cathedral clock was
striking nine.
[Keause sighs, shakes his head, opens the door in
order to go and, at the same time, admits Mich-
aline and Lachmann who enter. Krause exit.
MiCHALiNE is dressed in a dark gown; she is deeply
serious and shoivs signs of weariness and of tears.]
Kramer {calls out to them). There you are, children.
Well, come in. So you are going to watch with me
tonight, Lachmann. You were his friend too, in a
way, at least. I am glad that you are willing to watch.
A stranger, I tell you, I could not bear. — [He walks
up and down, stands still, reflects and says:] I will
leave you alone for five minutes now and go over to see
the director. To tell him the little that is to be told.
You won't go in the meantime, I dare say.
MiCHALiNE. No, father. Lachmann, at all events, will stay
here. As for me, I have to go on some errands.
Kramer. I'm very glad that you'll stay, Lachmann. I
won't take long; I'll be back presently.
[He puts on a muffler, nods to both and leaves.
MiCHALiNE sits down, draws up her veil and wipes
her eyes with her handkerchief. Lachmann puts
aside his hat, stick and overcoat.]
MiCHALiNE. Does father seem changed to you?
Lachmann. Changed? No.
MiCHALiNE. Dear me, there's something that I forgot
again! I didn't send an announcement to the Hartels.
One loses the little memory that's still left. — There's
another wreath. — [She gets up and examines a rather
large laurel wreath with riband that is lying on the
sofa. She takes up a card that was fastened to the
wreath and continues with an expression of surprise.]
\ I Why, it's from Miss Schiiffer. — There's another soul
] I left solitary now. She had but one thought — Arnold.
And Arnold didn't even know of it.
MICHAEL KRAMER 271
Lachmann. Is she that slightly deformed person whom I
saw in your studio 1
MicHALiNE. Yes. She painted simply because Arnold did.
She saw in me just — Arnold's sister. That's the way
life is — she '11 pay for this wreath by living for weeks
on tea and bread.
Lachmann. And probably be very happy doing it, in addi-
tion.— Do you know w^hom else I met? And who is
going to send a wreath too ?
MicHALiNE. Who ?
Lachmann. Liese ^ansch.
MiCHALiNE. She . . . needn't have done that.
[Pause.]
Lachmann. If only I had been able to talk to Arnold.
About Liese Bansch too ! Perhaps it would have done
some good!
MicHALiNE. No, Lachmann, you're mistaken. I don't
believe it.
Lachmann. Who knows? But what could I do? He
avoided me ! I could have made several things clear
to him . . . never mind what, now! And from my
very own experience. Sometimes our most ardent de-
sires are denied us. Because, Michaline, were they
granted us ... ! A wish like that was granted me
\once and I — I needn't conceal it from you — I am
'much worse off than I was before.
Michaline. Experience is not communicable, at least not
in the deeper sense.
Lachmann. It may be so, and yet . . .I've had my
lesson. [Pause.']
Michaline. Yes, yes, that's the way it goes. That's the
'iifway of the world. The girl was playing with fire, too,
I dare say. And of course it never occurred to her,
naturally, that the end might be this ! [At her father's
small table.] Look what father has been etching here.
Lachmann. A dead knight in armor.
Michaline. Mh-m.
>>
272 THE GERMAN CLASSICS
Lachmann (reads:)
" With armor am I fortified
Death bears my shield for me.
MiCHALiNE {with breaking voice, then with tears). I have
never seen father weep, and look — he wept over this.
Lachmann {involuntarily taking her hand). Michaline, let
us try to be strong; shall wef
Michaline. The paper is quite w^et! Oh, my God. [She
masters her emotion, walks a few paces and then con-
tinues in a higher strain:] He controls himself, Lach-
mann, assuredly. But how does it look in his soul!
He has aged by ten years.
Lachmann. I have buried my father and my brother, too.
\ But M^hen life discloses itself to us in its deepest seri-
I ousness — in fateful moments in the course of time —
when we survive what is hardest — surely our ships
sail more calmly and firmly — with our beloved dead
• — through the depths of space.
Michaline. But to survive at all ! That, surely, is hardest.
Lachmann. I never felt it to be so.
Michaline. Oh, yes. It was like lightning ! Like a stroke
from heaven! I felt at once: If we find him — well!
If we don't find him, it's over. I knew Arnold and I
felt that. So many things had heaped themselves up
in him and when this affair grew clear to me, I knew
^that he was in danger.
Lachmann. Yet we followed him almost immediately.
Michaline. Too late. We didn't go till I had pulled my-
self together. Just one word, one little word! If we
could have said one word to him, it would probably
have changed everything. Perhaps if they had caught
him, those people, when they chased after him, I mean
— if they had brought him back ! I wanted to cry out :
Arnold, come! [Her emotion overpowers her.]
Lachmann. Things wouldn't have turned out so badly
then. There was nothing against him except the child-
ish fooling with the revolver . . .
MICHAEL KRAMER 273
MiCHALiNE. Oh, but there was the girl, and the shame of
it all, and father and mother! He fled from his own
terror. He acted as though he were as old and sophis-
ticated as possible. And yet he was, to any one who
: knew him as I did, quite inexperienced and childish.
I knew that he was carrying the weapon.
Lachmann. Why, he showed it to me in Munich, long ago.
MiCHALiNE. Yes, he thought himself pursued every^vhere.
He saw nothing but enemies all around him. And he
wouldn't be persuaded out of that opinion. It's noth-
ing but veneer, he always said. They only hide their
claws and fangs and if you don't look out, you're done
for.
Lachmann. It wasn't so foolish. There's something to it.
There- are moments when one feels just so. And he
probably suffered a great deal from coarseness of all
kinds. If one tries to realize his situation: he prob-
ably wasn't so far wrong as far as he was concerned.
MicHALiNE. We should have given more time and care to
him. But Arnold w^as always so gruff. However
kindly one's intention was, however good one's will,
he repelled any advances.
Lachmann. What did he write to your father?
MiCHALiNE. Papa hasn't shown the letter to any one yet.
Lachmann. He intimated something to me. A mere inti-
mation— nothing more. He spoke of it quite without
bitterness, by the way. I believe there was something
like this in the letter, that he couldn't endure life, that
he felt himself quite simply unequal to it.
MiCHALiNE. Why didn't he lean on father! Of course he
is hard. But there's something defective in any one
who can't get beyond the exterior, and doesn't feel
father's humanity and goodness. I was able to do it,
and I am a woman. It w^as so much harder for me
than for Arnold. Father strove to get Arnold's con-
fidence; I had to fight for father's. Father is tre-
VoL. XVIII— 18
274 THE GEEMAN CLASSICS
mendously veracious, but that's all. In that respect
he hit me harder than Arnold. Arnold was a man.
Yet I stood the test.
Lachmann. Your father could be my confessor —
MiCHALiNE. He fought his way through a similar ex-
perience.
Lachmann. One feels that.
MicHALiNE. Yes. I know it for a certainty. And he would
have understood Arnold without a doubt.
\\| Lachmann. Ah, but who knows the word that will save?
MicHALiNE. Well, you see, Lachmann, this is the way
things go : Our mother is a stranger to father's inmost
self. But if ever she had a quarrel with Arnold, she
threatened him at once with father. In this way —
what has she brought about? Or, at least, has helped
to bring about?
[Keameb returns.']
Keamer (takes off his muffler). Here I am again. How is
mama?
MiCHALiNE. She doesn't want you to wear yourself quite
out. Are you going to sleep at home tonight or not ?
KJRAMER (gathering cards of condolence from the table).
No, Michaline. But when you go home, take these
cards to mama. [To Lachmann.] See, he had his
friends, too, only we didn't know of it.
Michaline. There were many callers at home today, too.
Kjiamee. I wish people would refrain from that. But if
they think they are doing good, it is not for us to
restrain them, to be sure. — You are going again?
MiCHAJLiNE. I must. Oh, these wretched annoyances and
details !
Keamee. We mustn't by any means let that vex us. The
hour demands our last strength.
Michaline. Good-by, papa.
Kramee (holding her back gently). Good-by, my dear child.
I know you don't let it vex you. You are probably
the most reasonable of us all. No, no, Michaline, I
MICHAEL KEAMER 275
I don't mean it in that way. But you have a sane, tem-
perate mind. And her heart, Lachmann, is as warm
' as any. [Michaline weeps more intensely.] But
listen : Aj^prove yourself now too, my child. We must
show now how we can stand the test.
[Michaline calms herself resolutely, presses her
father's hand, then Lachmann 's and goes.]
Kkamer. Lachmann, let us light the candles. Open these
packages for me. IGoing to work himself.] Sorrow,
sorrow, sorrow! Do you taste the full savor of that
word 1 ' I tell you, that is the way it is wdth words :
They become alive only at times. In the daily grind
of life they are dead. [He hands a candlestick, into
which he has placed a candle, to Lachmann.] So.
Carry this in to my boy.
[Lachmann carries the candlestick behind the hang-
ings and leaves Kramer alone in the outer room.]
Kramer. When the great things enter into our lives, I
tell you, the trivial things are suddenly swept away.
The trivial separates, I tell you, but greatness unites
us. That is, if one is made that way. And death, I
tell you, always belongs to the great things- — death
and love. [Lachmann returns from behind the hang-
ings.] I have been downstairs to see the director and
I have told him the truth, and why should I lie ? I am
surely in no mood for it. AVhat is the world to me, I
should like to know? The director took it quite sen-
sibly too. — But, you see, the women want concealment.
Otherwise the parson w^on't go to the grave and then
the matter is irregular. I tell you, all that is of sec-
ondary importance to me. God is eveiything to me.
The parson is nothing. — Do you know what I have
been doing this morning? Burying my heart's deepest
wishes. Quietly, quietly, I've done it, all by myself, I
tell you. And there was a long train of them — little
ones and big ones, thin ones and stout ones. There
they lie, Lachmann, like wheat behind the scythe.
/
276 THE GERMAN CLASSICS
Lachmann. I have lost a friend before. I mean by a
voluntary death.
KJEiAMER. Voluntary, you say? Who knows how true that
is? — Look at the sketches yonder. [He fumbles in
his coat and draws from his breast-pocket a sketch-
book. He leads Lachmann to the window where one
can barely see by the dim light of evening, and opens
the book.] There he assembled his tormentors. There
they are, look you, as he saw them. And I tell you, he
5 had eyes to see. It is almost the evil eye. But vision
he had, surely, surely. — I am perhaps not so shattered
as you think nor so disconsolate as many imagine.
For death, I tell you, leads us into the divine. Some-
thing comes upon us and bows us down. But that
which descends to us is sublime and overwhelming at
once. And then we feel it, we see it almost, and we
emerge from our sorrows greater than we were. — How
many a one has died to me in the course of my life !
Many a one, Lachmann, who is still alive today. Why
do our hearts bleed and beat at once? Because they
must love, Lachmann: that is the reason. Man and
nature yearn toward oneness, but upon us is the curse
of division. We w^ould hold fast to all things, yet all
things glide from our grasp even as they have come.
Lachmann. I have felt that too, in my own life.
Kramer. When Michaline awakened me on that night, I
must have cut a pitiable figure. I tell you, I knew it all
at once. — But the bitterest hours came when we had
to leave him, to let him lie there — alone. That hour !
Great God, Lachmann, was that hour sent to purify
me as by fire or not? I scarcely knew myself. I tell
you, I would never have believed it of myself! I re-
belled so bitterly; I jeered and I raged at my God. I
tell you, we don't know what we are capable of! I
laughed like a fetishist and called my fetish to account !
The whole thing seemed to me a devilish bad joke on
the part of the powers that be, a wretched, futile kind
MICHAEL KRAMER 277
of trick, Lachmann, damnably cheap and savorless and
poor. — Look you, that's the way I felt; that's the way
I rebelled. Then, later, when I had him here near me,
I came to my senses. — A thing like this — we can't
grasp it at first. Now it's entered the mind. Now it's
become part of life. It's almost two days ago now.
)I was the shell; there lies the kernel. If only the shell
had been taken!
[MiCHALiNE enters softly without knocking.]
MiCHALiNE. Papa, Liese Bansch is downstairs at the
janitor's. She's bringing a wreath.
Kramer. Who 1
MicHALiNE. Liese Bansch. She'd like to speak to you.
Shall she come in?
Kramer. I do not blame her and I do not forbid her. I
know nothing of hatred; I know nothing of revenge.
All that seems to me small and mean. [Michaline
exit.] Look you, it has struck me do\\Ti! And it's no
wonder, I tell you. We live alone, take our accus-
tomed ways for granted, worry over small affairs,
think ourselves and our little annoyances mightily
important, groan and complain . . . And then, sud-
denly, a thing of this kind comes down upon us as an
eagle swoops down among sparrows ! Then, I tell you,
it is hard to stand one's ground. But I have my release
from life now. Whatever lies before me in the future,
it cannot give me joy, it cannot cause me dread; the
world holds no threat for me any more !
Lachmann. Shall I light the gas?
Kramer (pulls the hangings apart. In the background of
the large, almost dark studio, the dead man, swathed
in linen, lies upon a hier). Behold, there lies a mother's
son! Are not men ravening beasts? [A faint after-
glow comes through the tall windows at the left. A
branched candlestick with burning candles stands at
the head of the bier. Kramer comes forward again
and pours wine into glasses.'] Come, Lachmann, re-
278 THE GERMAN CLASSICS
fresh yourself. There is some wine here; we need to
be strengthened. Let us drink, Laehmann, let us pour
a libation ; let us calmly touch our glasses to each other !
\He who lies there is I — is you — is the majestic
jsymbol of us and our fate. What can a parson add
to its meaning? [They drink. Pause.]
Lachmann. I told you about a friend of mine a while ago.
His mother was a clergyman's daughter. And she
took it deeply to heart that no priest went to her son 's
grave. But when they were lowering the coffin, the
spirit, so to speak, came upon her and it seemed as
if God himself were speaking through her praying
lips ... I had never heard any one pray like that.
[MiCHALiNE leads Liese Bansch in. The latter is
dressed in a simple, dark dress. Both of the
women remain standing near the door. Liese
holds her handkerchief to her mouth.']
Keamer (apparently without noticing Ijiesb, strikes a match
and lights more candles. Lachmann does the same
until two branched candlesticks and about six separate
candles are burning). What did those coxcombs know
of him: these stocks and stones in the form of men?
Of him and of me and of our sorrows? They baited
him to his death! They struck him down, Laehmann,
like a dog. — And yet, what could they do to him;
what? Come hither, gentlemen, come hither! Look
at him now and insult him ! Step up to him now and
see whether you can! I tell you, Laehmann, that is
over now ! [He draws a silken kerchief from the face
of the dead.] It is well to have him lie there as he
does; it is well; it is well! [In the glimmer of the
candles an easel is seen to have been placed near the
bier. Kramer, who has been painting at it, sits down
before it again, and continues, calmly, as though no
one were present but he and Lachmann.] I have sat
here all day. I have drawn him ; I have painted him ;
I have modeled a death mask of him . . .It's lying
MICHAEL KRAMER 279
yonder, in that silken cloth. Now he is equal to the
greatest of us all. [He points to the mask of Beeth-
oven.] And yet to try to hold that fast which now
Hes upon his face, Lachmann, is but a fool's effort. Yet
all that . . . all that was in him. I felt it, I knew it,
I recognized it in him ; and yet I could not bring that
treasure to light. Now death has brought it to light
instead. All is clarity about him now; his counte-
nance is radiant with that heavenly light about which
1 I flutter like a black, light-drunken butterfly. I tell
/ ' you, we grow small in the presence of death. All his
life long I was his schoolmaster. I had to maltreat
him and now he has risen into the divine. — Perhaps
I smothered this plant. Perhaps I shut out his sun
and he perished in my shadow. But, look you, Lach-
mann, he would not let me be his friend. He needed a
friend and it was not granted me to be that one. — That
day when the girl came to me, I tried my best, my very
best. But the evil in him had power over him that
day, and when that happened it did him good to wound
me. Remorse? I do not know what that is. But I
have shriveled into nothingness. I have become a
wretched creature beside him. I look up to that boy
now as though he were my farthest ancestor.
[MicHALiNE leads Liese Bansch toward the back-
ground. LiESE lays down her wreath at the feet
of the dead. Kramer looks up and meets her
glance.']
Liese Bansch. Mr. Kramer, I, I, I . . . I'm so unhappy,
i so . . . People point at me on the street!
[Pause.]
Kramer {half to himself). Wherein does the lure lie that
is so deadly? And yet, any one who has experienced
it and still lives, lives with the thorn of it in his palm,
and whatever he touches, the thorn pricks him. — But
you may go home in quiet. Between him and us all
is peace ! [Pause.]
[Michaline and Liese Bansch leave the studio.]
280 THE GERMAN CLASSICS
Keamer {absorbed in the contemplation of his dead son
and of the lights) . These lights ! These lights! How-
strange they are ! I have burned many a light, Lach-
mann; I have seen the flame of many a light. But I
tell you : This light is different. — Do I frighten you at
all, Lachmann?
Lachmann. No. What should I be frightened of?
Kjiamer (rising). There are people who take fright. But
I am of the opinion, Lachmann, that one should know
, no fear in this world . . . Love, it is said, is strong
as death. But you may confidently reverse the saying :
Death is as gentle as love, Lachmann. I tell you that
death has been maligned. That is the worst imposture
in the world. Death is the mildest form of life : the
masterpiece of the Eternal Love. [He opens the great
window. The chimes of evenfall are ringing softly.
He is shaken as by frost.] All this life is a fever —
now hot, now cold. — Ye did the same to the Son of
God! Ye do it to him today even as then! Today,
even as then, he will not die! . . . The chimes are
speaking, do you not hear them? They are telling a
story to the folk on the streets — the story of me and
of my son. They are saying that neither of us is a
lost soul ! You can hear their speech clearly, word for
word. Today it has come to pass ; this day is the day.
— The chime is more than the church, Laclmaann, the
call to the table more than the bread. — [His eye falls
upon the death-mask of Beethoven. He takes it doum
\ and, contemplating it, continues :] Where shall we
I land? Whither are we driven? Why do we cry our
cries of joy into the immense incertitude — we mites
abandoned in the infinite? As though we knew whither
we are tending!' Thus you cried too! And did you
know — even you? There is nothing in it of mortal
feasts ! Nor is it the heaven of the parsons ! It is not
this and it is not that. What . . . (he stretches out
his hands to heaven) . . . what will it be in the end?
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THE CONTEMPORARY GERMAN LYRIC
By Paul H. Grummann, A.M.
Professor of Modern German Literature, University of Nebraska
[INGE the days of Schiller and Goethe Germany
has been conscious of a cultural unity. The
whole course of her history during the nine-
teenth century is marked by attempts to as-
sert this unity through political devices vary-
ing from a federation of states to a German republic.
Political unification was finally accomplished at the hands
of Bismarck by means of the wars of 1864, 1866, and 1870.
The exultation arising from three successful wars and the
fulfilment of the national yearning of a century would have
been sufficient causes for an era of quickened literary
activity.
But Germany was destined to have more than a literature
of national rejuvenation, for this rejuvenation came at a
time when the most remarkable social, economic, and ethical
transformations were at hand and, in consequence, Germany
has produced a literature which will stand out as epoch-
making in the modern world. The reasons for this excep-
tional literary activity are not quite so accidental as might
appear at first sight. For a century Germany had occu-
pied the front rank in scientific research. After the suc-
cessful wars, it grew in financial resources and became in-
toxicated with the spirit of initiative. In a very short time
agrarian Gennany became an industrial Germany. This
change involved a reconstruction of its economic and social
life unparalleled in its history. The appearance of a new
money aristocracy and a new caste of industrial wage-earn-
ers raised a large number of vital problems.
Spiritually, an equally portentous revolution was prepar-
ing. Metaphj^sics had run its course from Kant through
Fichte, Schelling, and Hegel to Schopenhauer. Not without
[281]
V
282 THE GERMAN CLASSICS
a certain influence from Germany's unsuccessful experi-
ments at political regeneration, this movement had ended
in complete pessimism. This pessimism found its most
complete expression in the neo-romantic literature with its
devotion to the doctrine of art for art's sake. Sometimes
this pessimism was open and avowed, as in Hamerling, and
again it was more veiled, more subconscious, as in Wagner.
But a new German Weltanschauung was developing in
an entirely new field. The evolutionary theory of Darwin
found enthusiastic advocates in Germany. Ernst Haeckel
not only accepted it, but did much to fortify it scientifically.
What is most important, he pointed out the possibilities of
the evolutionary theory in new fields of thought and made
it possible for Wundt to do his important work in evolu-
tionary psychology. The direct result was that science was
transferred from a metaphysical to a psychological basis
and religion itself now came to be viewed from this angle.
It was greatly to be feared that under such circumstances
the prevailing philosophy might become deterministic. If
man was to be viewed as the result of an evolutionary proc-
ess modified by his environment, his own initiative might
readily seem a negligible quantity. Such a deterministic
attitude was clearly the result of evolutionary ethics in
England, where the doctrine of the survival of the fittest
was interpreted as applicable to man in a special sense only.
Evolution did not become a spur to activity, but was ac-
cepted as an assurance that '' somehow good must be the
final goal of ill."
Fortunately for Germany, a thinker appeared who read
the lessons of evolution in a more positive manner. What-
ever we may think of some of the details of Nietzsche's
philosophy, it does remain true that he had the power of
transforming the thought of a whole generation.
Instead of passively complying with the laws of evolu-
tion, Nietzsche insisted that we take an active part in them.
Instead of looking backward, he enjoined us to look for-
ward. Instead of accepting static laws, he taught us to
THE CONTEMPORARY GERMAN LYRIC 283
apply the law of growth. Instead of accepting man in his
present state, he preached the development of the over-man
— a stronger, better disciplined, more effective man than
the man of today. In the general shipwreck of moral cri-
teria, Nietzsche pointed the way to a more substantial and
robuster morality.
It is true that a considerable number of weaklings seized
the fringes of Nietzsche's philosophy and made it a pass-
port for libertinism. They liked the external aspects of
his blond beasts, and emulated them without heeding the
gospel of the superman. Deplorable as this by-product of
the movement may be, it should not blind us to the fact that
Nietzsche's influence is present in a positive form in most
of the remarkable poetry which has been produced in this
generation.
The tremendous influence of Nietzsche at once becomes
apparent when we compare the contemporary literature of
Germany with the foreign literature which preceded it. It
differs from the naturalism of Zola, it differs from the in-
dividualistic, critical analysis of Ibsen, it is completely at
odds with Tolstoy and it has even grown away from the
psychology of Dostoyevski.
The influence which it exerted was not always felt di-
rectly. At first sight Detlev von Liliencron might be re- /
garded as the very counterpart of Nietzsche. But in another
sense he is a partial fulfilment of Nietzsche's prophecy.
He is militant, optimistic, self-assertive and robust. Far
from being a casual singer of battle songs, he has a singu-
larly quick eye for modem life in all of its aspects. What
he sees he casts into poems of charming simplicity and plas-
tic reality. In the matter of diction he has been a source of
strength to his generation. This becomes apparent at once
when we compare his sturdy sentences with the German of
Wagner. In the case of Wagner we have an attempt to
create a pure German shorn of foreign elements, but no
one but half mythical stage characters would ever think of
using it. In the case of Liliencron we have a language
284 THE GERMAN CLASSICS
which, with all of its simplicity, is instinct with life — a
language which people and poets alike are glad to imitate.
But Liliencron may justly be regarded a transition type.
The new movement more consciously asserted itself in the
works of Heinrich and Julius Hart, Michael Georg Conrad
and Hermann Conradi. But in all of these writers there
was more promise than accomplishment. Arno Holz may
be regarded the first important figure of contemporary Ger-
man literature, and since he proclaimed himself the apostle
of the new movement he affords a convenient point of
departure.
With the self-assurance and dash of Heine, Holz pub-
lished a series of lyrics that arrested the attention of the
thoughtful. He broke completely with the neo-romantic
pessimists and glorified the now and here. Instead of look-
ing for poetical material in the old pastoral fields, he made
the modern city the background of his songs. Technically
he also broke with the past by demanding new poetic forms.
In this connection two writers clearly influenced Holz and
a number of his followers. The irregular metres of Whit-
man, so- instinct with life and energy, appealed to the young
writers, and Ibsen's complete rupture with metrical form
also played its part. The most important innovation of
Holz, however, remains his utilization of psychology. This
is clearer in his Papa Hamlet and Familie Selicke than in
his lyrics. Since the two former works had been written in
conjunction with Johnannes Schlaf, much of the credit for
this achievement may be due to him.
Holz did not confine himself to the writing of lyrics and
dramas, but also ventured forth upon the field of esthetics.
In a rather brief essay, Art, its Essence and Laws (1890),
he attempted to define the nature of art. Railing at the
voluminous writings of the philosophers, he attempted to
go directly to the core of the whole matter by asserting that
art is nature — the means of reproducing nature. Under
the second term of his equation he included the personality
of the artist and the means of representation, or the artis-
THE CONTEMPORARY GERMAN LYRIC 285
tic medium employed. As a corollary he stated that art is
never identical with nature, that it has the tendency to re-
approach nature, that it cannot equal nature, but can only
approximate it. After the publication of this essay crit-
icisms appeared from many sources; these in turn evoked
a reply on the part of Holz which was thoroughly char-
acteristic of the man. He wrote himself down as a bril-
liant but narrow iconoclast. He delivered the evidence upon
which he can conveniently be judged, for the deficiencies of
his esthetic essay have turned out to be his deficiencies as
a poet.
The deficiencies become at once apparent when one com-
pares his essay with the works of Volkelt, Elster, and
Lange. These writers study art in its relation to life, and
do not manipulate it to suit a mathematical formula. They
approach the question in a large, comprehensive manner
and are able to correlate poetic activity with other artistic
and rational activities, thus restoring it to a commanding-
position in life. By ignoring the narrow polemic side they
are able to do really constructive work. Thus Elster has
given us a -psychological basis for the study of literature,
and Lange has taught us the value of the artistic illusion.
Elster has promoted criticism; Lange has given a stimulus
to artistic activity which even the most critical artist can
accept with gratitude. Holz failed because he confined him-
self in polemic limitations from the outset.
A man so constituted may give evidence of a noisy ado-
lescence, but he is not likely to achieve a fertile maturity.
Holz may have prepared the way, but other writers who had
a larger view of life have completely eclipsed him. This is
conspicuously true of the drama, in which Hauptmann,
Schnitzler, Halbe, and Ernt Rosmer (Else Berastein)
showed possibilities of growth unknown to liim. It is
equally true of the lyric, where Hauptmann, Dehmel, Hesse,
Rilke and Isolde Kurz have overshadowed him.
We are so accustomed to view Hauptmann merely as a
dramatist that we forget his solid accomplishments in the
286 THE GERMAN CLASSICS
lyric. It will be remembered tbat he cast his first works in
verse. In Hannele the lyric impulse again asserts itself,
and in The Sunken Bell it breaks forth with elemental force.
The lyrical portions of The Sunken Bell enable us to ac-
count for Hauptmann's success in comparison with Holz's
failure. Here the lyric is an outgrowth of the popular con-
sciousness, not a thing artificially constituted. It involves
Schiller's distinction between " the Naive and the Senti-
mental/' It is the difference between Heine and Goethe.
But Hauptmann's lyrical development does not stop with
The Sunken Bell. It deepens and broadens in the later
dramas. Henry von Aiie, Pippa dances and Griselda give
evidence of continued growth in this direction.
But the greatest lyrical genius of the period, and one of the
)C greatest since Goethe, is Richard Dehmel. His first poems,
like those of Holz, were strongly reminiscent of Heine. They
showed the same spirit of rebellion — they were not free
from a certain iconoclasm. Moreover, they cut a great
breach into our conventions and reasserted the right of the
individual to happiness. But it soon became apparent that
the deeper lessons of Nietzsche and other intellectual lead-
ers of modern Germany had been acquired by him. He no
longer espoused the bibulous, complacent joyousness of
Bodenstedt and Soheffel, but a joy that springs from the
rational mastering of the environment. Self -culture is al-
most a dominant note in his poetry. In his erotic poems,
which occupy a surprisingly large share of his pages, there
is also a new note. We might almost say that the poet has
consistently applied Nietzsche's philosophy to the problem
of sex — a thing that Nietzsche himself failed signally to
do when he failed to include the superwoman in his pro-
gram. According to Dehmel woman has the same innate
rights to happiness and self -direction as man. Not every
woman is by nature divine, but, just as in the case of man,
she shows transitions from the lowest to the highest, cul-
minating in modern times in a type including both Venus
and the Madonna. The realism of Dehmel is at times shock-
THE CONTEMPORARY GERMAN LYRIC 287
ing, but it is exhibited over so wide a range that its effect is
distinctly wholesome. This is particularly true in an age
when man is alternately proclaimed by social theorists a
paragon and a beast. Dehmel clearly points out that he is
an eternally varying combination of the two.
Germans have frequently been in danger of lapsing into
mawkish sentimentalism — Gefiihlsduselei. This tendency
was most pronounced during the Storm and Stress, the
Romantic and the Neo-romantic movements. The reactions
to these movements have generally been marked by a shal-
low, sterile rationalism. Such a period seemed to be fore-
shadowed in the writings of David Friedrich Strauss, and
it is one of Nietzsche's greatest services to German Liter-
ature that he pointed out the viciousness of Strauss 's in-
fluence. Nietzsche insisted that Strauss robbed the universe
of its tantalizing mystery and suggestiveness, and therefore
caused individual effort to stagnate. Man's duty is to con-
tinue to work at the riddles and to find ever new ones to
take the place of those already solved. Here again Dehmel
is the fulfilment of Nietzsche. He shows us a world full
of mysteries, and exhorts us to fathom them to the best of
our ability. Instead of discrediting the feelings, as did
Strauss, he stresses their importance ; instead of divorcing
them from our rational activity, he never tires of linking our
intelligence with our feelings, making this union the basis
of a really robust initiative.
Independent in the use of metrical schemes, Dehmel
nevertheless gives the impression of classical finish. This
is due to the fact that he is a master in finding the proper
form for the thought which he wishes to convey. In diction
he is simple and clear. Many of his poems do require re-
peated reading in order to be understood, but the depth of
the conception and not the obscurity of the statement en-
gages the activity of the reader. It is too early to venture
upon a final statement of Dehmel 's work. Goethe has re-
mained Germany's supreme lyricist because he continued
to broaden and deepen up to his death. One at times doubts
288 THE GERMAN CLASSICS
Delimel's ability to live up to this promise, but there is
clearly no one on the horizon today who threatens to eclipse
him.
Of the many poets who resemble Dehmel in a general way,
two deserve special attention. Although Carl Busse lacks
the virility and versatility of Dehmel, a perusal of his works
will lead to the conclusion that many of his superb mood-
pictures wdll find a permanent place in the national lyric.
Less turbulent than Dehmel, but endowed with the same
instinct for fathoming feelings and defining moods, is Her-
mann Hesse. His poems are of rare beauty, and all of
them show a mastery of inner and outer form. He has im-
pressed his individuality upon each one of 'his works with-
out obtruding it upon them. It is too early to say what may
be expected of him ; as yet his interests and his outlook are
confined, but the quality of work which he has produced up
to the present warrants the hope that he may become one
of the most interesting poets of the period.
Although Gustav Falke has been accorded recognition in
this group of poets, it is doubtful whether he will maintain
his present ratings. His poetry shows many character-
istics of modernism. The themes are striking and vital,
the langTiage is terse, vigorous and direct, but the metrical
resources of the poet are limited. This is particularly sur-
prising because Falke is primarily a musician. For a
similar reason Otto Julius Bierbaum will probably fail to
make a lasting impression as a lyricist. Unlike Falke,
Bierbaum has attempted many metrical forms, but his
poems give the impression of experiments in a new field.
Heralded by a small group as a deliverer from natural-
ism, Stefan George has not been without influence. George's
poetry represents a conscious return to mysticism. He puts
his mystic thought into a mystic garb, and his publishers
have further mystified the products of his muse by print-
ing them in type that obtrudes itself between the poem and
the mind of the reader in a tantalizing manner. There is
more obscurity than in Bro\\aiing. It is difiicult to state
THE CONTEMPORARY GERMAN LYRIC 289
whether he himself had any rational conception of what
he wished to convey. To be sure, Professor Kummer has
found his poems reminiscent of Goethe's Divan and The
Hymns to Night by Novalis. The language is so individual-
istic that a special code of syntactical rules is necessary to
fathom it. Since the value of the subject matter remains
in doubt, it is a question whether it is really worth while to
acquire the new code in order to get to the core of the
matter.
Somewhat in harmony with the mystical tendency of
George, Rainer Maria Rilke avoids the pose of that writer.
Retiring and sensitive, he developed along the lines lying
far away from the main current of thought in the period.
After he had turned in despair from the universities he
came into contact with a number of artists in Germany and
Italy. Later he entered into very close friendship with
Rodin, whose impress is to be found in his later poetry.
His poetry betrays a craving for a new spirituality. It is
singularly delicate and chaste, but lacks virility.
Although he was hailed as a leading spirit by some dis-
criminating critics, Alfred Mombert has failed to make a
strong impression upon his times. He is quite as indi-
vidualistic as Nietzsche, but his metaphysical bent has ren-
dered him comparatively ineffective as a poet. His fond-
ness for abstraction and his imagery are reminiscent of
Shelley, whose strong popular sympathies he does not, how-
ever, share.
A group of young writers in Vienna broke with natural-
ism; they lacked the ability, however, to launch a really
vigorous movement. Their poetry does not carry that con-
viction which grows out of actual experience and individual
effort. Hugo von Hofmannsthal is the most brilliant ex-
ponent of this group. He has devoted liimself especially
to the drama, and has produced work which gives evidenc-e
of astounding ability. His dramas have a marked lyrical
note, but upon further analysis it becomes evident that this
lyrical element lacks genuine feeling. It is pervaded by
Vol. XVin— 19
290 THE GERMAN CLASSICS
an artistic atmosphere acquired by idling in art museums
rather than in immediate contact with life.
Singularly out of tune with the prevailing spirit of prog-
ress is the note struck by Freiherr Borries von Miinchhau-
sen. His lapse to traditionalism is almost complete. A de-
scendant of the old nobility, he glorifies the old landed aris-
tocracy with its vices as well as its virtues. He loves war
— looks upon it as the regenerative force of the nation. He
recasts much heroic ballad material without giving it a
really new significance. His lyrics, however, are charged
with genuine emotion. He has shown such a marvelous de-
velopment in simplicity and directness of appeal that he
must be considered one of the most promising poets of
the day.
The literary activity of women has been quite remark-
able in the present generation. Especially in the early
years it had many of the ear-marks of newly acquired lib-
erties. It sometimes reeked with excesses which, with all
of our modernism, shocks us particularly when it comes
from the pen of a woman. But the work of the most signifi-
cant poetesses shows a growth in naturalness^ a diminu-
tion of fitful hyperbole — in a word a greater sanity, greater
self-control.
'/ The most conspicuous figure among the women of the
period is Ricarda Huch. Her fame properly rests upon
her novels rather than her poems. Strong as a pioneer in
the new fields of thought. Alberta von Puttkammer and
Marie Janitschek deserve a large share of recognition. The
vigorous, sane, and clearly conceived poetry of Anna Ritter
gives evidence of the new spirit present in literary women.
In Isolde Kurz, however, we have the best representative
of the woman lyricist. Without violating the best tradi-
tions of her sex she is able to grapple with the deepest prob-
lems in a most interesting way; without the slightest senti-
mentalism she is able to portray those feminine sides of
life which women can more clearly reveal than men.
Johanna Ambrosius (Voigt), an obscure peasant woman
whose poetry was brought into vogue some years ago, has
THE CONTEMPORARY GERMAN LYRIC 291
lost the lialo wMoh, for a time, surrounded her. Although
the exaggerated praise which was temporarily bestowed
upon her must be tempered, her poetry does give evidence
of the rich inner life of the humble classes of German
society.
The German lyric in America has had a development
quite distinct from the currents in Germany. The civil war
enlisted the Germans in the anti-slavery cause. After that
issue had been settled a certain lethargy characterized Ger-
man literary efforts. Young Germans in America were
laying the foundations of material welfare, and the intel-
lectual and literary activity confined itself largely to at-
tacks upon American jingoism and to a propaganda for
liberal religious views. The attacks upon American jingo-
ism, well founded as they frequently were, had more than
a touch of jingoism about them, and the liberal religious ac-
tivity was narrow because it lost touch with the deeper
German and English thought. Worst of all, the writers
suffered the penalty of exiles. Uprooted from one civiliza-
tion, they did not gain a firm footing in the new world. They
found no distinct German consciousness to which they could
appeal. The Germans in America have been even more par-
ticularistic than their fathers in Germany before 1870.
They have been isolated by their American environment
and have not come under the inspiration of the new Empire.
Whether the conscious efforts to organize the German-
Americans will lead to a solidarity that may culminate in a
German-American culture Mdth a German-American liter-
ature is a question which the future must decide.
Fortunately, what happened in America did not happen
in Germany. Literary activity did not become confined in
narrow currents from which it could not rescue itself. There
was too much intellectual activity to make it possible to
foist programs upon it — socialistic, anarchistic, natural-
istic, or what not. Many forms of propaganda have helped
to enrich it ; but the writers who have clung to a propaganda
have been supplanted by men of wider fields and a deeper
furrow.
FERDINAND VON SAAR {/833-f906)
GIRLS SINGING*
PRING-TIME : in the evening shade
I was strolling through the vale —
All at once before me strayed
Gentle sounds across the dale.
I drew nearer ; all serene
Two were sitting hand in hand —
Maidens as by day are seen
Working in the furrowed land.
And their faces both were brown
From the kissing sunbeams' glow;
Underneath each ragged gown
Bare a sun-burnt foot would show.
But they sang, their heads held high,
Songs that from their bosoms sprang
To the stars that lit the sky,
Sang, and knew not how they sang.
Thus they sang the old, old lays
All of love, its joy and pain.
Heedless, seeking no one's praise, —
Through the wide and lonely plain.
Translator : Margarete Munsterberg. '
[292]
^4t... ^3=^
FERDINAND VON SAAR
DETLEV VON LILIENCRON (1844-1909)
WAR AND PEACE*
ID flower-beds I chanced to stand,
And gazed upon a gorgeous land
That blooming wide before me lay
Beneath the harvest sun's hot ray.
And in the apple-tree's fair shade
My host and I together stayed
And listened to a nightingale,
And peace was over hill and dale.
There whizzed, the distant rails along,
A train that brought a happy throng.
What magic! And besides it bore
Of blessed goods a heavy store.
But once I saw the iron track
Destroyed and torn for miles. Alack —
And here where flowers now abound
Was then a wild and stirred-up ground.
A summer morn was glowing bright,
Like this one; down from every height,
** With pack and knapsack all day long "
From ambuscades there poured a throng
Prepared to storm, a dazzling sea,
The army of the enemy.
I stood as though of iron cast.
Upon my sabre leaning, fast.
With lips apart and open-eyed
Into the mouth of hell I spied.
•' Quick fire! " '' Stand still! " Now they are
there !
High waves the flag through smoky air!
And up and down men rush in rows.
And many sink in deadly throes.
•Translator: Margarete Miinsterberg.
[203]
294 THE GERMAN CLASSICS
Now some one stabs me as I fall,
Stabs hard — I have no strength at all ;
Before, beneath me, round about,
A frightful struggle, rage and rout.
And o'er this tangle wild, in fear
I see a shying war-horse rear.
The hoof I see like lightning whir.
The clotted scar from pricking spur.
The girth, the spattered mud, the red
Of nostrils swelling wide with dread.
Between us now with clanging sound
The bomb-shell bursts its iron bound;
A dragon rears, the earth is rent,
Down falls the whole wide firmament.
They wail and moan, and dust is spread
Upon the laurels and the dead.
'Mid flower-beds I chanced to stand
And gazed upon a gorgeous land
That far and wide before me lay
Beneath the peace-fan's lulling sway.
And in the apple-tree's fair shade
My host and I together stayed
And barkened to the nightingale.
And roses bloomed on hill and dale.
PARTING AND RETURN *
All over, over — and my eyes
Afar are straying in despair.
All over — but the sea-gull flies.
My plaintive escort, through the air.
Translator: Margarete Miinsterberg.
DETLEV VON LILIENCRON
LILIENCRON: POEMS 295
The gull returns : far, far away
I leave my fatherland behind,
An outcast from my home I stray
Where I my grave had hoped to find.
When yesterday, in parting pain,
Enraged the linden bough I shook,
And heard the partridge in the grain,
A fever-spell my limbs o'ertook.
My ship is pitching, tossed by waves,
The mates are singing while they sail ;
My heart is tossed, it storms and raves,
And homeless, I must feel the gale.
II
*Mid waves there gleams the pallid strand,
Afar through blurring tears is seen
The sea-coast of my fatherland ;
Exhausted, by the mast I lean.
The lilacs bloom, the swallows stray,
The starlings' chatter fills the air.
The organ-grinder grinds his lay.
The wind's light kiss is on my hair.
Before the guard-house soldiers stand.
And arm in arm laugh damsels young,
While from the school there pours a band
That frolic in my native tongue.
My heart cries out in rapture wild,
Rejoicing my old home to greet,
And all I lived with as a child
Like echoes on my ways I meet.
296 THE GERMAN CLASSICS
FLOWRETS*
Little blossoms, unpretentious flowrets,
From the forest border or the meadow,
Red and white and blue and yellow flowrets
Did I gather as I wandered homeward.
Happy memories of youth came back then;
In the fields the grass was softly waving.
From an alder bush the goldfinch warbled, —
What a world of innocence he sang there
For us two !
Many years now have your hands been weaving
Strings of pearls and roses in your tresses.
Sweetlier though the little flowers adorned you,
Dearest wife, which once we used to gather, —
I and you!
THE NEW RAILROAD*
The skull cries out: " I'm an ambassador,
I am a baron, and 'twas I that made
The treaty between Germany and Holland.
Who 's this that shakes my marble casket so ?
Who breaks the lid? Is't Resurrection Day I
The commonest clodhoppers, a pack of slaves
Have torn away the ribbon from my breast.
The brave blue Order of the Elephant.
Besides, the picture of my gracious master,
Of Frederick the Fifth, that noble king!
Painted on ivory, carried next my heart.
And given me by himself in careless hour, —
They're stealing that from me, the jailbird crew ! "
But none the less for that the railroad gang
(The vault being now officially condemned)
Laugh at the outcry of the ancient skull.
• Translator : Charles Wharton Stork.
I
LILIENCRON: POEMS 297
One of them gives the royal miniature
To Pock-faced Lizzie of the camp saloon
Who deals in drink and lodging for the night.
Then, decorated with the picture, she
Appears on Sunday at the navvies' ball.
The skull cries out: *' I'm an ambassador,
I am a baron, and 'twas I that made
The treaty between Germany and Holland."
That doesn't help him, for the drunken crowd
Raise him aloft upon the tail-board plank
Snatched from a sand-cart as it rumbles past.
Later he serves them for a game of ball.
The skull cries out: *' I'm an ambassador,
I am a baron, and 'twas I that made
The treaty between Germany and Holland."
That doesn't help him. When at last they tire
They throw him to a dead cat in the dirt.
The skull cries out: '' I'm an ambassador,
I am a baron, and 'twas I that made
The treaty between Germany and Holland."
That doesn't help him, for his voice is drowned
By the first whistle of the new express.
PRINCE EMIL VON SCHONAICH-CAROLATH
(1 85 2- f 908)
OH GERMANY!*
^GERMAN town with gables
Upon a moonlight night —
I know not why I always
Am touched so by the sight.
Into his lamplight yonder
A youth is staring long,
He's sighing, sobbing, feeling
His first and dearest song.
There sits a youthful mother
And rocks to rest her child,
She's praying while she rocks him
To sleep with singing mild.
There rest on the moonlit gables
An old man's pensive eyes,
He holds in his hands a Bible
Where a faded nosegay lies.
The twinkling stars are gleaming.
There's rustling in the trees;
The houses all seem dreaming
In deep and drowsy ease.
The fountain is splashing, flowing
As always on Simon Square,
The watchman low is blowing
Upon the horn his air. . . .
* Translator : Margarete Miinsterberg.
[298]
PRINCE EMIL \"0N SCHONAICH-CAROLATH
SCHONAICH— CAROLATH : POEMS 299
Oh Germany! I've had pleasure
In many a foreign land —
But to thee greatest treasure
Was given by God's own hand.
Thou living, longing foundest
Thy dreams in deepest peace.
Though thou thine iron poundest
Thy songs shall never cease.
Let no one rob thy worship —
Thy worship old and true
Of women, faith and freedom.
And keep it ever new!
Draw from the fount of story
Thy piety of yore,
And strength to fight with glory —
Today and evermore.
GUSTAV FALKE (1853- )
A DAY SPENT*
EANING head on hand, I muse : oh tell,
Day of beauty, have I used thee well I
I First upon my wife's dear lips a kiss,
Love's salute and early morning bliss.
Faithful toil, for daily bread the care,
Men's dispute in words that do not spare.
Then I quaffed my glass with true delight,
Warded off a wicked wish with might.
From eternal stars with blessed beam
Comes to me at last the poet's dream.
Leaning head on hand, I muse and tell :
Day of beauty, I have used thee well.
WHEN I DIE*
Upon my forehead lay your crimson roses,
In festive garment from you I would go,
The w^indows open till the light reposes
Upon my bed — the starlight's smiling glow.
And music ! While your songs are still enthralling,
And one by one the parting cup you drink,
Then I would have my curtain slowly falling,
As summer nights on ripened harvests sink.
* Translator: Margarete Miinsterberg.
[300]
GUSTAV FALKE
ISOLDE KURZ {1853- )
NEXROPOLIS*
CITY is standing in the waves
That rose from deepest lair,
There each of the houses the water laves
And kisses each marble stair ;
There palaces stand in their glory's pride
And gilded is pillar and wall,
But over the battlements far and wide
Destruction is brooding for all.
Translator :
No sound of wheel or of hoof is known
The lion to wake from his dream.
But low from the Lido the night-winds moan
And sea-gulls ocean-wards scream.
The moon makes silver the silent tide,
The gondolas glide their way.
And sea-weeds on the water ride —
Like storm-tossed corpses stray.
Oh pearl, thou of all in the deep most fair,
Thou beauty out of the sea,
Where are thy daughters with golden hair
Thy sons oh where may they be?
And where is thy splendor, the gleam of thy
gold.
That all the earth would dread?
The arts that so many a heart would hold?
Where is thy realm? With the dead.
Margarete Miinsterberg.
[301]
302 THE GERMAN CLASSICS
By night, though, the greatest canal along
Where flickering night-lights play
Rise sounds like whisp'ring and amorous song
Of shades that deserted stray.
Frolicking swarms of masks whirl round
Upon the piazza near by,
And clashing swords on the Riva resound;
The masts are dark'ning the sky.
It seems as if from the night and deep
Had risen the Venice of old.
The sea-wind wakes and the wave from sleep,
Her corpse to rock and to hold.
The sea is rising, with passionate arms
There by the canal-bed to cling.
As if the young spouse with his kisses and charms
To beauty new life should bring.
ISOLDE KURZ
RICHARD DEHMEL (1863- )
THROUGH THE NIGHT*
UT ever you, this sombre you,
Through all the night this hollow soaring
Of sound — and through the wires a roaring ;
The homeward road my steps pursue.
And pace for pace this sombre you,
As if from pole to pole 'twere soaring;
Of thousand w^ords I hear a roaring,
And dumb my homeward road pursue.
FROM AN OPPRESSED HEART*
And still the roses gleam for me,
The sombre leaves their tremor keep;
Here in the grass I wake from sleep.
I long for thee,
For now the midnight is so deep.
The moon's behind the garden-gate.
Her light o 'erflows the lake with gloss,
And silently the willows wait.
On clover damp my limbs I toss ;
And never was my love so great !
So well I ne'er before had known
When I embraced thy shoulder dear.
Thy inmost self felt blindly near.
Why thou, when I had overflown,
Wouldst moan so from a heart of fear.
Translator: Margarete Miinsterberg.
[303]
304 THE GERMAN CLASSICS
Oh now, oh hadst thou seen this glow — I
The creeping pair of glow-worms ' flame !
Ah, nevermore from thee I'll go!
I long for thee.
And stiU the roses gleam for me.
WAVE DANCE SONG*
I TOSSED a rose into the sea,
A blooming fair rose into the green sea.
Because the sun shone, sun shone bright,
After it, leaped the light.
With hundred tremulous toes in glee.
When the first wave came.
Then my rose, my rose began to drown.
When the second wave raised it on shoulders tame.
The light, the light at her feet sank down.
The third snatched it up and then the light
As if in defence, leaped high tremblingly.
But a hundred leaping flower petals
Were rocking red, red, red round me.
And my boat danced about
And my shadow like a spright
On the foam, and the green sea, the sea —
MANY A NIGHT*
When the night on fields is sinking,
Then my eyes can see more brightly :
Now my star begins its blinking,
Crickets' whispers grow more sprightly.
Every sound becomes more glowing.
Things accustomed now seem queerer.
Paler too the skies are growing
Near the woods, the tree-tops clearer.
Translator: Margarete Miinsterberg.
RICHARD DEHMEL; POEMS. 305
Meditating, never heeding
How the myriad lights are showered
Out of darkness, on I'm speeding —
Till I stop all overpowered.
VOICE IN DARKNESS*
There's moaning somewhere in the dark.
I want to know what it may be.
The wind is angry with the night.
Yet the wind's moan sounds not so near.
The wind will always moan at night.
'Tis in my ear my blood that moans,
My blood, forsooth.
Yet not so strangely moans my blood.
My blood is tranquil like the night.
I think a heart must moan somewhere.
THE WORKMAN*
We have a bed and we have a child,
My wife!
And work we 've for two all our own to call.
And rain and the wind and the sunshine mild ;
We are lacking now but one thing small
To be as free as the birds so wild:
Time — that's all!
When on Sundays through the fields we go,
My child,
And see how the swallows to and fro
Are shooting over the grain-stalks tall,
Oh, we lack not clothes, though our share is small,
To be as fair as the birds so wild:
Time — that's all!
Translator: Margarete Miinsterberg.
Vol. XVI 11—20
306 THE GERMAN CLASSICS
But time ! We 're scenting a tempest wild,
We people!
Eternity our own to call,
Else we 've no lack, my wife, my child,
Save all that blooms through us, the small,
To be as bold as the birds so wild:
Time— that's all!
THE GOLDFINCH*
The sunlight stabs; a thistle plot
Gleams in the noontide still and hot.
Above the wide and jagged mere
Of leaves the stalks are lifting sheer
Their heads of purple.
Across the foliage iron-gray
A bright bird hops and hops away
Amid the host without a fear,
Blithely, as though no thorn were here
A little goldfinch.
He flirts his tail and whirs his wing.
Then comes a breeze with gentle swing
From blossom-spear to blossom-spear
And shakes the shadows far and near ;
Off darts the goldfinch.
I too go onward free of doubt.
Behold the bright world round about.
And pass through life without a fear
As if no thorn could trouble here
Our glad existence.
Translator : diaries Wharton Stork.
RICHARD DEHMEL
RICHAED DEHMEL: POEMS. 307
THE BIG MERRY-GO-ROUND*
(A Song for a Child.)
A MERRY-GO-ROUND is in the sky
That's turning night and day,
Fast as a dream it whirls on high
So bright we cannot see it fly,
All formed of light's pure ray, —
Hark, little rogue, I say.
Listen, it takes the stars along
That up in heaven gleam.
Through space it bears them swift and strong,
And as it goes it makes a song
So delicate we only seem
To hear the music in a dream.
In dreams we hear it from afar.
From heaven with brightness crowned.
How glad, you rogue, your dreams then are.
And we turn with it on a star ;
Never too fast, we've found.
Goes the big merry-go-round !
*Tranela*or: Charles Wharton Stork.
ARNO HOLZ {1863- )
LIKE ONE OF THESE WAS HE
N the woods is a village small
Lying in the sunshine's gold,
By the hill-side house, the last of all,
Sits a woman old, so old.
She sits and spins no more,
Her thread slips to her feet,
She thinks on the days of yore
And sinks into slumber sweet.
Noon-day steals with quiet deep
O'er the glimmering green, and now
Even thrush and cricket sleep
And the steer before the plough.
All at once they're marching by,
Gleaming the woods along.
Ahead of the soldiers fly
Drum-beats and fifes' gay song.
And to the song of Bliicher brave,
* ' They 're here ! ' ' cries the village gay.
And all the little maidens wave
And the boys cry out: " Hurrah! "
God bless the harvest gold.
And all the wide world too.
The Emperor's soldiers bold
The fields are marching through I
[308]
ARNO HOLZ
ARNO HOLZ: POEMS 309
Turning round by the hill-side near,
Where the last house seems to smile,
See, the first in the woods disappear,
And the old woman wakes meanwhile.
So heavy her heart is growing
In deepest reverie,
Her tears are flowing, flowing :
* * Like one of these was he. ' '
OTTO JULIUS BIERBAUM {J 865- )
ENOUGH *
KNIGHT rode through the ripened gram,
No spurs he had and loose his rein.
^)j/ '^^^ horse that feasted on his walk
ffim^^^^m Snatched many a ripe and yellow stalk.
J agatcg_2 rpj^^ dazzliug summer sunlight's beam
Upon the black steel cast a gleam,
Upon the horseman's armor rough;
One word was on his shield: Enough,
His lance stayed cross-wise all the way,
His iron hand upon it lay.
When to a spring his course had led,
He took the helmet off his head.
He knelt upon the stony sand,
Drew water with his iron hand.
And then he let the water go,
And tenderly he watched its flow:
My heart in fight and fray was hot.
And love at all times left me not.
Now home I ride with gentle pace.
And bring a smile upon my face :
Enough.
* Translator : Margarete Miinsterberg.
[310]
OTTO JULIUS BIERBAUM
STEFAN GEORGE {1868-
THE SHEPHERD'S DAY*
HE flocks were trudging from their winter
haunts.
Their youthful shepherd once again went
forth
Upon the plain illumined by the stream.
The freshly wakened fields waved greetings gay
And singing lands were hailing him with joy.
He smiled unto himself and walked along
With wakening heart, upon the spring-touched ways.
Upon his crook he leaped across the ford,
And, as he halted at the other shore,
Rejoiced to see the gold that waves had washed
From underneath the stones, and fragile shells
Of many shapes and tints that promised luck.
The bleating of his lambs he heard no more.
And wandered to the woods, the cool ravine.
There brooks are rushing headlong down the rocks —
The rocks where mosses drip and naked roots
Of sombre beeches darkly intertwine.
In silent contemplation of the leaves
He fell asleep although the sun was high
And silver scales were glistening in the stream.
He. woke and climbing reached the mountain peak
To celebrate the passing of the light.
With sacred leaves he crowned his head and prayed
And through the mild and gently stirring shadows
Of darkening clouds soared forth his hearty lay.
TranBlator: Margarete Miin&terberg.
[311]
312 THE GERMAN CLASSICS
THE VIGIL*
Within the chapel quivers candle-light.
And there the page his vigil keeps alone
Before the altar's threshold all the night.
I shall partake, when morning dawneth bright,
Of all that solemn glory yet unknown
n
When by one stroke I shall be dubbed a knight.
My childhood longing hushed, I shall not swerve
From deeds of rigor, with my spurs and might
Devoted in the good war I will serve.
For this new honor I must now prepare :
The consecration of my sword unstained
Before God's altar and the symbol there,
The testimony of high worth attained.
J J
There his forefather's image gray and old
Reposed and slender vaults rose overhead.
Trustfully clasped his hands lay stony cold.
Upon his breast there was a banner spread.
His eyes are darkened by the helmet's shade.
A cherub spreading wide his pinions pale
Holds over him the shield with coat of mail:
Upon an azure field the flaming blade.
The youth is praying to the Lord above
And breaks the narrow bounds of prayer with feeling,
His hands devoutly clasped as he is kneeling.
Then slowly into thoughts of pious love
An earthly image unawares is stealing.
•Translator: Margarete Miinsterberg.
STEFAN GEORGE
f
1
STEFAN GEORGE: POEMS 313
** She stood among her garden gilly-flowers,
She was much less a maiden than a child.
Upon her gown were broidered starry showers,
About her golden hair the sunlight smiled."
He shudders, and he longs in his dismay
To flee the vision that he deems a snare;
His hands he buries in his curly hair
And makes the sign that lets no evil stay.
The blood is rushing hot into his cheek,
The candle-flames shoot lightnings in his face.
But now he sees the Lady Mother meek,
Upon her lap the Saviour giving grace.
<<
I will forever in Thine army serve
And all my life no other aim will seek.
And from Thy high commandment never swerve.
Forgive if for the last time I was weak."
Out from the snow-white altar's covered chest
A swarm of little angels' faces poured,
And as the organ's sacred murmur grew.
The Valiant's innocence, the Dead's deep rest
With tranquil clearness through the whole house soared.
LULU VON STRAUSS UNO TORNEY
{1873- )
THE SEAFARER*
HE ship was bursting with a mighty crash.
Ablaze were bow and deck and every mast.
The old boat pitching rose to port : a splash —
A surging of gray waves — the gale's shrill
blast —
Thundering orders — prayers — then cry on cry —
A blow, a headlong fall — God stand me by ! —
Down, down. Black night upon all senses fell.
Mate, fill my glass ! This yarn is long to tell.
'T was in the deep I saw — I saw that sight.
They have no day down there, they have no night.
The sand is shimmering green. There planks lie
scattered,
A giant mast in livid splinters shattered.
And up from pallid vines rise bubbles whirling —
From vines that evermore are swaying, curling,
Their long and wary tendril-arms unfurling.
And glistening shells among the wreckage lie
That snap without a sound when prey floats by.
And there are fish with lustre livid pale
That beat their tails transparent as a veil.
A restless host is wandering on down there,
A thousand thousand, an unnumbered band :
Their hands are stiff, their eyes unseeing stare.
With leaden feet they wade across the sand,
•Translator: Margarete Miinsterberg.
[314]
LULU VON STRAUSS UND TORNEY: POEMS 315
Way-farers lost without a path or way —
Blue-jackets, grimy fellows, women folding
Limp arms round languid babes that they are holding —
That lived on sunken ships; forlorn they stray,
Their names are lost, they wear strange garbs of yore : —
All those who went and then returned no more.
I saw them all, like pallid phantoms pass,
As though I watched them through a blurring glass.
One beckoned dumbly as he passed me by,
And so I followed him, I knew not why.
The way was endless, and it grew and grew.
Our feet were tired and they stumbled too.
And him who fell, his helping neighbor raised.
A woman slipped and when I helped her, dazed
She hung upon my neck, a load of lead.
Deep blue abysses gaped. And overhead.
Like clouds upon the water gray and pale,
The shadows passed of many a giant whale.
One man I looked at more than all the rest.
His languid head hung limp upon his breast,
And then I knew old Peter Jens, the rover,
Who once went overboard, at night by Dover.
I gently pulled his ragged shirt to say —
And then my voice seemed strange and far away — :
*' Where are you bound? " — He looked with glassy eye:
< < Y/e 're seeking, seeking, seeking ! ' ' his reply.
"What are you seeking, Jens?" — He answered:
''Land!"—
Then all about who with us crept and drifted.
Their weary, pale and anguished faces lifted.
A wailing trembled all along the sand.
Yet all at once my power seemed to gain.
I turned about with mighty voice to call
Unto this lifeless, ever wandering train :
** Now courage! Follow me! God leads us all! "
316 THE GERMAN CLASSICS
My heart was quickened and it beat again,
And ever through the void all pale and still
I was drawn onward by an unknown will, —
Behind me crept that endless gloomy train.
How long a time elapsed, I did not know.
At times the darkness fainter seemed to grow —
The gloom that hung about on every hand —
And on the hard and livid waves of sand
Something arose quite near that seemed like land —
Within our grasp ! And then again it faded.
The ugly brood that lurks within the deep
Pursued us lazily. Then faint and jaded.
Lost in the mighty void, we cannot keep .
Our courage, stifled all our hopes must cease —
No morning dawns ! Ah, there is no release !
Wherefore this torment?
Faint they reeled and stayed
Worn out, beneath the everlasting shade.
Where art Thou, God? I cried, but no sound made. —
— Now, now : a point ! A sudden glimmer bright !
A crevice burst — a flood of light was gleaming.
The earth and sky with golden glow were streaming ! —
Salvation ! Hail ! A rushing for the light !
I hurled the woman up unto the strand
And staggered, with my last force crying: Land!
Here, mate ! My glass is empty. Fill it, lad !
What next? Why nothing. I can tell no more.
I only know — the night was very bad —
They found me lying on the Scottish shore.
My ship? The wreck? God knows where that had
stranded.
All those who in the night with me had landed
Were dead and cold. They've found a resting-place:
A bit of earth, a cross. God give them grace !
Sometimes at night when there's a creaking, crashing
And when the whistling winds the yards are thrashing,
LULU VON STRAUSS UND TORNEY
LULU VON STRAUSS UND TORNEY: POEMS 317
Against the hatches angry waves are splashing —
Then it comes over me : to wander, wander
Forever with those thousand others yonder!
Many I've seen for years, but ever more
New-comers join — each night a mighty band!
Sometimes I find one whom I knew before ;
He nods and dumbly stretches out his hand.
And many a comrade in that silent throng
I've borne upon my back or dragged along.
I see them, all the sea did ever swallow ;
The others too I see : those yet to follow.
Many a youth who laughs with us today,
Upon whose heart no thoughts of dying weigh.
And step for step through all the night we go.
Deep, deep down there.
Jan Witt, ah, well you know,
No shaking then can wake me from my dream,
And should you shout to wake the dead, and scream.
But I come back at early dawn of day,
When in the east the blackness turns to gray;
Then I awake. My head is dull and weighs
Like lead. And then I cannot laugh for days.
Ho, fellows, why so dumb? A roundelay!
For what the morrow brings, who cares today?
Heads high and gay ! Our sailor 's custom keep !
We men, when we're at home or when we fare
On foreign seas, each day our shroud must wear.
And He above — He also knows the deep !
BORRIES VON MUNCHHAUSEN {1874- )
BALLAD OF THE WALL*
ONTETON, where is thy wall?
Chalengon, where is thy sword I
Where is thy tower, Tournefort?
Noblemen's swords, how their blades were all sharp and
good!
Noblemen's swords grew dull in Plebeian thick blood.
Tournef ort 's tower is black and burnt inside,
From the crest they banished the blazoned flag, its pride. ■§
And over the wall of the castle of Monteton
' ' Vive le son ! ' '
Flutter the bloody fragments of song
* ' Vive le son des canons ! ' '
This side the wall there fights a nobleman.
Rash, desperate and always in the van, —
Wherefore? — Red grows the green ground hereafter,
Bitter, bitter, bitter rings his laughter.
Beyond the wall a filthy ocean raves
In greedy and grasping and cowardly waves —
This side, that side — who guessed ere the eve was spent!
The wall lay low, then herbs gave forth a scent;
The battlement a sunken tombstone drear.
Wailing women, the clouds, into the grass wept tear on tear.
Flashing death-lights: — balcony, gable, tower anon —
Bier, too, is the cobblestone for a Monteton;
By the curs of the gutter o 'ercome and wounded to death, —
Bitterly, bitterly he laughs with last breath.
•Translator: Margarete MUnsterberg.
[318]
BORRIES VON MUNCHHAUSEN: POEMS 319
Monteton, where is thy wall!
Chalen§on, where is thy sword I
Where is thy tower, Tournefort!
Our wall is the judge whom the king doth uphold,
Our sword is the army undaunted and bold,
Our tower the church — a steep tower and old!
But in Notre Dame on the altar — horrid sight! —
A naked woman performs a shameful rite,
A naked harlot bawls and screams and sings,
A wild and drunken roar through the cathedral rings.
And judges — judges too are by,
As never more vile saw the human eye !
A butcher with bloody apron presides.
And listens to lies with his fat ear — besides
His helpers : bullies and stable-boys plain.
The accuser a thief — ha, he can arraign!
And sentence on sentence the scythe whirring saith :
To death!
To death what is calm and noble still,
To death Cadore, to death d'Anville,
To death what better than they must be.
To death Clermont and Normandy,
To death!
Sentence on sentence the scythe whirring saith.
Monteton, where is thy wall? —
The dungeons of the Temple are deep, so deep,
Deeper the captives ' woe till death 's last sleep !
Half rotten the basket where rests the Duchess old,
As proud on this castaway seat as on throne of pure gold.
And about her are standing the Marshal and the Comtur,
The old names of the court, the Dames d'atour.
With delicate bows and smiles free and light.
320 THE GERMAN CLASSICS
Past the windows above, wheels thunder with might,
The pavement rebounds,
The singing resounds:
* * Vive le son des canons ! ' '
The howling of dogs that have torn their chains madly.
The roaring of those who celebrate badly,
The scream of the vulgar who long what is noble to blight, —
But down here all is quiet and light.
No forehead grows pale, no eye-lashes quiver,
As their lives they have lived, they meet death with no shiver !
A terrible clock is the prison-gate
Every half hour with its grating invidious,
Le Coucou, the hangman, long-armed and hideous,
Le Coucou steps out, who does not wait.
Who counts not the years of your young life — nay,
Not even the months till your wedding-day,
Comtesse de Neuilly!
Before the Duchess low she bends her dainty knee,
And with her three or four court ladies go,
And with her the cavaliers bow low.
With smiling lips she stands, and so :
'' Votre bras. Monsieur le bourreau! "
The way through Paris, the way of blood, —
Red-hot now surges the song's wild flood:
** Vive le carmagnole! "
But they are not abashed at all.
They walk into death without timid delay,
They are walking with talk and with laughter gay.
What holds them together fast, they know :
The wall that into the sky doth grow.
Though the stones be falling, — the w^all upward strives,
They smile in their death as they smiled in their lives. —
BORRIES VON MUNCHHAUSEN
BORRIES von MUNCHHAUSEN: poems 321
Monteton, that is our wall,
Chalengon, that is our sword,
That is our tower, Tournefort!
FAIRY TALE*
Radiant eyes and cheeks glowing bright,
In the sofa corners, one left and one right.
And tightly clenched each little hand.
*' So the king's son left the forest-land
With the princess, happy his way to wend.
And now the story is at an end! "
Two mournful sighs. Each mouth small and red
Is closed a while in silence dead.
Two sentimental voices then :
" Again, Papa, please, please, again! "
NINON! QUE FAIS-TU DE LA VIE?*
What are you making out of life,
Ninon, Ninon?
A roaring farce and wild,
A play for the gutter's child.
With dancing, too, Ninon !
What are you making out of life,
Ninon, Ninon?
A tragedy will be your mirth.
The saddest tragedy on earth.
When you grow old, Ninon !
MINE OWN LAND*
There gleams a plough in Tlmringian land,
Steered by a firm and happy hand
Through mine, oh mine own ground !
•Translator: Margarcte MUnsterberg.
Vol. XVIII— 21
322 THE GERMAN CLASSICS
And mine is the plough and the horses are mine,
And the silvery birch and the coal-black pine,
The herd by the forest edge found !
Is there in the world a happier lot
Than this one that I from my ancestors got?
At dawn in the saddle I ride on my round.
The gain of the mart push aside now, my hand :
There gleams a plough in Thuringian land,
That goes through mine own ground !
WHITE LILACS*
The day was damp — the snails were out, for token — ,
But when the night above my garden hung,
See ! the white lilacs into bloom had broken,
And 0 'er the wall their heavy boughs were flung.
And on the wall great pearls with limpid lustres
Were dripping from the lilac-blossoms pale,
While, woven through the fragrance of their clusters,
Ran the gold ditties of the nightingale.
Translator: Charles Wharton Stork.
HERMANN HESSE (1877- )
TALK IN A GONDOLA*
HAT I dream, you ask? That yesterday
We had died, we two. In fair array —
Clad in white, our hair with flowers wound,
In our gondola we're seaward bound;
Bells from yonder campanile peal,
But the water gurgles round the keel.
Drowns the distant toll that's gently failing.
Onward, onward to the sea we're sailing.
Where the ships with masts that tower high,
Sombre shadows, rest against the sky.
Where on fishing-boats there gleam the moist
Deep-stained red and yellow sails they hoist.
Where the roaring mighty waves are swelling,
Where the sailors lurid tales are telling.
Through a gate of bluest water, deeply
Downward now our boat is gliding steeply.
In the depths we find a wid'ning range
Filled with many trees of coral strange.
Where in lustrous shells that hidden gleam
Pale gigantic pearls with beauty beam.
Silvery fishes pass us, glist'ning, shy.
Leaving tinted trails as they flit by,
In whose furrows other fish instead
Gleam with slender tails of golden red.
At the bottom, fathoms deep, we dream;
As if bells were calling it will seem.
Now and then, as if a wind that fanned
Sang us songs we cannot understand.
* Translator : Margarete Miinsterberg.
[327]
328 THE GERMAN CLASSICS
Songs of narrow streets we long ago
Left behind, of things we used to know,
Songs so far, far off about the ways
That we trod in long forgotten days.
And with wonder we'll remember slowly
Now a street, now some cathedral holy.
Or the shouting of a gondolier.
Many names that once we used to hear.
Smiling then as children smile in sleep,
Moving still our silent lips we keep,
And the word will, ere it spoken seems,
Fall into oblivion, death in dreams.
Over us the mighty vessels float.
Sails are bright on many a sombre boat.
Snow-white birds in gleaming sunshine fly,
Glistening nets upon the water lie.
Spanning all, with arches high and true
Glows the heavens' vault of sunlit blue.
IN THE FOG*
In the fog to wander, how queer !
Lonely is every bush and stone,
No tree sees the other near,
Each is alone.
Once my world was full of friends,
When my life still had light;
Now that the fog descends,
Not one is in sight.
Only he is wise who knows
The steady gloom to fall
That slowly round him grows,
Severed from all.
* Translator: Margarete Miinsterberg,
HERMANN HESSE : POEMS 329
In the fog to wander, how queer !
Solitude is life's own.
No man sees the other near,
Each is alone.
A GNES MIEGEL ( / 879-
n
THE FAIR AGNETE*
HEN Sir Ulrich 's widow in church knelt to pray,
From the church-yard toward her floated a
lay.
y The organ on high did cease to sound,
The priests and the boys all stood spell-bound.
The congregation barkened, old man, child and bride
To singing like a nightingale so loud, outside :
Dear mother, in the church where the sexton 's bell rings.
Dear mother, hark outside how your daughter sings !
For I cannot come to you in the church — I must stay.
For before the shrine of Mary I cannot kneel to pray,
For I have lost salvation in everlasting time.
For I wedded the waterman with all his black, black slime.
My children they play in the lake with fishes fleet,
They have fins on their hands and fins on their feet.
Their little pearly frocks no sunlight ever dries.
Not death nor yet a dream can close my children's eyes —
Dear mother, oh I beg of thee,
Lovingly, longingly.
Wilt thou and all thy servants pray
For my green-haired water-sprites alway.
Will ye pray to the saints and to our Lady kind.
By every church and every cross that on the fields ye find !
Dearest mother, oh I beseech thee so.
Every seven years, poor I may hither go,
Unto the good priest tell.
The church door he shall open well —
That I may see the candle-light
And see the golden monstrance bright,
* Translator :
Margarete Munsterberg.
[330]
AGNES MIEGEL: POEMS 331
That my little children may be told,
How the gleam of the Cup is like sunlight gold ! ' '
The organ pealed when the voice sang no more,
And then they opened wide the door —
And while they all inside high mass were keeping,
A wave all white, so white, outside the door was leaping.
RICARDA HUGH
By Friedrich Schoenemann, Ph. D.
Instructor In German, Harvard University
ICARDA HITCH is not a poet of the people, nor
for the people, but her writings have gained
an evergrowing, readily applauding audience
I among readers who have feeling for artistic
prose and a natural ear for style.
She won her reputation in three different lines : first, as
the author of several valuable novels and novel-like prose
works ; second, as a lyric poetess of great refinement ; and
third, as the writer of a keen survey of older German
Romanticism. Her novels are daring studies of life, and
in them symbolistic romanticism and modern realism are
blended uniquely. Her lyric poems are remarkable both
for grace of form and for wide sweep of thought. Her
work on the German Romantic School, through its deep
psychologic insight, competes successfully with the best
scholarly presentations of this subject. Thus Ricarda
Huch combines in a high degree versatility of talent with
the original quality of mind which gives to all her works
a note of distinction.
The external facts of her life are quickly told. She was
born in the city of Brunswick in 1864, and having lost her
parents when she was still very young, was mainly edu-
cated by her grandmother, a charming woman of high
spiritual gifts, to whom the granddaughter lovingly dedi-
cated her first remarkable work, the drama Evoe! (1892).
She lived at home until her twenty-third year, when she
resolved to get a scholarly training. She went to the uni-
versity of Zurich, Switzerland, one of the very first
European universities admitting women to the study of
[332]
RICARDA HUGH 333
the arts and sciences. There, she studied history and
literature, and received the degree of doctor of philosophy.
In Zurich she stayed for nearly ten years. After having
taken her degree, she accepted, first, the position of a secre-
tary at the public library, and then that of a high school
teacher in Zurich. In 1896 she left that " town of hope and
youth," as she has called it, and went to Bremen where,
for a while, she taught in a Latin school for girls. In
Vienna, where she afterward lived for a time, she married
a dentist, Dr. Ceconi, whom she followed to 'Trieste and
later to Munich. In 1906 she obtained a divorce from him.
Soon afterward she married again, and with her second
husband, a cousin of hers, who is a lawyer in Brunswick,
she is living in her native town.
We have but scant information about the details of her
outer life. The chief interest, therefore, will rest in her
spiritual biography. And her inner history has, indeed, a
special interest due to the rather abrupt change which at
the beginning of her career came into her relations with
the world around her. It must have been like a revolution
to her when she left her North German home and went to
the Swiss university town. She came of old patrician stock,
one for w^hom life was made easy and never became '' a
mere drought and famine. ' ' Although imbibing readily the
refinement and culture of her family traditions, from the
beginning her mind was working against the limitations
which she found in the life about her. Her instinct for
self-development at last made her break traditional bounds,
and free herself to become a woman after her own mind.
Ricarda Huch, who never takes her readers into her con-
fidence, has not told us sufficiently what the new phase of
her life in Zurich meant to her. Where even the landscape
was new to her, everything must have attracted the young
woman. She took part in the real student life, and met
people who were congenial to her. And when she tried to
grasp all her manifold impressions, and to give them ade-
quate expression, she found herself a poet.
334 THE GERMAN CLASSICS
In 1890 she published her first volume of Poems, which
was overlooked until she attained fame as a novelist. In
1907 appeared New Poems. In these two volumes of verse
her poetic genius showed pronounced individuality. She
is not, indeed, essentially a lyric poet, she is too proble-
matic for that ; besides, she does not like to open her heart,
but rather comments on life. Only some smaller love songs
and poems of nature are " pure feeling breathed in pure
music." Yet even when she pours out her love, her hopes,
and her sorrows, and charms us by the simple pathos of
genuine lyric poetry, there still remains a certain sad touch
of restraint and shyness, a marked feature which she shares
with many a North German poet and, strangely enough,
also with the Swiss Gottfried Keller, whom she congenially
understands, and on whom she wrote an appreciative
essay. But in addition to these short lyrics of rhythmic
grace — and more important than they — there are dreamy
fancies, sombre legends, and, above all, plastic renderings
of historic episodes in her poems. These poems are like
finely-cut cameos, all of a perfect art which reminds us of
Konrad Ferdinand Meyer's masterpieces. Ricarda Huch
surely was influenced by this master, and has quite remark-
ably assimilated his art.
Her inspiration, however, was purely personal. Some
strong expressions of her poetic nature are to be seen in
her tempestuous love of beauty and freedom, her mystic
glorification of death, and her pronounced interest in his-
tory, all of which find their expression also in sundry prose
works.
Her intense love of beauty, united with her acquaintance
of Italy and thirst for historic knowledge, inspired her to
write excellent essays on the heroes of Italy's political
renaissance {The Risorgimento, 1908). And on those
psycho-biographical sketches, poetical studies based on his-
torical sources, so to speak, is based The Life of Count
Federigo Confalonieri (1910), another prose work, half
history, half fiction. It is the time of the Austrian sway
RICARDA HUGH 335
over Northern Italy which is pictured in this novel-like
work, a period which Elizabeth Barrett Browning, too,
described in Casa Guidi Windows. And like the English
woman, Ricarda Huch is intensely interested in the
struggle of the Italians to free themselves from the Aus-
trian yoke, and to become a unified nation. Perhaps her
best tribute to the Italy of her thoughts and dreams was
paid in the History of Garibaldi, comprising two parts,
The Defense of Rome (1906) and The Fight for Rome
(1907).
But not Italy only was '^ a face full of remembrances "
to our author. She also undertook to revive a tragic epi-
sode of the German past, in her remarkable book, The
Great War, the first two volumes of which appeared in
1912-13. It gives the story of the Thirty Years' War in
the form of a prose epic.
There are very interesting chapters and passages in
these and kindred books, clever studies of human nature,
wonderful accounts of epoch-making events, interspersed
with lyric effusions and romantic ballads, but, on the whole,
we must say that the author has wasted in these works her
poetic strength on political themes too big for her grasp —
reminding us again of Elizabeth Browning in her Italian
period. Nevertheless, Ricarda Huch here as in all her work
proves herself a prose writer of fine skill and of an austere
beauty of language. To a certain degree, she is to Ger-
man literature what Walter Pater is to the English art
of writing.
Although it is not seldom that the critic in her runs away
with the novelist, Ricarda Huch is no scholarly poet in
the disagreeable sense of the word. In the main, the solid
burden of her thought is steadied by her good taste and her
mastery of words. Her poet's heart lives in history. To
her, instinct for poetry must needs be instinct for history.
And from the very first of her career as an author she
showed a keen sense for historic retrospection.
It remains for us to consider Ricarda Huch's novels
336 THE GERMAN CLASSICS
which, like her poems, show her art fully. Her first printed
novel was Recollections of Ludolf TJrsleu the Younger, pub-
lished in 1892. Ludolf Ursleu, the last scion of a North
German patrician family, in the cell of a Swiss monastery
where he has fled from the world, writes down the fateful
history of his house. But the book is more than a mere
family chronicle ; it is the story of his sister Galeide 's and his
cousin Ezard 's unhappy love. And the author takes great
pains in tracing the psychological influence of their unlaw-
ful and secret passion on the different members of the
Ursleu family. To highten the situation, fate lurks behind
the scene; a horrible epidemic of cholera gives the story
a gloomy background. We hear the author's constant cry:
Let us obey nature, not the world, for nature is good and
beautiful and brings happiness. But her characters who
obey the call of nature rush to predestined ruin.
A slight variation of the same theme, that is a man of
patrician family wavering between his wife and the woman
he really loves, is found in another novel Vita somnium
breve {Life a Short Dream), which was published ten years
.later. Here also, the leading motive is, ^' Oh life, oh
beauty ! ' ' And the end of the story, like that of Ursleu,
is chaos instead of beauty. In both of these novels resig-
nation is the last note.
These books may be contrasted with two other novels:
From the Triumphgasse (1902), the best known of Ricarda
Huch's works, and Of the Kings and the Crown (1902),
which is the author's most symbolic novel. In the Tri-
umphgasse we are led into a totally different atmosphere
of life : the slums of a large Italian town. The owner of
a crowded tenement in the poorest part of the city describes
the fates and frailties of his tenants. The most interesting
group of figures is formed around the old woman Farfalla
and her sons and daughters — all of them children of physi-
cal and moral wretchedness. Only the crippled Ricardo
knows of a better life, where his soul dreamingly wanders
about in blossoming gardens of eternal beauty. But he,
RICARDA IIUCII
EICARDA HUGH 837
too, is no victor over circumstances, for the title of
Triumphgasse (the street of triumph) is mere mockery.
He dies ** a fettered slave in the procession of life."
What the novelist portrays in these two books shows her
changed attitude toward the humbler classes. In the two
first mentioned novels, she is rather remote from the life
of the toiling many ; e. g., all the Ursleus ' ' wear life like
a beautiful garment or ornament." Then, when living in
Trieste, as she told in a letter, Ricarda Huch saw what
women and children had to suffer, and what it meant to be
a social outlaw. Now, after this experience, she feels how
a common man feels who has lost his happiness or, worse
still, his self-respect and honor. And with subtle obser-
vation she pictures wildgrown human beings, men blinded
with passion or even raging maniacs. She does not, how-
ever, raise her characters from the despair of drudgery
and brutality to confidence in life. She is no Jane Addams,
nor does she want to be more than an objectively observing
bystander. She sketches life as it is, and her method is
more analytic than intuitive. Yet she must not be classed
with the naturalists, because she is too refined and tasteful.
The plots and structures of most of her stories deserve
unstinted praise, and delight lovers of artistically organ-
ized and well-proportioned novels. And over all her books
there plays that s}Tnbolistic spirit of neo-romanticism
which spreads a veil of beauty even over the ugliness of
life.
It is impossible to sum up Ricarda Huch's life and mes-
sage to our generation in a few sentences. All her books
from first to last command our respect. She is not afraid
of life as so many old and new romanticists are, nor is she
ignorant of it. She has lived on terms of sympathetic con-
tact with primitive people as well as with representa-
tives of an overrefined civilization. She has thought
honestly and does not shrink from declaring her criticism
of life. But her characters are no winners in the fight of
life, because her self-centred philosophy is a humane scep-
VoL. XVIII— 22
338 THE GERMAN CLASSICS
ticism and even materialistic determinism. She does not
lead us into the land of heart's desire where there has been
given ** beauty for ashes, the oil of joy for mourning, the
garment of praise for the spirit of heaviness."
Ricarda Huch's prose has breadth and repose and calm
development, and is, at the same time, full of variety and
of admirable clearness. Her style possesses delicate pre-
cision, felicities of word and cadence, superb lines- — in
a word, an atmosphere of art which belongs only to the
highest order of prose.
RICARDA MUCH
THE RECOLLECTIONS OF LUDOLF URSLEU THE
YOUNGER (1892)
TRANSLATED BY MTJRIEl. ALMON
Chapter I
[F Martin Luther, who had the qualities neces-
sary to become great, we learn that he was
one day forced to see a man who was walking
and conversing with him suddenly struck
I Hasica ^ ^^^^ ^^ lightning. This occurrence is said
so to have shaken his spirit that he turned from the world,
became a monk, and went into a monastery where he, unfor-
tunately, did not remain. I have had the same experience,
although the bolt which I saw blindly descend did not
belong to the external world ; but it was not less destructive.
All at once I saw, as I will now fully describe, that there
is nothing, absolutely nothing in life that stands firm. Life
is a bottomless and boundless sea ; doubtless it has indeed
a shore and sheltered havens, but we do not reach them
alive. It is only on the tossing sea that there is life, and
where the sea comes to an end life ceases too — just as a
coral dies when it comes out of the ocean. And if we take
the beautiful, iridescent jelly-fish out of the water, we find
a hideous mass of gelatine in our hands. Now I think men
and life are such that it is indeed possible to obtain peace
and security, but only by renouncing life with its joyfully
rippling waves, its changing colors, its wild tempests.
Many people, particularly the young and the old who have
experienced nothing, think that divers eternal rocks are
to be found in the midst of the irresistible turmoil where
the first wave merges with the second in the very moment
[330]
340 THE GERMAN CLASSICS
of its formation, and so on continuously, and the last and
the next instant are so closely united, like twins, that no
splinter of *' now " or '' the present " can be wedged in
between them. By these rocks they mean love and friend-
ship and other feelings of the heart; for these make us
feel happy and therefore good, and so people consider them
sacred. But now, what eternal anything can come out of
that childish thing, the human heart, that madcap that
never learns to sit still in the school of life? That con-
stantly flutters back and forth as if it hung on too long a
stem like the leaves of the aspen-tree 1 It floats about like
a skiff on the mighty sea of life, now shipping so much
water that it sinks and despairs, now borne by the waves
so high in the air that it approaches heaven, and then it
shouts jubilantly and triumphantly. But it must come down
again, and when down go up again. It may also run a
smooth course or be becalmed so that it lies as still and
anxious as if it were before Lodestone Rock. But what-
ever happens, it finds no haven at sea ; havens are on land —
that is the Other Shore.
My boat, after a fairly uneventful passage, ran into a
great storm, was shipwrecked, and hurled upon the strand.
I did not run easily into the bay, I was thrown up by the
sea like Robinson Crusoe. My desert island and my Other
Shore is the cloister of Einsiedeln. Here I abide now,
and life lies forever behind me. But it has gone so well
with me that though I no longer live, still I am not dead,
but can look back from the shore over the broad waters
that I crossed and think of my passage. I have always
found that looking on was the most beautiful thing in life.
He who marches in a magnificent procession swallows the
dust, and sweats and chokes behind his mask; what good
do his own splendid costume and the festive scenes all about
do him? He sees nothing of them, except perhaps the
nearest things, and even those imperfectly. But if one
stands above on a high balcony or has simply climbed up
on a garden gate, or even laboriously peeks out from a roof-
LUDOLF URSLEU THE YOUNGER 341
gutter, has everything in sight as if he were God and it
were all paraded before him just for his pleasure. So it
amuses me to let the days of my bygone life pass before
me like a procession. There will be strange figures to
look at, gay flags, pictures, symbols, and spectacles. I can
bid them move faster or slower, as I please, and can call
the fairest and strangest ones up to me, to observe them
more closely and to touch them. It is in this spirit that I
write my experiences, hidden from every one; for it is no
pious tale that I set down.
I will also tell something about my childhood and early
youth ; for if one does not know the cunning chick he judges
the fowl unjustly, and one thinks less of the noble swan if
he does not know that it was once an ugly young duckling.
Those who have grown up with us continue to see in our
faces the good, tender features of the child, and whoever
has seen in a museum an old Viking vessel looks at our
steamers with double curiosity and richer thoughts.
Chapter II
I WAS born in one of the Hansa-towns of Northern Ger-
many, a town which I never can recall without execrations
and never without tears. My father was a prosperous
merchant ; such men compose the respected portion of that
community. They have usually seen many countries and
peoples and have thus been able to acquire the polish of
men of the world. As one cannot be as unrestrained abroad
as at home, they have habituated themselves to a refined
bearing and pleasing manners such as are not found in
many circles; thus they make an impression, and it still
fills me with pleasure to think myself back into a gathering
of such men. Though they have many cares, yet every-
thing is done on a large scale, and as long as they play any
part in life, they have money and spend it freely. They do
indeed lack a genuinely thorough education and do not
care for it, although on no account would they appear to
342 THE GERMAN CLASSICS
be without it. Life was fair and splendid in my youth,
as among the Phaeacians. This mode of life prevailed in
our house too, and yet much was different from other
houses. Possibly this was partly due to the fact that my
family on my father 's side had not always belonged to this
Hansa-town, my grandfather being the first to settle there.
My ancestors had been clergymen, whereof nothing re-
mained in the family but an inclination to scholarliness
and to what is above this earthly sphere.
The XJrsleus of former times had perhaps been religious
enthusiasts; those whom I remember no longer clung to
religion, as indeed accords less with the genius of our times.
They occupied themselves with poetry, the fine arts, and
the sciences, to be sure only superficially and amateurishly,
but for that very reason with all their hearts and full of
enthusiasm, and not at all like the rest of the Phaeacians,
so as to be able to make use of their attainments in society.
For we lived mostly by ourselves, that is to say in our own
family, which was indeed large enough.
My father, Ludolf TJrsleu, Sr., unfortunately had to
waste his splendid powers on mercantile affairs and cares.
But out of consideration for us and from a certain estheti-
cism he bore this silently and alone. For in his heart he
looked upon his occupation as a necessary evil for the pur-
pose of acquiring money, and despised it; in our house it
was considered the real business of a human being to wear
life like a beautiful garment or an ornament, to carry one's
head high and to be cheerful. Perhaps my father con-
sidered that the most dignified conception because my
mother seemed to be made for the realization of it.
How beautiful she was! When one looked at her, one
did not indeed think first of her beauty, for she was perfect
and for that reason far less striking than a woman who
lacks something. But it made one cheerful and glad to
look at her countenance, and as far as I know it never
occurred even to women to envy her this distinction. She
never showed off her beauty, although she took a great
LUDOLF URSLEU THE YOUNGER 343
pleasure in it; for she was childlike in the way that we
read of savage peoples being childlike, and like them she
could have draped herself with bright beads and laughed
at her reflection in the water, without ever thinking that it
was she herself who looked out so charmingly. Everything
she said and did was as pure and simply original as a
spring at the spot where it bubbles out of the earth high
up in the glorious wilderness. As a boy I often used to
look at her and try to think how she would look in old age ;
that made me pensive, for I could no more imagine it than
one can think of the Venus of Milo as an aging woman.
She seemed in truth to belong to the light-hearted, immortal
gods. My father too was a strong and handsome man, but
thought and worry and years did not pass over him with-
out engraving their furrows. When I heard the myth of
the goddess of dawn and her mortal husband, how he con-
tinued to wither in her rosy arms, I always thought of my
parents, less as they were then than as I imagined them in
the future. Such a comparison would never have occurred
to my mother herself, for she seldom thought of herself
and she was not in the least sentimental. Nothing, neither
love nor hate, could have burned into a passion in her.
To a certain extent her happy nature was in league with
her beauty ; what she felt was never so violent that it could
have injured the latter.
I, the eldest child, was named after my father. I resem-
bled him little, however, inwardly or outwardly, yet still
enough to feel my affinity with him strongly in the presence
of other people, I had hotter blood than he. That was the
cause of my living a wilder youth than he would ever have
desired or allowed himself; and it was also the reason why
later on my youth left me sooner than his had done, and
that I became a morose old man at an age when he had still
been a stately figure.
After me Came my sister Galeide, of whom I shall have
most to say in these pages. Because she was far from
being as beautiful as my mother we never thought of her
344 THE GERMAN CLASSICS
appearance. Yet she was really a delightful creature, with
soft round limbs, comfortable and cosy to have on one 's lap
like a young kitten, quiet and contented. Hence she was
petted and spoiled and she accepted it all calmly and re-
warded it with but little tenderness. I must say, however,
that she could be very fond and loving when once she had
conceived an affection for any one ; she was never actually
cross with anybody. She wanted people to let her go
her own way and did not dislike being alone. Then she
would lie in the sun and play theatre with the clouds, or
perhaps she would merely dream, and generally she had
a kitten, a rabbit, or some other animal with her, and she
seemed in general to prefer animals to people. It was
remarkable how animals would always seek her out and
how tame they were with her. She was usually so gentle
and peaceable that our relations all got into the habit of
calling her " the good child" or ^' good little Galeide."
I never called her so, for I always said to myself, " she is
not really good, she does what she likes and it happens to
be just what others like too."
She was always very loving toward me and, although I
was several years older, often in a maternal way. Alto-
gether it was peculiar how she could be at once so childish
and so motherly; she continued to be both as long as she
lived, and she was much else besides, of which I will speak
later.
Chapter III
Whoever calls my native city beautiful loves wide and
straight streets, large and clean houses, and rectangular
squares. I abhor all that. There are old quarters there
too, but their age is evident only in dirt, narrowness, and
closeness, not in a dignified aspect full of memories.
Suabia is the place to live, in those ancient free towns
where one walks about as in a lovely fairy tale of bygone
days. In my boyhood, to be sure, I understood nothing
of this charm, partly because I was not acquainted with it,
LUDOLF URSLEU THE YOUNGER 345
but in those days I should have lacked the necessary knowl-
edge and experience.
It is different with nature ; the understanding of her lan-
guage is born in us. Indeed, she is the oldest, faithfulest,
and truest friend of man. A curse lies on the man at whose
cradle she does not stand and over whose youth she does
not watch ; his soul is never set free, his bosom can never
wholly unburden itself, he is like a seed that lacks the sun.
And I should have been a different man if I had been born
in Switzerland, for I believe my genius was of no bad
quality and but little was lacking to make me really amount
to something. But little or much, if anything at all is
lacking the man fails and amounts to nothing.
When I was a boy of thirteen my parents took me with
them to Switzerland. At that time I was still passably
good, diligent, and sensible. Now after I had looked at
the mountains for a time and become accustomed to them,
a truly heavenly feeling of happiness, such as I had never
dreamed of, came over me. I loved the woods and the white
peaks with tempestuous affection, humility, and dread. I
can still recall my innocent and blissful feelings at that
time, and cannot do so without emotion. I think I see the
friendly little boy under the kind, mighty fir-trees and
among the boulders with their weather-beaten faces.
Galeide was with us too and without showing any great
astonishment she rushed into this beautiful landscape with
wild joy, as if she had never known anything different.
While I loved to wander about the beautiful woods in the
valley, she constantly desired to climb the high mountains,
in whose ascent she showed amazing strength and skill for
a child of her age. Whenever we reached a summit, she
would run ahead, give a Bacchanalian shout of triumph,
and shake her locks in the wind.
This annoyed me, for I thought it Indian-like, unesthetic,
and altogether unmaidenly. When I think of it now I
realize that it was at any rate characteristic of my sister
Galeide.
346 THE GERMAN CLASSICS
Once while we were in the mountains she was presented
with a marmot, whereat she showed an absurd joy which
also annoyed me. And still more so the silly way she
behaved with the animal, as if it were much better than
any person. Later, when we were at home again, the
mountain animal was out of place in our city life and our
parents took it away from Graleide. As soon as she found
it out, her grief caused a violent fever; I can still see her
crouched down in a chair covered with gold-colored plush,
singing strangely in a low voice in her delirium. Her con-
dition was so disquieting, — and by no means simulated —
that the animal had to be given back to her. The most
curious thing was this : when it died, just while she hap-
pened to be out, the whole family was seized with serious
apprehension of her wild outbursts of grief. No one
wanted to be the bearer of such terrible news (at which
all the sensible and cleanly inmates of the house really
struck up heartfelt and joyful songs of praise). With the
utmost gentleness and consideration she was finally told
of the death, but lo and behold, not a single tear reddened
her mild eyes. She stroked the furry little body lovingly
and pitied the tiny animal in the most graceful terms for
having had the thread of his merry life cut so early. She
also kept him in truly faithful remembrance and was always
glad to tell little stories and anecdotes about Urselino (her
name for the unfortunate creature) ; and she never wanted
to have another. But I always suspected that she was glad
of the pretty picture that she had been able to add to her
store of memories and recollections.
While my younger sister was still putting all her time
into such perfectly simple and childlike hobbies, I was
entering upon my first love affair. I cannot refrain from
telling this pretty little story here ; it was so innocent and
proper, — for the first and last time, unfortunately. If I
had only always been content with the soul of that thirteen-
year-old boy ! Many things would not have occurred which
gave me little happiness at the time and of which I am
ashamed now.
LUDOLF URSLEU THE YOUNGER 347
Well, then, we were at the Wallensee, that inexpressibly
beautiful lake which is accused of treacherous ferocity.
I loved it the more for its hostility to the people that sailed
upon it, and was confident at the same time that it would
know I was not to be reckoned among them, but was a
special kind of man who understood it and held it sacred.
Moreover, I thought it would be a blissful lot to be buried
beneath those green wave-mounds and to be able to look up
motionless through the moving emerald glass into the blue
sky above it. But my parents never allowed me to go out on
the lake alone. I felt deeply insulted by this at first and
thought myself eternally disgraced when the boatman once
sent his little daughter, who was to all appearances younger
than I, to accompany me. This child, Kordula, nimbly
grasped the big oars and began to row, and I watched with
utter amazement her thin but very graceful brown arms as
they worked so bravely and untiringly. Her hair was a
little tangled, but this, contrary to my usual taste, I soon
found very charming; her dark eyes were not large, but
fiery and not without a certain good-humored cunning in
their expression. When she began to speak, however, my
sense of beauty was outraged and I began to criticize her
irritably for her native dialect. But she resented this
greatly, saying that that was beautiful and patriotic; but
we Germans had to serve kings and bow down like slaves
— in short, we were not free and could not do as we liked.
That irritated me to the utmost and I remembered with
pleasure that I too was a republican, which, however, I
could not make her understand. Soon my arrogance died
down entirely and resolved itself into admiration of the
daring Swiss girl. In the shadow of the gigantic Chur-
firsten mountains, on the clear water of the mountain lake,
it was not difficult for me to think of my country as shame-
fully enslaved, and the more vigorous character of the
Swiss, the strength and hardiness of the mountain people,
I thought to be simply the result of their fortunate state
of freedom. In this way the brown-skinned girl Kordula
348 THE GERMAN CLASSICS
merged for me with the noblest thought a man can think,
with the vision of freedom, and my heart grew so full that
it was actually heavy to carry ; but the fuller the heart, the
more light-heartedly does one live.
In spite of her well-intentioned patriotic boasting,
Kordula had no little respect for people from far-away
cities, with their more refined habits, so that her admira-
tion for me was about equal to mine for her, and it was
this that made our love so delightful. My parents looked
upon it as a charming idyll and did not interfere with us
at all, nor did they even betray the amusement we afforded
them.
One evening we were out in the boat as the sun was
going down. A train sped past with a snort. A feeling of
cosiness and content came over me as I saw it rushing
away without my having to go with it; for that would
have to come some time, but not yet. After it had passed
the stillness seemed deeper than before. The ice-gray of
the mountain tops gradually took on a warm violet color
in the light of the sun. The lake was perfectly calm and
seemed itself to be looking breathlessly at the miracle
about it. While I felt unutterable infinite emotions, Kor-
dula's feelings formed into something quite definite, and
she suddenly began to repeat a sentimental patriotic poem
which she might have learned at school.
I was affected by it beyond measure. Hot despair pos-
sessed me at the thought that I was not a Swiss and could
not call these mountains and this beloved green water mine.
Now I too began to make verses, addressed them all to
Kordula, and gave them to her. Whether she understood
them or not, she saw at least that they rhymed, and so to
her I was a poet ; for she could not yet distinguish between
good and bad verses. Thenceforth she regarded me with
increased respect and liked particularly to look at my eyes.
Once I asked her what she saw in them ; she answered with
a very pretty simile, ' ' I see your thoughts swimming about
in them like little fishes twinkling in a lake, many, many of
LUDOLF UESLEU THE YOUNGER 349
them." I blushed and was ashamed, and yet I was proud
and glad as never before.
In the end we had to take leave of each other after all;
that was heart-breaking. But it was worst of all when we
were at home again. My enjoyment in going out was
spoiled, and on my way to school I would obstinately keep
my eyes on the ground so that I need not see the hated stone
houses and the bare horizon. I liked best to sit in the house
and cry and cry with unconsolable homesickness, and the
greatest bliss that I could imagine was a grave in Lake
Wallen beneath the crags of the Churfirsten. It was great
misery and, on the whole, I was not so wrong to cry. When
we leave nature we leave the good and the beautiful, and
above all, happiness. I should have been born a shepherd-
boy in the Alps ; then I should probably be sitting there still
yodeling and shouting, instead of checking a creeping tear
when a sound from the mountains echoes across into my
bare cell here in the monastery.
Chapter IV
I HAVE so far said nothing about my great-grandfather.
If, as I later realized, our whole family did not fit into this
century, my great-grandfather, Ferdinand Olethurm, my
mother's grandfather, was still more out of tune with the
present generation ; as indeed he had actually sprung from
another time, when nothing as yet was known of the new
German Empire, gallophobia, and the social problem.
His patriotism recognized only his Hanseatic town, which
he cherished in his heart as lovingly as if he himself had
carried stones to build it. Although to this extent he was
a true patrician of the old style, yet he possessed such a
remarkable mobility of spirit that nothing new, however
far it might lie beyond the horizon of his youth and his
maturity, was incomprehensible to him, still less indifferent.
What young people found so extremely refreshing and com-
forting in him was that he never considered an event or an
350 THE GERMAN CLASSICS
idea primarily froni the standpoint of morality, as many
would perhaps expect of such an old and venerable man.
If any one pleased him, that person might later have
turned out to be a footpad or a pirate, and still my great-
grandfather would have found an explanation. So great
was his sympathy for the life of the heart; for after all,
everything that happens in the world is in the last analysis
explicable, even necessary. But otherwise Ferdinand
Olethurm could have dispensed with an explanation and
would have gone on cheerfully loving and hating as his
heart dictated. For this reason the impression he made
was less that of clarified wisdom than of inexhaustible
youthful strength and indestructible individuality, and
thus he dominated men and held them captive under his
influence.
He loved Galeide and me beyond measure, her even some-
what more than me ; partly perhaps because she was a girl,
and then because, with all her softness, she could at times
display an iron inflexibility and firmness which may have
seemed as pleasing to him as a raisin in a rice pudding.
Altogether she was considered a remarkable child, although
I could not say for what reason. Just as little could I
say why every one in our house felt such an insistent desire
for her presence, since it sometimes happened that you
were quite unaware of it, even though she was in the room
with you for an hour. My parents could not make up their
minds to send her to boarding-school, as is customary;
instead of that, and in order to conform somewhat
to the prevailing principles of education, they decided
to take a Frenchwoman into the house, from whom Galeide
should learn the timidly admired language of our otherwise
hated neighbors.
Among the young girls who answered the advertisement
there was one from French Switzerland, called Lucile
Leroy. It was now several years since I had been in
Switzerland, but the mountain land still dwelt in my mem-
ory, beautiful and spotless in the brilliant sunshine, and
LUDOLF URSLEU THE YOUNGER 351
it pleased me uncommonly that a girl from that wonderful
country was to ^come to our sad North. My parents always
had a taste for something exceptional, and to us a Swiss
was as rare as one of our oysters or a Pomeranian goose-
breast was on his mountains. Galeide said little about
the project, although iT concerned her especially; but she
seemed rather sorry than glad. It was settled that Lucile
was to come to us ; all went so smoothly that not the slight-
est sign could be observed of how fateful this choice was
to become for us. For with the girl's dainty feet, destiny
set his brazen sole on our untroubled threshold and came,
disguised and fearful, into the midst of our comfortable
Ph^acian life. Not that any evil proceeded from Lucile
herself, nor did it make itself apparent for some time to
come. My parents received her with an open-hearted kind-
ness such as is not offered to many girls in similar posi-
tions. But the manner in which she accepted it soon
showed us that she well deserved it. Clever and active as
she was, it was easy for her to do what was expected of
her and, conscious of this, her behavior in other ways was
that of a welcome guest; she made no one unhappy by a
demeanor of forced and obtrusive humility, but enjoyed
the friendship she received and repaid it with ardent love
and devotion. She was vivacious, always could bring up
things that lent zest to the conversation and — what my
parents most desired — she discussed them in a foreign
way and generally from a point of view which we were in
the habit of overlooking, for she had grown up in very
different circles and circumstances from ours. Relegating
nature to the second place and underestimating it, she strove
consciously and methodically for the things which we had
absorbed unconsciously, the manifold educational influ-
ences of a large city. She respected a highly cultured mind
above everything, and sought with admirable zeal and
diligence to acquire such culture herself. Everything she
saw in our home delighted her: the high, spacious rooms
of our house, its arrangement with a view more to beauty
352 THE GERMAN CLASSICS
than to usefulness, and our whole manner of life, of which
much the same could be said. But enchanted as she was,
she still remained, more than she knew, herself, and could
never break completely through the wall that surrounded
the well-cultivated flower, fruit, and vegetable garden of
her soul. Consequently she disapproved of some things
that were done in our house and expressed her opinion with
a freedom which pleased my parents the more because they
were not obliged to conform to her views. They enjoyed
hearing her lay down her principles in an eloquent sermon,
and even began to regret that Galeide lacked such a manner
of speech and thought, for Galeide spoke little of prin-
ciples, nor had she any, or if she did sometimes remark
that she considered this or that good or bad, that she would
or would not do this thing or that, she said so brusquely
and bluntly, often using shocking expressions — though it
must be admitted that when uttered by her gentle voice
they did not sound as objectionable as if another girl had
used them. Nevertheless this habit of hers came to irri-
tate me.
Although Galeide was grieved to feel how much our
parents appreciated this strange and interesting creature,
yet she did not make Lucile suffer for her jealousy; I must
mention this as a proud and admirable trait of her char-
acter. The two girls felt the difference of five or six years
in their ages relatively little, and I remember, anyway,
that people talked to my sister, who in some respects was
still a wild and most unreasonable child, as they would
have to a mature person. Lucile and she were like sisters
together, or rather far more intimate than sisters com-
monly are. Galeide even vied almost imperceptibly with
Lucile and overwhelmed her with tender, loving marks of
her affection. Lucile returned this love with no less wrapt
intensity, indeed, perhaps, she even outdid Galeide in this
respect. She showed me that sometimes, when I accused
Galeide of having too little desire for goodness, which, by
the way, I not only did not possess myself, but, at that
LUDOLF URSLEU THE YOUNGER 353
time, considered actually objectionable in a man. " She
does not want it," said Lucile, " and why should she!
She is good. You know, the essence of genius is that it
does not have to follow existing laws, but itself gives the
world new laws by what it does. So it will be wHth Graleide
and that too is the secret of the irresistible charm that she
exercises." This seemed to me to be an immensely exag-
gerated remark.
Lucile and I said '' thou " to each other. She sometimes
treated me very much as a boy, which, however, I refused
to stand. And I did succeed in swinging myself up onto a
higher plane in her estimation, thanks to my having read
a great deal and to the passable liveliness of my mind,
which enabled me to be her welcome partner in those dis-
cussions of belles-lettrse which she loved. Before she came
I had imagined that she must look like Kordula of Wallen
Lake, although that would have been an incomprehensible
freak of nature. This notion stirred my spirit agreeably,
although I had already begun to tread other and less
edifying paths of love. But I soon got over the fact that
Lucile was not Kordula, for she made an impression on
me and I was flattered to find that she was not unwilling
to talk to me. Her presence kept me within beneficial
bounds, at least to the extent that I sought to suppress the
consequences of my recklessness. If I appeared at home
with the slightest suggestion of intoxication, or in the
miserable mood that follows the excessive revels of young
people, she did not hesitate to show me her disapproval
and contempt in the sharpest manner. I did indeed resent
this with presumptuous and disagreeable sensitiveness, but
still I feared such disputes and took pains to avoid the
causes of them. At bottom, to be sure, I did not really
improve; her influence was not strong enough for that.
And how could it have been? I yielded to every impulse,
good or bad, provided it could be carried out in a way that
suited me. I wanted to be a man of the world, and was a
fool ; I wanted to be one who knows how to live, and learned
Vol. XVIII— 23
354 THE GERMAN CLASSICS
nothing but liow to die early. I was like a dog that in
snapping at the reflection of his bone lets the bone itself
fall into the water and cannot find it again.
Chapter V
I CAN scarcely await and yet I dread to see approaching,
in the course of my recollections, the shadow of the man
to whom my soul clung as to no other. I speak of my cousin
Ezard Ursleu, the only human being I should like to Tiave
been, for he pleased me better than myself. His father,
my uncle Harre, was a prominent physician in my native
town. But as far back as I can remember he no longer
practised except in a few friends' families, where he had
been the family physician for years. For the rest, he con-
stantly sought, and with success, to explore and advance
his science, and had not only an enormous knowledge of
his profession, but also in other fields, for, after the man-
ner of our family, he occupied himself with many things
which by rights did not concern him. To a complete man
there is indeed nothing that does not concern him, but our
earthly conditions do not allow the growth of such: for
earth showers infinite plenitude, and the dish we use to
catch it is shallow and tiny. Harre Ursleu, however, was
more justified in following this course than most people,
because he grasped more than they, and he could not be
accused of knowing many things rather than much. His
good health and moderate habits enabled him to work and
think for hours. He was no book-worm, however, but
on the contrary displayed such brilliance of mind that
people often unjustly doubted its depth; he enjoyed life,
too, and more than many a strict moralist thought per-
missible. But just as little as he listened to them, just so
attentively did he obey his nature, never undertaking more
than he could bear without harm to himself, and consider-
ing it a disgrace to miss any scientific meeting or to neglect
any piece of work for the sake of a material pleasure. Thus
LUDOLF URSLEU THE YOUNGER 355
he was a man of mark and an acceptable example to young
people, since he represented the two things they consider
worth striving for: famous distinction in one's profession
and the ability to appreciate and enjoy the tidbits of life.
His son, although very different, was his greatest pride.
He intended him for a great career ; and where could better
prospects of that be found than in the old Hanseatic town?
As a transatlantic merchant he might direct the current
of gold in a magnificent way to his own and his fatherland's
benefit, or, as a member of the government, enjoy, in a
small circle, the standing of a prince. It is well known that
the rulers of an aristocratically governed republic often
think more of themselves than do the kings by the grace
of God, to which opinion they may indeed be entitled ; for
our princes today are all descended only from vassals,
whereas of the families in the old cities some rightly call
themselves descendants of the free people under the Ger-
manic conquerors. After considering and discarding other
plans, my uncle thought it best for his son to study law,
as he might thus most easily reach the head of the
government.
I was not yet twenty years old when Ezard came back
from the university and I really made his acquaintance for
the first time. He came just on the day of Galeide's confir-
mation and was at the dinner given to celebrate it. From
the real heroine of the day, who looked very slender, pale,
and mournful in her black gown with a train, attention soon
wandered entirely to him. Is it not like Odysseus coming
among the Phaeacians I thought, for it was thus that I
had imagined that divine sufferer, not perhaps bearing in
his face the traces of sorrows endured, but betraying in
his appearance the opponent and conqueror of fate. And
there is no antagonist whose overthrow fills us with such
a feeling of strength and satisfaction as fate. Yes, indeed,
he moved with the step and bearing of a victor. One began
to feel secure when he was near, because he inspired the
confidence that he could overcome all the disagreeable
356 THE GERMAN CLASSICS
things of life. How did he do this? For a man he was
not tall ; he was slender and well-proportioned. His beauty
was moderate though noble, and rendered highly impressive
by the fact that it fused with his spiritual expression ; one
might have thought that his face owed its beauty entirely
to the nobility of his expression, and again that it was
only the outward harmony of his features that brought out
the appearance of spirituality.
I felt all this at that time without fully acknowledging
it to myself, for I was just at the age to be presumptuous,
and besides was too highly gifted and endowed to be con-
tent with the role of an admiring satellite, without trying
myself to be somebody. My cousin Ezard possessed the
grace of innate, natural modesty which may well be called
the twin sister of beauty; I mean the beauty that reveals
the gleam of the fine spirit that fills and animates it;
comparable to a green goblet of Venetian glass which
does not disclose its true soul till the deep gold of
mellow Rhine wine illuminates it. Scarcely any one, I
imagine, had ever refused my cousin Ezard love and recog-
nition; thus he had no reason to be vain. It is said that
shepherds have a peculiar knack of taking hold of their
animals, so that they patiently submit to the shearing.
Ezard had such a happy knack in the treatment of people,
who always showed him the best that was in them, as much,
to be sure, to their own advantage as to his.
It soon appeared that Ezard was particularly attracted
to Lucile. After the manner of highly developed men who
possess a few feminine qualities in addition to the advan-
tages of their own sex, he admired chiefly those women who
were distinguished by independence, individuality, and
energy. For on her part, Lucile was instantly enchanted
with Ezard. But she concealed it under a graceful coyness,
contradicted no one as much as him, whereby she could be
exceedingly diverting and provoking, and so to speak built
a fortified wall about herself, giving him, with his youthful
strength and love of action, a new incentive to win this girl.
LUDOLF UESLEU THE YOUNGER 357
Uncle Harre loved to measure swords with her in con-
versation. She admired him; the restless activity of his
mind, which would rush forward like a waterfall, break up
every beam that fell upon it into all the colors of the rain-
bow, and play with the many colored jewels, dazzled and
delighted her. And he was amused by the assured intrepid-
ity with which she attacked and rebuked him, now in this,
now in that. Religion was frequently the subject of their
disputes. Lucile, following the traditions of her family,
was a Roman Catholic. This led mj^ uncle to banter and
tease her about what he considered monstrous excrescences
of that faith, things which a clever talker can easily repre-
sent as fantastic and irrational, but she did not dislike
this, as it gave her the opportunity to defend her belief
in eloquent effusions. On such occasions ' Galeide felt
ashamed that she was not drawn more to one party than
to the other, and would gladly have lighted a tiny flame
of sincere faith in her innocent breast. My great-grand-
father usually supported whichever party seemed to be
the weaker, or he would form a new one for himself by
extolling Buddhistic or, it might be, Parsee doctrines as
the treasure-house of Divine wisdom.
Uncle Harre favored his son's affection as long as he
considered it merely a flirtation, but he declared emphati-
cally that it must never develop into anything serious. A
marriage with a Swiss governess was not what he had
hoped for Ezard. Nevertheless this prejudice might have
been overcome, for Harre Ursleu was no ordinary seeker
after worldly advantages and still less a barbaric father
who would have refused to let his child's heart have its
own life. But Lucile was not the woman to make a really
significant impression on him. " She is a clever little
thing," he said of her, '' her mind twinkles continually like
a fixed star ; but I prefer the quiet, steady radiance of the
great planets. And I ask myself, what could she pose to a
sculptor for? A witch? Absurd! A Venus? Impossible!
Diana? God forbid! She is too small. She might most
358 THE GERMAN CLASSICS
easily be imagined as Minerva if, again, it were not for her
inadequate size. Her body is too small for a grand woman,
and her mind is too big for a pretty little doll. I enjoy
sitting beside her in company, but I do not want to have
her in my family."
Ezard was not in the least shaken by his father's opinion.
Many qualities may have pleased him in Lucile which
Uncle Harre himself possessed and therefore could not see
or could not appreciate in others. Ezard wooed her, and
in the light of his love, as in that of Bengal fire, she was
prettier, more fiery, stronger, than before. Galeide's lov-
ing attentions began where Ezard 's had to come to an end.
She bore her happiness joyfully, as a great wave carries
its proud, glistening crown of foam. Life was merry at
that time in the house of the Ursleus ; the way was begin-
ning to lead uphill and every one was still conscious of such
a supply of strength that he was quite ready to spend it
freely.
Chapter VI
I HAVE given up wishing wholly and altogether, for should
I have gone into this cloister if I had still cared to wish?
I have often looked on and seen that : he who wishes is like
one who shakes an apple-tree; the fulfilment falls on his
head and makes it bleed. Still I cannot shut out one wish,
that my student days might come again, the time in which
one chooses the style in which he will build the house of
his life. God above, how immature and ill-advised I was
when I stumbled into that task ! I looked on aspiration and
striving as sentimentalities of past ages. Work, I thought,
is slavery and the fate of the unfit, as potatoes are the food
of the poor. The people who impressed me most were those
who ate only the tips of asparagus stalks ^nd the soft part
of oysters. So I must learn to consume life, I thought,
just nipping the tidbits, so as to get the enjoyment and the
taste without the burden of digestion. If I had applied
this principle to the actual process from which I borrowed
LUDOLF URSLEU THE YOUNGER 359
the figure of speech I should at least have come out of the
struggle of life with one trophy: a good digestion. And
I should not count that little. But I did not merely nip
and skim off the cream, rather I took active part in all
carousals, and wanted to lead in this more than in other
things; in no regard was such an ambition as difficult for
a student of that time to gratify as in this. I wanted to be
a good fencer too, and with much practice succeeded pretty
well. I think I never devoted so much industry and perse-
verance to anything as to the use of the rapier; nor did I
do so, like those godly athletes at the beginning of the
century, in order to toughen the body which was to fight
for my fatherland, but for the sake of winning the esteem
of my comrades, of whom scarcely one in ten could judge
of a man's real worth, much less amount to anything
himself.
I might fitly say nothing about my studies, for they took
up the very least part of my time. I studied law, prin-
cipally because Ezard had studied it and because I cher-
ished the unreasonable conceit, without indeed being clear
about it in my own mind, that if I only roughly imitated
his conduct, I should quite automatically become like him.
I had my love-affairs too, but there was none among them
that it gives me pleasure to remember. Still, here and
there, there w^ere a few little things that are worth setting
down. Although I had resolved not to retrace these paths
of my life, yet one or another of them entices me with its
graceful windings or wooded hollows to turn meditatively
into it. For after all it is errors that make us wise. The
fire burned St. Augustine too before he came forth purified.
Even though I do not presume to be a saint, yet it seems to
me that my nature did not seek reprehensible pleasures
merely for enjoyment, but to train itself for the better by
experience of the worse. This is the distinction between a
wild, profligate youth and a quieter but more corrupt rake.
In a university town where I spent several semesters
there was a girl in a little cottage who sold sweets and all
360 THE GERMAN CLASSICS
sorts of beverages. It was a mark of distinction among
the young fellows there to have once possessed this girl's
favor. Hence all the students liked to appear at her shop,
although they disdained the dry, stale goods she displayed.
They paid for them without eating anything, and that made
it all the grander. The girl 's name was Georgine ; she had
a white skin and was noticeable for her reddish hair. By
nature and from habitual sitting in her shop she was very
lazy and slow in her movements, which prevented her from
appearing vulgar. I was head over heels in love with her,
and I must say that she had a beauty that is usually met
with only in fairy tales or dreams. When she drew herself
up to her full height, raised her heavy eyelids a little, and
indolently moved her full lips, one expected to hear some-
thing like this : * ' I am the queen of the sea and have a
palace of mother of pearl and chairs of coral; swear to
be true to me and you may go with me." She wore her
shining hair like a crown and every polished glass bead in
it like a priceless diamond. Every one knew that she
lavished her favors on the highest bidder, but this did not
enter the mind of the man to whom she would grant a kiss
as if he were a beggar and she were tossing him an alms
from her abundance. She was sluggish in feeling too, and
had let herself be loved, as a lapdog lets itself be stroked
by many hands. She was the same before and afterward.
Altogether there was something about her like a beautiful
animal or a half -human being, like a nixie with a fish's
tail. It was no trick to win as much of her favor as she
gave to every one who was not actually displeasing to her.
But that was not enough for me. It became clear to me
that nothing could give me such a tremendous prestige as
to win Georgine altogether for myself alone. To this my
thoughts and efforts were now directed. I may say that
ambition was not my only motive ; my heart was still fresh
and unspoiled enough not to be satisfied with scraps. I
did not want to buy a pig in a poke, I wanted not only a
body but a soul as well, though to be sure I demanded of
LUDOLF URSLEU THE YOUNGER 361
it nothing more than that it should be able to love me.
And Georgine really had such a soul, as now appeared.
She was like the leaf of the wig-tree, which does not smell
until it is rubbed and bruised; up to that time no one had
ever tried to press out the essence.
I used to tell her about my parents and my sister and
the way we lived. She did not understand much of that,
but this at least she did grasp, that I loved her, if not more,
at least more worthily than the others. And without doubt
that was the principal reason why she gave me more than
all the others. A man's nature shows itself not only when
he does great deeds, but just as well when he comes into a
room and says good morning. An exceptional man kisses
and lets himself be kissed differently from a very ordinary
one, and so Georgine may have seen that her prey was
rarer than usual, one that she could not get again any day.
Then she began to love me more and more, to be anxious
and jealous — so ready are most creatures to mount higher,
if only a ladder is held for them. This took her somewhat
out of her own nature, and with her serenity she lost also
something of the splendid decorum of an Oriental harem
queen; but as I was already at the height of my passion,
this no longer disturbed me, but, on the contrary, strength-
ened my feelings.
For my sake she now gave up all the others and became
unapproachable because I wanted to have it so. This did
indeed gain for me the hoped for prestige, not without its
own disagreeable features. It was traditional that beauti-
ful Georgine should lean back in her chair, pour out lemon-
ade, and smile sleepily with her green eyes. How were the
young fellows to treat the beautiful woman now? They
would willingly have rocked on their knees before her, but
to feel a little respect and esteem for a soul that was for-
saking the worse for the better, that was beyond them. On
the contrary they felt the change to be a grievous insult.
Georgine, however, paid no attention to that, but continued
to lay bleeding hearts at my feet by way of love-gifts, as
362 THE GERMAN CLASSICS
an Indian gives his beloved the scalps of slain pale-faces.
This pleased me immensely and her not less. She treated
the rejected ones more disdainfully than was justifiable or
advisable after what had gone before. So it went so far
that a low-minded wretch took a most fiendish and un-
worthy revenge on her by pouring sulphuric acid over her
beautiful white face and thus destroying forever that won-
derful work of nature. It was misery to look at her. Her
golden hair shone above her disfigured countenance like
the sun above a desolate, smoking battlefield. She was
not only no longer beautiful, she was hideous. I sat there
and wept as a father weeps over the ravished body of a
lost child. Unhappy Georgine was completely crushed.
With trembling hands she took down her hair and pressed
it to her eyes. '' Oh, my beautiful face! My beautiful
face," she groaned, and I never heard another word from
her. She moaned these words with such terror of soul
and pleading lamentation that it wrung one's heart,
although they concerned only an external, transitoi*y pos-
session. But one felt that her heart had every reason to
break ; for she was now entirely bereft, denuded, disgraced,
and poor. Pitiful wretch that I was, I was afraid that she
would beg me to go on loving her as before. But that did
not enter her mind; on the contrary she vehemently sent
me away and would not even take any money from me.
I did not wait to be told that twice, and immediately went
on a long trip to be able to give myself up to my thoughts,
which I felt to be very deep and significant.
In the meantime the wretched woman drowned herself.
She had written her last request on a scrap of paper in
large crooked letters, asking that when she lay in her
coffin they would cover her face with her hair. This was
done, and it seemed quite symbolic; for as the mantle
of gold covered the disgrace of her face, so her beauty,
while she was alive, had spread its divine wings above her
poor, disfigured soul, so that she was gladly forgiven for
the sake of her noble intercessor. And her strange mis-
LUDOLF URSLEU THE YOUNGER 363
fortune touched all hearts, so that every honor was shown
her at her funeral: people unconsciously did homage to
nature, which rules above all, pouring out her horn of
plenty where she pleases, solely at the dictates of her own
whim ; but the whims of nature are law.
I no longer know whether I tried to pretend to myself
that I was the hero of this sad adventure. At any rate, I
came out of it in a state of deep-seated depression and
imagined that fate was blighting my well-earned pleasures
and showing me the most beautiful fruits only to snatch
them maliciously from my outstretched hands, like another
Tantalus. In reality it was quite otherwise and I, or rather
the mixture of my soul-forces, was to blame for everything.
Among the birds there are the swallows that sail hither
and thither, the warbling larks, the wag-tails that trip up
and down and dip their tails, and the waddling, splashing
ducks. The proud and sure flight of the falcon, who flings
himself into the air like an arrow and seizes what pleases
him, and then again hovers above the earth as if he were
hanging from the sky on a golden thread, is not bestowed
on every man.
Summary of Chapters VII-XI
[EzAED and Lucile Leroy fell in love, and Uncle Harre's
attempt to prevent the match by requiring Lucile to change
her faith was frustrated by Lucile 's consenting to do so.
A few weeks before the wedding Lucile 'went home,
accompanied by Ludolf and his mother. She concealed her
change of faith, and the visit was pleasant, as Mrs. Leroy,
though living as proprietress of a large farm, had the
cultivation of a city woman. Ludolf found Lucile 's brother
Gaspard, a boy of twelve, less congenial. Mrs. Leroy had
allowed Ludolf to pick the roses, but there were some which
Gaspard wanted for Lucile 's bridal bouquet. Once Ludolf
pretended he was going to pick these, and Gaspard thrust
his clenched fist through a window-pane and picked them
himself with his bleeding hand.
364 THE GERMAN CLASSICS
The marriage ceremony was performed in the village
church, and the next day Ludolf went home and returned to
the university, where he passed his first examination with-
out particular credit. Then he went home to begin his
career as an unpaid barrister in the law court.
He found Galeide much changed. She spent much time
with her great-grandfather and with Lucile, who had
become absorbed in her husband. Ludolf reflected at times
that Ezard and Galeide would have suited each other well,
and on one occasion Lucile even told Ezard that when she
died he must marry Galeide.
A boy was born to Ezard and Lucile called Harre, after
his grandfather. Galeide almost lived at Lucile 's and the
baby soon took a great liking to her, so that it often seemed
as if she were his mother.]
Chapter XII
After little Harre 's christening we never again had a
family festival, no family gathering I mean that could
really be called festive. For although care had already
taken hold of us even then, yet each hid it from the other,
and though we knew each other's feelings, no one had as
yet spoken of it, and so for hours we could act as if nothing
were the matter. Then too, at that time we were still at
peace among ourselves and felt ourselves to be a unit,
so that we felt comforted and encouraged from the very
fact of being together; for, as a whole, we were a sturdy
group and might w^ell trust ourselves to Mdthstand the
shock of a contrary fate. But now a new and sudden attack
in the rear of our troop took us so unawares that neither
shield nor sword was at hand for defense, and we were
driven apart.
As little Harre continued his healthy growth, he con-
ceived a deep love for Galeide and she for him, so that she
neglected everybody and everything else. That was her
way: if she once grew fond of anything, her love was so
LUDOLF URSLEU THE YOUNGER 365
strong and whole-souled that it carried her away and
engulfed everything else. Little Harre was full of her
waking and sleeping, allowed himself to be guided by her
eyes which were in no way remarkable, laughed M'hen she
came, and dropped the corners of his mouth piteously when
she went. Lucile tolerated this without jealousy, chiefly
because it concerned Galeide, whom she idolized, and also
because she loved the little girl who was born to her after-
ward more than the boy. Perhaps she would have loved
him better if he had not been called Harre, but as it was
she looked on him as belonging entirely to his grandfather,
whom she did not particularly like ; for she was influenced
at times by such trivial, superficial things. My cousin
Ezard, on the other hand, was not satisfied that the child
should be so entirely in Galeide 's power, although he was
the only one who reigned almost equally with her in the
little boy's heart. He probably feared that she w^ould
spoil him too much; what other objection he could have I
do not know, for with my sister the little fellow was on the
whole in good hands, and Ezard was too just not to realize
that. Moreover, the courtesy that underlay his intercourse
with her prevented his ever speaking seriously to her on
the subject, but his feeling was noticeable here and there
in his beha\'ior and may occasionally have caused a little
discord. My father, who grew more and more melancholy
and distrustful as his worries increased, watched this situ-
ation with a close attention of which all the rest of us
thought it quite unworthy. He yielded to the strange idea
that Ezard and Galeide were conscious of a forbidden
affection for each other, and that this was the cause of the
change in their behavior (which existed far more in his
imagination than in reality). He tormented himself and
all of us with this extraordinary delusion and even con-
sidered it his duty to go to Lucile with this Job's news,
as he thought it to be. Lucile, however, laughed at him
and took the whole thing as a delicious joke, like a person
who is himself afraid of ghosts but no longer feels any
366 THE GERMAN CLASSICS
fear of them as soon as some one else begins to tremble
and says : Look, there it squats in the corner !
She repeated the conversation that she had had with
my father not only to me but to Galeide, when we all three
took occasion to deplore the unfortunate man's increas-
ingly unhappy state and to pity ourselves no less for having
to suffer under it. Whether Lucile also told her husband
I do not know or have forgotten; one thing is certain,
however, that he and my sister showed utter unconstraint,
or, as one might also say, that same constraint which had
always been for Lucile a matter of regret and astonishment.
Something else, however, came up to strengthen my
father in his delusion. At that time two young men were
courting my sister, of whom one would have been very
acceptable to him as a son-in-law. He was a citizen of
our town, not bad looking and with an adaptable mind, so
that, although of a different stamp from ourselves, he was
soon at home in all our ways and always knew how to meet
my great-grandfather and my parents in the manner that
pleased them best. This was not the result of politic
motives alone, it was rather owing to his natural friendli-
ness of feeling which enabled him rightly to understand
other people. Both Galeide and I enjoyed his society very
much, as in conversing he could display and unchain in
others a kindly and at the same time delicate wit, which
we particularly liked. The gloomier the atmosphere in
our house threatened to become, as soon as we were alone,
the more we rejoiced in the distraction and diversion that
he brought us, and we encouraged him to visit us very
often, without thinking what the consequences might be.
He was musical, too, and that was enough to make any one
welcome and popular with us, for we all loved and culti-
vated music passionately. In fact he was a cellist by pro-
fession and had a good and respected position in our opera
orchestra. His name was George Wendelin. Galeide was
visibly attracted to him, but she showed just as clearlj^ that
she felt nothing for him that could have justified any ex-
LUDOLF UESLEU THE YOUNGER 367
pectation of love. She was also his superior, highly clever
and talented as he was, in that she had a stronger and more
pronounced character than he, as soon appeared; for he
allowed himself to be blindly ruled by her, without being
able to claim the slightest reciprocity in this respect.
The other suitor, a Ehinelander, was still further from
her heart, but he occupied her more with the foreign ideas
that he brought into our circle, for he was a youth of the
latest pattern, had read everything and thought about
everything. He disapproved of everything that existed,
presumed to be able to improve everything, and was also
inclined, as may readily be imagined, to the socialistic doc-
trine, carrying his passion for innovation into all spheres,
such as. poetry, music, painting, and so on. Such things
had a great power of attraction for Galeide, but as she
never took other people's word for anything — and I say
this in her praise — but wanted to examine and experience
everything herself before she adopted it as her opinion,
she began by meeting the young man's arguments with
her old views, which were, for the most part, nothing but
inherited household goods, and which she had scarcely once
tested in respect to their usefulness. On account of his
views the young Rhinelander inspired me with unendur-
able dislike ; my mother, on the contrary, was well pleased
with him and much edified by his extravagant utterances.
You see her mind was so original and fresh that nothing
conventional clung to her or influenced her; hence she was
never disturbed by the fact that an idea was unusual, but
always derived from it at least the pleasure we find in
wandering through an unexplored region, even if it does
not please us in itself. It goes without saying that my
great-grandfather was altogether for the agreeable Rhine-
lander, who, incidentally, was half a genius ; all unawares
he went on educating himself to be a Socialist and icono-
clast, and he managed to reconcile such views with his
aristocratic prejudices so magnificently that it would have
been a psychological treat for me if the young man — Philip
368 THE GERMAN CLASSICS
Wittich was his name — had not been so utterly puffed
up at this success. Consequently I was only disgusted.
Galeide got much enjoyment out of the society of her two
admirers; for she was never averse to attentions, which
she received very gracefully, especially if the men con-
cerned knew how to pay them in an entertaining and not
in a silly manner.
At the same time she was perfectly sure of her heart, for
that remained as cold as marble, and she troubled herself
little about what the feelings of the unfortunate young
men might be, when she treated them in such a familiar
and sisterly way. In that respect she reminded one of the
children who cheerfully pull off the legs of frogs and
beetles and watch them struggle, for which cruelty, though
it fills us with horror, the children cannot rightly be
blamed, as they act with no bad intention and, as one may
say, unconsciously.
We tried to avoid having Wendelin and Wittich meet
each other in our house; for their rivalry and then too
the difference in their natures and views made them in-
tensely antagonistic and brought a note of excitement and
hostility into the conversation which dispelled all socia-
bility. My cousin Ezard did not like either of them, and
it was just that which supported my father in his opinion
that Ezard did not wish my sister to marry any one, and
in fact intended, so long as he could not have her himself,
that at least she should not belong to any one else. Now
as my father, with the terrible state of his fortunes always
in mind, desired most ardently to see my sister married
and well provided for, he was much in favor of a marriage
with the cellist, though he was far too delicate of feeling
to try to influence her even by the slightest hint.
Ezard 's dislike of the Ehinelander was due more to the
difference in their natures than in their views ; for although
he disapproved of the passion for innovations, particularly
violent ones, yet, with his great love of justice, he always
LUDOLF URSLEU THE YOUNGER 369
tried to separate the person from his opinions, and often
sought to appreciate a man while he disputed his views.
But because of the Rhinelander's youth, his assertions,
made like revelations, often bordered on presumption, for
he could scarcely have thoroughly experienced and tried
them, but had simply picked them up out of the streets. It
was evident that as one born and raised on dry, sandy soil,
he aspired to the unusual and the extravagant without
having any corresponding element in his nature, just as
deformed persons often have a passion for adorning them-
selves with gay and glittering ornaments. It is more
difficult for me to understand why Ezard was so reserved
with Wendelin. The most probable explanation seems to
me that a certain lack of force and a certain mediocrity
in his nature moved Ezard to say that he did indeed like
to joke with him and to hear his music, but that he did not
consider him a desirable addition to the family.
My father not only imagined that Ezard 's feeling for
Galeide was the cause of his speaking and acting thus, but
also that Galeide herself scorned her suitors for Ezard 's
sake ; even if she did not love him, although that was prob-
able, she could not make up her mind to act contrary to his
wishes. This erroneous opinion took complete possession
of him, and with the love of their own suffering that some
people have, he purposely drove himself deeper and deeper
into his misery, by unceasingly observing Ezard and
Galeide wherever he could and believing that he constantly
saw fresh corroboration of his supposition. With his dark
fears and predictions the unhappy man made himself as
unwelcome to us all as the prophets of the Old Testament
were to the people of Jerusalem, and like them he suffered
twofold torments, grief on the one hand at the approaching
misfortune in which he himself firmly believed, and on the
other the cold-heartedness of those who were associated
with him and who now, disturbed in the comfortable course
of their life, became more and more estranged from him.
Vol. XVTTT— 24
370 THE GERMAN CLASSICS
Chapter XIII
During a period of great heat Lucile had gone with her
little girl to stay in the country; little Harre stayed with
us, principally in Galeide's charge, lest the presence of
both children should interfere with their mother's recrea-
tion. I, too, was fond of him with his defiant eyes; but
at home they fretted and fussed too much about him, and
that spoiled him for me. My cousin had been kept in town
by business and was frequently at our house, on the boy's
account if for nothing else ; he nearly always had his mid-
day meal with us. Once when we were sitting at the table,
Harreken, as we called the child, grew naughty and instead
of eating his soup, hit it with his spoon so that it splashed.
He was sitting between Ezard and Galeide. Ezard may
have been annoyed that day by business matters, for
whereas he usually did not correct the boy except for
serious naughtiness, he now forbade the malefactor such
conduct in the severest manner. The child was frightened
at this unexpected attack from his father, generally so
kind, and began to cry; Galeide reddened with annoyance
and fear for her favorite and drew him to her to quiet
him as quickly as possible and prevent the paternal wrath
from rising further. On his part, Ezard grew red when
he saw Galeide behaving as if her relation to the child
were, to a certain extent, closer than his, and ordered his
sobbing son to be quiet and eat his soup. Galeide threw
a cold glance at Ezard, for she was too wise to argue with
him about training in the child's presence. The impression
that the little incident made appeared, however, in the
behavior of the others ; my great-grandfather smiled some-
what mockingly and looked knowingly at Galeide, and my
father cast gloomy glances from one to the other. I was
just about to divert the general attention with some inno-
cent topic and turned to my mother, on whose lips a whim-
sical speech seemed to be trembling, when Ezard rose,
picked up the sinner, who, clinging close to Galeide, was
LUDOLF URSLEU THE YOUNGER 371
still crying quietly, carried him into another room, and
then came back at once and went on eating. My mother
now laughed aloud; Ezard took it pleasantly and also
answered my teasing remarks in the same spirit. But
Galeide had grown quite pale; she still remained sitting
at the table, however, and. took part in the conversation.
After the meal was over, Ezard went at once to his little
boy, made peace with him, for he never was angry for long,
and came back into the room with him in his arms, while
the child held him tight round the neck and his merry
twinkling eyes showed that all trouble and strife were
forgotten. As it was now time for Ezard to go, he put
Harreken on Galeide 's lap and held out his hand to her to
say good-by; she took it, but her nostrils moved as they
always did when she got on her high horse and made fun
of some one. Full of anxious thoughts, which all of us
except Galeide saw through and smiled at, my father went
to his room. In the meantime my great-grandfather dis-
coursed at length on the insignificant incident, regretted
that Ezard had been so unfavorably influenced by Lucile,
as he would not otherwise have been so childish as to try to
reprove such a small child by solemn strictness instead
of smiles and playful wisdom, and so on. He also spoke to
Ezard himself about it afterward and pointed out how
much Galeide was doing for the child, taking almost better
care of him than his own mother, and that now her soft
heart was hurt, although she did not show it. To be sure
this was wholly false, for Galeide was not easily hurt, and
all she thought was that Ezard understood nothing about
bringing up children; perhaps she also triumphed a little
in her confidence that she would keep the child's affection
even though Ezard should intend to rob her of it. On the
other hand she did suffer under my father's strange man-
ner, which she did not exactly know how to explain, and
that may have made her look sad on that day, w^hich always
showed with such disproportionate clearness in her soft,
mobile features, that she looked like a Niobe when she was
372 THE GERMAN CLASSICS
merely annoyed at a drop of rain. After what my great-
grandfather said to him, Ezard could not but think he had
caused her sorrow, and he was immediately quite ready to
make it good again. But as their intercourse, though
pleasant and courteous, had always been rather formal,
he did not know just how to go about it, and postponed
it until after Galeide had put the little boy to bed and was
still sitting beside him, while he clung tightly to one of her
hands as he fell asleep. When Ezard came to our house
at this hour, he was wont to go to the bedroom and kiss
his son good night; on that day, after he had done so, he
sat down beside Galeide on the edge of the bed, took her
free hand, and drew it to his lips as if he would thus ask
her forgiveness. They were alone, but long afterward
I heard them tell what happened; they still remembered
exactly how at that moment a delicious content had come
over them, sweeter they thought than anything they had
ever felt before. They remained sitting together till my
mother went in to see to the child, and she reported to
us that they had looked at each other radiant with hap-
piness, so that they must have become reconciled and now
everything was in order again. She told this in my
father's presence, and not without a purpose; for it was
her opinion that his unnatural delusions must be met by
setting before him with complete unconcern the true and
normal relation, as it was and might rightly be. But she
only succeeded in making my father start as if he were
hearing just exactly what he feared and what fitted in
perfectly with the scheme of his forebodings. Now, for
the first time, his fears agreed with the reality, which, how-
ever, none of us as yet suspected, so that we still regarded
him as deluded and afflicted by a painful desire for self-
torment.
Soon, however, this strange and fearful fate became
apparent to us all. During the days that followed this
unhappy day Ezard and Galeide were extraordinarily joy-
ful; happiness beamed from their eyes, whatever they did
LUDOLF UESLEU THE YOUNGER 373
and whatever they said. We yielded to the agreeable
influence that radiates from happy people, and enjoyed
the golden mood without inquiring into its cause. But the
two unfortunate beings could not help gradually coming to
themselves and realizing what had happened to them. At
first, perhaps, they simply felt an unsuspecting joy in this
affection, as in a flower that has opened in a warm night
and stands there in the morning in all its beauty, or as
a child stares with wonder at the Christmas presents which
unseen hands have spread out beside his bed while he slept.
But love can truly be compared to a fire, in that it is never
satisfied, but constantly demands more food, strains up-
ward, and expands gigantically to fearful beauty and to
the destruction of everything that stands in its way. Lucile
soon came back from her visit, like a swallow that seeks
its old nest in spring and finds it destroyed by bad weather
or hostile hands. Ezard did indeed receive her happily
and heartily, and at once told her that at last his eyes
had been opened to Galeide and her beauty, and that, in
accordance with Lucile 's often expressed wish, he was now
her friend and brother, just as Lucile formerly had re-
garded herself as Galeide's friend and sister. The poor
woman realized better than Ezard the nature of this sup-
posed friendship ; even if it had been no more than friend-
ship, she would not have borne it calmly and without envy,
and she had wished for it simply because she was all too
sure of her happiness and could not imagine it ; but it was
her nature to play in imagination irreproachable, even
sublime parts, which in reality were beyond her.
[Outwardly things went on as usual. All that the family
felt at first was great uneasiness. Ezard and Galeide were
the only ones who knew what had brought about the change.
The others mostly blamed their father's gloomy suspicions
or Lucile 's jealousy. They persuaded themselves into be-
lieving that Ezard and Galeide were merely friends.]
374 THE GERMAN CLASSICS
Chapter XIV
Of us all my mother was the most to be pitied, for
because she had the soul of a child she suffered as children
suffer, who are unable to help and advise themselves, and
are disconsolate and silent. She also possessed that clair-
voyance of children which often suddenly and unintention-
ally revealed things to her that escape the brooding observer.
Like Mignon she lived without care or effort, but, like her,
she had sorrow enough. Much of it I never knew, but now
I can vaguely and painfully feel it.
She was never ill as long as I can remember, but we
knew she had a defect of the heart which to be sure she did
not feel very much, but which under the strain of excite-
ment or any unsuitable mode of life might lead to her sud-
den death. Hence we were accustomed to keep everything
from her which could disturb the usual course of her life.
But as all our circumstances were shaken in these latter
years it was unavoidable that she too should be affected.
My father and my great-grandfather, to be sure, watched
over her as if she were a sacred treasure of brittle glass ;
but my father's anxious solicitude only oppressed and bur-
dened her, just as a young bird misses the light and free-
dom when its mother's wings shield it too closely and inces-
santly. She seldom spoke of w^hat had come to pass with
Ezard and Galeide, and then she usually emphasized only
how perfectly evident it was that their relation was proper
and innocent. But one could see that she was repressing
a secret anxiety that it was not so. She was like a child
that thinks it perceives something uncanny near its bed
at night and has not the courage to reassure itself, but
buries its head in the pillows. Several times she asked
me in a manner that was intended to be jesting, whether
I did not think that Ezard and Galeide paraded their newly
formed friendship a little too ostentatiously, and the like;
but as I saw well that she merely wanted to allay her
anxiety, I had not the courage to answer seriously, and
r" -I
»lir:^4«A.. •*■* ,^j
J\ ) iiii^sicii Aiiislcr & Ruthardt. Berlin
APHRODITE
Max Ki.in(,i:r
LUDOLF URSLEU THE YOUNGER 375
simply replied in the way that I knew would be most bene-
ficial to her.
It was on a cold day in January that my mother was
taken with an indisposition, and as the doctor advised rest
she went to bed. My father had already been in England
for some time and we concealed from him this slight attack,
which seemed to give no cause for alarm, the more willingly
because my mother was usually visibly relieved when he
was not there to drag the burden of his melancholy and his
worries through our rooms like a black mantle of mourn-
ing. Each of us pursued his work and his pleasures as
before. At that time my custom was to dispatch the most
necessary of my professional duties with indifference or
dislike, and then pass the rest of my time, particularly the
evenings, with mostly rather superficial acquaintances in
rather shallow merriment.
I distinctly remember one winter evening when the snow
fell steadily from a whitey-gray sky so that everything
was veiled by an immeasurable moving cloth and it made
one weary and sad to look out. My great-grandfather,
Galeide, and I were sitting by my mother's bed, Galeide
and I all ready to go out, she to a concert, I to a jolly
festi\dty arranged by my comrades. I had offered to
accompanj^ her to the concert hall, which suggestion she
did not seem to welcome, so that I concluded she had reck-
oned on meeting Ezard. She accepted my escort, however,
and we had gone together to my mother's bedroom to wish
her good night. She lay there smiling and looked at us
contentedly, glad that we were going out for our own
pleasure. As we knew that she always felt happiest in
the company of my great-grandfather, we left her without
concern, although it was gloomy beyond all measure in
the dusky room, where each knew that the other was hiding
secret anxiety in his soul. My great-grandfather, to be
sure, had no suspicion of anything in respect to Galeide;
but, accustomed to examining my mother's features with
regard to her condition, and familiar with the slightest
376 THE GERMAN CLASSICS
change in the countenance he loved, he had perceived some-
thing in it that seemed strange, new, and worse to him than
anything that her former temporary sufferings had caused.
When we came into the room my mother's face seemed
peculiar and unrecognizable to us too, but we attributed
it to the pale light of the snow that shone through the
window. Nevertheless I felt as if we ought not to go out,
and Galeide also hesitated to start and stroked the yellow-
ish, marble-like invalid hands that lay motionless on the
counterpane. In his restlessness, however, my great-grand-
father urged us to go, and Mama nodded slowly in assent
to his words. I asked if I should not light the lamp, for
I hated to go and leave her alone in the dark, but Mama
refused because she wanted to watch the snow and the
ravens that flew past the window. So we rose, bent over
the invalid, and kissed her, while she looked at us with
dull eyes, thoughtfully and yet as if from a remote dis-
tance, so that it made us uneasy and we at first walked in
silence through the snow. As I had expected, we soon met
Ezard, who greeted us without embarrassment, and told
us that he, too, was going to the concert and without Lucile,
who had wanted to stay at home with the children. He
asked after Mama at once, and said that, in accordance with
a promise he had once made my father always to watch
over her in the latter 's absence, he had been to see the
doctor ; he had, however, found nothing serious in her con-
dition, and declared it to be a sick headache that in his
opinion would pass in a few days. The conversation
cheered us and dispelled the anxious impression we had
received; yet during the first part of the evening I had
to keep banishing from my eyes the \dsion of the dark
sickroom and the high window past which the snow and
the ravens flew. Gradually it ceased to return, and the
night passed like many another, full of that noisy merri-
ment that, however loud it may be, leaves no echo in the
soul that we care later to awaken in order to listen to it.
I came home long after midnight, not intoxicated by any
LUDOLF URSLEU THE YOUNGER 377
means, but still immoderately stimulated; two friends
accompanied me and we strolled through the streets in
loud and merry conversation. At our garden gate we
parted, promising to meet again the next morning in the
restaurant which we frequented. I was surprised to find
the door of the house unlocked, and thought that Galeide,
who must have got home before me, had carelessly left it
open. I went quietly to my room and lit a light, but I
could not keep my eyes open and threw myself half un-
dressed on the bed, my limbs felt so heavy. Immediately
after Galeide came into my room, as pale as death, and
said : ' * It is a good thing that you are here, Ludolf ; Mama
is much worse." I stared at her and my senses, dull as
they still were, perceived that she was clinging to a bed-
post with one hand, that tears were ceaselessly streaming
down her face, and that she was still wearing the white
dress and golden girdle with which she had adorned her-
self for the concert. I turned very sick, although I could
not quite remember what had happened during the day.
I wanted to ask but could not, and so staggered silently
after Galeide. When we came into the sickroom I knew
that Mama was dead even before I saw her. In an arm-
chair in the corner sat my great-grandfather, crying softly
to himself and sobbing at intervals : ' * My child ! My
sweet one! My little girl! My darling! " As for me,
I felt not like crying, but like bawling, for well I knew that
in all my life, and if I should live to be a hundred, no one
would ever love me again as my Mama had; in the most
neglected and wildest days of my godless youth she had
been all that I knew of heaven and truly my love, and my
senses almost left me when I saw her lying there lifeless,
no longer herself. Kneeling by her bed I hid my head
against it in that state of numbness in which, though alive,
we are as dead and without power over ourselves, yet con-
scious of the external world. I heard Galeide ask Ezard,
who also was present, to shut the window, and I knew
it was done on account of my loud lamentation ; but it was
378 THE GERMAN CLASSICS
not possible for me to stop nor to moderate my voice,
although I seemed to myself like a whining animal and
was ashamed. At last I simply moaned and moaned and
scarcely knew why, and I could not calm myself till my
great-grandfather came up to me, stroked the hair off my
forehead with his light, tender, aged hand and tried to
dry my hot and streaming face with his tear-soaked hand-
kerchief. At that I felt as if I were still a little boy and
I willingly allowed him to take my hand and lead me into
another room, and finally I fell asleep with the old man
sitting beside me watching. He was never benumbed by
any blow of fate or showed himself to be weak as long as
any one near him was weaker and more in need of help
than he.
Next day I learned that not long after my great-grand-
father had left my Mama, and had fallen asleep, he was
awakened by a heavy fall in her room; hastening to her
in terror he found her lying unconscious on the floor near
the window, which she must have opened shortly before.
One of the servants, hurrying to get the doctor, met Ezard
and Galeide in the garden, and this might explain to some
extent what had happened. None of us doubted that my
Mama, who had perhaps not yet gone to sleep or had been
awakened by their returning steps or voices, had opened
the window in order to see them, moved by some feeling
of anxiety. The window looked out on the back of the
garden; it is possible that Ezard and Galeide, believing
themselves to be alone, were still walking up and down
there, lost in their unfortunate passion, and perhaps they
gave expression to it in their bearing and gestures and
Mama saw it; it was a bright moonlight night. The icy
winter cold struck her directly as she stood there in her
thin nightdress; but doubtless it was especially the phe-
nomenon of this criminal love, appearing fearfully fateful at
dead of night in the snow-covered garden, that had gripped
her heart so that she lost consciousness. But these were
only unexpressed and painful conjectures; the only cer-
LUDOLF UESLEU THE YOUNGER 379
tainty that Ezard had accompanied my sister home after
the concert, was perfectly natural and in no way unusual.
The two attended to all the formalities that follow a death ;
they also notified my father of what had happened, at
once and as gently as possible, and they did all this with
great composure and in such a considerate way that it
seemed to go on of itself.
My father arrived home in the night before the funeral,
and his presence at once settled down on the slumbering
house like an incubus. Whereas up till then we had felt
the natural and therefore bearable grief at the death of
an adored mother, there was now added to it an uneasy
gloom, for every misfortune w^as reflected in my father as
in a mirror that magnifies and distorts, and since every-
thing centred about him as the head of the family, the
terrible reflection could not but impress itself on us more
sensibly than the reality. Galeide felt this most, for he
would not let her leave his side, and during the first night,
when he felt incapable of sleeping, she had to stay up with
him, though he asked it of her only by an appealing glance,
or by his whole disconsolate and thoroughly shaken de-
meanor. On the following day the house was astir early
and there was much to attend to on account of the funeral,
as well as guests to be received, and as all this fell prin-
cipally on Galeide, she was in such a state of overfatigue
when evening came that her look filled us all with pity.
My father, however, overwhelmed with his sorrow, seemed
to notice nothing of this and sat constantly beside her,
holding her hands in his as if they were something that the
departed one had left him for a keepsake and as her sole
dear legacy. I had noticed during the day that Ezard was
vexed at this and often sought a pretext on which to call
my sister from her father's side. He also told us that, in
his opinion, our father was yielding to his grief too much
and more than became a normal man, and was giving way
to flabby sentimentality. Galeide contradicted him and
thought it unjust to count up my father's tears so soon.
380 THE GERMAN CLASSICS
This seemed to excite Ezard even more, and when in the
afternoon Lucile went home on account of the children,
he could not make up his mind to go with her, but stayed
with us; which was also not unnatural, for as our near
relative it was certainly his right and his duty to stand by
us. We ate our supper in silence, and Ezard constantly
regarded Galeide, who again sat beside Papa, with a burn-
ing, penetrating gaze, either unable or without the will to
control himself. It struck me then for the first time how
much he had changed, and how his passion had come to
show itself in his features, his bearing, his whole person.
When it grew to be so late that he could not well remain
Avith us longer, and our father still made no move to let
Galeide leave him, he decided to interfere himself, and
my great-grandfather encouraged him in this with approv-
ing glances. As he turned to my father and suggested that
he retire, since it was his duty to think of his health and
above all to spare Galeide, who had scarcely slept since
our mother's death and who besides was worn out by the
unbroken excitement, a sudden fright seized me, he looked
so handsome and so terrible, much as we imagine Lucifer,
the fallen angel. I asked myself: is it possible, can the
feelings in our house have become so barbarous that Ezard
is fired with wicked jealousy of Galeide 's father and can
no longer bear to see the expression of her childlike love?
Even before that, during the day, I had been tempted by
similar thoughts, but had hastily banished them. But what
was stamped on Ezard 's face could not be misinterpreted,
and my father recognized it at once, as one could tell from
his eyes, which he moved slowly and meaningly back and
forth between Ezard and Galeide. He rose and brought
his powerful frame close to Ezard who was not much
shorter but not so broad : ' ' You shall not have to reproach
me with lack of self control, my nephew Ezard," he said.
Then he turned to us with a curt good night and walked
heavily to his room, without taking particular leave of
Galeide. Galeide looked after him and then rose and said
LUDOLF URSLEU THE YOUNGER 381
good night to us in an expressionless voice, without looking
at Ezard; but he called her name when she was already
at the door and held out his hand to her with a despairing
gesture, whereupon she quickly and vehemently gave him
hers and then left the room immediately, in order to hide
her tears, as it seemed to us. My great-grandfather pitied
her tenderly and indulged in disapproving remarks of our
father, who he said always yielded to his feelings in a
selfish and, as he expressed it. Oriental way, and was now
crushing poor little Galeide with his love as he formerly
had her mother. Ezard now also took his leave, but from
the window of my bedroom I saw him wandering about the
snow-covered garden as if he were trying to master his
wild passion before he went home to his wife and children,
and the thought of him restlessly driven about out there
kept me long awake. At last — it may have been after
midnight — when I heard the garden gate move quietly, I
thought he must have gone, and fell asleep.
Summary of Chapter XV
[A DISTANT cousin of Galeide 's age, named Eva, came to
the funeral. Ludolf thought her doll-like and childish, and
Ezard did not care for her. She accepted Uncle Harre's
attentions all the more eagerly and they were soon engaged,
Lucile alone approving. The wedding was not very joyful,
and the couple soon came home from a short trip, already
disappointed with each other. Uncle Harre took refuge
in work, but Eva had no resource, and her unhappiness
soon won the sympathy of the rest of the family. Mean-
while Ludolf had found out that Ezard and Galeide some-
times met secretly, but was not quite certain how intimate
they had become.]
Chapter XVI
What my father must have suffered in solitude is beyond
expression. It is said that physicians in dissecting a
corpse can sometimes estimate the degree of pain that the
382 THE GERMAN CLASSICS
sufferer endured ; similarly it is only now, in looking over
the entire past, that I realize how much more wretched
he must have been than we were inclined to suppose. For
it is impossible that he did not foresee the fall of the good
old house that bore his name long before it occurred, but
he went on working in spite of it, untiringly and to the
point of exhaustion, and, bitterest of all, without hope.
He said not a word of this to any one and therein he was
at. fault, but it would not become me, his son, to reproach
him with it. What kind of beings must we have been
that he did not dare to test the endurance of our love
in the fire of suffering ! Did we seem to value him solely
as a provider? I shudder and am shaken to the marrow
when I put such questions to myself. At that time, how-
ever, we lived and thought only from moment to moment.
Galeide and I breathed more freely w^hen our father went
on long business trips. At such times we were as good as
alone in the big house and did as we liked. Galeide attended
to the household in a rather superficial way and read a
great deal, but she had taken a special fancy to learn to
play the violin, and in this she displayed a strikingly intense
and persistent zeal. Our father was forever besieging her
with offers of presents, by which he tried, if not to buy her
love, at least to give expression to his, and he was more
than happy whenever she uttered a w^ish. Generally she
would accept nothing, or only trifles, for she was sensible
enough to wish to avoid unnecessary expense; but w^hen it
came to the violin and the lessons that went with it, she
condescended to ask, even to beg, anxiously and bashfully,
like a child. At that Papa would not have hesitated to
fetch her such an instrument out of the blazing fires of
hell if he could not have procured it elsewhere.
Almost every one in our family was musical, and I may
say in a better sense than that in which the Avord is gen-
erally used. I do not know why it had never occurred to
any of us to choose this art for a profession, unless it was
that we loved it too much to want to drag it down into
LUDOLF URSLEU THE YOUNGER 383
our everyday life. Ezard played the piano so beautifully
that he would undoubtedly have attained to greatness in
that direction if he had been able to devote time as well
as perseverance to it, and although my indolence and care-
lessness kept me from any finished performance, yet to me
music was the most beautiful thing in life, the friend and
comforter to whom I kneeled, and in whose lap I laid my
head without shame. At first it annoyed me that Galeide
was learning the violin, for I heard nothing but abominably
discordant tones, and beautiful songs that I loved, arranged
for beginners, laboriously played with defective bowing.
But it cannot b^ denied that she rapidly reached a point
where her playing was not so distressing, so that I was
not unwilling to accompany her on the piano, when we were
always deeply joyful and contented. We had a music
room in our house, in the middle of which stood the grand
piano, lighted in the evening by a chandelier which hung
above it. The walls were divided into windows and mir-
rors as high as the room, which reflected us when we were
playing. I remember that I frequently looked at Galeide 's
fiddling reflection because it pleased me much better than
the reality. The first piece that we played together was,
** Long, long ago." As her bowing was still very timid
it sounded somewhat as if some one were singing while
he wept, which was not inappropriate for this song and
was the reason that I never could hear her play it without
being deeply touched. At this moment it seems as if that
melody, so often heard, were coming in to me through the
open window in the long-drawn, sad tones of a violin; yet
it is probably nothing but the shawm of a shepherd boy
on the mountains opposite.
During this time Ezard and Galeide were slipping deeper
and deeper into their amorous passion, which, however,
I only felt vaguely then and was far from knowing as
certainly as I now unfortunately know everything. At
times it seemed to me as if Galeide were waiting for me to
go out, so that she could be alone with Ezard, but I did not
384 THE GERMAN CLASSICS
inquire further because I was afraid. So they were often
alone in the big, almost empty house, at times quite openly,
when music brought them together, at times without any
one's knowing it. In the meantime they lived fairly well
controlled lives and tried to behave like everyday people,
by which Lucile gladly allowed herself to be soothed, so
that outwardly a better relation was established. But it
was only the most cruel dissimulation and constant, tor-
turing self-restraint that made this possible for Ezard and
Galeide, and in their despair they sought every kind of
expedient to lighten the burden.
At that time an epidemic of typhus had' called attention
to the bad drinking water in our city, and the senate resolved
that a careful investigation and thorough improvement
should be carried out. To this end a commission was
appointed whose first duty was to study and compare the
water systems of other cities; Uncle Harre stood at its
head. At the same time he suggested that the old sanitary
regulations, now no longer adequate, ought to be replaced
by new ones which should conform closely to those used
elsewhere in the German Empire, as far as they seemed to
be efficient. Thus Ezard hit upon the idea of taking from
his father some of the necessary work; he was especially
attracted by the need for acquiring a great deal of new
knowledge, since that seemed to promise him interesting
activity ; but he intended more especially to take the trips
this project would necessitate and make use of them for
his own criminal purposes. For he told himself that they
would give him an excuse for being away at any time, so
that he could often see Galeide when he was thought to
be out of town. As this motive was hidden from every one
except Galeide, it seemed peculiar and capricious that
Ezard should want to undertake matters which must inter-
rupt so seriously his present occupation. On the one hand
people admired his versatility and on the other they blamed
his lack of steadiness, but however they judged him, they
all considered him a striking and incalculable person.
LUDOLF URSLEU THE YOUNGER 385
Ezard paid not the slightest attention to all this, although
he was, as a rule, modest enough to listen to other people's
judgment even in matters with which he was better able
to cope than they. But his peculiarity was that his will
usually slept, and never, on any occasion, appeared as
disagreeable stubbornness or a whim, but when once it was
roused, he went at his aim irresistibly with both passion
and wisdom. Like an experienced runner who never over-
does, but keeps up a steady and moderate pace which he
can maintain for a long time, and thus finally leaves his
short-sighted and quickly wearied competitors far behind,
Ezard acted calmly and with assurance, moved to act by
passion, it is true, but acting without passion. It was just
that which always made him appear superior and great,
even when he did wrong, so that people admired him even
while they censured him.
In connection with this undertaking Ezard became friends
with the engineer who had been engaged to approve the
water-works. Technical science had a peculiar charm for
Ezard 's love of action, because it leads to visible and useful
results, and also because it requires a certain manual skill
which alert, vigorous people usually enjoy. The fact that
the engineer could introduce him to this science and teach
him was sufficient to make him attractive to Ezard. More-
over he had fertile and happy ideas in his professional
work and this impressed my cousin, who thought himself
lacking in imagination and was easily inclined to over-
estimate in others that charming fertility of mind which
grows poppies in the workaday grainfields of life. In reality
the engineer had so infinitely much less imagination than
Ezard that he could not even realize its value and its
beauty, but found it a disturbing element wherever he
came across its traces. It was only in his profession that
he was ingenious, simply because he was logical and allowed
nothing to divert or distract his attention. He came from
Norway and his name was Karlsen. He wore a long,
forked beard which he could throw back over his shoulders.
Vol. XVIII— 25
386 THE GERMAN CLASSICS
a trick that made him popular with Eva and Galeide, both
of whom displayed at times pronouncedly childish char-
acteristics. Ezard had soon introduced him into the
family, where he was well received, and in fact he gained
an almost unexampled popularity there, and acquired such
an influence over Uncle Harre in particular that in many
things he positively dominated him. As people were then
beginning to take interest in things Norwegian, which the
famous writers of that nation had made familiar to us, we
regarded him as a welcome acquisition and greeted with
joy every trait in him that seemed to correspond to Ibsen's
or Bjornson's types. He utterlv failed to understand
more than one of the ideas that are native to us and
claim universal validity, such as Noble Womanliness, Ideal
Poverty, and other supermundane conceptions. Brains and
energy in any individual, man or woman, pleased him most,
and for that reason he evidently disapproved of Galeide,
whom he regarded as a condemnable article of luxury,
whereas he was well satisfied with Lucile, who was con-
stantly busy about the house, subscribed to a lot of daily,
weekly, and monthly papers in order to study all the ques-
tions of the day, and, in short, was aflame with eagerness
and industry, and even preferred Eva, who had at least
produced a child. Galeide was always overjoyed with his
society, as his opinion of her amused her ; I think I see her
sitting comfortably in a rocking chair like a kitten basking
in the sun, and asking him with a pleasant laugh to show
her the trick with his beard. This behavior called forth
Lucile 's disapproval, while Ezard and I could scarcely
suppress our merriment. I have forgotten to speak of
Karlsen's eyes, which were not unimportant in that they
expressed the greatest honesty as well as intelligence, and
gave him the appearance of incorruptibility. It would have
been impossible to entertain the slightest doubt of any of
his words, and this was strengthened by the fact that he
never gave his judgment on any matter with which he was
not thoroughly familiar — a quality which also character-
ized my cousin.
LUDOLF URSLEU THE YOUNGER 387
With this Norwegian Ezard now spent a great part of
the year in traveling. This unsettled manner of life was
in thorough agreement with the state of his mind, and it
did him good to be able to yield in bodily reality to the
storms that pursued his soul and let himself be driven from
place to place. For physical and spiritual harmony always
does us good, and a struggling, wrestling heart beats more
contentedly in an actively moving body than in a resting
one.
SUMMAEY OF ChAPTER XVII
[LuDOLF was a frequent visitor in Uncle Harre's house.
Eva treated him quite familiarly, but Ezard quite form-
ally. She appeared to admire him greatly, and this
annoyed Ludolf, and he tried to pick quarrels with Ezard.
On one occasion he was unusually aroused and upbraided
him for his conduct to Lucile and Galeide, for his whole
manner of life. Ezard calmly admitted it, and rejoined
with the hope that Ludolf might never have to accuse him-
self of similar things.]
Chapter XVIII
It often happens that when a man loses his property and
with it the external embellishments of the world, he thus
learns to know what is really valuable in life, namely, the
faithful love of those nearest him, which then finds the
opportunity to prove its splendor, like the stars which
shine the more golden the darker the night. My father,
however, saw the support on which his heart had built
falling with the outward props of his life. To some extent
this was probably his fault, as he had not the courage to
grasp this support, that is to appeal to the loyalty of his
children and friends. But who will presume to say that he
would have acted otherwise if he could know and feel every-
thing that my father knew and felt. In his distress he clung
to the miserable hope of being able to retain his spiritual
goods by means of his material ones, but they too were
388 THE GERMAN CLASSICS
just then slipping from him. Like a will- 'o-the-wisp the
vision of wealth danced before him and lured him on into
ruinous regions. Hoping to delight Galeide, he brought
her one thing after another, now a rare flower in winter,
now a beautifully set, sparkling precious stone, and the
poor child tortured herself to thank him and to smile,
without being able to prevent his feeling the artificiality
of her joy. It was pitiable to see. Although my father
had not the strength to adapt his conduct to the state of
affairs in another, and as many may think, more worthy
manner, yet he did gather courage and resolved to leave
our home for a lengthy period. The condition of his busi-
ness moved him to take a trip across — it is thus that we
speak of going to America in our ocean-wonted sea-broken
Hansa towns. He wanted to try once more, to make a last
effort, to avert the ruin of his house — or he may have
thought he could better endure the awful wreck while
standing at the wheel.
When he first spoke to us of his intention, but without
mentioning the very threatening condition of his business,
he watched Galeide with self-torturing attention to see
what impression the news would make on her. She did
look at him sadly, but it was not a child's unaffected ex-
pression of sorrow at losing its father, revealed in un-
abashed lamentation ; for his absence meant a relief to her,
in fact it would enable her to see Ezard, who had grown
to be the only thing on earth to her, oftener than usual.
But the very consciousness that what her innocent childish
heart would have liked to feel as a sorrow, really filled her
wild brain with happiness, caused her a pang comparable
to the sword that pierces the breasts of the abandoned
lovers in Dante's poem and adds unceasing pain to their
infamous bliss. At the same time my father was too weak
in his love for Galeide not to enjoy the softer mood of
parting. He would not let her leave his side, and to me
too he showed more tenderness than usual. Since my great-
grandfather hailed and admired the resolution to make this
LUDOLF UESLEU THE YOUNGER 389
journey as a courageous attempt to break away from the
melancholy brooding of the last few years, we were all
contentedly harmonious, and the last days that my father
spent with us have remained in my mind as bright and
soothing. One evening my great-grandfather's powers of
persuasion even induced my father to sing us a few songs,
which he had not done for years. His voice was a tenor
of medium range that affected the heart by its soft quality
and melting tone, and he sang according to the old, simple
method, bringing out strength and expression less by the
artful rise and fall of his voice than by the soulful feeling
that audibly permeated all his tones. I accompanied him
' on the piano and from my place could see my great-grand-
father sitting in a corner of the sofa, listening and think-
ing, while Galeide, leaning back in the window-seat, gazed
out into the long, dark garden. Among others my father
sang an old-fashioned song beginning, '' I fain would know,
when soon I shall be buried," the idea of which is that a
man, feeling the premonition of his approaching death,
puts the melancholy question whether the only one on earth
whom he loves will keep him in faithful remembrance and
come to visit his grave. After minor chords a joyful rise
in the melody accompanies the final words, in which the
doubter comforts himself with confidence in her faithful-
ness. AVhen my father had sung this song, Galeide leaned
forward from the window-seat and begged him to repeat
it, remaining in that attitude while he did so, and her eyes
stared at us so fixedly out of her soft face that one might
have thought her a wax image.
On one of the days that my father had spoken of as the
last before he left for America we all assembled at Uncle
Harre's. He knew more than any of us of the business
misfortune that threatened, and was full of real concern,
even full of fear, for he could not save my father and yet
was too closely united with us not to feel our fortunes as
his own. He concealed his mood under an excited manner
to which his natural vivacity easily led ; yet for moments
390 THE GERMAN CLASSICS
at a time he would suddenly lapse into brooding, looking
fixedly ahead, with the bearing and face of an old man.
Then he would seem to recollect himself, toss back his
heavy, gray-white hair, and jump up to begin a lively
conversation with some one of us. My father also made
an effort to appear composed and cheerful, and even con-
versed with Ezard, seriously, it is true, but in a kind way,
which I thought especially to his credit, though Ezard
seemed to bear it not without inward pain. Most of all I
pitied unhappy Lucile, who doubtless felt as if she were
now losing her last stronghold, to be left alone among
hostile powers; she kept close to my father's side and
nestled her dark head gently and confidingly against his
shoulder. When we separated, late in the evening, and my
father bade farewell to Uncle Harre, the brothers threw
themselves into each others ' arms and sobbed aloud ; much
affected, we others turned away and strove to suppress
our own emotion. When he said good night, my father
kissed us several times in quick succession, and Galeide
especially he pressed closely to him as if he wanted to keep
a piece of her and take it with him. We were too over-
tired, however, to attach any unusual significance to his
behavior. But I awoke in the morning from confused
dreams, maybe about four o 'clock, and when I could collect
my senses I heard Galeide calling out of the open window,
" Papa! Papa! " I dressed in haste to see what was the
matter, and hurried into the garden, which looked bleak and
gray; the chill that usually precedes sunrise was in the
air, and I shivered. Galeide, who was leaning out of the
window, did not seem surprised to see me and said, '' He
has gone! You go after him, I cannot!" With these
words she burst into tears and dropped her head on the
window-sill, so that her loosened hair hung out.
It was now clear to us that my father had wanted to
spare himself, and still more us, the pain of saying good-by,
but still we decided to go to the harbor at the sailing time
of his steamer, to wave a last greeting to him from the
LUDOLF URSLEU THE YOUNGER 391
shore. We carried out this plan, and when we caught sight
of him he seemed to us more composed than on the pre-
ceding evening. He nodded to me seriously and gently, as
if he were advising me to bear everything that might come
with manly courage, yes, and as if he were confiding to my
keeping not only Galeide but also himself and his memory.
But when he turned his gaze on my sister, his face assumed
an entirely different expression which I cannot describe, it
was so full of sadness and mild reproach. Galeide returned
his gaze unwaveringly as long as he was still discernible
on the slowly receding ship; she looked as I had never
seen her before, more like a stone sphinx than a living
person, as if the soul in her bosom had become soulless to
be able to bear the unbearable.
To some it may seem incredible that she could not put
away from her, for the sake of her father and Lucile,
the passion that was making these two loved ones so miser-
able, that she did not even try to do so, and had not, even
at this moment, the courage to give up the man whom
heaven and earth refused her. Nor will I try to palliate
this crime of her law-defying spirit, but I must say that,
at times, it seemed to me more worthy of her that she did
leap into the abyss with open eyes and conscious will. She
scorned to yield to the emotional mood of a moment, and
the pleasure of being able to gratify, by a comforting
promise, even if only temporarily, those who are pleading
and suffering, never tempted her to deceive herself; she
always knew that she would be able to suffer or to do
anything except to give up Ezard.
When the ship had become a dancing speck before our
eyes, we turned away from the water, walked on together
for a time in silence, and then separated, Galeide going,
as I could not help thinking, to meet Ezard.
[Ludolf and Galeide were now left practically alone in
the big house. Ezard was at home much more frequently
than before, hoping to see Galeide oftener. One night
392 THE GERMAN CLASSICS
when the moon shone brightly Ludolf was awakened by
steps in the music room. There he found Galeide looking
strange and ghostly in her white nightdress, and they both
started on seeing each other. It had seemed to her as if
she had heard her father singing, " I feign would know,
when soon I shall be buried." Ludolf told her she had
been dreaming and they both laughed and went to bed.]
Chapter XIX
I COULD not bring myself to speak frankly to Galeide
about her relation to Ezard, for I was one of those people
who are afraid of excitement and who, if a crime is com-
mitted near them, will perhaps turn quickly into a side
street to avoid being called as witnesses. I did, however,
tell Eva of all that I observed and thought, and that was
far more comfortable and might, after all, gradually lead
to something. I was also human enough to find a certain
charm in being able to show Eva that Ezard lived and
moved entirely in some one else and did not care a pin
for her, though, to be sure, she knew this well enough with-
out my help.
I was not, indeed, in the least in love with Eva ; on the
contrary, my feelings for her were so good and noble that
it still does me good to recall them. She entered into my
conversation with admirable courage and spoke of Galeide
with much affection, which I thought particularly to her
credit, as even under ordinary circumstances it is usually
as rare as it is pleasant for women to say kind and nice
things of one another without ulterior motives. With gentle
consideration she then told me that this unhappy passion
was already the talk of many people in town, as Ezard and
Galeide allowed themselves, with incomprehensible care-
lessness, to be seen together in public, and that she her-
self had already recognized it to be the duty of their
relatives to do something to prevent greater mischief. At
this I flushed hotly, for one never realizes an unfortunate or
LUDOLF UESLEU THE YOUNGER 393
improper state so thoroughly as when people have gossiped
about it and it has thus become an historical fact that can
be looked at objectively. But neither of us thought of
any thorough and systematic measures which should settle
the whole matter, but intended to go to work in a round-
about way to check and patch it as far as possible. We
thought it was particularly to be regretted that Galeide
was so much alone, and that it would be a good thing if
there were some one else in our house to whom she would
have to give her attention, so that she would thus be gently
compelled to give up her meetings w^ith Ezard. Eva had
already thought it all out and had a plan that her elder
sister, Anna Elisabeth, should come to visit us, for which
many reasons or pretexts might be found : she might come
to see our great-grandfather or Eva, and take advantage
of our almost empty house, or even to look after our house-
hold a little, for it was Galeide 's unalterable reputation
that she knew nothing about housekeeping. How true that
may have been, by the w^ay, I cannot say definitely, but I
must confess that I w^as, on the whole, well taken care of
as long as she had the supervision, and I thought it praise-
worthy that she never made a great to-do when something
was not in order, but calmly and pleasantly corrected the
omission, or somehow set it right, so that one felt each time
that it was intended to be so, or even that it was much
better thus.
I had only seen Anna Elisabeth once, many years before,
and my memory of her was of some one very aristocratic,
even queenly, so that the idea of her coming was by no
means disagreeable to me. At the same time I was much
exercised to know how I should tell Galeide of the plan,
for, although it might have been something perfectly harm-
less and natural, still the consciousness of its purpose
embarrassed me, so that I did not believe I could lay it
before her without blushing.
It was then late autumn. I remember this because at
that time I was once present at a scene in the garden and
394 THE GERMAN CLASSICS
can still vividly recall the foggy atmosphere, the falling
leaves, and the melancholy of disintegrating nature which
impressed me on that occasion. At the far end of our
garden there was a sort of grotto under the sylvan shade
of broad chestnut-trees, although their branches were
bare on the afternoon of which I am now thinking, and
through them could be seen the spires of the town and
the high chimneys of the factories. Coming back from a
walk, I was strolling through the garden to see if I could
still find a ripe plum or green-gage, when I caught sight of
two figures sitting there whom I recognized as Galeide and
Lucile, Galeide was sitting on one of the projecting stones
of the grotto and had Lucile, who was considerably
smaller, on her lap, so that they sat there in an intimate
embrace. Full of annoyance I thought, '' Galeide has got
hold of her again! " For, dear as they had formerly been
to each other, yet in the years just past Lucile had had a
hatred of my sister, which was comprehensible and pardon-
able enough. I now came nearer and could distinctly per-
ceive the expression of grief and love in Galeide 's face,
which was looking up at Lucile. Lucile turned round
toward me when she heard my steps, and I saw that she
had tears in her eyes ; she turned back again to Galeide at
once, as if I were not there at all, and said : "I have made
your dear hair all wet," and tried to dry it with her hands,
smiling at Galeide. I had already got into the habit of
behaving as if many things were perfectly natural which
I really thought very unusual and strange, and so now I
nimbly lugged in some indifferent subject of conversation,
which the two immediately took up in the same spirit.
But afterward, when Lucile had gone, I did ask my
sister whether anything had happened between them, to
which she replied, " Oh no, we were speaking of former
days, and Lucile complained that I was not as tender to her
as I used to be then." — ''And why aren't you? " I asked.
" She wouldn't believe me if I told her, neither now nor
later," answered Galeide, looking disconsolately off into
LUDOLF URSLEU THE YOUNGER 395
space. ' ' But you seemed to be very loving with each
other when I came into the garden," I continued. "I
could not do otherwise," said Galeide, as if there had
been something to excuse. I also inquired whether they
had spoken of Ezard, and at that Galeide 's face imme-
diately took on the stony expression that I already knew,
and she said coldly and calmly, " She asked me whether
I loved him." — ''And what did you say! " I asked. '' I
said no," she returned. I tried to understand why she had
said no and what Lucile might have planned to do if the
answer had been different. When I asked Galeide 's opin-
ion on this, she said, '' Perhaps she had made up her mind
to say, ' Take him, he shall be free, I will give him up ! '
But she never could have actually done it; so what good
would it have done? "
[Ludolf could not imagine nor did he ask what Ezard 's
and Galeide 's wishes and plans really were. When Christ-
mas came he had still not told his sister of the proposed
visit. They bought a stately Christmas tree, and on
Christmas Eve, after everything was ready to be hung
on the tree next morning, Galeide seemed disinclined to
go to bed.]
I went and left her alone, but I was surprised and could
not help thinking that she hoped to see Ezard that evening.
The situation was such that even while we had just been
chatting together peaceably like children, a word, a breath,
could suddenly stir up the whole mess of suspicion and
torment, so that it threatened to descend and destroy us.
Anger rose in me that this obstinate passion should thus
recklessly ruin our life, and I thought this was the occa-
sion when I could speak frankly with Galeide, telling her
that I had provided against her longer being able to yield
to the outrageous impulses of her frantic heart. I con-
tinued to work myself into a state of wrath, standing at
the window so as to see whatever should happen and no
longer be a stupid dupe.
396 THE GERMAN CLASSICS
All at once I saw Ezard's strong figure coming down the
street with such a light step that the snow scarcely squeaked
under his feet; he looked up at our house. He must have
caught sight of Galeide, for he nodded slightly toward the
drawing-room and then entered the garden. There was
a cold, dead silence far and wide; but still such a venture
was recklessly bold, and if by chance a late reveller should
pass, it might lead to the most cruel ruin for us. My
heart beat with rapid throbs as I saw him approach the
house and begin to swing himself up the wall. Now it all
seems to me as if I had dreamt it, for it appeared strange
and incomprehensible enough in the icy winter night. In
my indignation, an exciting scene just suited me, and I
hurried downstairs and into the drawing-room.
It was lighted only by two little Christmas candles, which
Galeide had undoubtedly fastened to the Christmas tree
and lighted in the meantime. She and Ezard stood close
to the window, still glowing and trembling from the tem-
pestuous embrace out of which my entrance had startled
them, as I could easily see. At the same time their bearing
was by no means that of discovered sinners; on the con-
trary they stood there erect and majestic, somewhat like
the helmsman on a sinking ship, who sees the engulfing
waves coming and yet remains steadfastly at his post.
Doubtless I felt this, but it angered me doubly to see them
standing there so resplendent with joy of life, yet reckless
of the poor life that they were treading under their feet,
and I did not hesitate to say all this to their faces, although
I began to feel more like a troublesome marplot than an
ordained avenger.
Galeide came swiftly up to me, laid her hand on my arm,
and said: '' Don't speak so loud, Ludolf, or great-grand-
father will hear you."
She did seem to be much excited, but at the same time
quite unembarrassed, and the same with Ezard, whom I
thought I had never seen look so handsome.
He said to me : * ' If you wish, let us talk about this
LUDOLF URSLEU THE YOUNGER 397
tomorrow, Ludolf. I shall go now, and you need not
worry, for I shall take care that no one sees me. But let
Galeide sleep now, I demand that." Galeide smiled at
him and said : * ' Don 't trouble about that, but go now. ' '
At that they looked once more into each other's eyes,
steadily and with strange power, as if there were some
secret magic in their gaze, but they neither shook hands nor
kissed, and Ezard swung himself up onto the window-sill
and went down the wall. Galeide watched him and after
a time, probably when he had reached the path unnoticed
and unhurt, she turned round to me with the words:
" I want to tell you, that this is all soon coming to an
end now, for after Christmas I am going away."
I was utterly astonished and disconcerted. *' You? ^*
I said. " Going away? Where? "
She said, " Either to Vienna or to Geneva to study music
at the conservatory."
I did not know what to think, " You alone? " I asked.
She looked at me half smiling and half fearful, and I
think my terror increased her own dread, but she tried
to suppress it and said: '^ Yes, it must be, and I must be
able to do it ! " She threw back her head with a quick
gesture, like one who tries to suppress his rising sobs, then
she gave me her hand and said: '^ Good night, Ludolf,"
looking at me so peculiarly and sweetly that I could not
help kissing her, although I had come with very different
intentions.
I remember distinctly that as I was about to go out of
the door I saw the two candles burning and went back a
step to put them out; but then I thought: What for? let
them burn on as long as they can, and went upstairs.
After I was in bed I could not help thinking constantly
of the two candles burning all alone in the big, empty room,
and as I was very tired and at the same time excited, my
thoughts became confused, and T no longer knew whether
they were candles or people, and began to cry with pity
and cried myself asleep, as I had sometimes done as a
little boy when the world seemed to me so sad and incom-
398 THE GERMAN CLASSICS
prehensible. Now I need no longer tell Galeide anything
about Anna Elisabeth and now Anna Elisabeth would not
need to come at all. Yes, but who would do the house-
keeping! Everything that I thought brought me back
again to the great empty house and to the long table about
which a numerous, joyful company had formerly assem-
bled, and at which in future my great-grandfather and I
were to sit opposite each other alone. I had never before
felt how fleeting everything is that to children seems sacred
and eternal, and one moment I felt as old as the hills and
tired of life, and the next I felt so tiny and helpless that
I should have liked to cry aloud till some one came to
comfort me.
All at once it seemed to me that Galeide was the fairest
and dearest thing on earth to me, although we were far
from being as confidential and intimate as some brothers
and sisters. I never entertained the thought of trying to
dissuade her, for in going she did what was right and
sensible, and what else ought to have been done? It was
a disconsolate night ; I can scarcely remember another like
it. When we stand amid events, our hands are full, and
we bear much without knowing it; but there come lulls
and moments when we see as it were the gray ghost of
future misfortune beckoning us from the distance, and they
are the worst; they are united to those in which we again
suffer in retrospect what we lived through and suffered
long ago. And now the page on which I write, like the
pillow on which I lay that night, is wet with my tears.
Summary of Chapter XX
[Galeide has to tell her great-grandfather, but decided
not to tell her father. In the meantime Lucile had learned
part of the truth, and there was a terrible scene when she
told the old man, but he became reconciled and helped
Galeide pack up. Lucile had learned the truth in part,
and reproached Galeide, who felt herself to blame and
could make no defense. Ezard did not go to the station
with Galeide.]
LUDOLF URSLEU THE YOUNGER 399
Chapter XXI
Meanwhile Anna Elisabeth had arrived and occupied
Galeide's room. Her presence at once made itself most
pleasantly felt. Where she was it could be neither sad
nor monotonous. Indeed, she could be enchanting, although
she was much too indolent and too dignified to devote her-
self to that end. She reminded one of my Mama and of
Galeide more than did her sister Eva, but all her propor-
tions were slighter and she was more ethereal; her hands
were the whitest, slenderest, and daintiest that can be
imagined. She was several years older than I, and loved
to tease me gracefully by treating me like a boy, which
would probably have irritated me very much if I had
really been one, but as it was I found it highly charming
and willingly submitted to it. She knew how to take each
person as suited him best and displayed a temperate benevo-
lence toward all; unlike so many women, she was never
jealous of the advantages of others, but sincerely admired
them, which she could well afford to do, for she herself
made a fine impression even among the most beautiful
and amiable women, and that without the slightest appa-
rent effort on her part. Thus she caused life in our house
to assume a more pleasing aspect, especially after the
removal of the Christmas tree, which had continued to
spread about it an atmosphere of sad remembrance. After
it had been taken away, my great-grandfather said : ' ' Now
the child no longer sits under the tree," by which he meant
Galeide, whom his mind's eye had probably still been see-
ing there.
We seldom saw Ezard any more; our house no doubt
seemed dreary to him now that Galeide had left it, and
moreover Lucile had conceived the plan of diverting him
by a varied social life. She herself enjoyed it greatly,
though she would have no more confessed that to herself
than to any one else; my cousin, on the other hand, had
now entirely lost his former moderate fondness for society,
400 THE GERMAN CLASSICS
but he was as cheerful and entertaining as was proper,
and in general continued to live outwardly as if Galeide's
departure did not concern him, or at least had no effect
on him. He still went away on business at times, although
there was no longer any real reason for it ; that is to say,
a conclusion had gradually been arrived at, as regards the
water-works, which was of great importance for us all.
The Norwegian, of whose popularity in our family I
have spoken, had sketched the plan of a water supply in
which a system of his own was to be used, which he prom-
ised would be more efficient and serviceable than anything
hitherto known. He succeeded in so thoroughly convinc-
ing Uncle Harre of the value of his invention that the latter
allowed himself to be drawn into a risky undertaking.
In spite of all the preparations that had been made,
the senate still hesitated to do anything thorough; but
especially it balked at the fact that Karlsen was a foreigner,
whereas they would rather have directed the honor and
profit of the work into the hands of a native. Moreover,
Karlsen had not concealed the fact that large sums would
be needed before everything could be put in proper work-
ing order, and our council was too excessively cautious
and diffident to dare to make the necessary appropriation.
On the other hand, it proposed to the Norwegian that he
should undertake to carry out his plan on his own account,
in which case the senate would agree to take over the works
at a considerable sum and to refund the cost as soon as
the system should prove its usefulness.
Ezard was the only one of us who could at all judge the
technical part of the enterprise, but he fully realized that
he owed the greater part of his knowledge to the Nor-
wegian himself and was scarcely competent to supervise
him. Hence his attitude in the matter was one of reserve,
whereas Uncle Harre, sight unseen, transferred his faith
in the young engineer's personality to his invention, which
he really no more understood than the '' thing-in-itself "
or the Trinity. Without asking any one or listening to any
Permission Jhco. Strocfcr, Xiirubcrg
rSYCIIE AT THE SEA
J^i.l.M.l.H
1
LUDOLF UESLEU THE YOUNGER 401
one, he threw the greater part of his fortune into this
enterprise, for the success of which he had no security
but the confident attitude of the Norwegian, whose own
means were not sufficient to enable him to carry out his
invention, but who declared most positively that in a few
years Uncle Harre would get back many times his in-
vestment.
After my uncle had once taken this step, Ezard thought
the only right thing to do was to make every possible effort
to further the rapid progress of the work, so that it should
not come to a standstill owing to negligent management.
To this end he not only himself purchased an interest in
the undertaking, but from then on threw aside his other
professional work entirely, and devoted himself solely to
the advancement of this splendid enterprise. The ener-
getic activity into which this led him satisfied him for the
time and filled him with hope for the success of the plan
and the profit to be gained from the capital invested in it.
But as often as delays and difficulties appeared, he too
showed signs of inward disquietude; in fact, more and
more frequently he displayed an absent-minded restless-
ness which was far from being in accord with his true
nature. At such times he reproached himself with not
having forcibly restrained his father from risking his for-
tune ; for if that should be lost, then indeed an incalculable
calamity would arise.
As to Uncle Harre, he had aged so perceptibly within a
short time that even we who saw him almost daily were
struck by it. We were glad to see that he did still retain
his upright bearing and the elastic step with which he
strode along like a youth, but his capacity for work had
decreased, and the exuberance of his former view of life
had subsided equally. "V\niereas he had formerly liked to
tease my father about his pessimism, he himself now often
seemed unable to shake off a deep depression, and not sel-
dom even worried his young wife with such attacks. There
was this difference, to be sure, that what was my father's
Vol. XVrn— 26
402 THE GERMAN CLASSICS
natural disposition appeared to be abnormal in him. Also,
he laughed at himself and struggled manfully against it,
and when he did not succeed in any other way he tried
medical treatment. It is often said that the most skilful
physicians are blind where they themselves are concerned.
This was not quite true of my uncle; at least he had
moments when he recognized his own condition most dis-
tinctly. But he had a theory according to which physical
ills should be combated and could be conquered by the will
better than by medicine, a view to which his strong and
able nature had led him and which may also contain certain
grains of truth, but which may sometimes become danger-
ous for a doctor if he adheres to it on principle. It actu-
ally did occur that, with this theory in his mind, he neg-
lected the early use of those means which are supposed
to cure the sufferer by the effect they have on his body.
Now as it gradually became clear that his will no longer
did what he required of it, he inwardly despaired wholly
of ever being able to regain his former health and strength,
but began nevertheless to submit to the most various cures,
visiting now this watering place, now that; but as he was
without any real confidence and therefore did not adhere
at all to the prescribed mode of life, he always returned
with more shattered nerves than before. Perhaps his
theory really fitted him better than any one else, and the
fact that his mind was no longer able to master his illness
simply showed that the mind itself was no longer sound,
whether it was old age or some other ailment that was
weakening it. This realization came to my uncle much
sooner than he showed and opened up to him the fearful
possibility of lapsing into mental disease with increasing
age. He now even spoke of this at times, but only when
he seemed to be in a very merry, even exuberant, mood,
so that one could think it a part of his other jokes and
nonsense. At such times he used to say such things as,
** You young people, Ezard or Ludolf, show yourselves to
be truly free and liberal minded men when such a moment
LUDOLF URSLEU THE YOUNGER 403
comes, and put a weapon in my hand, so that my physical
can follow my mental death immediately. For it is the
duty of a man who has sons and daughters to leave them
not only a good name, but also the image of a strong and
able father, so that they may rejoice in him and he may
be a beneficial memory to them, not a bogey that makes
them fear for their own future."
Such speeches shocked innocent Eva and also Lucile,
who found them all the more criminal and rash that she
believed them to be mere words without any deeper mean-
ing, but my great-grandfather still more, in whose opinion
suicide was a deadly sin which he could not bear even
to hear discussed. For he liked to believe in a Christianity
embroidered w^ith philosophy, and regarded God, so to
speak, as the highest wisdom and the epitome of all good,
to whom full power over the lives of men must be reserved.
Hence in my great-grandfather's eyes a suicide was an
iniquitous rebel who encroached upon the rights of the
Almighty, a Prometheus who stole a spark from the giver
of light and life, and for whom no punishment hereafter
and no judgment in this life is too ignominious.
Anna Elisabeth had a much keener glance than her
sister Eva and far fewer prejudices than her grandfather,
and hence on the one hand she took Uncle Harre's insinua-
tions more seriously than Eva, and on the other she judged
them less harshly than my great-grandfather. But she
avoided everything ugly and depressing and was very skil-
ful in turning such discussions into mere light conversation
without betraying anything of her deeper thoughts. At
the same time, she concerned herself greatly with Uncle
Harre's and Eva's financial circumstances, with an under-
standing of money matters that compelled my astonishment
and admiration, and she represented to Eva that she ought
to take an interest in these things, as she could not expect
that her husband would live to see his children entirely
grown up (to be sure she had only one child at that time
and never had another), and she would then have to be
answerable for their further education.
404 THE GERMAN CLASSICS
To me Anna Elisabeth once said, " Dear Ludolf, it was
very unwise of your family to ally itself to ours. For we
Olethurms represent the feminine principle, you Ursleus
the masculine. Now it is said that man must earn and
woman must take care of his earnings. But what good
can come of a union in which both understand least of all
the very thing that is their part? At real acquisition,
which is understood to mean the untiring and industrious
addition of one well-earned dollar to another, you Ursleus
are incompetent; and we, as I willingly confess, should
have spent the first one long before the second was added
to it. In short, we can do nothing but play directly into
each other's hands to our mutual destruction. If I had
known you all before as well as I do now, I should never
have consented to letting Eva be bound to you by her
husband. ' '
Then Eva would try to defend herself and proudly lay
before us the principles on which she had arranged her
housekeeping; and to me they seemed quite worthy of
respect, but Anna Elisabeth laughed and said:
' ' You dear child, every one of your words simply con-
firms what I say. So that is what your innocence thinks is
saving and economy? If any one should say to you, but
this, and this, and that is really superfluous, you would
answer just like grandfather, Oh, we have to have that!
That is only decent and respectable! That is simply
necessary! "
I could see that Anna Elisabeth had observed well and
was right, on the whole, but still her words hurt me and
that because, as I now clearly see, they seemed to prove
how little she thought of still another union between our
families. I said it seemed to me that recognition of these
weaknesses would be equivalent to laying the foundation
for their correction and that if one only knew he was
going astray, some effort on his part would bring him
back to the right path. At that Anna Elisabeth looked at
me with an indescribable smile in her fine gray eyes and
LUDOLF UESLEU THE YOUNGER 405
said : ' * My dear boy, if you ever prove able to earn and
accumulate money like a good citizen, you have hidden
your finest talents from me till now with more skill in
dissimulating than I should have believed you possessed.
As to myself, I must acknowledge that I feel better able
to squander the treasures of the king of Siam than to dis-
tribute the income of our above-mentioned citizen over the
cycle of the year; and I take credit to myself for this
knowledge of myself, for it alone distinguishes me from
the other Olethurms and keeps me from imprudent and
ruinous acts."
It increased my admiration for Anna Elizabeth that she
was so extraordinarily right, but with the mental reserva-
tion that I should some time prove to her by my deeds that
she had not fathomed me as thoroughly as she believed, and
in imagination I already enjoyed the modest pleasures of a
simple and industrious life. I was satisfied, however, with
this anticipation, and put off the real beginning of an im-
proved mode of life to a day which, curiously enough, I
always thought of as removed from me by a constant
interval of time. But at the same time I was convinced
that some day I should astonish the world by the sudden
development of the most excellent civic virtues, and looked
forward to this with as much delight as the people of
Schlaraffenland looked forw^ard to the ready roasted and
seasoned pigeon that should drop from the sky into their
mouths.
Chapter XXII
[Galeide wrote gaily about her new surroundings in
Geneva. When Ludolf's father returned from America
and found that his child had been torn from him, it was
a sad homecoming. He said little about the success of
his journey and no one asked about it. So he faced alone
the inevitable ruin of his family. He and Ludolf went to
the Harz Mountains, taking with them little Harre, who
prattled incessantly about Galeide. After a time Lucile
406
THE GERMAN CLASSICS
came and took the boy away, much to the old man's grief.
Much as he loved the little fellow he could not be recon-
ciled to Ezard, and it was like a farewell for life. Ludolf
went out into the woods after leaving the station, heart-
sick for Anna Elisabeth.]
When I came out of the wood, as weary as an old man,
I felt myself drawn to my father, whose solitary suffering
all at once seemed very comprehensible to me, and I was
inclined to be surprised and to blame myself that we had
lived side by side for so long without ever becoming real
friends. When I asked after him at our rooms, I was
told that he had gone out. I no longer remember what
impression this tidings made on me, or what moved me
to go into his room. My eye fell at once on a sealed
letter addressed to me in my father's large, clear hand-
writing. In a flash I knew everything that had happened
and that would now follow — all in an instant — and I
trembled so that I had to wait some time before I could
open the letter.
There were many things in it which I did not read at
that time and was too agitated to understand; the only
thing I grasped was that I should find my father dead at
a spot in the woods which he described. If I remember
aright, it seems to me that at first I felt nothing but blind
horror that I was alone. I sent a telegram to Ezard at
once, telling him that my father was critically ill and ask-
ing him to come immediately. But when once I had left
the village behind and was in the woods, I found myself
again, my awakened heart grasped everything, and all my
fear was lost in boundless, overwhelming grief. The more
I collected my senses, the more I hastened my steps, in the
hope that I might perhaps still come in time to prevent
the hand I loved from carrying out its dreadful intention.
I raced forward through the trees like a fugitive, and sud-
denly, all out of breath and covered with sweat, I stood
at the spot where I was to find him. And at the same
LUDOLF URSLEU THE YOUNGER 407
moment I caught sight of the motionless body lying there
in the moss, and as my blood was already coursing wildly
from my frenzied running, I grew dizzy, everything faded
before my eyes, and I dropped beside my dead father.
Thus I remained for a time, only half conscious of myself
and of what had happened, till the longing to see my father
became so strong that I roused and dragged myself up to
him. But his face still showed so many traces of the life
that had scarcely left it that I was struck with horror and
watched timidly to see whether the body would not twitch.
Gazing fixedly with pain and dread at the beloved features,
I noticed that dusk was falling rapidly and I hastened
away to fetch people, so that the body should not have to
lie in the woods over night.
At the inn where we were staying I said that my father
had taken his life in a moment of insane depression, and
the people were quite ready to believe me, for his constant
melancholy and silent manner might easily have been
taken for a mental affliction, and moreover the respect that
his appearance awakened prevented any suspicion among
the common people of what they would have considered
wrong and reprehensible. At the same time they were
averse to disquieting the other guests by the presence of
a dead body in the house, which I could well understand.
I therefore agreed to the proposal that my father should
lie in a little house which had been lightly built of wood
for the comfortable enjo}Tnent of a view, and which could
be locked with a key in the possession of our landlord. At
first it was my intention to watch by my father after he
had actually been carried there, but I was almost ashamed
of my purpose, as excessively sentimental, and since it
was already rather late at night I went home. Thus, with
the soughing of the dark firs about him, he lay alone where
we had stood side by side a few days before, looking at
the undulating country round about and the gently waving
tree-tops just below, he with the unutterable secret in his
soul that his frozen lips had now betrayed to me.
408 THE GEEMAN CLASSICS
Chapter XXIII
I HAD also notified Galeide at once, and it so happened
that she and Ezard first saw each other again by our
father 's dead body. This gave me a strange feeling, when
I thought how the dead man now lay so still between them,
nor prevented them from looking full into each other's
eyes, though that had been his bitterest grief while living.
It was impossible that the two should not have had similar
thoughts, but the idea did not seem to move them to shame
or remorse; on the contrary, when they looked at each
other there was a lofty consciousness and a proud light in
their eyes as if they had won a victory. Whether they
were intoxicated by reading in each other's looks the con-
fession of a love that had been not lessened but intensified
by separation, or whether they looked on my father 's death
as a sign that fate was on their side, I will not venture to
decide, but I believe they were moved by both feelings.
I felt deep resentment of their assured bearing and, turn-
ing to them, I said bitterly : * ' It seems to me, you feel less
that he has been torn from us than that he was in your
way and has now been removed."
They let this remark pass without defending themselves,
indeed they seemed to let me talk because after all I could
not know what was in their minds. But my words had
started Ezard on a train of thought which was so extraor-
dinary, in fact so uncanny, that even now I cannot write
of it without asking myself whether this is not a dream
or some other hallucination of my own fantasy. After he
had gazed at my father for a time, as if he were trying
to remember or think of something, he said, half to himself
and half to Galeide:
''That is the first!"
I waited to see whether he would add anything to these
words, which in themselves were incomprehensible, and,
as he did not do so, I was forced to think that he meant
my father was the first of several who must die before
LUDOLF UESLEU THE YOUNGER 409
something that he had in his mind must or might happen.
I searched his face for some confession or betrayal; how
symmetrical it was, how nobly harmonious! But at the
same time there was an expression of determination in it
which I felt obliged to call now superhuman, now inhuman.
I should have liked to ask him whether a dream or some
other supposed omen had tempted him to lie in wait for
the death of his blood-kin, so that his damnable passion
might have full sway. But I could not bring myself to
do it, just because I felt more and more certain that it
was so. And Galeide, who had perhaps understood the
meaning of Ezard's words better than I, had turned pale
and looked at him with wide-open, frightened eyes; she
seemed to feel a sudden horror, but probably as much of
herself as of him.
As far as I noticed, they made no effort to see each other
alone without my company ; Galeide declared her intention
of returning to Geneva that same day, while we should
be taking the coffin with the dead body back to our native
town. The trains which were to take us in different direc-
tions stood opposite each other; ours left a few minutes
earlier. I watched Ezard and Galeide constantly, less like
a faithful Eckart w^ho should restrain them from evil,
than from jealousy on my father's account, whom I felt
they were defrauding of the tribute due him every time
they had a feeling that was not for him. Nevertheless,
again I could not help admiring their stern strength in
their passion, for at parting they offered neither hand nor
lips (as, indeed, during the whole day they had not touched
each other even lightly or accidentally), but said good-by
merely with a glance and a kind, comforting smile, which
I thought particularly touching and striking under the cir-
cumstances, as if one should find, in the burning sand of
an African desert, a fragrant violet or an anemone in
bloom.
When we arrived at home, Anna Elisabeth had already
gone, which did not surprise me, but on the contrary seemed
410 THE GERMAN CLASSICS
only to confirm my presentiment or calculation. She
had left a very kind, sympathetic letter for me, and I did
not doubt at all that she felt earnest and sincere pity for
us. But she could not bear gloom, just as some people
cannot bear the atmosphere of a church; I knew that well
and could not be angry with her for it ; it even pleased me,
unhappy as I was, that she did not want to appear other
than she was.
She had been quite right. Truly miserable days now
came for us, for the meanest of all cares, with which my
father had so long wrestled breast to breast, now that he
was thrown, stood before us with its great, gray body,
and stared boldly into our faces. In mine it could not
read much but infinite contempt of its insolent harlot's
glance, contempt which was far stronger than my fear;
but there was no spark in me of courage or joy of battle,
if for no other reason, then simply because it disgusted
me too much. It was about the same with my great-grand-
father. He had had the greatest part of his fortune in
my father's business and now had lost it. But he bore this
calmly and did not trouble much about what was to hap-
pen now; his concern was solely for Galeide and me, for,
and he said this not without pride, we were by nature
absolutely unfit to enter into practical life and make our
own way. The house in which we lived, however, still
belonged to him, and he had always intended to leave it to
Galeide and me, because he knew that we would cherish
it with reverent love; families that live long in one place
are wont to honor their houses as they would a temple.
Although there could be no question for any intelligent
man that the house must now be sold, yet at first no one
dared to speak of it till one day Ezard quietly explained the
matter to us, saying at the same time that he had already
taken steps to bring about an advantageous sale. For a
single moment he seemed hateful to me, for he spoke with-
out any appearance of sorrow or sympathy; my great-
grandfather, on the other hand, at once agreed with him
I
LUDOLF URSLEU THE YOUNGER 411
and even thanked him for his trouble, which of course he
deserved. To my inexpressible wrath I now had to see
strangers fingering and belittling our home. I hated and
despised them all in advance, if only on account of the
miserable money that gave them the right to take pos-
session of our good property and drive us from our thresh-
old. My only consolation was to ridicule and make fun
of them, together with my great-grandfather, who dis-
played no little talent and inclination in this direction,
although we really knew nothing whatever about them and
they were doubtless all respectable and good-natured
people. For hours at a time I could sit first in this room,
then in that, and lose myself in tears as I thought how it
had formerly been there, how I had imagined it some day
might be, and how different it had now become.
In the meantime I let Ezard go on caring for us and
acting for us, which he did without asking or saying a
word, and I believe that in his simple heart, so full of
strength and kindness, he really took it as a matter of
course and scarcely blamed me for my remissness or for
indulging my grief overmuch. He arranged my father's
affairs, too, and settled with the one creditor who could
not be wholly satisfied out of the proceeds of the wind-up
for a sum which was very considerable for Ezard 's cir-
cumstances at that time. For the progress of affairs in
regard to the water-works was now beginning to be very
uncertain and dubious, causing him serious worries, of
which, however, he said not a word ; nor did I learn of the
above-mentioned sacrifice, made for us and for my father's
memory, until long afterward.
"We were in such need of money that the house had to be
sold hurriedly and below its value. My great-grandfather,
who was always very changeable in his moods and views,
now overwhelmed Ezard, who had arranged everything,
with irritated reproaches.
'' Naturally," said Ezard without showing any sensi-
tiveness, '' I should not have hurried the sale if I could
412 THE GEEMAN CLASSICS
have provided for you all in the meantime out of my own
means ; but my own affairs are in a bad state. The water-
works do not yet run as they should; if we do not soon
obtain more capital, to enable us to make the necessary
improvements, the work will come to a standstill, and I
don't yet know what will happen then."
We saw how serious the condition of affairs was from
Ezard's depressed face better than from his words. My
great-grandfather's mood immediately veered about, and
he tried to persuade my cousin to use the money gained
from the sale of the house for himself, although as grand-
father himself could not be exposed and left to the care
of the Great Spirit like an aged Indian, this would not
have done much good. He also managed in his consoling
speeches to put all the blame on Uncle Harre, who, as
every one knew, had drawn Ezard into such a mad and
risky undertaking. Ezard sadly shook his head.
** It is just that," he said, '' that troubles me most. I
knew my father. I should have restrained him by force,
should never have allowed it to go so far. Instead of that
I went into danger with him, so that now neither of us
can stretch out a saving hand to the other. If I were the
only one concerned, my heart would be lighter, as I could
manage to provide for my family alone even if I had to
begin all over again. But my father has a young wife and
a little child and is aging day by day; he feels and I see
his powers diminish. If he should lose everything now,
how could he think of retrieving it again in the short time
that is left to him? Every day I have only bad news to
give him ; he starts at the familiar sound of my steps. I am
often so weary that I should like to say: I can do no more!
if I did not keep saying to myself unceasingly : I must ! ' '
In his endeavor to comfort the unhappy man, my great-
grandfather, as nothing else was of avail, finally began
to speak of Galeide, brought out her letters, and read some
passages in them which told of her activity and her prog-
ress. One of them ran something like this :
LUDOLF URSLEU THE YOUNGER 413
*' My dearest Grandfather, I work like an ant or a bee,
my arms ache in the evening as if I were a washerwoman.
But I shall really be a success some day, I can tell you.
(Don't rely too firmly on that though!) At times I am so
sure of it that I should like to throw my violin into a
corner for sheer ecstasy. But don't be afraid, my heart,
in reality I don't do that, but let my reason rule and put
it carefully into its case every evening and make you say
to me: What a good child you have grown to be, you
naughty Galeide."
My great-grandfather looked on Galeide 's letters as some-
thing precious and a rich source of treasure, read twice
as much into them as there was there, and answered them
as regularly as if he were engaged in forming a corre-
spondence of famous contemporaries.
Although generally Ezard neither spoke of Galeide nor
could bear to hear her talked of, yet this passage from her
letter clearly had a good effect upon him. He rose and
said with an easy glance at us :
* ' Yes, I believe she will be great. It was good that she
went away. In the meantime let us see to keeping our
heads above water."
When we were alone my great-grandfather said: *' Did
you observe him while I was telling about Galeide? He
isn't particularly anxious to hear of her, but still he is
glad to know that she is well off, and he thinks a great
deal of her talent, which, of course, must strike every one.
Under the influence of distance and the hard blows of fate,
his morbid passion is turning into a noble and permissible
friendship. It is the same with her. Every line in her
letter utters a healthy joyousness and the assurance of a
spirit that is free from guilt and at peace with itself."
I let my great-grandfather weave together such threads
of thought, though they seemed to me to flutter unsup-
ported in the air like summer gossamer. Keenly as he
observed details, yet the picture he drew of things or
people as a whole was often fundamentally false, because
414 THE GEEMAN CLASSICS
he measured all phenomena by himself; and there was
absolutely no standard of comparison in him for Galeide's
nature, which, with all its softness, was yet extremely
rough and violent. He adored her and did not himself
know why. In the same way he saw of Ezard only the
side that best agreed with himself and which was usually
expressed in his fine, amiable personality. Of the splendid
and terribly irresistible demon that was in Ezard he knew
nothing; but could my cousin himself, through the long
years preceding a certain fateful day, have suspected what
kind of a companion dwelt in his breast?
The time now came when we had to move out of our
house. Not many things in my life have caused me such
enduring pain, though sometimes a greater one. It is a
true saying that no one should seek to comfort a man for
the death of his beloved, as long as the body remains un-
buried before his eyes. The house in which I had spent
my youth, the stone corpse of my childish dreams, — no
one bore it away and buried it in the earth, so that my heart
might forget and be soothed. Stately and kind it stood on
its old site, and seemed to be waiting for the lost children
who had forsaken it. Once more before mv death, if it
should not take me suddenly and unawares, I have planned
to go back to my native town, not to revisit any person, but
merely the old house. I want to walk along the broad
street under the ramose lindens till I see the iron garden-
gate and, through the fence, the round bed with its wreath
of white lilies, and the lawn luxuriant with yellow dande-
lion; and perhaps the window will be open out of which
floated so many a time the playing and singing that we
loved, sweet and sublime, into the quiet summer nights.
It was on a damp day in late winter that we emigrated.
The snow slipped under our feet and my great-grandfather,
never used to walking, clung firmly to my arm. But even
now he still tried to make life interesting to himself.
*' Look," he said to me, " now we are being transplanted
like trees out of our old garden into a new soil. You are
LUDOLF URSLEU THE YOUNGER 415
still young and can take root again, but what the garden-
er's intention was in digging up me, rotten old trunk that
I am, I don't know; it is a daring experiment."
Always inclined to assail my great-grandfather's religio-
philosophic opinions, I said resentfully: "Yes, it is so
ill-considered that I don't see why you should credit the
gardener with any intention; his name is Chance and he
pulls up whatever happens to get under his hands."
For the first time in my memory my great-grandfather
did not take up this challenge, probably less for utter lack
of a reply than for general depression and fatigiie. At the
same time I noticed, as he walked so close beside me, that
he had grown a good bit shorter in the last years, for now
he scarcely came up to my shoulder. I felt touched and
ashamed when I thought that he neither made use of his
great age to overrule us by the multitude of his experi-
ences, nor to force a deferential sensitiveness upon us by
mental or physical frailties, gloom, and premonitions of
death. As we had in the meantime reached a corner where
we had to turn into another street, he stopped and looked
back once more at our house.
" Now I will not go this way again, Ludolf," he said.
** Life is over for me, and I am moving into the garden
of memory, where the plants are watered with tears."
Yes, thought I, but who will have to shed them? You
or I? For I did not believe that the sojourn among the
graveyard foliage he mentioned would agree with him
long. But I said nothing of the sort, because I too was
much affected at that moment, and besides, because I had
just resolved to treat my great-grandfather with no less
veneration than any educated person shows for antiquities
of another kind, for ruins, parchments, or other witnesses
to the past.
Summary of Chapters XXIV and XXV
[Things now went from bad to worse. Work on the
water system stopped for lack of capital and much bitter
controversy between the senate and the promoters took
416 THE GERMAN CLASSICS
place, in which of course the Ursleus were involved, al-
though Ezarcl strove to keep aloof from public dispute and
to convince the senate of the real merit of Karlsen's
system.
Going to visit his parents' graves, Ludolf encountered
Ezard and little Harre, the former looking so strange that
Ludolf guessed Galeide as the cause. From Eva he learned
that Ezard and Galeide had recently met, and soon after
Ezard admitted that he had not given up his love for her,
nor ever would.]
Chaptee XXVI
The senate had finally declared itself ready to invest
a liberal sum in the construction of the new water system,
so that the work could now be resumed. This was un-
doubtedly due to Ezard 's untiring activity; he worked
under the most unfavorable stars, like Hercules, without
at the time being strengthened and stimulated by visible
successes. Now, to be sure, that I can survey the whole
past from my observatory, I can see that our general cir-
cumstances were improving, thanks to Ezard 's efforts.
But at that time we could not know whether it was not per-
haps merely a casual, temporary rise in the road. More-
over, a dreadful time was still to come, which seemed about
to accomplish our ruin, and of that I will now try to speak.
Cholera had broken out in the East. We read the ac-
counts in the papers, not without pity and shuddering,
much as we tremble at dreadful scenes on the stage, with
the comfortable certainty that they can never strike and
never reach us. When we heard that the disease had
appeared in the port of Marseilles — carried by Egyptian
ships — a chill did run through us ; it was as if the spectre
had now set foot on European soil, sending out its poison-
ous breath before it. Some people thought they must
ridicule any premature fear, or they really did so. Among
the latter was Uncle Harre. For, in accordance with his
aforementioned views, he used to attribute the customary
LUDOLF URSLEU THE YOUNGER 417
ravages of certain diseases largely to people's unreason-
ing fear of them. He disapproved of the detailed accounts
and descriptions in the press, as increasing the popular
dread and anxiety : but aside from that, it was mischievous
to speak of cholera in such an entirely different way from
any other disease. People acted as if there were something
transcendental and ghostly about it, a curse or a destiny
that could not be escaped. They crossed themselves and
turned pale at the very name of cholera, as if it were an
incarnate witch who could poison or pardon any one that
displeased her.
I distinctly remember all the circumstances with which
it began. It was June and so hot that even the nights were
unbearable. One day toward evening I had crawled over
to Eva's house and was eagerly breathing the air of a
fairly cool room in which the shutters had been closed all
day. The child Heileke was sitting in front of a little table
on which stood her favorite plaything, a kind of music-
box with metal keys, on which she produced little, ringing
tones by striking them with a tiny hammer. Quite fair
and white in her short frock, she looked to me like a flower-
elf, making music by striking with its stamens the walls
of the bell-like blossom he inhabits. Suddenly Uncle Harre
entered the room in a way that immediately betrayed the
fact that he was in a state of no little excitement. With-
out greeting me, although he had seen me, he began to
speak vehemently.
'' In the harbor quarter," he said, " a death has oc-
curred which is attributed to cholera. That fellow Wittich
(the socialistic Rhinelander) came and reported it to me;
after the manner of such fellows, who want to bring every
cough of a fly before the tribunal of the people, he de-
manded that the case should immediately be published in
the newspapers. That would be the way to make sure of
having cholera in town tomorrow, even if we haven't it
yet."
Vol. XVIII— 27
418 THE GERMAN CLASSICS
Pale terror had struck my very marrow, for I had an
indescribable dread of repulsive diseases, and I must con-
fess that I should not have been unwilling to take a ticket
immediately for the farthest pole of the globe. Eva was
frightened too, but she controlled herself and asked
whether it was really proved that the death in question
was due to cholera. Uncle Harre shrugged his shoulders
and said that he could not rely on Wittich, for those social
democrats were so accustomed to exaggeration and dis-
tortion that they might proclaim intoxication or a " hold-
over " to be cholera; he would first convince himself. At
that Eva turned pale and begged him to give up that inten-
tion, at the same time casting an anxious glance at the
child, Heileke. Uncle Harre laughed and said: '* There
you have it." I should not have spoken even to you two
about it. The fear of it makes every one imbecile. Just
think how often I visit patients from whom I might catch
the germ of a deadly disease. There are a hundred deaths
in every mouthful of air that we breathe. We must keep
our bodies in such a condition that they can digest them."
With these words he sat down by the little girl on her
narrow child's sofa, took her in his arms, and danced her,
at which she laughed happily, for she loved her father with
particular tenderness. I was annoyed at this inconsider-
ate way in which he tormented Eva, but, on the other
hand, I could not but admire her so much the more ; not a
word or look betrayed her inward agitation, on the con-
trary, she now took pains to discuss and consider the mat-
ter calmly. Uncle Harre, however, was not willing to talk
much about it, but insisted more and more obstinately that
the whole thing was merely an attempt to terrorize people,
which always afforded the social democrats particular
enjoyment.
The number of deaths now increased so rapidly that
concealment was no longer possible. As a fire that has
smouldered on unseen for a long time suddenly leaps into
LUDOLF URSLEU THE YOUNGEE 419
sight in flames of astounding power, so did the dreaded
disease seem all at once to appear in overwhelming power,
because its insidious beginnings had not been observed. A
mad fear of death now seized every one. No one knew
what to do. Many took to flight. Some of those who re-
mained scarcely dared to eat enough, for fear of taking
something harmful, while others, in boastful f oolhardiness,
lived still less cautiously than before, as if they were
facing a personal opponent, before whom they must not
allow themselves to be caught in any act of cowardice.
As people were unable to explain such a sudden and uni-
versal calamity all looked to the authorities, and reproaches
were soon heard, as if they, bribed by the uncanny guest,
had let his flying ghost vessel secretly enter the slumber-
ing harbor in the dark and fog.
Uncle Harre, in his position as head of the department
of sanitation, felt these reproaches especially. I remember
one evening when he visited us at a late hour, which was
the more surprising as he was not in the habit of coming
to see us frequently. My great-grandfather sat dreaming
in the sofa-corner, while I played the piano in the dark
room adjoining. We both received him with sympathy for
his present difficult and distressing position. I can still
see him, his tall, slight figure as upright as ever, it is true,
but it impressed one as if this were due rather to a strong
effort of will than to natural elasticity.
Before he sat down Uncle Harre asked if we had no fear
of infection, as otherwise he would leave again at once;
it would be groundless, however, as he always took suffi-
cient precautions. My great-grandfather denied being
afraid and asked him to stay, and he actually was as fear-
less as the Wandering Jew who, it is said, could go to bed
with the pest and never sicken. Aged men are always
wont to regard the phenomena of the world with a lofty
composure, easily explicable by the fact that they have
already seen so many calamities approach and even the
most frightful pass them by. As for me, I sat down at a
420 THE GERMAN CLASSICS
not too noticeable distance from Uncle Harre. He then
began to talk with extraordinary clearness of the conditions
in the city, of the origin and course of the disease.
The chief evil, he said, was the bad water supply, which
carried the infection into every house. Everything would
be different if the new water system were already finished
and in use ; the epidemic would now make the city expend
and lose much larger sums than it would have cost it to
take over the new water system at the proper time. He
went on to speak of the lack of all the necessary things:
of houses where the patients could be isolated, of nurses
to take care of them, of practical regulations which could
go into force at once, so that private individuals might also
know how to act, and have their measures duly supervised.
For all this, he said, he himself was partly to blame, but
still more the excessive economy of the senate, which had
generally approved regulations for the public welfare only
when they made a good outward showing, and had put them
off from year to year, especially if no immediate advantage
could be seen in them. He told all this with a calm, seri-
ousness, and simplicity that was rare with him. My great-
grandfather listened willingly and with sympathetic atten-
tion, and inquired what my uncle now intended to do to
make up for what had been left undone in the past.
Uncle Harre said : " I do little, but all I can. I myself
stand at the most dangerous post. The people are saying
that the upper classes think only of themselves and their
own undisturbed luxury and leave the poor to perish in
their miserable quarters. And who cannot understand
their thinking this, poor unfortunates, who really are the
first, most helpless victims? I can save but very few.
But I spend the whole day in the hospitals ; I go home only
for moments and force myself not to see Eva and the
baby, so as not to put them in danger. Eva did not want
to have it so, but she yields to me because she sees my
anxiety. Many, in fact, most, things I leave to Ezard.
For I lack the superiority that comes from inward calm,
LUDOLF UESLEU THE YOUNGER 421
the assurance in deciding what can be done with advantage,
and, what is more, the assurance in doing it. I have grown
old. Formerly antagonism was to me a welcome prod
that spurred me on to fresh action; now it paralyzes me.
But then this is another matter. Now I feel a constant, never
ceasing pressure on me, and when I stop to think what it
is I hear the word ' disgrace ' ringing in my ear. I need
all the strength that I still have in me to keep on bearing
this unaccustomed burden — as far as may be."
A boundless pity took possession of me, which increased
when I saw my great-grandfather's touched expression
and his kind friendliness toward Uncle Harre, overcoming
for the first time in years the old antipathy.
'' There is good as well as evil for men in such events,"
said my great-grandfather gently. ' ' In the common round
of life every one gives himself up too much to daily rou-
tine and indulges himself, for what is daily required of us
demands only moderate strength, which a man can easily
muster in sufficient quantity. But when extraordinary
fatalities arise with their extraordinary demands, a man
reaches deep down into his breast and brings out the
treasure which perhaps no one would otherwise ever see.
Every feeling and every ability is intensified; and, after
all, is it not the highest thing in life for a man to come to
a realization of himself and to be able fully to unfold his
inmost powers? "
Uncle Harre 's eyes flashed for a moment as in the old
days and he said with fire, ''Yes, that is beautiful and
true;" then he added slowly, " But for me it is too late.
A tree may feel as I do, when the warm winds and the
strong sun come in March, and it can no longer leaf and
bud like the others, because the winter has treated it too
severely. I have grown old."
He sank down wearily after he had said this and rested
his head in his hand. My great-grandfather moved nearer
and nearer to him and laid his hand on his shoulder.
'* Harre," he said with emotion, " the Creator equipped
422 THE GERMAN CLASSICS
you so extravagantly with such great and such brilliant
gifts. If you realize, or think that you realize, that you
have not always used them as wisely as you might have,
you acquire at a stroke what you perhaps still lacked.
You are not yet too old to be able to rise up once more
after a defeat and look forward to better days. ' '
*'Not too old," answered Uncle Harre; ''I am only
sixty-five, so I am more than twenty-five years younger
than you. But I am different from you and have lived
differently. You know us. We are an abundant, brilliant
family, but we lack something. What shall I call it? Is it
moderation? Modesty in our demands on life? Yes, that
is it. That made us value common, everyday life too little.
We wanted to be always on the heights ; we did not want
to begin at the bottom. Thus I have overstrained and worn
myself out ; I have made poor use of my head. My good-
ness, with what hopes I rushed into life! And as long as
I was still vigorous, I never noticed whether they were
being fulfilled or not, I kept on hoping and rushing for-
ward. And now I see them and myself collapsing simul-
taneously. How did my brother end? How will my son
end? Nothing but ruins lie behind me, and I shall leave
nothing but ruins."
My great-grandfather pondered silently in his chair after
Uncle Harre had finished speaking. He seemed to be
gazing into that fountain of the remembrance of all things,
which, according to legend, springs eternally murmuring
from the roots of the Ash-tree of the World.
" Yes," he said after some time, '' fortune is no longer
with you or with us. And as it is my sacred conviction
that there is a justice ruling over us, incomprehensible it
is true but incorruptible, we ourselves are probably to
blame for our ruin."
I had risen while my great-grandfather was speaking
and went to the open window in the next room to hide a
great agitation. From there I heard the two continue talk-
ing in low tones, but without understanding what they said.
LUDOLF UESLEU THE YOUNGER 423
Outside it was perfectly still ; for weeks not a breath of air
had stirred; the heat brooded heavily over all. After a
time there sounded the slow rolling of one of the ambu-
lances that constantly drove hither and thither through the
city to carry those who had been attacked by the pest to
the barracks assigned to them.
The ambulance stopped in our street, which naturally
caught my attention, for after all the cases in our quarter
of the town were still very rare. I heard a door open and
the sound of wailing voices. Uncle Harre, who must also
have heard it, suddenly came to my side and leaned out
of the window to see what was happening. I said:
'' They seem to be fetching a child; perhaps its mother
does not want to let it go away from her."
His face had grown quite livid; without saying a word
he went back into the other room, g-ulped down a glass of
wine which my great-grandfather had poured out for him,
and then took his leave. It was clear that, in consequence
of the accusations raised against him and perhaps also of
his own secret reproaches, he was beginning to feel in a
way like an accomplice of the cholera, so that every sound
of grief it caused pierced him to the heart as if he himself
were to blame. Perhaps, too, he had thought of his own
child, delicate little Heileke; for he seemed to have con-
ceived the unhappy idea that this being, whom he loved
most, would be taken from him by the disease as a pro-
pitiatory sacrifice. I watched him as he walked down the
street, as upright as he had come, and followed by a long,
dark shadow.
Summary' of Chapter XXVII
[EzARD was appointed to superintend the fight against
the cholera. Though this resulted in a separation from
his wife and little girl, Ezard found consolation in the work
which he performed superbly, and looked happier and
stronger than for some time before.
424 THE GERMAN CLASSICS
Ludolf, who had resolved to join in the campaign, despite
his horror of the disease, made a strange acquaintance
during this time: Flora Lelallen, daughter of a merchant
who had married a foreigner. Her parents had both been
stricken, and the girl conceived the singular idea, perhaps
suggested by Boccaccio's tale, of gathering lovers of life
about her in the big, empty house. Night after night they
came, each wearing a red rose, and Ludolf among them.
When the news came that her parents had died. Flora knew
it by some intuition, and at the same time prophesied her
own impending death. She and her aunt sailed the next
day for America, for she longed to be on the sea.]
Chapter XXVIII
Many of the inhabitants of our town, unable to master
their fear, had fled, but some of them, their power of resist-
ance weakened by excitement and change of climate, had
succumbed to the germs they took with them. In this way
the epidemic spread farther and farther afield, though it
nowhere showed such power as here. Whereas in the be-
ginning other places had pitied our misery, their interest
in us now became hostile, since we threatened others with
our own calamity. In the newspapers which hitherto had
only sought to arouse sympathy for our fate, our circum-
stances were now investigated, so that it might be seen to
what extent we ourselves were perhaps to blame for such
heavy misfortune. There appeared many things that were
not to our credit, in particular the condition of our water
system (for the new one could not yet be used), which was
said to be, and probably was, the principal cause of the
great headway made by the disease. When the investi-
gators then sought the blame for this, our senate, although
it might have admitted that its own remissness was partly
responsible, was all too ready, in its human weakness, to
throw off all blame, as others too seemed to deserve it.
As my uncle and my cousin had headed the commission on
LUDOLF UESLEU THE YOUNGER 425
the construction of the water-works, it was convenient to
declare that they were responsible for everything that was
connected with it, even though they on their part had been
very active and had not shirked great sacrifices. In the
meantime the Norwegian's project had proved to be prac-
ticable ; but another plan, they said, could just as well have
been used, and with less expense. In short, as the under-
taking had once been in Uncle Harre's and Ezard's hands,
all the blame now fell on them, and the senate appeared in
a favorable light, the more so as the enterprise was pro-
gressing most successfully ever since the senate had taken
it over.
But this was not enough. Two new grave charges
were made against Uncle Harre: first, that he had not
replaced the old, inadequate sanitary regulations by new
ones, and second, that he had intentionally and knowingly
concealed from the public the first signs of the cholera that
had been observed. As for the sanitary regulations, Uncle
Harre had insisted on several points which the senate did
not understand, and my uncle with his hot temperament
had laid ever greater stress on these particular points,
and had refused to take up the matter at all, unless the
senate yielded to him in this essential question, which he
understood and was able to judge. So the affair had
dragged on for several years, as had been the case with
many another; but in this particular instance events had
revealed the dilatoriness and had pronounced it guilty.
If in this matter my uncle's consciousness that he was
but slightly to blame might have consoled him, whatever
the outcome, yet the second accusation was a very different
thing. Although he had had no evil intention in concealing
the beginnings of the disease, yet the immediate conse-
quences proved to him that at least he had not calculated
the best course for the public welfare as correctly as his
position obliged him to be able to do. Besides, he knew
he had been sufficiently urged, and was too clear-sighted
not to acknowledge that it was just Dr. Wittich's warning
426 THE GEKMAN CLASSICS
which had confused his judgment, and consequently, that
either this or his character was not as incorruptible
as the city might rightly demand of one of its chief
men. Far from trying to gloss over his acts, he con-
demned himself with such cruel justice that he would
immediately have resigned from his office, if it had not
seemed to him that such a course, at a time when the pres-
sure of worry and work so far outweighed the honor,
would be shameful flight. In the meantime the unceasing,
wearing activity had lost for him all its usual power of
stimulation. There was no sign of success or improvement,
and he felt that he was merely reducing the mountain of his
guilt, not creating anything new. This together with his
anxiety for the life of his child and the future of his young
wife, as well as the imagined scenes of open disgrace with
which he tortured himself, shattered his mental and physi-
cal health more and more every day.
The people, who knew nothing of his spiritual states and
sufferings, had no sort of sympathy for him, and while
my cousin was the object of every one's increasing admira-
tion and gratitude, the hatred of his father grew stronger,
and gradually the opinion took firmer and firmer root that
he had had the power to avert the calamity, but had used
it to bring it about. In all domestic and foreign news-
papers his conduct was described and condemned; fear of
the disease and the despair that reigned in the places
where it had already broken out found a certain satisfac-
tion in being able to vent themselves on some guilty per-
son. Under these circumstances the senate, which could
not have taken Uncle Harre's side without the greatest
disadvantage, thought it necessary to represent the newly
awakened demand for justice among the people and to
oppose him and institute a formal investigation. It is
true, the entire procedure was in the bosom of the senate.
In conformity with an old custom provided for such cases.
Uncle Harre was to appear before the assembled members
to receive a solemn reprimand, and to be condemned to pay
LUDOLF URSLEU THE YOUNGER 427
a considerable fine, whereupon he himself was to resign.
This procedure, though not excessively humiliating in form,
inasmuch as he would be judged and blamed only by his
equals, he felt to be the most painful that could have been
prepared for him. His nature was such that he would
rather have stood accused before a wild mob, where, speak-
ing from a full heart, he could in part have confessed him-
self guilty, in part have defended himself.
The gravest feature of his condition seemed to us the
fact that he never spoke of what was going on within him.
Whereas formerly, w^ith the fearless one-sidedness of a
child, he had stormed at any kind of hostile demonstration
from his opponents, and had thus worked off his anger, he
now refrained from any expression of sensitiveness. His
bearing was such that we also did not dare to say a word
in his defense or of reproach against others, for fear that
from our sympathy he might draw some humiliating con-
clusion in regard to himself and his position. Ezard was
the only one with whom he talked about these things, and
in answer to our questions my cousin told Eva and me
something of these conversations, but by no means all, I
thought.
Just at the time that these things were happening, the
first faint abatement of the epidemic was observed. As
in any case people were beginning to grow accustomed to
constant peril, they became more negligent of precaution-
ary measures, hitherto so strictly observed. Eva also
and the little girl Heileke were no longer as careful in
associating with Uncle Harre as at first. This may have
been partly because Uncle Harre was so absorbed and
beset by torturing cares that one thing made him forget
the other, and then because in his depression he longed
more than usual to ha\^ these two bright beings near him.
Eva felt all the more deep-seated affection and admiration
for her husband, the less the rapid decline of the youthful
vigor which had graced him so long made him a suitable
object for the romantic love of a woman of her age. In
428 THE GERMAN CLASSICS
our eyes his suffering, silently and proudly borne, endowed
him with a greatness which had certainly always been in
him, but from which the exceedingly restless mobility of
his versatile mind had formerly detracted too much. The
fact that he felt himself to be guilty, that he took upon
himself tjie consequences, patiently, without defiance but
also without whining, now gave him the dignity which
formerly one had regretfully missed in him, particularly
because the remarkableness of his mind had seemed to
require it. Eva and I, deceived by his outward calm, some-
times yielded to the hope that he might regain all his
former vigor, and who knows whether things might not
really have taken a turn for the better, if a fresh mis-
fortune had not entirely overwhelmed him: his child
Heileke was taken with the disease.
On the morning of that day I was with Eva, and as we
were talking earnestly about Uncle Harre, who was to
resign from his office before the assembled senate on one
of the following days, we did not pay any attention to
the little girl, who was also in the room. But she was
particularly restless and desirous of our notice, perhaps
because she was already sickening with the disease; she
climbed on my knee, nestled her little head against me
and whispered into my ear a request to play her something.
I hesitated to humor her, not knowing whether Eva was
in the mood to listen, and bade the little one to make music
herself with her little hammer. At that she shook her head
again sadly and said, " You play, you play! " Finally I
yielded to her, lifted her onto the top of the grand piano,
and began to play. The music seemed to do her good, for
she breathed deeply several times like one who is about to
cast a heavy burden from his heart, and her features ex-
pressed increasing contentment. When I noticed this, I
slipped into some merry dance music, at which she sud-
denly hopped down from her high seat and began to dance
in a curious fashion, not according to any familiar measure,
but now gliding slowly up and down, now whirling round
LUDOLF URSLEU THE YOUNGER 429
and round so that her long fair hair flew out all about her;
and all her movements were executed with as much pas-
sion as grace, so that I repeated the melody several times
in a different way, to be able to enjoy the pretty scene
longer. Eva, however, interrupted me, thinking perhaps
that Heileke was overheating herself; she caught up the
dancing child in the midst of her graceful turns and seated
her on her lap. But the little girl unexpectedly broke into
tears and sobbed as steadily and vehemently as if some
great misfortune had happened to her. I hated all such
scenes, as I never knew what to do, so I speedily took my
departure, notwithstanding that I had lately sworn to
watch over Eva and her child, and this would have afforded
me an opportunity to do so.
As chance would have it, I found a letter at home from
Flore's aunt, telling me of the girl's death. She had
developed cholera soon after they sailed, and in such a
violent form that she had succumbed to it in an hour.
'' She was buried at sea," wrote the aunt, '' but although
I am not so imaginative as my niece was, whenever I see
the seabirds sweeping along close above the waves, I can-
not help thinking that her soul is sailing there in the wind,
getting its fill of life."
Until then I had never used the key to the deserted house,
for the Lovers of Life had been spoiled for me and none
of the others seemed inclined to continue the rather ques-
tionable league, as indeed the spirits of men seldom remain
so uniformly high-strung that a notion born of exuberance
can be made permanent. Now I again entered the big
Lelallen room where we had reveled so madly, and as there
had not been time to clean it thoroughly before their abrupt
departure, I found a few utterly withered, malcolored roses
on the floor, as well as empty glasses on the table. I looked
at everything and then went to the cellar and brought up
a bottle of wine at random. It proved to be a heavy white
wine, with which I filled two glasses so that I could clink
them. They emitted a very deep, pure tone that rolled
430 THE GERMAN CLASSICS
wonderfully througli the. empty room, followed by an echo
in a higher key. While I slowly emptied the glass, lost
in dreamy retrospection, dusk was falling; and when it
suddenly occurred to me that I was all alone in the dreary
house I shuddered and would not stay longer. I drained
my glass to the last drop and threw it against the marble
shelf of a mirror, so that it smashed into several pieces;
1 left the other glass standing full on the table. If at mid-
night her restless spirit had come hovering through these
rooms, it might have sipped warmth and life from it. As I
was leaving, my eye fell on the little apple-tree, but the
late blossoms of misfortune had withered in the meantime
and it looked as drear as a senile old woman who has
adorned herself with tattered finery because she cannot
forget the beauty of her youth.
When I got home I found that Ezard had been there and
had brought the news of the child 's illness. She had been
taken to the hospital at once, and Uncle Harre himself
had insisted upon it, as every one without exception was
obliged to go. I went to Eva immediately and found her
alone, for Uncle Harre was constantly with the little girl
and only came home from time to time to bring news of
her condition. Eva was standing in the middle of the
room when I entered ; she did not move, quietly allowed me
to embrace and kiss her — for I did not know how else to
greet her — and then began restlessly to walk up and down
the room. I begged her to tell me how it had happened,
for I thought it better for her to speak, even if of some-
thing that must tear her heart ; and she clearly took pains
to do so, but she could not finish, suddenly breaking off
to say urgently :
'< Were you ever in the hospital, Ludolf ? Tell me what
it looks like. I can stand hearing it, for she has to be
there. Oh, Ludolf, think of my blossom, my little bud,
my soul in that grave ! ' '
I tried to make her see that she had an exaggerated and
too horrible idea of the place, gloomy though it was, but
she did not listen to me.
LUDOLF URSLEU THE YOUNGER 431
** He is with her, and he won't let me go," she mur-
mured to herself; " if I were only a man! "
Little as I could do or say to comfort her, yet it seemed
to me that she was glad to have me there, and I stayed,
which she seemed to take as a matter of course or at least
as nothing unusual, though night had fallen. When Uncle
Harre's steps broke in on our silence, I was sick with fear;
Eva, on the contrary, managed to control herself to such
an extent that she went to meet Uncle Harre with a smile
on her white face, which to be sure looked more like that
of a wandering spirit than of a living person. He said
nothing but the words, " She is alive," and they did not
sound like a message of joy, for he spoke them as hope-
lessly as if they merely meant that the anxiety and torment
were prolonged. Neither of us said a word at first; Eva
brought Uncle Harre something to eat and drink, but he
did not touch it. At last Eva ventured to plead, " Tell
me something about her! " at which he turned his burning
eyes on her with an indescribable glance and replied,
'' What shall I say? She does not know me any longer."
Immediately afterward he rose to go ; when he had already
reached the door Eva went after him, put both her arms
about his neck, and raised her face* for him to kiss. He
caught her to him and then rushed from the room with a
stifled sob. I stayed over night with Eva who lay back on
the cushions of a sofa as lightly as the plucked petal of a
white lily. I could imagine that I saw her restless fears
trembling and beating behind her big, blue eyes and pale
forehead. As she could not think of sleeping, she begged
me to play to her. As it was late at night, however, I did
not dare to strike the keys loudly but muffled the tone so
that it seemed to come from far away, and though it made
one dreamy and sad, yet the subdued sound lured us away
from the hard reality.
T do not know how we were able to stand that state of
agitation almost without sleeping or eating, although the
following day passed in a similar manner. But the most
432 THE GERMAN CLASSICS
terrible time was the third day, when Uncle Harre brought
the news that the danger seemed to be over. For however
we may be tortured by the fear of a coming calamity, yet
the most unbearable suffering only begins when a new hope
steals into our hearts and keeps them eternally trembling
between the heights and the depths. After a short rest
Uncle Harre had hurried away again, promising to return
with news as soon as possible. While hitherto Eva had
generally been as still and motionless and white as a dead
person, a feverish red now flushed her face, and, now rub-
bing her hands together, now stroking back the disheveled
locks from her forehead, she walked up and down all the
rooms, then went to the window and back again, or knelt
beside a chair and buried her face in the cushions. Her
agitation did not decrease, but grew every moment, until
at last, not knowing what else to do, it occurred to her to
pray ; she herself felt probably too confused and insensible
to do so and she turned to me with the plea, ' ' Pray, Ludolf ,
will you ? Please, let us pray ! " At that moment I simply
could not think of any prayer except ' ' Our Father, ' ' which
I believed I could still say fairly well, but I could not over-
come a decided antipathy to it. At the same time, Eva
looked at me with a beseeching glance and plucked humbly
at my sleeve in support of her request, so that I felt I
would have given the world to do what she wanted. Then it
occurred to me that I knew by heart the beginning of the book
of Genesis, for which I had always had a particular prefer-
ence and attachment, and as it might pass for a prayer,
being a part of the Bible, I made up my mind and began to
repeat one verse after another : In the beginning God cre-
ated the heaven and the earth. And the earth was without
form and void ; and darkness was upon the face of the deep.
And the Spirit of God moved upon the face of the waters.
And God said, Let there be light: and there was light.
And God saw the light that it was good: and God divided
the light from the darkness. And God called the light Day,
and the darkness he called Night.
LUDOLF UESLEU THE YOUNGER 433
As I noticed how fervently Eva's eyes hung on my lips, —
for presumably she heard only the biblical intonation with-
out understanding the words in the least, — I did not stop
at all, but kept on going back to the beginning when I did
not know any more: In the beginning God created the
heaven and the earth. And the earth was without form and
void. And she continued to listen in the same state of
ecstacy.
Thus absorbed, we did not hear Uncle Harre come up-
stairs, and so, although all the time we were in a fever of
expectation, yet at the last moment we were completely
unprepared when he pulled open the door and laid a form-
less bundle on the floor: the child Heileke, wrapped in
many big shawls which now fell apart, so that she lay
open-eyed there before us, as white as snow. Eva gave
a loud cry and threw herself down beside the child. With
unsteady steps Uncle Harre had immediately made for a
chair and burst into tears, probably the consequence of
the excessive excitement and exertions of the last few days.
I found it hard to master my emotion as I looked at Eva,
who half lay and half knelt beside her child, now looking
at her, now pressing her to herself with reverence and
timidity, as if the little body were something holy; and
as Eva, always of a dainty and ethereal build, had grown
pale and thinner in the days past, just like her little girl,
there was little earthly about them, and they could well
be compared to transparent, sisterly angels, floating on
equally light clouds in starry space, and embracing each
other after a sorrowful time of separation.
Chapter XXIX
[On the day his child's life was despaired of. Uncle Harre
resigned from his office,]
Several days passed after Heileke 's recovery, during
which Uncle Plarre now sat absorbed in absent thought,
now tormented those about him, and most of all himself,
Vol. XVITT— 2S
434 THE GERMAN CLASSICS
with his unbearable irritability and excited manner. As
ill-luck would have it, a pamphlet fell into his hands, writ-
ten by young Dr. Wittich as a report on the origin of the
cholera in our town, and done in a way that made it a
personal attack on Uncle Harre. It contained nothing
untrue, to be sure, but it absolutely distorted Uncle Harre 's
personality, as if he had been a coldly smiling, cynical
tyrant, growing fat at the expense of the long-suffering
poor — such a picture as the socialist likes to draw of a
man of property. This was bad, just because it could not
be refuted, although entirely incorrect ; for the facts them-
selves were not perverted, and it was only the writer's
words that threw on my uncle this ambiguous light — which
could not be caught and defined. We saw well enough that
Uncle Harre had read the paper, and among ourselves we
thought it best to talk to him about it, but we could never
bring ourselves to do it when he was present with the
unapproachable dignity of his grief in his face.
Outraged to the uttermost by the Rhinelander's hateful
attack, I went to Ezard with the inquiry whether we could
not do something to defend Uncle Harre and the honor of
our name, as it was not always dignified, but sometimes
cowardly and indolent, to allow an insult to pass in silence.
He replied that his father had expressed a definite wish
that nothing of the sort should be done. He did not add
more, but I seemed to detect in him particular feelings and
thoughts which he might not or would not tell me, but which
wholly absorbed him.
A few days later. Uncle Harre invited my great-grand-
father and me to spend the evening with him, to celebrate
his child's recovery. We saw with amazement and delight
how different my uncle seemed that evening : with the same
elasticity in his bearing that had charmed me when I was
still a boy, the same intelligent gleam in his eyes that so
charmingly accompanied his brilliant words, even the same
habit of brushing his thick, white hair from his brow with
a rapid gesture of the hand, he was again the enchanting
LUDOLF URSLEU THE YOUNGER 435
personality, overflowing with life, that he had been at the
zenith of his manhood. But now that he seemed to have
regained it by conquest, as it were, and we all knew what
a tremendous burden he must have exerted himself to shake
off before he could appear thus to us, he not only delighted
us but compelled our admiration, and I was gratified to
see that Eva too received a similar impression, and per-
haps felt again, for the first time in months, what had
attracted her to a man so much her senior when she became
his bride. Heileke greeted the change w^ith unaffected joy,
which, as she was still weak and obliged to keep quiet, she
could not utter aloud as well as she could express it in
the blissfully radiant eyes that followed her father wher-
ever he went. From time to time she called him to her in
her piping little voice, whereupon he always hastened im-
mediately to kneel beside her chair and let her hug and
kiss him.
Every one was in good spirits and I was disturbed
only by the seriousness that I perceived in Ezard's face;
which despite the cheerful surroundings, did not decrease,
but rather increased. However the deep and boundless
love he had for his father was apparent, although he
did not make much show of it; but in every word and
gesture that concerned his father he expressed the gentlest
consideration and veneration, and the latter seemed to
observe this and to be grateful for it. The evening passed
agreeably, for each of us was trying to avoid all the bitter-
ness that had lately made life so hard for us, and to cheer,
not chill the other, and the very fact that each felt this
endeavor in the others made us happier. It was late when
we broke up, and we separated cheerfully, indeed not with-
out gaiety. The pronounced and hearty way in which
Uncle Harre took leave of us all might have struck us,
if his fine and easy manner the whole evening had not
accustomed us to an elevated mood. He accompanied us
to the front door, where he once more firmly clasped
Ezard's hand and smiled; Ezard's face remained as serious
436 THE GERMAN CLASSICS
as before and even seemed to me to express a painful
lament, but I thought no more of it at the time.
Next day we received the news of Uncle Harre 's death ;
he had taken his life with a revolver shot. All at once I
saw the events of the past evening in another light. Above
all I realized that this wonderful man had made his decision
with open eyes and had wanted to part from us with equal
assurance and composure. Nothing could have shaken
me so unutterably as this behavior. He seemed to me a
higher being, one of the noblest of men, and to this day
I tell myself that he deserved to be so called in death. The
manner in which he went to his death took all the bitter-
ness and excessive pain from our grief, for he had suc-
ceeded in giving us the feeling that he was not to be pitied
for what he lost in death, but that he was regaining some-
thing that his own conduct had lost him — inward peace
and the respectful sympathy of the better class of men.
"When I found myself alone with Ezard in the presence
of the dead body, I distinctly recalled the previous evening,
and yielding to a feeling that suddenly rose within me, I
asked him whether he had been informed of his father's
intention. He replied:
' ' I knew nothing but that it must be so and that he him-
self realized it. I knew he had felt it for weeks, and yes-
terday when I all at once saw him before me, so clear, so
cheerful, and so proud, I felt: now he has made up his
mind; now he will do it."
I could not repress a shudder, and asked, not without
reproach : ' ' You suspected or knew what was going on
in your father's mind and did not restrain him? You
talked oftener and more intimately with him than any of us,
he hinted to you perhaps what he thought he must do;
and you did not try to dissuade him, but looked on as he
hastened to his death? "
" Yes," said Ezard, '' I did, because it had to be. That
part of his fortune that was in the water-works he left to
the town, and thus paid his debt as far as was in his power.
If he had gone on living he could never have made matters
LUDOLF URSLEU THE YOUNGER 437
good. For what would he have been for the remaining
years of his life "? A decrepit, useless, weakened old man,
a diseased and injurious member of our family. That he
recognized that and shielded himself and us from it was
worthy of his finest years. Should I have hindered my
father whom I love, when he wanted to part from us as a
hero instead of living on in disgrace? "
Although there was much in these words that touched
and convinced me, yet because he spoke them so quietly,
though not without agitation, Ezard seemed to me incom-
prehensible and uncanny, and I remembered a similar
moment when w^e had stood beside the body of my unhappy
father and he had whispered those strange words : " That
is the first." I was so horrified at the recollection that my
heart began to beat violently, and as I looked at Ezard I
felt that he read my thoughts — which was indeed possible
enough, for I had reached them through an association of
ideas which was perhaps more immediate with him than
with me. I felt a burning impulse to utter them, and yet
I trembled at the thought. Suddenly I heard myself jerk-
ing out the words in an over-loud voice, " Ezard, is this
the second! " — at which I myself was so horrified that I
should not have understood his answer if he had replied.
But he said nothing, only I could see by his face and his
eyes, which rested on me at once so sadly and so fearfully,
that he had understood me. I regretted having uttered
the unspeakable; for now another question stirred in me,
though even to myself it seemed uncalled for and mon-
strous : who will be the third? And although I told myself
that I had no cause whatever to give Ezard 's dream or
madness such a form, yet I could not prevent an answer
from constantly springing up in my mind w^hich made me
giddy, as if I were standing on the edge of a precipitous
cliff, looking straight down before me into the depths. I
raced through the streets for I don't know how long, my
teeth chattering with inward chills ; next day it seemed to
me like a wild dream, and I directed my thoughts to other
things; finally I forgot it again.
438 THE GERMAN CLASSICS
Chapter XXX
[People began to accuse Dr. Wittich of having hounded
Uncle Harre to death. Ezard had become popular, and
the new water-system turned out to be even better than
had been expected — the opinion became current that the
family had been sacrificed to the senate's egoism.
Galeide had finished her studies in Switzerland and was
reported to have acquired rare skill in execution and to
interpret with real genius. She wrote that she was com-
ing home.]
So it came that one day I went to the station and stood
there waiting for Galeide, thinking how long it was since
I had accompanied her there when she seemed to be going
away forever. I tried to imagine that I had not moved
from the place since then, but had only closed my eyes
and allowed a momentary dream to pass before my vision.
This threw me into a strange state, so that I stood there
as if drunk with sleep as the train rushed in, the passengers
streamed out, and all at once Galeide stood before me with
laughing eyes out of which quick tears streamed, kissed me
on the mouth, and said: " Ludolf, let me look at you.
Why, you are not a little boy any more! "
As soon as I heard her clear, ringing, childlike voice,
which was unchanged, I no longer needed to imagine, but
really felt that she had always been here, only that every-
thing about us had changed in the meantime. She asked
for a carriage, for she was trembling with eagerness to
see Grandfather. As she was too agitated to talk much
during the drive, I observed her at my leisure and found
that she had grown older, but only in so far as age, up to a
certain point, means an increase in strength. Her child-
like soul, full of innocence and frankness, still radiated
from brow and cheeks ; there was a contented expression
about her mouth, as if during all these years she had
laughed much and never wept, which was almost amazing
LUDOLF UESLEU THE YOUNGER 439
in view of the troubled time, full of heart-breaking experi-
ences, that lay behind her. When we came to the part of
town from which our old house could be seen, she turned
away her head but did not say a word, and so I too remained
silent, for each knew without speaking how the other felt.
Finally in her excitement she kept asking every minute,
*'Are we there now? Now? " — for she didn't hear my
answer. When the carriage stopped all the color left her
face. " Where? " she asked. " One flight," I answered.
At that she rushed up ahead of me with her light step ; at
the top stood Grandfather with his arms outstretched, and
with a loud cry she threw herself so violently on his breast
that he might easily have fallen. Beside her tall figure
it was very clear how his body had shrunk, though but
little bent.
Now she drew us with her into the room and said to me
as she threw off her hat and cloak : ' ' Ludolf , make Grand-
father sit down;" then she began to run through all the
rooms, looked out of every window, glanced over the
pictures on the walls, celebrated a reunion with every object
that she remembered from former times, and accompanied
everything with hearty exclamations. In all this she re-
minded me of our mother, although she did not possess
the latter 's faultless beauty; but in compensation one could
see how strong and well she felt, and that delights the eye
almost as much as perfect regularity of feature.
I was inwardly full of agitation, for every moment I
thought I must hear Ezard's step; he did not come, how-
ever, and in the evening I learned that he was away for
a day or two. The suspicion immediately arose in my mind
that he had met Galeide on the way, so as to be the first
to greet her. I did not ask her about this, however, my
real reason being that I was afraid to touch on these
unhappy matters. Lucile had declared that she would not
leave the city, that it was not for her to retreat before
Galeide. But she did not want to see her and would
manage to avoid it ; likewise she would take care that the
440
THE GERMAN CLASSICS
children should not see her. I told Galeide this, and she
listened to me calmly and said that Lucile was right and
that she would not interfere with Lucile 's wishes, in spite
of her great longing to see little Harre again. She added
of her own accord that she would not stay long, as she
knew well that it would not do for her and Ezard to be
in the same town. What my great-grandfather would say
to this was another question, to be sure, and one with which
we did not occupy ourselves at that time.
For as everything seemed to be well arranged for the
time being, I was glad- of Galeide 's presence ; she was so
even, quiet, cheerful, and confident that it seemed easier
to live when she was there to soothe and refresh one at
the same time. Frequently I accompanied her violin-play-
ing, which was really beautiful, so that when you looked at
her graceful, proud pose it was easy to believe that she would
yet achieve greatness, even the highest eminence in her
art. At first my great-grandfather had had some difficulty
in reconciling her real appearance, with his remembrance
of her, but after that his contentment grew from day to
day, and assumed gigantic proportions when he saw the
admiration of those outside the family. For old and new
acquaintances soon came to see what had come of the
returning stranger. She was also invited to play at a
public concert; for amusements and festivities were to
begin again, now that the cholera had at last completely
succumbed to winter. The long terrified people, who could
fitly regard themselves as miraculously saved, rushed with
thirsty senses into the enjoyments that were given back
to them, and Galeide, who as a child of the town, but tried
and recognized abroad, had their hearts with her in
advance, could have been sure of unusual success even with-
out significant achievement. I must say, however, that
she deserved the tremendous applause that was given her.
Ezard was in the audience, which was considered right
and proper, as public opinion was now for us once for all ;
I think other people looked on Ezard and Galeide as those
I'heo. Stroefer. Niintbi
Max Klinger
ZEUS AND EROS
LUDOLF UESLEU THE YOUNGER 441
who had indeed gone astray but who had fully and glori-
ously repaired their errors by forceful, brilliant deeds.
It seemed just as natural, too, that Ezard should go home
with us after the concert, and now, for the first time since
my father's death, I saw the two together again. The
unaffected gladness with which they greeted each other
strengthened my suspicion that they must have already
seen each other somewhere, while my great-grandfather,
on the contrary, saw in it the corroboration of his view
that their feeling for each other had become clarified into
a good brotherly and sisterly friendship. The blissful
happiness that radiated from them whenever they were
together ought to have shown him that it was otherwise.
There were several other acquaintances with us, among
them Wendelin, who was still unmarried and for the sole
reason that he could not forget Galeide. With his singed
wings the unhappy fellow had at once dragged himself to
the light that flamed up again, and renewed his old suffer-
ings, which he sought to sweeten with blind hopes. Galeide
met him as unconcernedly as if nothing had happened, and
this was not forced on her part, but the pain of a rejected
suitor made so little impression on her that she did not
even need to forget it in order to be able to talk to him
as indifferently as to any other man. Moreover her pas-
sion was so whole-souled and powerful that she had no real
consciousness of any one but Ezard and yielded with all
her strength to the rapture of knowing him to be near her.
Several times, on one pretext or another, they managed to
see each other alone for a few moments apart from the
assembled company; they did this with the glad artless-
ness of an engaged couple, so fully did the triumphant feel-
ing of their unity and love exclude all thought of the wrong
that they thus committed. Although by no means assumed
for the purpose, it was just this frankness that made their
intimacy appear quite unsuspicious to others; for the
onlooker, who from the vantage-point of an unaffected
spectator can clearly perceive what is wrong, seldom grasps
442 THE GERMAN CLASSICS
the fact that the criminal by no means needs to be con-
scious of it to the same extent.
After the other guests had left us, Ezard still remained.
And now it was as when fire or water, an element hard to
subdue, is released and bursts forth. Not that their pas-
sion betrayed itself in tactless expressions of love, but
it announced its indefinable presence with mysterious
strength, like the perfume that a night flower begins to
exhale as soon as it grows dark. Homage had been paid
to Galeide in the form of a wreath of flowers; out of it
some one had taken the roses and put red and white ones
in her hair. Thus adorned she sat there, quiet but glowing
like life itself, representing something legitimate and
unsubvertible, which no opposition seems able to destroy.
That, I feel certain, was the result of the inward com-
posure which she really possessed, but which I should by
no means like to hear called self-satisfaction or self-com-
placency; for if she was ever satisfied with herself, it was
with the innocent gratitude one feels for a present, or it
was even more that she regarded her nature and disposi-
tion as something unalterable, on which it would be foolish
to waste time ; she was much too thoughtless and too little
inclined to introspection to be vain.
If at first I had allowed myself to be carried away by
Ezard 's and Galeide 's tremendous assurance, so that I
overlooked the outrageousness of their relation and ac-
cepted their close intimacy as something permanently
unsubvertible, yet now that we were alone my judgment
returned, and I felt the unconcern with which they dropped
all restraint before our eyes to be an insulting slight or
else the madness of an animal that runs amuck, and with-
out wishing to do so, blindly knocks down everything in
its way. My behavior may have brought the two to their
senses, for Ezard suddenly rose to leave; nevertheless,
when Galeide declared that she would go with him to the
front door, I felt unable to interfere, but remained inactive
where I was as if chained. I think both my great-grand-
LUDOLF URSLEU THE YOUNGER 443
father and I trembled as we counted the short, seemingly
eternal moments that she was absent. When she came
back, she was very pale under her red roses, and seemed
to expect a reproach or an attack from us. But as we
remained silent, she knelt down beside Grandfather and
said good-night to him with passionate tenderness. He
must suddenly have realized that all the hopes which he
had persuaded himself into believing were nothing but
foam, and that his darling was unescapably menaced by
the fate she had brought on herself; for he pressed her
vehemently to him several times, and, taking her head
between his hands, regarded her with a long, earnest glance.
It seemed as if the time were now to come again when
one constantly trembles in fear of an annihilating thunder-
bolt, and yet at the same time wishes for it, so as to be
freed one way or the other from the strain of a dreadful
depression.
Chapter XXXI
When it did come, however, it came as a surprise. It
was the worst of all, the thing that I shudder to have
experienced. Galeide wanted to go away, and a good
opportunity happened to offer. In Geneva, where she had
well-disposed friends, she was offered a place as violinist
in the orchestra, which as a beginning would be an honor-
able position, if not a glorious one. It would allow her
time to continue perfecting herself, so that she need by
no means give up for this the higher career for which,
according to the general opinion, she was created. She
accepted at once, as she had grown fond of Geneva and its
inhabitants, and understood how to combine w^hatever
ambition she might have with much patience ; on the other
hand, it gave her the pretext she sought for leaving our
great-grandfather and all that she called home. Grand-
father agreed more readily than we had expected, but on
condition that Galeide should not go until the time came
for her to take the position, at Easter. Thus it was settled.
444 THE GERMAN CLASSICS*
Immediately, however, Ezard and Galeide were again pos-
sessed by the feeling that this respite was a reprieve to
be enjoyed to the full, just as a man condemned to death
makes merry all through his last night, in which the hang-
man must gratify his every wish.
One day Lucile called me to her by letter. I went with
the most uncomfortable premonitions, which proved to be
justified ; for she received me in a state of great excitement
and informed me that Ezard had made known to her his
relations to Galeide and had asked her to consent to a
divorce. I felt almost relieved to think that Ezard had
at last rent the web of deception and treason, esp-ecially as
I had full confidence that he wxDuld he. able to bring this
course to a conclusion without injuring his prestige and
that of our family. But I at once had to recognize that
there was no hope of Lucile 's. doing her part toward an
amicable solution. She said she had seen through Ezard 's
game much longer than he had suspected or desired (which
she probably said only to avoid appearing, as a wretched,
deceived woman). He had worked, saved,, and' drudged
to acquire enough- money to buy his freedom from her.
Meanwhile he had kept her in suspense and had tried to
deceive her as to the actual state of things, so that matters
should not come to a head until he coAild divorce her and
still preserve his outward honor (by giving her in com-
pensation as much happiness as wealth could procure).
And now this time had come. But he had miscalculated
her. She was not disposed to sacrifice herself so that two
perfidious hearts might reap undeserved happiness. She
had ceased to respect Ezard, or indeed any man, he was
nothing to her. But she wanted her children to keep their
father. Besides, it was against her principles to aid in
the dissolution of a marriage that had been ordained by
God and was holy. The fetters chafed her as much as him,
but she would bear them becausie she had sworn before
God to do so.
All these things were, indeed, quite in accord with her
LUDOLF URSLEU THE YOUNGER 445
character; but I saw something more behind them which
was also entirely consistent with her nature, namely, that
she would not give up Ezard because she still loved him
in spite of everything as ardently or more so than before,
and that she simulated all these other reasons for refusing
him his liberty so that she need not make the humiliating
confession of this weakness (for as such she regarded it)
to herself, to say nothing of others. But just this con-
vinced me of the hopelessness of Ezard 's cause ; for reasons
might, on a pinch, have been refuted or at least silenced,
but against her blind will simply to have and to hold him
nothing could be done, unless she herself were miraculously
freed from it. Nevertheless I did try to discuss the matter
with her, not indeed excusing Ezard and Galeide, but still
taking their part to the extent of pointing out that the
mischief was done and could not be changed, and that it
was after all better to have two happy than three unhappy ;
moreover, it might be safely assumed that she herself
would feel more contented after she had voluntarily given
up such a painful and undignified position as her present
one.
But as I talked to her thus, the feeling that I was trying
to snatch Ezard from her agitated her more and more, and
she began to confuse her reasons and her principles with
her love; and now she said that she must protect Ezard
from Galeide, who would only make him unhappy after all,
as she lacked all the truly womanly qualities, on which
Ezard laid particular importance, and more things of the
same sort. In the greatest excitement she finally cried,
let Ezard do what he would, she would never give him up,
except perhaps by leaving him forever, that is, by seeking
death herself; if he and Galeide would then dare to clasp
guilty hand, across her corpse, let them ; their punishment
would come. I grew alarmed, for I believed her capable
of raising her hand against herself, contrary to all her
principles, somewhat as a defiant child, too severely pun-
ished by its parents pretends sickness to frighten them.
M6 THE GERMAN CLASSICS
At the same time I keenly felt her deserted state and her
unhappiness, but more with my reason than with my heart,
so that, gladly as I would have been just to her, I may
have seemed rather antagonist than friend; in reality I
was neither.
Galeide, to whom I told all this, with my opinions and
fears, seemed to have the most affection left for Lucile of
us all, perhaps because she remembered how Lucile had
been before cruel experience had embittered her soul and
sharpened her features. She did not look at all aged or
ugly, by the way ; on the contrary, owing to the daintiness
of her figure, she had retained something childlike, to which
her large and very fiery eyes formed a charming contrast.
What she lacked was the harmony of a finished and com-
plete personality; Galeide had it, and hence she could
inspire such peace and content, as if there were nothing
more to desire on earth but to be always near her.
Galeide and Ezard and I had never talked about these
relations and what we might do and hope. One evening
we were out in a rowboat on the river on which our town
is situated; it was warm and dark and we rowed slowly.
Once we stopped altogether, so that the boat only rocked
gently from side to side and we gazed into the dark green
depths, each pursuing his- own thoughts. Galeide said:
" Soon I shall again be looking into blue Lake Geneva.
Oh, if I were only there already, so that it would be over "
(meaning the pain of parting).
*' This time we shall not be separated for so long," said
Ezard. " I feel a& if our happiness and our love were
something holy, for which I am responsible. Our star will
conquer, I know it for sure."
Galeide, whose white face I could see from where I sat,
made no reply, but slowly and sadly shook her head, smil-
ing, however, at the same time, as if she were thinking of
the happiness she had enjoyed, which, even though it had
been sinfully wrested from fate, had still been happiness
like any other. I said sorrowfully : ' * When I think that
LUDOLF URSLEU THE YOUNGER 447
it seems to me as if it were only yesterday that Galeide
and I secretly rowed on this river for the first time (for
father would not hear of our going, fearing something
might happen to us), and that now that beautiful time of
hope, called youth, will soon lie wholly behind me, I cannot
understand why we yearn, strive, and suffer for any real
or supposed good; for everything passes like a dream,
one way or another."
" Yes," answered Ezard in a firm voice, " life passes all
too quickly. Therefore a man should spend as little time
as possible in waiting, and should be his own destiny. We
have only a single, short life, hence its course is no trifling
matter. The happiness that I might have is mine by right,
and I may fight for it." These words must have sounded
uncanny to all of us, for none of us said anything more;
we reached for the oars in silence and rowed back to the
landing without stopping.
During these days a few cases of cholera had been
observed, but this time they did not find us unprepared,
for the physicians had pointed out from the beginning that
the scourge might appear again in the spring. We now
had enough experience not to be so quickly disconcerted,
every one was at once in his place again and Ezard too
resumed his former activity. It was less talked of than
in the previous year, and at bottom no one was personally
afraid; but now it happened that Lucile's little girl was
taken violently ill. Eva and Galeide were at once ready
to help, but Galeide was sharply repulsed, as might have
been expected. Everything developed more rapidly than
I can describe it. Lucile was completely beside herself;
she would accept comfort and encouragement from no
one. She refused to let the child leave her and so it re-
mained at home without a doctor being consulted, which
indeed was not necessary, as Ezard knew exactly all that
could be done to alleviate and combat the disease. The
child died that same evening. Eva came to our house, as
she had given up trying to make headway against Lucile's
448 THE GERMAN CLASSICS
passionate lamentation. She was not a little worried, for
the pitiable mother refused to release the dead child from
her arms and could not be persuaded to take the customary
precautions to protect her own health. Lost in thought,
I asked where Ezard was and what he was doing.
' ' Yes, Ezard ! He should not let her alone, he ought to
force her to control herself. But you know how they
stand. I can do nothing."
Graleide, who was present, grew deathly pale and I
im-agined I could see her tremble.
When Eva was gone I said: " Galeide, what are you
thinking? "
She looked at me wide-eyed and said : ' ' I am thinking :
what if she should be taken sick and die ! You know that
w.ould' be happiness and salvation for us. So, if I should
listen to my heart I sliould have to desire it. That is
a horrible thing to tell yourself."
I shuddered. Not long after Ezard sent for me, as
Lucile was ill and asking for me. I looked at Galeide.
' ' Go to grandfather, ' ' I said, her appearance frightened
me so.
She shook her head. ' ' Come back soon, ' ' she begged in
an expressionless voice.
Lucile lay in bed; her large eyes turned to me the
moment I entered; at that instant she did not look much
disfigured. She wanted to prevent my coming near to
her, but in spite of that I sat down on a chair close
beside her bed, which cost me not the slightest effort, for
in my excitement I had no thought of caution or danger.
She signed to Ezard that she wanted to speak to me alone,
whereupon he left the room.
' ' Ludolf , ' ' she said, ' ' will you see to it that my mother
and my brother never learn that I renounced the Catholic
faith? "
I had expected that she would speak to me about much
more painful things, and because I felt relieved my liking
for her increased at once (so selfish is man), and I said as
LUDOLF URSLEU THE YOUNGER 449
heartily as I could: *'I will take care that they never
learn it. But the fact that you did so does not trouble
you, does itf You acted in good faith, and God will un-
derstand that, if there is a God."
I now saw how much the unhappy woman must have
missed affectionate sympathy, for the cordial tone of my
words at once moved her to tears. " Do you know,
Ludolf," she said sobbing, " that my child is dead? The
only being on earth that loved me and needed me! If I
had only stayed at home! Oh, if I had only stayed at
home ! ' '
This simple lament pierced my heart, and a great
anguish came over me because of our harshness and love-
lessness toward this stranger, which we should perhaps
never be able to make good again. As I bent over her to
speak soothingly to her, a convulsive twitching in her face
showed me that the disease was about to seize her again.
Full of terror, I started up to call Ezard, but she re-
strained me with a beseeching glance and amid evident
torments said with difficulty, ' ' When I am dead, Ludolf ,
take me home. I do not want to lie in your earth, I want
to go home. ' '
I nodded, but as I saw that she wanted a stronger con-
firmation I said aloud, " Yes, Lucile, I will take you home,
if you die, you and your little girl. But you shall not die !
I will call Ezard. ' '
Ezard came into the room at that moment and quickly
arranged several things intended to help Lucile, or at least
to relieve her condition. But now my composure was sud-
denly at an end ; the sight of this horrible suffering turned
me sick. To that was added a strange notion: Ezard
happened to be standing at the foot of Lucile 's bed, and
as he looked very pale and tall in the darkened room,
there came into my mind the story of how Death showed
himself at the foot of the sickbed when he wished to
indicate that the sufferer was his victim. I could not drive
away this thought and it increased my horror, which prob-
VoL. XVIII— 29
450 THE GERMAN CLASSICS
ably showed in my face; for Ezard whispered to me to
leave the room, for I could not help and it would be better
for me. I went, feeling altogether incapable of standing
it in that chamber any longer, and sat down in a chair in
the adjoining room ; I shook all over and could not control
myself. In my state of nausea I thought I could already
feel the disease, whereby I grew steadily worse, so that
finally I decided to leave the house and try the effect of
fresh air. And really, after I had traversed a few streets,
I felt better, and in about half an hour I brought myself
to go back to Ezard 's house.
In the meantime Lucile had died. I was so horrified
that Ezard, who himself was perfectly calm, had to sup-
port me. When I had composed myself somewhat and
observed him, his calm seemed to have something un-
naturally rigid in it. I could not take my eyes from his
terrible beauty. There had never been, and was not now,
any trace of hardness, still less cruelty, in his face ; on the
contrary, the most sincere kindness always seemed to light
it. I cannot say what I was really thinking, and besides
I was only half conscious of my thoughts. As I looked at
Lucile l5dng there so cold in death, my senses became more
and more confused: suddenly it seemed as if everything
grew silent in me and in this silence I heard distinctly, as
if a strange voice were speaking within me : * ' That is the
third." These words were repeated in my ears more
and more frequently and rapidly, until at last the whole
room seemed to resound with them. I looked over at
Ezard to see whether he heard it, and thought I could teU
by his face that he was listening, which of course was due
only to my excited imagination. It was not impossible,
however, that he was thinking of these words. It would
have been impossible for me to utter them. As far as I
can remember we did not exchange a word the whole time.
When I started to go Ezard said, " I will go with you,
I must go to Galeide. ' '
On the way I could no longer resist the abominable feel-
LUDOLF UESLEU THE YOUNGER 451
ing that we were bringing home good news and hope for a
better future. Graleide was standing upright in the room
when we entered.
' ' Galeide, ' ' said Ezard in a suppressed voice, while still
in the doorway, '^ she is dead."
Immediately they rushed into each other's arms and
both broke into tears. Ezard wept so violently that it
seemed as if he must wash away rocks from his heart with
his streaming tears, and his countenance really grew sud-
denly brighter, and his bearing changed like that of a man
who has had to drag an unendurable burden to the top of a
mountain and now casts it down, having reached his goal.
Nevertheless they were both serious and not because it
was suitable for the occasion but because they felt so. As
long as I was with Ezard and Galeide, my heart also grew
lighter and I forgot my terrifying imaginings ; but as soon
as I was alone and tried to sleep they came again, and my
agitation increased when the notion came into my head that
I must keep on inwardly repeating to the rhythm of my
heart-beats the words: the third, the third, the third. I
saw Ezard before me as Death in the story, pale and
mysterious and imperturbable. — I wonder whether on that
day he really was Death's confederate! I know that he
did not murder; but would not a just judge call it murder
not to prevent death? It is over and no one thinks of it
any more. Ezard and Galeide are dust like her who died
and was ruined for their sake; instead of Happiness, on
whose warm breast they violently sought to throw them-
selves, they embraced Death. I will tell this strange story
in the following pages.
Chapter XXXII
No one thought it remarkable that Lucile and her child
had died on two successive days, for of course during the
cholera epidemic single deaths in any house were uncom-
mon. Perhaps no one except myself entertained torturing
thoughts about the exact course of the misfortune. It
452 THE GERMAN CLASSICS
seems wonderful to me now that, in spite of that, I could
associate with Ezard as usual, that I never for a moment
ceased to love him, that it even did me good to be near him.
The soul that looked at me out of his dark eyes had some
trait of conscious innocence, which cast a triumphant spell
over all who knew him. Perhaps, too, it was the irresis-
tible force of the passion that was in him that imparted
itself to others, so that no one asked how he could do this
or that, but felt that he must.
I had not for a moment forgotten what I had promised
Lucile, and in order to be more faithful to the dead than,
unfortunately, I had been to the living, I resolved that I
myself would take back to her home the coffin in which she
and her child rested.
My great-grandfather proposed that Galeide should ac-
company me, I at once saw through his ulterior motive.
It was taken for granted in our family that after a decent
interval Ezard and Galeide would marry; but my great-
grandfather feared they might make this interval too short
and thus cause a scandal, and as he was very anxious that
custom should not be disregarded, he wanted to send
Galeide away for the present, thinking that the rest would
take care of itself. She agreed, the more so because I
supported my great-grandfather's request; for I looked
forward with pleasure to wandering about with her in the
Swiss mountains. Nor did Ezard object, but rather seemed
to approve the plan, perhaps simply because he hoped
Galeide would enjoy her stay in that beautiful country;
besides, they were both so full of confidence and happy
assurance in regard to their future that the word separa-
tion no longer had any meaning for them; so indissolubly
did they feel themselves united.
So, as soon as the most necessary preparations were
made^ we went away together; Ezard accompanied us for
a short distance. They said good-by to each other firmly
and happily; Ezard stood beside the train till it left, and
Galeide and I looked out of our compartment window.
LUDOLF URSLEU THE YOUNGER 453
They smiled at each other as long as Ezard was in sight;
not until we turned away from the window did I see that
she had tears in her eyes and had grown very pale. Meet-
ing my astonished glance, she said!
'' I thought I was not sad, and now I am after all. All
at once I felt so timid. How easily he might be taken ill!
I ought to have stayed at home."
I tried to dispel this alarming mood, and in order to
divert and at the same time prepare her I told her about
the people and conditions in Lucile's home, as I had seen
them years before. My description of young Gaspard,
whom I had secretly called Punch by way of disparagement,
especially amused her, and as I noticed that I went on to
tell in detail everything I still remembered about him,
whereby I really did achieve my end and restored her
cheerful humor. Lucile 's mother met us at the station ; she
did not look changed. A certain likeness between her face
and Lucile's probably affected Galeide, for she was pale
and silent as she walked beside the vigorous woman; the
latter, on her part, seemed at once pleased w^ith my sister
and said pleasantly that Galeide 's manner reminded her of
our mother whom she had liked so much.
She excused her son for not having also come to meet us :
it had been an inconvenient time for him. He had studied
the natural sciences and agriculture at different universi-
ties, as she told us, and had then relieved his mother of a
part of her work, and gradually acquired and cultivated
new lands, but at the same time continued his scientific
activity. Though we ourselves willingly avoided speaking
of Lucile, yet it struck me how seldom even her mother did
so. After the manner of country-dwellers, she w^as spar-
ing with the expression of her feelings, and indeed with
the feelings themselves. Lucile was dead; what more was
there to say about her? She now no longer entered into the
matters of this earth, and the rest was God's affair, who
ruled over things in the other world. Our apprehension
as to how she would take the fact that Ezard himself had
454 THE GERMAN CLASSICS
not brought his wife's body home had also been entirely
unnecessary, for she understood at once that his profession
would not permit him to undertake a not insignificant
journey so unexpectedly; indeed, on the strength of that
she really seemed to respect him more than us, who could
fly up and away like butterflies if we chose, without leaving
any gap or doing any harm.
We did not see Gaspard till supper-time, when he offered
brief and rather insufiicient excuses for not having greeted
us before. He at once reminded me of how little agreeable
we had found each other's society at our first meeting,
which, good-natured and humorous though it sounded, I
took at the same time to be a warning that if my conduct
were not different this time he was still the same as ever,
and would thrust his fist through the window-pane in just
the same way, if he could not otherwise carry out his will.
Galeide threw me an amused glance, in which I could read
that she thought him abominable, and this afforded me
uncommon gratification. I must admit that he was not
really ugly, but at the first glance his face almost startled
one, because it expressed such pleasure and power in
willing as is commonly seen in savage races who have no
consideration for the restrictions of society or even know
nothing of their existence. What chiefly irritated me and
spoiled even the most courteous words that fell from his
lips was that I imagined, or he really intended, them to be
a reward for my so far irreproachable conduct. He
observed Galeide closely and with unabashed openness,
which also annoyed me a little. She, however, did not seem
to notice it, and for the most part chatted with Madame
Leroy, displaying a modest amiability and grace which
were thoroughly natural to her, although they formed by
no means the most prominent feature of her character.
When she spoke to Gaspard, she did so with a certain feel-
ing of superiority, probably due in part to the conscious-
ness of her greater years, partly to the prejudice that I
had instilled into her mind; in general she was wont to
LUDOLF UESLEU THE YOUNGER 455
treat young men with condescending indifference. I could
not quite decide what impression this made on him, and
whether he might not feel offended, which I thought prob-
able, from my knowledge of him. His behavior was imper-
turbable and correct, he ate with a hearty appetite, which
displeased me, as my health no longer allowed me such a
display of the alimentary instinct, but on the other hand
drank very little, which I thought discourteous and narrow,
particularly as he answered my request to make an excep-
tion on this evening with a dry, plain '' no," to which he
also adhered. When Galeide and I exchanged impressions,
she was in very good spirits and full of comical ideas con-
cerning Gaspard. The following day, however, was a
solemn one, for Lucile's interment in her native earth took
place.
The day before, Gaspard had had the coffin brought to
the house without any one 's noticing it. It was now placed
in the hall and surrounded by tall yellow wax candles,
whose pale red light looked sad in the cold brightness of
day. The coffin was entirely covered with loose cut roses,
which was probably Gaspard 's arrangement or doing.
Once as I was passing, while no one happened to be pres-
ent, I thoughtfully regarded this most beautiful, rich-
colored summer-life upon the threshold of death, and as
the delicate but strong perfume from the many blossoms
rose about me, I was irresistibly reminded of the roses
that this same girl had once worn on her wedding-day,
probably the happiest and at the same time the most fate-
ful of her life. How easily I could think away the years
that lay between, and take these roses to be the same that
at that time, yesterday let us say, had bloomed before the
altar and were today accompanying the daughter of the
house into the earth. I was absorbed in such strange
imaginings when Gaspard entered the hall. It was in my
mind to ask him whether these were roses from the bush
under his window ; but I was uncertain whether the expres-
sion of his face promised a good-humored reply, and as I
456 THE GERMAN CLASSICS
did not care to lay myself open to any other I turned shortly
away and went to fetch Galeide, for the coffin was now to
be carried to the church, where we must attend a solemn
burial service.
When I entered Galeide 's room, in the middle of which
she stood awaiting me, I started at her appearance, and
suddenly, there again stirred within me those execrable
fantasies of Lucile's death-day, which I had had such diffi-
culty in silencing, for my sister looked as if the trumpets
of the day of doom were calling her to judgment, and she
were now to appear before an omniscient God. In her
usual manner, however, which I knew well enough, she still
carried her head high and proudly, not like one who desires
to defend himself, but like one who has expected and de-
sires his condemnation, in order to throw himself volun-
tarily and without complaint into the abyss of hell. Never-
theless I tried to persuade myself that it was the memory
of her once loved friend and of what the latter had suffered
on her account, as well as the happiness that should bloom
for her out of the misfortune of the dead woman, that had
caused the sudden shock which now appeared in her face.
I asked her whether she too would rather stay at home, but
she only shook her head and together we went down the
stairs leading to the hall. There stood Gaspard beside the
coffin, and suddenly it seemed to me that he had been wait-
ing for us, perhaps to see what impression the sight of the
flower-covered coffin, which Galeide had not yet seen, would
make on her. For it was by no means impossible that
Lucile had written, if not to her mother, then to her brother
about the unendurable circumstances in which she lived,
and that he had conceived not only a dislike of us but even
perhaps a suspicion that Galeide might at least have de-
sired his sister's end. This idea tortured me and I
observed him constantly, but could see nothing exactly hos-
tile or distrustful in the way he regarded her; on the
contrary, at times there seemed to be something like admi-
ration and a gentle kindness in it. I could not help noticing
LUDOLF UESLEU THE YOUNGEE 457
at the same time that the soulful expression shone from
his velvety black eyes like a planet from the bluish depths
of the night.
We now went to the church, where the coffin was again
set down and a row of candles lighted ; Galeide and I stood
on one side of it, Gaspard and his mother on the other,
opposite us, so that we constantly had to see each other.
I heard nothing of what the French priest said, for the
voice of memory spoke unceasingly within me, and many
scenes passed before my eyes, of which the rose-covered
coffin in the village church was the last. Especially I
recalled that just about where the coffin now was Lucile had
once stood on Ezard's arm, I probably where I was now,
while Galeide occupied my mother's place. At intervals I
noticed Gaspard's eyes directed unceasingly at my sister,
which agitated me every time I observed it ; but then when
I looked at her she seemed to have no suspicion of it, but
stared off into space as if -she were in the midst of a dream.
I always felt that I could see her most impartially when I
put myself in the place of some one else who was looking
at her ; and so in imagining what Gaspard might perhaps
think while he regarded her, her white face, with the eyes
that were almost never wide open, seemed to me to exhale
a wonderful sweetness, like the scent of a summer flower,
something that, ringing softly, encircles the soul like silver
strings. As I felt this, it seemed to me that it would not
be unnatural if Gaspard should fall in love with a nature
so unlike his own, whatever prejudices or suspicion of her
he might previously have had, and this idea quieted and
even pleased me immensely, as I wished him the humili-
ation to which he would infallibly subject himself. But in
his iron reserve there was something so difficult to decipher
that every moment I doubted what I had just thought of
him; in this way he constantly preoccupied me without
his intending it, which filled me more and more with a
hostile feeling toward him. Galeide certainly suspected
nothing of my thoughts in this direction, and I on the
458 THE GERMAN CLASSICS
other hand did not know the nature of the inward torment
that she seemed to suffer during the service.
When it was over and the coffin was lifted to be carried
to the churchyard, one of the roses which covered it fell
to the ground, and Galeide, probably without any particular
intention, perhaps without even being conscious of her
action, stooped for it and kept it in her hand, which I
noticed did not escape Gaspard's observant eye; my
imagination, already active, interpreted the expression of
his face to mean that he considered it a good sign that she
should pick up and take with her a flower which he had
cultivated and plucked (which, however, she perhaps did
not even know). As is customary there, we now followed
the coffin on foot to the churchyard, which was by no means
beautiful nothing but a stiffly arranged garden, over-
ornamented, gaudily resplendent with gay flowers, but-
which on account of its site might be called a truly heavenly
spot. It covered the hills near the church and above the
village, and one had a clear view in all directions and could
see the white ribbon of the sno^vy mountains glistening
on the horizon. The fact that the eye could thus penetrate
the distance unchecked gave one a keen consciousness of
the boundlessness of the world, and that, combined with
the sight of the narrow graves among which we stood,
oppressed the heart with premonitory sadness like a hang-
man. I seemed to be incarcerating here this wretched
young being, before she had looked even once more at
these pleasant green fields and radiant mountains, among
which her happy childhood had passed. I could not repress
the thought that Galeide too must feel this, and even be
ashamed of the life that adorned her as she stood so young
and strong beside the sad grave that had been prepared
for this unfortunate. I could also perceive, for she had
taken my arm, that at times a fleeting shudder ran through
her and her eyes clung anxiously to the coffin ; yet with her
peculiar nature it might be that she was not thinking of
Lucile at all but of death in general, which she did not
LUDOLF URSLEU THE YOUNGER 459
so much fear as fairly hate, and, if one may say so, make
war upon.
Now for the first time I saw some emotion in Lucile's
mother, but nothing of the sort in Gaspard, who, however,
made up for it by praying absorbedly and with endurance.
As I myself had no faith or piety in me, I did not easily
presuppose it in others, but was inclined to look on every
performance of religious exercises as not much better than
hypocrisy, particularly when by men whom I had to regard
as educated and thinking people. Hence it irritated me to
see Gaspard praying thus, although at bottom I knew well
that he was thoroughly and deliberately in earnest. When
I gave Galeide, who had been entirely sunk in her own
thoughts, a sign to look at him, she opened her eyes wide
in the most boundless amazement ; for whereas in religious
matters I was more what is commonly called sceptical,
there was something positively heathen about her, and a
natural impulse to rebel against Christian doctrines, such
as the old Saxons at the time of Charlemagne may have
felt. She looked at me to see what kind of an impression
Gaspard 's fanatical behavior made on me, and when our
glances met, a bewitching, kind smile glided over her face,
which all at once plunged into wholly innocent radiance
the countenance that a few hours before had seemed to
me frightfully Medusa-like and fateful, I never saw her
smile again like that. It reminded me of the sun shining
on the just and the unjust ; however foolish or mistaken she
might consider anything, she had less censure and ridicule
for it than pity or modest amazement.
When the day was over, it seemed as if a stone had been
lifted from Galeide 's heart; laughter issued from her
breast as one who has been buried alive, and whose coffin
has been opened in time to save him, returns from his
dark cage into the light; without cause it constantly
gurgled about us, as if it never tired of hearing itself and
rejoicing in its salvation. Wlien we were alone she laughed
at Gaspard, and had so many delightfully funny things to
460 THE GERMAN CLASSICS
say about him that I wondered how she could have seen
all that in so short a time, and without having observed him
at all. Sometimes she boldly laughed in his face, and I
think he saw very well that she was by no means much
taken with him. But that was far from disturbing his
calm and assurance ; he continued to look at her whenever
he could, so that I often thought it must annoy her.
Now that our duty was fulfilled, we might properly have
continued our journey, for we intended to go to Geneva,
where Galeide was to cancel her engagements with the
orchestra, and at the same time take leave of old friends.
Madame Leroy, however, unexpectedly pressed us so
urgently to prolong our visit, that we could not but con-
cede a few days. For my part, I was content to remain
as long as possible near the mountains, the friends of my
youth, and only feared that Galeide, who had after all not
left home gladly, might desire a speedy return. But she
agreed to stay without ado, and did not even betray especial
longing for home, so that, as often before, she seemed to
me a very soulless Undine. Whether it was the familiar
voice of divine nature that lured and held her in that
privileged country, or whether something else had already
thrown its fateful chain about her soul, I do not know. So
we remained, to our ruin.
Summary of Chapter XXXIII
[All. at once Galeide noticed Gaspard's eyes, and from
this time on he seemed to exercise a strange fascination
over her, although she protested that she found him as
detestable as before.]
Chapter XXXIV
Nothing but a slight inward uneasiness, which I could
scarcely call a suspicion, clouded these glorious days for
me. But suddenly everything changed, just as sometimes
in nature, after days of the bluest sky and without warn-
LUDOLF URSLEU THE YOUNGER 461
ing, we wake one morning to find the landscape all around
dull and gray. Galeide laughed no longer, her eyes no
longer shone with inward happiness and she no longer
danced, although there was no visible reason for a change
in her demeanor. Nor was it that she had exhausted her-
self in pleasure, and was now resting in the winter sleep of
everyday life. No, from somewhere a shadow or a frost
must have fallen on her soul ; and that was really the case,
as I was soon to learn.
One evening at a late hour I had been walking up and
down in the garden, thinking every one else in the house
had gone to rest. As I noticed a light in Galeide 's room,
however, I knocked at her door to say good night to her
before I went to bed myself. As I entered, she was walk-
ing restlessly up and down in the rather large room, as if
pursued by some evil spirit, whose suspected nearness
frightened her into motion whenever she tried to stand
still. My entrance did not stop her, and my impression
was the stranger because she wore soft shoes in which
she trod noiselessly back and forth, and which she had
perhaps put on so as not to disturb any one, or more prob-
ably because she was all ready to go to bed, for her hair
hung loose down her back. I waited for her to explain her
incomprehensible behavior, which she suddenly did en-
tirely of her own accord, standing at one end of the room
and saying with a horrified glance at me :
*' I am glad you have come, Ludolf, for I can't bear it
any longer. I must tell you everything now, or I shall
come to grief. I cannot go on any longer. ' '
After this introduction I was prepared for something
important and my heart began to beat anxiously; it was
curious that while I was exceedingly astonished by what
came then, I can declare that I had expected nothing else.
*'You know," she said, ''how I was going to fall in
love with Gaspard for fun? Well, now I love him in
earnest." But as soon as she had said it she took back
her words and said : ' ' No, I don 't love him at all. You
462 THE GERMAN CLASSICS
know yourself that I love Ezard and can never, never,
never love another. I swear to you that I love Ezard, that
I feel toward him just as I have always felt since I first
loved him. This is something different; Gaspard has
fascinated me. I don't know how, nor how such a thing
can be possible at all, but it is so, he has bewitched and
enchanted me, it can't be anything else. I can't help my-
self any more."
She had now come quite close to me and sat down
opposite me, looking urgently into my eyes; I had never
before seen her so pathetically helpless. I had no other
feeling but that a terrible bolt had fallen from the hand
of fate; for, although I could not explain the fact that
Galeide loved Punch, yet I saw clearly the havoc it had
already accomplished. Nevertheless I tried to pull myself
together and betrayed no fright, but began to talk to her
with good-humored ridicule, because she seemed to need
that most of all. She chimed in at once, smiling humbly
and hopefully, like a sick person who swallows a bitter
medicine which he expects to cure him, and then went on
talking more quietly and confidentially, as if a stone had
been taken from her heart and a seal from her lips.
''Yes, I know all that. What is he beside Ezard? I
should never have noticed him if his eyes had not fasci-
nated me with their persistent mysterious gaze. And you
must say they are beautiful, such burning stars of eyes!
He is self-willed and capricious and domineering, just like
a woman ; you see, I know all that, I am not blinded. But
as he is, he is unique and incomparable. And the main
thing is, that there is something in him that bewitches me.
I have to watch him continually when he is present, and
to think of him when he is not ; that was his design, and
I should like to spoil it for him, but I cannot. ' '
Thus she went on talking, her face deathly pale, her eyes
wide open and dreaming, like a somnambulist, and I could
not disguise to myself the fact that she was caught hand
and foot in the madness of love, even though she would
LUDOLF URSLEU THE YOUNGER 463
not admit it to herself. At the same time I thought it
could not be anything but an aberration of her imagina-
tion, which must pass, and so I told her. She seemed to
be highly delighted at that; she corroborated my opinion
and even said that she herself knew it must be so and was
obliged to laugh aloud sometimes when she thought w^ith
what amused feelings she would later look back on this
misfortune. At that moment we heard several lingering
tones of a flute, a fragment of a folksong with a very strik-
ing melody that had something excessively sad and yearn-
ing about it. It could only be Gaspard, for he played the
flute, with no particular skill, it is true, but with great
feeling and grace, and he felt free to do so at any hour;
he must now be sitting with his instrument at an open
window, we could hear it so plainly. Scarcely had we
heard these sounds when the confident expression vanished
from Galeide 's face ; she listened with her whole soul and
shrank within herself as if in fear.
" Do you hear! " she said. " Now he knows that I am
still awake and is playing for me. All day long he wouldn 't
for the world say a kind word to me, and at night he takes
his flute and sings at my heart so that I can't defend
myself at all. He has never told me so, but I know that
every tone is for me, and know what it means. Why does
he do that? Why does he not speak, like any other man?
Then I should laugh at him, but with his flute he fasci-
nates me."
I could hardly master my wrath any longer and said:
** Every tone means something to me too, namely, that he
is an unpolished, extremely disagreeable fellow, who would
show you much more attention by putting his head on his
pillow at midnight and going to sleep, instead of bothering
you with his wretched playing."
As in the meantime the flute had done its song, Galeide
was amused at my remark, agreed entirely, and said that
the flute really was to blame for everything. She felt much
better now, she would go to sleep, and T must do the same
464 THE GERMAN CLASSICS
and not be cross with her for having troubled me with this
foolish affair.
[Soon Galeide realized that her love for Ezard was gone,
and was beside herself. Ludolf was powerless to aid her,
and Galeide resolved to take refuge with Ezard, feeling
that he could help her.]
Chapter XXXV
Now when we told our hosts of our intention to leave,
without giving any sufficient reason, it must inevitably
seem to Gaspard that it was due to some caprice of
Galeide 's, and that she thus wanted to show him that she
did not love him, or wished to have nothing to do with him
otherwise. Her brilliant and distinctive personality, her
reputation as a musician, and his love may well have made
him think of her as on a tremendously high and inaccessible
plane, so that he would not find it unnatural for her to
show a certain haughtiness in her treatment of a young
Swiss agriculturist. This he had to be sure determined to
overcome, which bore witness to his liking for the rare and
unusual and to his invincible will, and this had perhaps
pleased Galeide more than anything else about him. But
now, with all his presumption, he could not disguise from
himself the fact that he had suffered a serious defeat, and
his manner on the last evening showed this in perhaps a
very charming but quite unmanly and undignified way. He
sat at the table, very pale and gloomy, ate nothing, merely
gulping down a few morsels, did not speak unless directly
addressed (from which Galeide could not refrain), in short
he sulked like a coquette that is slowly torturing her un-
happy lover to death by a method of her o^vn devising.
It was perhaps rendered pardonable by the fact that he
himself suffered so visibly that his lips twitched with
inward weeping when he spoke to Galeide, and his eyes
resembled two beautiful, mournful stars, which are alone
in immeasurable space and full of yearning. I saw clearly
LUDOLF UESLEU THE YOUNGER 465
tow his appearance tortured and delighted Galeide, and
therefore hurried our separation, glad that we were not to
see Gaspard again the following morning ; for in his irrita-
tion he had announced that he would be busy at the time
of our departure. Then we began to speak of seeing one
another again, — of which to be sure I did not think seri-
ously for a moment, — of the Leroys returning our visit,
and in this connection we described exactly where we lived.
Here Gaspard suddenly turned to Galeide and said with
special emphasis:
* ' It is not necessary to tell me that ; I shall find you
wherever you are."
I tried to obliterate the impression these words made by
giving them a humorous turn, but was myself not a little
startled, particularly when I noticed how Galeide stared
at the monster half malevolently, half anxiously, as if the
conclusion of the whole matter depended on him, and she
must wait like a tethered sheep at pasture to see whether
the lightning struck her or not.
Between night and dawn I was awakened by Gaspard 's
flute, and at once recognized that melancholy melody that
I had once heard him play. That was his farewell which
he would not have been able to express unlike any one else
with his lips and at a time when it would have been oppor-
tune. It sounded sweet, I will not deny, as if the night
herself were singing, before she turns from the beautiful
sun-youth whose warm heart she would much rather be
going to meet. The music broke off abruptly, and imme-
diately after I heard Gaspard leave the house; he was
probably going out to the fields, as he had said. I could not
go to sleep again, tossed about in unpleasant thought, and
began the journey in a gloomy mood, as I was in despair
in any case at the prospect of leaving behind me the moun-
tains, the lake, and everything I loved. I could see that
Galeide had been crying, for which the aw^ul lamentation
of the flute was of course responsible, about which, by the
way, we did not exchange a word. As she sat opposite
Vol. XVTTT— no
466 THE GERMAN CLASSICS
me in the train, so quiet and sad, I could not refrain from
asking whether she were perhaps thinking of Punch,
whereas she had far better begin at once to forget him.
She smiled at me and said : *' It is so hard, it is so h^rd,"
convulsively clasping her hands several times, as if she
were trying with body and soul to begin the good work.
From time to time she apologized for not being more enter-
taining, and declared that she wanted to make up for every-
thing just as soon as she was quite herself; after she had
once seen Ezard again.
" Do you know," she said, with a roving, groping glance
into space, " I can't remember how he looks. But I think
that as soon as I see him, something like a bolt or a tem-
pest will come and completely wipe out the miserable chaos
of my imagination, so that everything can be again as it
was before."
The nearer we came to our goal, the more excited did she
become ; it seemed as if she were afraid of the moment that
should bring her either release or eternal damnation.
When we expect something very great and definite of an
event, it usually slips by without making any impression,
which may be partly because the mind, overwrought by its
anxious hope, relaxes its tension and collapses when what
it has hoped for really comes and touches it. This seemed
to be Galeide's case, when we came into the station, got
out, and saw Ezard awaiting us. He, of course, felt nothing
but high confidence and the certainty of happiness, and
seemed glad and radiant, but simple and not in the least
prepared for the fateful and mighty part that my sister
expected of him. I read in her face that she did not feel
anything, and that this lack of sensation frightened her.
Ezard, however, was so entirely without suspicion that at
first he saw absolutely no lack of love in her strikingly
peculiar manner, while she longed for nothing so much as
to pour out her heart to him. Although she had written
him about the affair, yet at first he could not reconcile him-
self to the fact that she was in earnest, which had not
LUDOLF UESLEU THE YOUNGER 467.
entered his mind at all. So he must now have felt all the
more as if he had been struck on the forehead with a ham-
mer, and we walked on together in silence after the dis-
astrous word had fallen.
In order to gratify a dear wish of Galeide's and my
great-grandfather's, Ezard had bought back our old house,
in which he intended to live ^ith her. My great-grand-
father was already established in his old apartments, and
even the rooms we had occupied were again arranged as
far as possible as they had formerly been. I had often
pictured to myself how our return would be, how I would
kneel to greet the beloved threshold w^ith kisses and tears.
Now we entered the familiar gate silently and with bowed
heads, more miserable at heart than when we had left it.
We went into the room where the grand piano stood in the
centre as it had long ago, and nothing seemed to have
changed, so that we felt our o^\ti faithless weakness the
more keenlv. We sat down in silence.
For awhile Ezard stared straight in front of Jaim, fhen
he exclaimed several times: '' It isn't possible! No, it
isn't possible! " and looked at Galeide as if he expected
her to confirm these words. But as she only looked at
him with eyes full of the most agonized fear, a vivid picture
of the past and possibly future misfortune suddenly seefmed
to stand before his soul, for he jumped up and with an
exclamation of boundless passionthrewhimself at Galeide's
feet. I have forgotten, or perhaps I never heard, what he
said, for my heart quaked in my breast, and I should have
had to hate Galeide if I had not felt too sorry for her.
For she sat there like a wretched spirit on its o\\ti grave,
condemned to wander and finding no peace in all the ex-
panse of heaven or earth.
At intervals she would say a few words in a pleading
voice : ' ' Only have some patience ! It w^ll certainly be
better again. I am only ill. Don't be cross with me. Just
have a little patience."
468 THE GERMAN CLASSICS
Now he seized on such words and tried to comfort him-
self with them, now overcome with convulsive shame, he
turned from her and was disgusted at wanting to wail and
beg for what he had formerly reveled in like an oriental
prince in his treasures. Every moment seemed to make
him perceive the depth of his wretchedness more keenly;
whereas at first he had thought only of the escaping love,
other things occurred to him, the more he reflected, which
were connected with the most fearful secrets of his life.
" You cannot forsake me," he said tenderly to Galeide
in a calmer voice, ' ' no, you cannot. Another could forget
and recover ; I have nothing but you. Everything else that
I possessed I threw away for your sake, even the clear con-
science in my breast. I cannot sleep if you are not with
me, or if I cannot think of you as with me. You know
what I suffer M^hen the ghosts crowd into my room and
about my bed until I exorcise them with your name. If I
cannot do that any longer I am lost. Then I can do nothing
but die in order to escape them, and that is something you
could not do — go on living if I had died in wretchedness
without you. After all, once I was everything to you, as
you are still everything to me."
At these words Galeide looked at him tenderly, indeed
like one enraptured, put her arms about his neck, and said :
" No, we cannot part, I know that well. You see, I never
cease to know it, but just wait a little while until I no
longer need to know^ it, but feel it."
With this they separated that evening. Ezard was some-
what calmed by Galeide 's last words and she too seemed
to be more content ; or perhaps it was only the consequence
of her extreme fatigue that made her indifferent.
[The great-grandfather encouraged Galeide 's infatua-
tion, for he now opposed marriage with Ezard. Ludolf
disapproved of this attitude and admired Ezard all the
more for his manly bearing.]
LUDOLF UESLEU THE YOUNGER 469
Chapter XXXVI
Geadually a very satisfactory, trustful relationship did
grow up again between Ezard and Galeide, differing from
the former one only in that tempestuous passion was lack-
ing; for Ezard suppressed his, more from tenderness than
from pride, and Galeide no longer felt it, or, as it some-
times seemed to me, dared not feel it when it came over her.
But their unalterable, convinced affection and the bound-
less esteem with which they looked up to each other,
although not as ecstatic as before, were yet fully as com-
forting, and, above all, inspired confidence that these were
permanent and indestructible, after all. Of her own accord
Galeide suggested that the marriage should take place
sooner than had originally been intended. Under the exist-
ing circumstances they dispensed with a religious cere-
mony, and our great-grandfather was to hear nothing of
their plans until everything was ready and settled.
This prospect seemed to make Ezard younger and
stronger. It by no means escaped him that in making this
proposal Galeide had been moved less by her o^vn longing
than by the desire to anticipate his wish, and that she
hoped especially that their old relation might be most
rapidly and completely reestablished when once they were
man and wife. Ezard too was confident of this; he was
firmly convinced that when once he had Galeide entirely to
himself his love would be able to destroy and obliterate
everything alien and morbid. He no longer repressed his
feelings and his smothered passion flamed up joyously and
so filled him with light that in radiant beauty he again
resembled what he had formerly been, when, wanton but
enraptured, he snatched the blossoms of his happiness from
the abyss. This influenced Galeide too; for although she
had understood and admired the considerate magnanimity
with which he had renounced and restrained his feeling,
yet she had perhaps needed a wilder, less considerate way
that w^ould have carried her away like a hurricane without
470 THE GERMAN CLASSICS
asking whether it was agreeable to her. With hope he
regained the desire and the strength to do this. He even
began to speak frequently of Gaspard: he should be glad
to see him again and had never been angry with him, for
it was only natural that every one who knew Galeide should
love her; as a boy Gaspard had pleased him very much,
and it was possible that Gaspard even deserved Galeide
more than he himself, if it were not that the superior power
of his love gave him the greatest claim to her. He had
really considered whether he should renounce Galeide, so
that she might follow her imagination, caprice, love, or
whatever it was ; for she might have been happy after all,
there was so much strength, originality, and soundness in
her nature. (The soundness has gone to the devil, I
thought.) But, much as he had wrestled with himself, he
had not been able to bring himself to do it; he was still
too young, after all, to be able to live and to see her if she
were not his, and the thought that some one else was to
her what he had once been would make not only living
but also dying impossible to him; unless he could take her
down with him into the earth, and that was probably what
he would do in such a case.
Galeide gazed at him with her very happiest and most
innocent expression and said : '' Yes, yes, that is what you
would have to do ! If I should love some one else, then
you would have to kill me, so that I should not become
detestable to myself and that nothing might harm our love.
But it would be too dreadful if I should have to love some
one else."
She shuddered as she spoke these words, at which, how-
ever, Ezard, in his wonderful feeling of security, took no
offense, but drew her to him and said merrily : ' ' Yes,
then I will kill you and you shall kill me. But I shall not
let it come to that. I will show you whom you must love —
me, me, me, to the end of your days ! ' '
" Yes, you, you, you to the end of my days," repeated
Galeide radiantly, and now they again stood together like
LUDOLF URSLEU THE YOUNGER 471
two whom not chance but the selecting hand of all-wise
Nature has placed inseparable side by side.
About this time Galeide played in a charity concert, for
which she had prepared very thoroughly, as she was now
more active again ; the undivided success which she achieved
Was well deserved. The concert was given in the church,
a circumstance which forbade all theatrical features,
finery, and loud applause. Childishly as my sister enjoyed
any demonstration of appreciation, yet she could entirely
dispense with it at those moments when her soul was fully
absorbed in her art. She had no idea how raptly the audi-
ence listened to her playing; moreover, all eyes were fixed
with pleasure on the softly ingratiating lines of her charm-
ing figure. Ezard, Grandfather, and I were in the church ;
it struck me that people greeted us and made room for us
with marked respect, and it filled me w^ith gratification that
we had regained that esteem. Though this was due to
Ezard above all, yet Galeide too had her share in it, who
had formerly brought on herself the criticism and love of
scandal of the very people whose hearts she was now stir-
ring with her lovely art.
[Galeide received a letter from Gaspard, and realized
at once that she could not shake off his power over her.
Ludolf went to fetch Ezard.]
Ezard was far more frightened than I had expected. All
the color left his face, and I was now all at once convinced,
like Galeide, that everything was really lost. We w^alked
together the short distance to our house in silence. When
we entered the music room, which was still dark as I had
left it, Galeide picked herself up from the rug where she
must have been lying, flew to Ezard, drew him to a chair,
knelt beside him, and pressed close to him. She said
nothing, except that she rapidly repeated his name several
times, like an exorcism.
472 THE GERMAN CLASSICS
After awhile Ezard said: ** Galeide, I cannot give you
up to some one else. I cannot. Don 't ask me, I cannot. ' '
She replied, '* I don't want you to! That is why I sent
for you, so that you should not leave me. Hold me tight !
Don't let me go ! I am so afraid! "
'' Oh, Galeide," he said in a voice that seemed to be
heavy with tears, '' can you really love another? It can't
be possible! You are forgetting your Ezard! It is not
possible."
At that Galeide groaned aloud and cried, " I don't know
whether it is love, or what it is, but I cannot do anything
to hurt him. Oh, kill me, Ezard, help me and kill me! "
He took hold of her by the shoulders and looked long into
her face, then he let his arms drop and said: '' Wretch
that I am, I can 't do that either. I cannot kill you ! ' '
Galeide pressed closer to him and said in a low voice,
** But if you saw me beside him, could you then? Yes,
then you could! "
While he kept horrified silence, I went up to them, for I
shuddered at this conversation, and said: '' You always
think only of yourselves. Consider us too. Galeide, you
must control your madness." "Yes," she said humbly,
' ' that is what I ought to do, but feel that I cannot. I know
myself too well ; it might come to pass that I should marry
him. Do you want to live to see such a shameful ending?
Look, Ezard, and even if I loved some one else ever so
much, you would still be to me the noblest of all, and you
shall not have to suffer anything low through me. If I
should die, you could bear that, and you, Ludolf. I am
less concerned for you than for Grandfather. He ought
not to have lived to see this. ' '
We sat together dumbly for a time in the dark. Midnight
had passed when I went, leaving the two still in the room.
Much later I heard Galeide go to her room. I felt relieved
when I saw her again next morning, for all night fear had
lain on my breast that I should never again see her alive.
LUDOLF URSLEU THE YOUNGER 473
Chapter XXXVII
In regard to G-aspard, I thought the wisest thing was to
do nothing; his letter was not answered, from which he
might have concluded that he was not exactly welcome;
if we had asked him not to come, that would perhaps have
caused him — contrary and headstrong as he was — to
hasten his visit all the more. A change took place in
Ezard's behavior: after that evening he did not come to
our house any more; he could not bear to see Galeide in
her present state. Galeide, who w^as in constant anxiety
about him, urged me to visit him as much as possible, so
that he should not be alone, which I did willingly, the more
so as he seemed to be glad of my society. Frequently I
stayed the night with him, for the nights were the most
unendurable time, when he could not sleep or had a dream,
night after night the same, which I will now relate. He
dreamt that two spirits, my father's and his, came in white
robes through the closed door into his room, and that
although frozen with horror he sat up and asked : ' ' Whom
are you seeking? " Whereupon they both answered at
once, softly but distinctly and audibly: " The third! "
When Ezard told me this, an icy terror took hold of me,
and I said with an effort, "And then Lucile comes? "
But Ezard shook his head and looked at me with burning,
black eyes. ' ' No, ' ' he said, ' ' Lucile does not come. She
was not the right one. ' ' It was clear to me what thoughts
had given rise to this dream ; but at that moment I felt as
if Fate herself had stepped between us, invisible as a spirit,
and w^as looking down on us with a gaze from which we
could not escape.
Several days passed, during which I was in hourly ex-
pectation that Gaspard w^ould appear accompanied by some
unnerving omens. But reality can dispense with the light-
ning-flash and the crash of thunder without which our
imagination cannot picture any significant event, for it is
always certain of its impression, just because it is real.
474 THE GEEMAN CLASSICS
Gaspard came on a day when for the first time I had entirely
forgotten him, on a day when Galeide was again to play
in a concert. The first concert had been so much enjoyed
that a repetition of it was desired, which took the more
that a charitable purpose could again be combined with it.
Galeide had consented. When the appointed afternoon
arrived, a carriage was sent for her early: just as I was
about to set out for the church on foot, Gaspard came.
Surprise almost overcame my annoyance ; I welcomed him
none too pleasantly nevertheless, but could not do other-
wise than tell him w^hither I was bound and ask him whether
he cared to accompany me. So we walked together and
while Gaspard irritated me both with his French and his
superior wisdom, I was anxiously trying to think what
course I must adopt to make him as harmless as possible
to Galeide.
In the church I at once saw Ezard, who wanted to hear
Galeide, although he could no longer bear to look at her.
I should gladly have avoided him, but as he had recognized
me, he made his way to me through the crowd, and did not
catch sight of Gaspard until he stood directly in front of us.
They greeted each other, while each doubtless had feelings
of hatred to master, Ezard on Galeide 's and Gaspard on
his sister's account. But I thought I noticed that they
were pleased with each other in spite of that, and when I
tried to see Gaspard with Ezard 's eyes he appeared less
obnoxious to me too. His behavior was as peculiar as
ever; at every moment he presented a finished picture
of his own personality. We could see Galeide from where
we sat by turning round in an uncomfortable position.
Gaspard found this attitude at once, assumed it, and
regarded my sister uninterruptedly — through two pairs
of glasses. He did not utter a word about the music, and
paid not the slightest attention to Ezard and me, but, judg-
ing by the emotional play of his features, was occupied
with fantastic dreams and plans ; it struck me how enter-
taining and even charming it was to watch his face, and
LUDOLF UJRSLEU THE YOUNGER 475
suddenly I could understand how one might be steadily
moved by the desire and the impulse to take possession of
this capricious soul, so as to be able constantly to enjoy its
odd ways. When he smiled, such an unexpected charm
appeared in his dark face that one was easily led to do this
or that so that this sunrise-spectacle might be repeated,
especially any one who had such an insatiable, childishly
avaricious heart as Galeide, who would have liked best to
carry away in her pocket any mountain or lake that pleased
her. I felt as if I positively must hide Gaspard, cover
him up, in short make him invisible in some way, so that
Galeide should not see him.
When the concert was over I hoped to take him out a
side door unnoticed in the crowd, without knowing, to be
sure, what I should do with him afterward. But Galeide
happened down into the nave, perhaps to look for Ezard,
and suddenly she came toward us. She did not sink down
as if struck by lightning, neither did she sway nor change
color, for she was always best able to control herself when
she was unexpectedly very violently agitated. She nodded
to us and shook hands with Gaspard; they smiled at each
other like two people who have an innocent secret and are
giving each other some sign in regard to it. Then, however,
Galeide turned quickly to Ezard, asked him to take her
to her carriage, and left us with a bow. Thus Gaspard
was left to me, and he seemed to take it as a matter of
course that I should offer him our hospitality, which, in-
deed, I could not well have avoided without giving him a
formal explanation. It did seem to have struck him that
Galeide had turned from us so abruptly and asked Ezard 's
escort; his face had changed in an instant, like a valley
after the sun has sunk behind the mountains. Distress
was so abundantly stamped upon it that he looked not only
sad but ill, and again I could imagine how any one who had
the power to do so must be tempted to coax the golden
laughter out again from behind the clouds. As soon as
we got home I went at once to Galeide, who was alone in
476 THE GERMAN CLASSICS
her room, and asked her what was to be done now, and
whether I should frankly tell Gaspard everything, so that
he should leave us. But she vehemently made me promise
not to do anything like that.
*' If you should tell him everything," she said, '^ he would
hate me, and I cannot bear that. Tell him after I am
dead. ' ' But directly afterward she changed her mind and
said : ' ' I should gladly tell him everything and ask him
whether he hated me or whether he still loved me in spite
of it. Yes, that is what I should like to do, tell him how
much I love him and then die. But how could I treat
Ezard so? Don't leave me alone with him for a moment,
do you hear, so that my heart cannot forget itself."
I asked whether it would not be better for her not to
see him at all ; for that evening at any rate she could easily
pretend a slight indisposition, so that she would not have
to come to supper. She said yes, she would do that; but
I could see how hard it was for her to hurt her darling so,
and I doubted whether she would stand it.
While Gaspard, in spite of his increasing sadness, talked
very charmingly to my great-grandfather, so that the latter
was captivated with him, I was listening full of disquietude
to every sound; for I had a suspicion that Galeide would
appear after all, and did not know how I should manage
to get Gaspard out of the way first. He made no move to
withdraw, but listened as I did, to hear whether a light step
would not announce Galeide. And as I had thought,
Geleide finally yielded to the urgings of her wayward heart.
Suddenly she stood bright and glowing in the doorway,
looking at us as if to say : ' ' Here I am after all ; I couldn't
help it." When she came nearer, w^e saw that she had a
black and white spotted kitten on her arm; she said it
must have crept into the house, she had found it in her
room and meant to keep it now. She held the soft creature
pressed to her breast, so that it could nestle its little head
against her throat ; she sat down in a chair at some distance
from us and began to play with the animal, admiring and
;ik
riJ':..
».J >
.T'Lltt,
;P^ #■
i\> WOl'A
'tJs t' ad
' :■ ' .at
it^ t^iiO".- >iit biie veiiemonUj uia<i.e ! omise
T' ■ ag UKo that.
' ' -' him evf-rj^liirtg,'' she saia, "'he vould
' . ' : that/ Tell him afl^ ^ am
ard she changed her p "■
;i Tp... "- -vthing and a^).
>iiat I should like to ^.v-, cil ]>'
ind then die. But how. cor-:
1 ''oqx-P WA i^lnne with him foi- ..i ... !'^,
d -annot forget itself."
ot be better for her not to
nt .iny rate she could easily
nt ph^ Id not have
a^l ;?:P??,^?^^^TipN OF prome7;heus ,^^^ ^^^^
;id stand it.
incrfasine' r
vas listening full of disquietude
that Galelde would
ow how I should manage
Te made no nu
; hoar whether a light ^U'l^
wui.; unounce (k-. Ar. ' " " thought,
' ' • -' glngs 0.1 her way vvard heart.
KtMiA.!'. J, lit. .-xnd glowing in the doorw'ay,
l)okii^g "' ■IaTnafteraU;Icor''-'^
' ' " aearer, we saw that she iiau a
' ■ on her arm; she said it
-,%,, -!...? r'.yi^tj 11 ill her
:. .•.,..,'■:. vj. ..; .Mi-; u=;iviv.(ie soft creature
From .«n EtvUvo hy Mm\.Klinger. ..^uld nestle its little head
11 a chair at some distance
•;' . . 'hp '-tTiinifi'r ndmir'n.'rr r?Tld
I
LUDOLF URSLEU THE YOUNGER 477
praising its big, round eyes, its delicate paws, and every-
thing about it.
Gaspard had not moved nor said a word when Galeide
came into the room, but he watched her incessantly in his
own peculiar manner with steady ardor, which, by the way,
I well understood, for Galeide, conscious perhaps that she
had succumbed in the struggle with her love, looked more
humble, lovely, and childishly helpless than I had ever
seen her, but at the same time full of human warmth and
strength, just because it was the passion in her that had
conquered her. She did not once look over at Gaspard,
yet she felt the power of his glance so strongly that her
hands suddenly ceased their play and the cat was able to
escape. Gaspard picked her up and handled her rather
clumsily with his childlike fists, which was droll and not
unattractive, especially as his dark head contrasted so
splendidly with the cat's white fur. Galeide had had to
look at him now, and a heartily amused laugh immediately
transfigured her whole face. And now she could not much
longer refrain from addressing him and said : ' ' You
mustn't torment my cat, Monsieur Leroy! " He answered
Galeide in an extremely graceful and touching way: '' I
am not tormenting it ; I want to ask it what it does to make
you so fond of it."
He said these words in German, and as his voice always
took on a hesitating, particularly soft tone when he spoke
this unaccustomed language, which he secretly loved on
Galeide 's account, their own charming effect was height-
ened. I could not help feeling kindly toward him at that
moment, and Galeide — she was so bewitched by the plead-
ing music of his little lament, that I should not have been
surprised to see her suddenly at his feet. At any rate her
soul knelt there, and one could almost see it flying bodily
over to him from her eyes and her half open, trembling
lips. Without the slightest connection with the previous
conversation she suddenly said :
* ' What shall I do for you 1 Shall I tell you a fairy story?
Shall I accompany your flute? Shall I play the violin? '*
478 THE GERMAN CLASSICS
Oaspard nodded ; the kitten slipped away again and made
off through the open window.
'' Then I will play, if you like," said Galeide rising.
We went up to the music room on the floor above, only
our great-grandfather stayed downstairs to listen from
there. Gaspard had scarcely become conscious again of
his power over Galeide, when he made use of it like a
capricious girl to torment her and at the same time punish
her, as it were, for having resisted it so long. Secretly he
was trembling at once with happiness and with fear that
the crown of life might yet escape him; but distinctly as
one could see the most yearning love vibrating in his black
eyes, yet full of defiance and vanity he assumed an entirely
different appearance, and grumbled to Galeide that he hated
this or that piece, and that he had heard enough violin
music that day any way and was tired of it.
' ' But what shall I do then ? ' ' asked Galeide patiently.
' ' Sing something, ' ' said the wretch, as if it were a matter
of course that she would eat spiders if he should so com-
mand; and when she modestly objected that she was not
a singer, he said in the same softly domineering voice:
* ' Please sing. ' '
While I was deliberating whether I might not take him
by the collar and throttle him on the spot, Galeide hunted
among her music until she had found something to sing,
and sat down at the piano to accompany herself. But her
voice broke at the first notes, probably because she was
inwardly much too excited, and she stopped and said:
* * I cannot. ' '
" Then why do you say that you will do anything I
want? " insisted the monster.
'< Try me," answered Galeide. '' Tell me what you
want ! Shall I jump out of the window? " She had turned
the piano stool so that she sat directly opposite him and
was looking full into his face. He sat there motionless
like a sluggard on whom a horn of plenty is showering the
sweetest things, and who keeps perfectly still so- as not to
LUDOLF UESLEU THE YOUNGER 479
dispel the beautiful miracle. *' Shall II " asked Galeide
once more, softly.
He nodded and said his half sung : ' ' Oui, Mademoiselle. ' '
She rose immediately and went toward the nearest win-
dow ; all were open, as it was a very warm night. Gaspard
watched her with a quiet smile, and may have thought:
** How will she get out of her noose now? I'll let her
dangle a little first." I, on the contrary, felt my senses
leaving me, I saw everything and still did not see it, knew
what was coming and still did not grasp it.
In a moment she had swung herself up onto the window-
sill and stood there tall and free in the high frame. Then
she laughed softly and lightly, a kind, ringing little laugh
such as she often gave when she had some roguery in mind.
Yes, she was laughing at him, at Punch; but what was it
costing her? All her splendid young life, never to be
recalled! For the pleasant, silvery peal of her voice had
not died away when she lay dead among the lily blossoms
in the bed before our house.
I have never been able to realize that she is actually
wholly gone from the earth, that she is not to be found
somewhere deep in the mountain or in a desert on the
heights. Even now when I take a solitary walk along the
slope of the mountain at the edge of the woods it often
seems to me that she must suddenly step out from among
the trees with her radiant face and hold out her soft, strong
hands to me. Or at least her voice must answer from
somewhere if I called her by name : Galeide ! Good little
Galeide !
Chapter XXXVIII (Condensed)
EzARD had been wandering about in our garden that
evening; love and jealousy had probably driven him thither,
where he was near her without disturbing or in any way
influencing her decisions. And now she was his again;
cold and pale and soulless, she had yet faithfully come
back to him. He now sat beside her for hours, his head
480 THE GERMAN CLASSICS
nestling against her breast, and no one thought of trying
to take him away. At times he raised himself, looked at
her long, and sadly shook his head as if he still could not
grasp it. And there was surely reason for one who had
seen and lived through everything with her from the begin-
ning to lapse into forgetfulness of all other things and only
keep one question on his lips: is it possible? is it possible?
My great-grandfather, who on that evening had waited
for the tones of the violin, which he was never again to
hear in his life, had been surprised by the event wholly
without preparation or defense. Although he was already
about ninety-five, yet his nature had retained its peculiar
tenacity so completely that his bearing on this unnerving
occasion was point for point exactly as one would have had
to determine it from his conduct in earlier days. His blind
love triumphed altogether over all his principles and his firm
convictions. He would not have endured the most sparing
censure of Galeide; he soon fitted her out as a saint, to
which title she certainly would have made no claim and
scarcely might have rightly or justly done so. But still
he had pitched too suddenly from the height of his extrava-
gant hopes. All at once his forces gave way like the man
in the fairy tale, who without knowing it had wandered
about for a hundred years in the world and then on seeing
the graves of his loved ones suddenly crumbled into a little
heap of ashes. A few months after Galeide 's death he died,
conscious and composed, compelling to the last the admira-
tion we so gladly pay to a fully developed, individual
character.
After my great-grandfather's death Ezard and Harreken
moved into our house. Eva had left our town with her
child, so as to be near her family, not so much because she
longed to go away from us to them, as because she thought
she ought to remove herself from the Ursleu sphere of
influence. Anna Elisabeth in particular had advised her
to do this. ' ' Once and for all, ' ' she had said, ' ' the Ole-
thurms and the Ursleus are a bad combination. ' ' And did
LUDOLF UESLEU THE YOUNGER 481
Eva want to see her child and Harreken make a couple?
Eva went; I believe partly because she did not wish to
remain near Ezard, now that both he and she were free.
We continued to correspond, but I never saw her again,
neither her nor her child, fair Heileke.
Our position in our native city was all that we could have
desired. People treated us with respect, and did not take
it amiss that we kept as remote as possible from intercourse
with other people. Following his father's example, Ezard
had presented the city with that part of his fortune that
was in the water-works, so that only their indebtedness
to the Norwegian remained to be paid. The rest of Ezard 's
fortune was not large at the time of Galeide's and grand-
father's death; but his untiring activity as an attorney,
which he did not give up, although an honorable municipal
post was offered him, made it possible for him to save con-
siderable sums every year. That was the only thing in life
for which he still showed interest. He often said that it
was his fixed endeavor to leave his son an ample fortune.
Not that he wished thus to provide him with the oppor-
tunity to be idle, on the contrary, he hoped by force of
example to keep the boy's energy and love of work active.
It was his opinion, however, that lasting and genuine hap-
piness can only be developed on the basis of assured prop-
erty. It would be best if this property consisted of land,
from which the owner himself would have to wrest profit
with exertion and labor. He always regretted that he could
not live as a farmer among his fields. He knew well, how-
ever, that much money often proved a misfortune to men
and dragged them down, but he could not provide for his
son against the incalculable: he would give him what he
could: the training of the fine and useful qualities that
nature had bestowed upon him, and the means of making
good use of them in life.
In conformity with this Harre grew up. He had a
gentle disposition and was inclined to dream; but it was
well for him that he had a drop of alien blood in Lim, as
Vol. XVTII— 31
482 THE GERMAN CLASSICS
I have often said, for it was due to this that he had more
sense of order, moderation, and self-limitation in his
demands on life than the nature of his ancestors on the
paternal side had given him. We took particular care to
develop these qualities, and the older he grew the more
did the two sides of his nature fuse in beneficial harmony,
so that he inspired confidence that he would never let him-
self be diverted from any path he had once entered, and
would never choose any but one which, though not often
traversed, would certainly lead to an honorable goal.
Ezard w^as fifty years old when he died of the evil com-
plications of a cold, which his love of wandering about in
all kinds of wind and weather had brought upon him.
As he lay dead before me he seemed to have grown
younger ; his beauty was more exalted than in life, when the
warm human soul had animated it. What was it in him
that had attracted all people and bound them to him?
Beside his good and splendid deeds there were others which
one would have to censure wholly, indeed, to call criminal.
But that does not determine what we feel for a man. Some
mystery remains in the fact that one man is loved so much
and another, who seems to resemble him in all qualities,
so little. A man is a favorite with men if he is nature's
favorite, created by her under a fortunate constellation.
Nature had offered Ezard, like all her favorites, happiness
and unhappiness, distributing them equally, and early took
him from the earth; for she desires that what has once
existed in perfection shall never decay but, like the heroes
of the antique world, be set among the stars while still
young, where they can enjoy their immortality in beauty
and strength ; thus she lets her noblest creation die, so that
earthly transitoriness may not affect it. Ezard lay on the
bier like a triumphant conqueror, whom the immortals
call to their side because his work on earth is done. To
think of him does not soften but strengthens and invigo-
rates me. That is the man I should like to have been!
Even to have known him is good ; to have loved him I con-
sider my most precious remembrance.
LUDOLF UESLEU THE YOUNGER 483
Chapter XXXIX (Condensed)
Before I close the book of my life I Avisli to speak once
more of the unfortunate destroyer Gaspard. From the
evening when Galeide died, my anger against him had
cooled. For what he had to suffer until he had learned
all the causes of this calamity would have been enough to
disarm the bitterest enemy of his hate. His reticence and
habit of li\ang entirely to himself like an oyster in its shell,
which no one can open except by force, threw him altogether
on his own resources and no one could help or comfort him.
Sometimes the lonely soul in his black eyes seemed to vrail
for loving sympathy; but no one knew how to reach him
and he could not teach us.
For a long time we heard nothing of him. Then, several
years afterward, I learned that he had entered a monastery
at home. I thought that a venerable old cloister with echo-
ing arches and mysterious passages was the proper lair
for such a misanthropic marmot, for there it could live and
whistle and hibernate as long as it liked, amid the most
indescribable criss-cross dreams, and yielding to my old
affection for the Swiss mountains, I set out to visit him.
I had expected to speak to him of Galeide, but her name
refused to cross my lips w^hen he sat facing me in his cowl,
looking like a monk of the Middle Ages with his gloomy,
visionary eyes. So we talked of other things relating to
religion and monastic life, and he expressed himself by
no means fanatically, but simply and sensibly. What I
had not dared to do, that is to speak of Galeide, he finally
did without embarrassment, asking me into whose posses-
sion her violin had come and whether he could not obtain it.
I said that it was hanging on the wall in my room and
was dear to me, but that I would give it to him; for I
believed that if I could ask Galeide she would assent.
I sent him the violin as soon as I reached home again, and
added a handful of roses from Galeide 's grave. He never
answered me; but I have always imagined that the violin
484 THE GERMAN CLASSICS
hangs beside the window at which we sat when I visited
him, and where the breeze that blows in from the garden
can play with it; that sometimes, when he knows that no
one can hear him, he takes it timidly and firmly in his arms
and draws the oddest sounds from the strings with his
clumsy, brown fingers, and that finally, some still night,
he will seize and break it (at which he will be more success-
ful), so that no one else can sing with it when he is dead.
Many have taken me for a pious or else a foolish man
for having accepted the Catholic faith and entered a monas-
tery. In reality, however, neither that confession nor
religion in general had a jot to do with it. The system
and the peace within these walls, where the glimmer of
my beloved Alps falls, attracted me and suit me. The most
important thing is that I am buried in this isolation like
a dead man in his grave ; if once the madness to live should
seize me, whose glory smiles upon the patient sufferer even
amid the pains it causes him, I should be held by the fetter
with which I have chained myself. And thus I desire it
to be. For what is man's life? Like the raindrops that
fall from heaven to the earth we traverse our span of time,
driven hither and thither by the wind of fate. Wind and
fate have their unalterable laws, according to which they
move; but what does the raindrop that they sweep before
them know of these laws? It rushes through the air with
the others until it can filter through the sand. But heaven
gathers them all to her again and pours them out once
more ; and gathers and pours them again and again, always
the same and yet different.
But I, Ludolf Ursleu, have enough of life. If I might
last, I should like to look down on the hosts of men with a
friendly eye, like a star, seeing and knowing, unattainably
distant. I do not long for human eternities. And yet —
if as a little boy I could run once more through our bloom-
ing garden hand in hand with Galeide to meet our laughing
mother — would I not live through a hundred years of sor-
row for the sake of that one moment? Oh hush, my soul;
it is over.
MIDNIGHT *
By RicARDA Hugh.
To this grave of mine
Come not in the morning,
Come on ways of darkness,
Dearest, by the dim moonshine.
For when through the skies
Bells are tolling midnight,
From my earthly prison
To the lovely air I rise.
In my death-dress white
On my grave I linger,
Watch the stars and measure
Time's placid tread at night.
Come and have no fear!
Can you still give kisses?
I forgot them never
While I slept the winters drear.
Kiss me hard and long.
In the east already
Sings the morning sunlight
— Lack-a-day! — its joyful song.
You were mine again!
Go and taste life's sweetness! —
I in deep, deep darkness
Sleep once more with pain.
* Translator: Margarete Munsterberg.
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