The following sections of this BookRags Literature Study Guide is offprint from Gale's For Students Series: Presenting Analysis, Context, and Criticism on Commonly Studied Works: Introduction, Author Biography, Plot Summary, Characters, Themes, Style, Historical Context, Critical Overview, Criticism and Critical Essays, Media Adaptations, Topics for Further Study, Compare & Contrast, What Do I Read Next?, For Further Study, and Sources.
(c)1998-2002; (c)2002 by Gale. Gale is an imprint of The Gale Group, Inc., a division of Thomson Learning, Inc. Gale and Design and Thomson Learning are trademarks used herein under license.
The following sections, if they exist, are offprint from Beacham's Encyclopedia of Popular Fiction: "Social Concerns", "Thematic Overview", "Techniques", "Literary Precedents", "Key Questions", "Related Titles", "Adaptations", "Related Web Sites". (c)1994-2005, by Walton Beacham.
The following sections, if they exist, are offprint from Beacham's Guide to Literature for Young Adults: "About the Author", "Overview", "Setting", "Literary Qualities", "Social Sensitivity", "Topics for Discussion", "Ideas for Reports and Papers". (c)1994-2005, by Walton Beacham.
All other sections in this Literature Study Guide are owned and copyrighted by BookRags, Inc.
Table of Contents | |
Section | Page |
Start of eBook | 1 |
INTRODUCTORY NOTE | 1 |
HERMANN AND DOROTHEA | 1 |
FATE AND SYMPATHY | 1 |
TERPSICHORE | 6 |
THALIA | 12 |
EUTERPE | 15 |
POLYHYMNIA | 21 |
CLIO | 26 |
ERATO | 34 |
MELPOMENE | 38 |
URANIA | 41 |
There are few modern poems of any country so perfect in their kind as the “Hermann and Dorothea” of Goethe. In clearness of characterization, in unity of tone, in the adjustment of background and foreground, in the conduct of the narrative, it conforms admirably to the strict canons of art; yet it preserves a freshness and spontaneity in its emotional appeal that are rare in works of so classical a perfection in form.
The basis of the poem is a historical incident. In the year 1731 the Archbishop of Salzburg drove out of his diocese a thousand Protestants, who took refuge in South Germany, and among whom was a girl who became the bride of the son of a rich burgher. The occasion of the girl’s exile was changed by Goethe to more recent times, and in the poem she is represented as a German from the west bank of the Rhine fleeing from the turmoil caused by the French Revolution. The political element is not a mere background, but is woven into the plot with consummate skill, being used, at one point, for example, in the characterization of Dorothea, who before the time of her appearance in the poem has been deprived of her first betrothed by the guillotine; and, at another, in furnishing a telling contrast between the revolutionary uproar in France and the settled peace of the German village.
The characters of the father and the minister Goethe took over from the original incident, the mother he invented, and the apothecary he made to stand for a group of friends. But all of these persons, as well as the two lovers, are recreated, and this so skillfully that while they are made notably familiar to us as individuals, they are no less significant as permanent types of human nature. The hexameter measure which he employed, and which is retained in the present translation, he handled with such charm that it has since seemed the natural verse for the domestic idyl—witness the obvious imitation of this, as of other features of the poem, in Longfellow’s “Evangeline.”
Taken as a whole, with its beauty of form, its sentiment, tender yet restrained, and the compelling pathos of its story, “Hermann and Dorothea” appeals to a wider public than perhaps any other product of its author.
CALLIOPE
“Truly, I never have seen the market and street
so deserted!
How as if it were swept looks the town, or had perished!
Not fifty
Are there, methinks, of all our inhabitants in it
remaining,
What will not curiosity do! here is every one running,
Hurrying to gaze on the sad procession of pitiful
exiles.
Fully a league it must be to the causeway they have
to pass over,
Yet all are hurrying down in the dusty heat of the
noonday.
I, in good sooth, would not stir from my place to
Thereupon answered and said the prudent, intelligent
housewife:
“Father, I am not inclined to be giving away
my old linen:
Since it serves many a purpose; and cannot be purchased
for money,
When we may want it. To-day, however, I gave,
and with pleasure,
Many a piece that was better, indeed, in shirts and
in bed-clothes;
For I was told of the aged and children who had to
go naked.
But wilt thou pardon me, father? thy wardrobe has
also been plundered.
And, in especial, the wrapper that has the East-Indian
flowers,
Made of the finest of chintz, and lined with delicate
flannel,
Gave I away: it was thin and old, and quite out
of the fashion.”
Thereupon answered and said, with a smile, the excellent
landlord:
“Faith! I am sorry to lose it, my good
old calico wrapper,
Real East-Indian stuff: I never shall get such
another.
Well, I had given up wearing it: nowadays, custom
compels us
Always to go in surtout, and never appear but in jacket;
Always to have on our boots; forbidden are night-cap
and slippers.”
“See!” interrupted the wife; “even
now some are yonder returning,
Who have beheld the procession: it must, then,
already be over.
Look at the dust on their shoes! and see how their
faces are glowing!
Every one carries his kerchief, and with it is wiping
the sweat off.
Not for a sight like that would I run so far and so
suffer,
Through such a heat; in sooth, enough shall I have
in the telling.”
Thereupon answered and said, with emphasis, thus,
the good father:
“Rarely does weather like this attend such a
harvest as this is.
We shall be bringing our grain in dry, as the hay
was before it.
Not the least cloud to be seen, so perfectly clear
is the heaven;
And, with delicious coolness, the wind blows in from
the eastward.
That is the weather to last! over-ripe are the cornfields
already;
We shall begin on the morrow to gather our copious
harvest.”
Constantly, while he thus spoke, the crowds of men
and of women
Grew, who their homeward way were over the market-place
wending;
And, with the rest, there also returned, his daughters
beside him,
Back to his modernized house on the opposite side
of the market,
Foremost merchant of all the town, their opulent neighbor,
Rapidly driving his open barouche,—it was
builded in Landau.
Lively now grew the streets, for the city was handsomely
peopled.
Many a trade was therein carried on, and large manufactures.
Under their doorway thus the affectionate couple were
sitting,
Pleasing themselves with many remarks on the wandering
people.
Finally broke in, however, the worthy housewife, exclaiming:
“Yonder our pastor, see! is hitherward coming,
and with him
Comes our neighbor the doctor, so they shall every
thing tell us;
All they have witnessed abroad, and which ’tis
a sorrow to look on.”
Cordially then the two men drew nigh, and saluted
the couple;
Sat themselves down on the benches of wood that were
placed in the doorway,
Shaking the dust from their feet, and fanning themselves
with their kerchiefs.
Then was the doctor, as soon as exchanged were the
mutual greetings,
First to begin, and said, almost in a tone of vexation:
“Such is mankind, forsooth! and one man is just
like another,
Liking to gape and to stare when ill-luck has befallen
his neighbor.
Every one hurries to look at the flames, as they soar
in destruction;
Runs to behold the poor culprit, to execution conducted:
Now all are sallying forth to gaze on the need of
these exiles,
Nor is there one who considers that he, by a similar
fortune,
May, in the future, if not indeed next, be likewise
o’ertaken.
Levity not to be pardoned, I deem; yet it lies in
man’s nature.”
Thereupon answered and said the noble, intelligent
pastor;
Ornament he of the town, still young, in the prime
of his manhood.
He was acquainted with life,—with the needs
of his hearers acquainted;
Deeply imbued he was with the Holy Scriptures’
importance,
As they reveal man’s destiny to us, and man’s
disposition;
Thoroughly versed, besides, in best of secular writings.
“I should be loath,” he replied, “to
censure an innocent instinct,
Which to mankind by good mother Nature has always
been given.
What understanding and reason may sometimes fail to
accomplish,
Oft will such fortunate impulse, that bears us resistlessly
with it.
Did curiosity draw not man with its potent attraction,
Say, would he ever have learned how harmoniously fitted
together
Worldly experiences are? For first what is novel
he covets;
Then with unwearying industry follows he after the
useful;
Finally longs for the good by which he is raised and
ennobled.
While he is young, such lightness of mind is a joyous
companion,
Traces of pain-giving evil effacing as soon as ’tis
over.
He is indeed to be praised, who, out of this gladness
of temper,
Has in his ripening years a sound understanding developed;
Who, in good fortune or ill, with zeal and activity
labors:
Such an one bringeth to pass what is good, and repaireth
the evil.”
Then broke familiarly in the housewife impatient,
exclaiming:
“Tell us of what ye have seen; for that I am
longing to hear of!”
“Hardly,” with emphasis then the village
doctor made answer,
“Can I find spirits so soon after all the scenes
I have witnessed.
Oh, the manifold miseries! who shall be able to tell
them?
E’en before crossing the meadows, and while
we were yet at a distance,
Saw we the dust; but still from hill to hill the procession
Passed away out of our sight, and we could distinguish
but little,
But when at last we were come to the street that crosses
the valley,
Great was the crowd and confusion of persons on foot
and of wagons.
There, alas! saw we enough of these poor unfortunates
passing,
And could from some of them learn how bitter the sorrowful
flight was,
Yet how joyful the feeling of life thus hastily rescued.
Mournful it was to behold the most miscellaneous chattels,—
All those things which are housed in every well-furnished
dwelling,
All by the house-keeper’s care set up in their
suitable places,
Always ready for use; for useful is each and important.-
Now these things to behold, piled up on all manner
of wagons,
One on the top of another, as hurriedly they had been
rescued.
Over the chest of drawers were the sieve and wool
coverlet lying;
Thrown in the kneading-trough lay the bed, and the
sheets on the mirror.
Danger, alas! as we learned ourselves in our great
conflagration
Twenty years since, will take from a man all power
of reflection,
So that he grasps things worthless and leaves what
is precious behind him.
Here, too, with unconsidering care they were carrying
with them
Pitiful trash, that only encumbered the horses and
oxen;
Such as old barrels and boards, the pen for the goose,
and the bird-cage.
Women and children, too, went toiling along with their
bundles,
Panting ’neath baskets and tubs, full of things
of no manner of value:
So unwilling is man to relinquish his meanest possession.
Thus on the dusty road the crowded procession moved
forward,
All confused and disordered. The one whose beasts
were the weaker,
Wanted more slowly to drive, while faster would hurry
another.
Presently went up a scream from the closely squeezed
women and children,
And with the yelping of dogs was mingled the lowing
of cattle,
Cries of distress from the aged and sick, who aloft
on the wagon,
Heavy and thus overpacked, upon beds were sitting
and swaying.
Pressed at last from the rut and out to the edge of
the highway,
Slipped the creaking wheel; the cart lost its balance,
and over
Fell in the ditch. In the swing the people were
flung to a distance,
Far off into the field, with horrible screams; by
good fortune
Later the boxes were thrown and fell more near to
the wagon.
Verily all who had witnessed the fall, expected to
see them
Crushed into pieces beneath the weight of trunks and
Thereupon answered and said the kind-hearted landlord,
with feeling:
“Would that our Hermann might meet them and
give them refreshment and clothing!
Loath should I be to behold them: the looking
on suffering pains me.
Touched by the earliest tidings of their so cruel
afflictions,
Hastily sent we a mite from out of our super-abundance,
Only that some might be strengthened, and we might
ourselves be made easy.
But let us now no longer renew these sorrowful pictures
Knowing how readily fear steals into the heart of
us mortals,
And anxiety, worse to me than the actual evil.
Come with me into the room behind, our cool little
parlor,
Where no sunbeam e’er shines, and no sultry
breath ever enters
Through its thickness of wall. There mother will
bring us a flagon
Of our old eighty-three, with which we may banish
our fancies.
Here ’tis not cosey to drink: the flies
so buzz round the glasses.”
Thither adjourned they then, and all rejoiced in the
coolness.
Carefully brought forth the mother the clear and glorious
vintage,
Cased in a well-polished flask, on a waiter of glittering
pewter,
Set round with large green glasses, the drinking cups
meet for the Rhine Wine.
So sat the three together about the highly waxed table,
Gleaming and round and brown, that on mighty feet
was supported,
Joyously rang at once the glasses of landlord and
pastor,
But his motionless held the third, and sat lost in
reflection,
Until with words of good-humor the landlord challenged
him, saying,—
“Come, sir neighbor, empty your glass, for God
in his mercy
Thus far has kept us from evil, and so in the future
will keep us.
For who acknowledges not, that since our dread conflagration,
When he so hardly chastised us, he now is continually
blessing,
Constantly shielding, as man the apple of his eye
watches over,
Holding it precious and dear above all the rest of
his members?
Shall he in time to come not defend us and furnish
us succor?
Only when danger is nigh do we see how great is his
power.
Shall he this blooming town which he once by industrious
burghers
Built up afresh from its ashes, and afterwards blessed
with abundance,
Now demolish again, and bring all the labor to nothing?”
Cheerfully said in reply the excellent pastor, and
kindly:
“Keep thyself firm in the faith, and firm abide
in this temper;
For it makes steadfast and wise when fortune is fair,
and when evil,
Furnishes sweet consolation and animates hopes the
sublimest.”
Then made answer the landlord, with thoughts judicious
and manly:
“Often the Rhine’s broad stream have I
with astonishment greeted,
As I have neared it again, after travelling abroad
upon business.
Always majestic it seemed, and my mind and spirit
exalted.
But I could never imagine its beautiful banks would
so shortly
Be to a rampart transformed, to keep from our borders
the Frenchman,
And its wide-spreading bed be a moat all passage to
hinder.
See! thus nature protects, the stout-hearted Germans
protect us,
And thus protects us the Lord, who then will he weakly
despondent?
Weary already the combatants, all indications are
peaceful.
Would it might be that when that festival, ardently
longed for,
Shall in our church be observed, when the sacred Te
Deum is rising,
Swelled by the pealing of organ and bells, and the
blaring of trumpets,—
Would it might be that that day should behold my Hermann,
sir pastor,
Standing, his choice now made, with his bride before
thee at the altar,
Making that festal day, that through every land shall
be honored,
My anniversary, too, henceforth of domestic rejoicing!
But I observe with regret, that the youth so efficient
and active
Ever in household affairs, when abroad is timid and
backward.
Little enjoyment he finds in going about among others;
Nay, he will even avoid young ladies’ society
wholly;
Shuns the enlivening dance which all young persons
delight in.”
Thus he spoke and listened; for now was heard in the
distance
Clattering of horses’ hoofs drawing near, and
the roll of the wagon,
Which, with furious haste, came thundering under the
gateway.
HERMANN
Now when of comely mien the son came into the chamber,
Turned with a searching look the eyes of the preacher
upon him,
And, with the gaze of the student, who easily fathoms
expression,
Scrutinized well his face and form and his general
bearing.
Then with a smile he spoke, and said in words of affection:
“Truly a different being thou comest! I
never have seen thee
Cheerful as now, nor ever beheld I thy glances so
beaming.
Joyous thou comest, and happy: ’tis plain
that among the poor people
Thou hast been sharing thy gifts, and receiving their
blessings upon thee.”
Quietly then, and with serious words, the son made
him answer:
“If I have acted as ye will commend, I know
not; but I followed
That which my heart bade me do, as I shall exactly
relate you.
Thou wert, mother, so long in rummaging ’mong
thy old pieces,
Picking and choosing, that not until late was thy
bundle together;
Then too the wine and the beer took care and time
in the packing.
When I came forth through the gateway at last, and
out on the high-road,
Backward the crowd of citizens streamed with women
and children,
“Thus she spoke, and the pale-faced mother raised
herself feebly
Up from the straw, and towards me looked. Then
said I in answer:
’Surely unto the good, a spirit from heaven
oft speaketh,
Making them feel the distress that threatens a suffering
brother.
For thou must know that my mother, already presaging
thy sorrows,
Gave me a bundle to use it straightway for the need
of the naked,’
Then I untied the knots of the string, and the wrapper
of father’s
Unto her gave, and gave her as well the shirts and
the linen.
And she thanked me with joy, and cried: ’The
happy believe not
Miracles yet can be wrought: for only in need
we acknowledge
God’s own hand and finger, that leads the good
to show goodness,
What unto us he has done through thee, may he do to
thee also!
And I beheld with what pleasure the sick woman handled
the linens,
But with especial delight the dressing-gown’s
delicate flannel.
‘Let us make haste,’ the maid to her said,
’and come to the village,
Where our people will halt for the night and already
are resting.
There these clothes for the children I, one and all,
straightway will portion.’
Then she saluted again, her thanks most warmly expressing,
Started the oxen; the wagon went on; but there I still
lingered,
Still held the horses in check; for now my heart was
divided
Whether to drive with speed to the village, and there
the provisions
Share ’mong the rest of the people, or whether
Instantly now, when Hermann had ceased, the talkative
neighbor
Took up the word, and cried: “Oh happy,
in days like the present,
Days of flight and confusion, who lives by himself
in his dwelling,
Having no wife nor child to be clinging about him
in terror!
Happy I feel myself now, and would not for much be
called father;
Would not have wife and children to-day, for whom
to be anxious.
Oft have I thought of this flight before; and have
packed up together
All my best things already, the chains and old pieces
of money
That were my sainted mother’s, of which not
one has been sold yet.
Much would be left behind, it is true, not easily
gotten.
Even the roots and the herbs, that were with such
industry gathered,
I should be sorry to lose, though the worth of the
goods is but trifling.
If my purveyor remained, I could go from my dwelling
contented.
When my cash I have brought away safe, and have rescued
my person,
All is safe: none find it so easy to fly as the
single.”
“Neighbor,” unto his words young Hermann
with emphasis answered:
“I can in no wise agree with thee here, and
censure thy language.
Is he indeed a man to be prized, who, in good and
in evil,
Takes no thought but for self, and gladness and sorrow
with others
Knows not how to divide, nor feels his heart so impel
him?
Rather than ever to-day would I make up my mind to
be married:
Many a worthy maiden is needing a husband’s
protection,
And the man needs an inspiriting wife when ill is
impending.”
Thereupon smiling the father replied: “Thus
love I to hear thee!
That is a sensible word such as rarely I’ve
known thee to utter.”
Straightway, however, the mother broke in with quickness,
exclaiming:
“Son, to be sure, thou art right! we parents
have set the example;
Seeing that not in our season of joy did we choose
one another;
Rather the saddest of hours it was that bound us together.
Monday morning—I mind it well; for the
day that preceded
Came that terrible fire by which our city was ravaged-
Twenty years will have gone. The day was a Sunday
as this is;
Hot and dry was the season; the water was almost exhausted.
All the people were strolling abroad in their holiday
dresses,
’Mong the villages partly, and part in the mills
and the taverns.
And at the end of the city the flames began, and went
coursing
Quickly along the streets, creating a draught in their
passage.
Burned were the barns where the copious harvest already
was garnered;
Burned were the streets as far as the market; the
house of my father,
Neighbor to this, was destroyed, and this one also
fell with it.
Little we managed to save. I sat, that sorrowful
night through,
Outside the town on the common, to guard the beds
and the boxes.
Sleep overtook me at last, and when I again was awakened,
Feeling the chill of the morning that always descends
before sunrise,
There were the smoke and the glare, and the walls
and chimneys in ruins.
Then fell a weight on my heart; but more majestic
than ever
Came up the sun again, inspiring my bosom with courage.
Then I rose hastily up, with a yearning the place
to revisit
Whereon our dwelling had stood, and to see if the
hens had been rescued,
Which I especially loved, for I still was a child
in my feelings.
Thus as I over the still-smoking timbers of house
and of court-yard
Picked my way, and beheld the dwelling so ruined and
wasted,
Thou camest up to examine the place, from the other
direction.
Under the ruins thy horse in his stall had been buried;
the rubbish
Lay on the spot and the glimmering beams; of the horse
we saw nothing.
Thoughtful and grieving we stood there thus, each
facing the other,
Now that the wall was fallen that once had divided
our court-yards.
Thereupon thou by the hand didst take me, and speak
to me, saying,—
’Lisa, how earnest thou hither? Go back!
thy soles must be burning;
Hot the rubbish is here: it scorches my boots,
which are stronger.’
And thou didst lift me up, and carry me out through
thy court-yard.
There was the door of the house left standing yet
with its archway,
Just as ’tis standing now, the one thing only
remaining.
Then thou didst set me down and kiss me; to that I
objected;
But thou didst answer and say with kindly significant
language:
’See! my house lies in ruins: remain here
and help me rebuild it;
So shall my help in return be given to building thy
Straightway, then, and with warmth, the father replied
to her, saying:
“Worthy of praise is the feeling, and truthful
also the story,
Mother, that thou hast related; for so indeed everything
happened.
Better, however, is better. It is not the business
of all men
Thus their life and estate to begin from the very
foundation:
Every one needs not to worry himself as we and the
rest did.
Oh, how happy is he whose father and mother shall
give him,
Furnished and ready, a house which he can adorn with
his increase.
Every beginning is hard; but most the beginning a
household.
Many are human wants, and every thing daily grows
dearer,
So that a man must consider the means of increasing
his earnings.
This I hope therefore of thee, my Hermann, that into
our dwelling
Thou wilt be bringing ere long a bride who is handsomely
dowered;
For it is meet that a gallant young man have an opulent
maiden.
Great is the comfort of home whene’er, with
the woman elected,
Enter the useful presents, besides, in box and in
basket.
Not for this many a year in vain has the mother been
busy
Making her daughter’s linens of strong and delicate
texture;
God-parents have not in vain been giving their vessels
of silver,
And the father laid by in his desk the rare pieces
of money;
For there a day will come when she, with her gifts
and possessions,
Shall that youth rejoice who has chosen her out of
all others.
Well do I know how good in a house is a woman’s
position,
Who her own furniture round her knows, in kitchen
and chamber;
Who herself the bed and herself the table has covered.
Only a well-dowered bride should I like to receive
to my dwelling.
She who is poor is sure, in the end, to be scorned
by her husband;
And will as servant be held, who as servant came in
with her bundle.
Men will remain unjust when the season of love is
gone over.
Yes, my Hermann, thy father’s old age thou greatly
canst gladden,
If thou a daughter-in-law will speedily bring to my
dwelling,
Out of the neighborhood here,—from the
house over yonder, the green one.
Rich is the man, I can tell thee. His manufactures
and traffic
Daily are making him richer; for whence draws the
merchant not profit?
Three daughters only he has, to divide his fortune
Thereupon answered the mother, and said: “Thou
shouldest not, Hermann,
Be so long vexed with the children: indeed, they
are all of them children.
Minna, believe me, is good, and was always disposed
to thee kindly.
’Twas not long since she was asking about thee.
Let her be thy chosen!”
Thoughtfully answered the son: “I know
not. That mortification
Stamped itself in me so deeply, I never could bear
to behold her
Seated before the piano or listen again to her singing.”
Forth broke the father then, and in words of anger
made answer:
“Little of joy will my life have in thee!
I said it would be so
When I perceived that thy pleasure was solely in horses
and farming:
Work which a servant, indeed, performs for an opulent
master,
That thou doest; the father meanwhile must his son
be deprived of,
Who should appear as his pride, in the sight of the
rest of the townsmen.
Early with empty hopes thy mother was wont to deceive
me,
When in the school thy studies, thy reading and writing,
would never
As with the others succeed, but thy seat would be
always the lowest.
That comes about, forsooth, when a youth has no feeling
of honor
Dwelling within his breast, nor the wish to raise
himself higher.
Had but my father so cared for me as thou hast been
cared for;
If he had sent me to school, and provided me thus
with instructors,
I should be other, I trow, than host of the Golden
Lion!”
Then the son rose from his seat and noiselessly moved
to the doorway,
Slowly, and speaking no word. The father, however;
in passion
After him called, “Yes, go, thou obstinate fellow!
I know thee!
Go and look after the business henceforth, that I
have not to chide thee;
But do thou nowise imagine that ever a peasant-born
maiden
Thou for a daughter-in-law shalt bring into my dwelling,
the hussy!
Long have I lived in the world, and know how mankind
should be dealt with;
Know how to entertain ladies and gentlemen so that
contented
They shall depart from my house, and strangers agreeably
can flatter.
Yet I’m resolved that some day I one will have
for a daughter,
Who shall requite me in kind and sweeten my manifold
labors;
Who the piano shall play to me, too; so that there
shall with pleasure
All the handsomest people in town and the finest assemble,
As they on Sundays do now in the house of our neighbor.”
Here Hermann
Softly pressed on the latch, and so went out from
the chamber.
THE CITIZENS
Thus did the modest son slip away from the angry upbraiding;
But in the tone he had taken at first, the father
continued:
“That comes not out of a man which he has not
in him; and hardly
Shall the joy ever be mine of seeing my dearest wish
granted:
That my son may not as his father be, but a better.
What would become of the house, and what of the city
Straightway answered and said the good and intelligent
mother:
“Why wilt thou always, father, be doing our
son such injustice?
That least of all is the way to bring thy wish to
fulfilment.
We have no power to fashion our children as suiteth
our fancy;
As they are given by God, we so must have them and
love them;
Teach them as best we can, and let each of them follow
his nature.
One will have talents of one sort, and different talents
Thereupon when she was gone, the father thus smiling
continued:
“What a strange folk, to be sure, are these
women; and just like the children;
Both of them bent upon living according as suiteth
their pleasure,
While we others must never do aught but flatter and
praise them.
Once for all time holds good the ancients’ trustworthy
proverb:
‘Whoever goes not forward comes backward.’
So must it be always.”
Thereupon answered and said, in a tone of reflection,
the doctor:
“That, sir neighbor, I willingly grant; for
myself I am always
Casting about for improvement,—things new,
so they be not too costly.
But what profits a man, who has not abundance of money,
Being thus active and stirring, and bettering inside
and outside?
Only too much is the citizen cramped: the good,
though he know it,
Has he no means to acquire because too slender his
purse is,
While his needs are too great; and thus is he constantly
hampered.
Many the things I had done; but then the cost of such
changes
Who does not fear, especially now in this season of
danger?
Long since my house was smiling upon me in modish
apparel!
Long since great panes of glass were gleaming in all
of the windows!
But who can do as the merchant does, who, with his
resources,
Knows the methods as well by which the best is arrived
at?
Look at that house over yonder,—the new
one; behold with what splendor
’Gainst the background of green stand out the
white spirals of stucco!
Great are the panes in the windows; and how the glass
sparkles and glitters,
Casting quite into the shade the rest of the market-place
houses!
Yet just after the fire were our two houses the finest,
This of the Golden Lion, and mine of the sign of the
Angel.
So was my garden, too, throughout the whole neighborhood
famous:
Every traveller stopped and gazed through the red
palisadoes,
Caught by the beggars there carved in stone and the
dwarfs of bright colors.
Then whosoever had coffee served in the beautiful
grotto,—
Standing there now all covered with dust and Partly
in ruins,—
Used to be mightily pleased with the glimmering light
of the mussels
Spread out in beautiful order; and even the eye of
MOTHER AND SON
Thus entertaining themselves, the men sat talking.
The mother
Went meanwhile to look for her son in front of the
dwelling,
First on the settle of stone, whereon ’twas
his wont to be seated.
When she perceived him not there, she went farther
to look in the stable,
If he were caring perhaps for his noble horses, the
stallions,
Which he as colts had bought, and whose care he intrusted
to no one.
And by the servant she there was told: He is
gone to the garden.
Then with a nimble step she traversed the long, double
courtyards,
Leaving the stables behind, and the well-builded barns,
too, behind her;
Entered the garden, that far as the walls of the city
extended;
Walked through its length, rejoiced as she went in
every thing growing;
Set upright the supports on which were resting the
branches
Heavily laden with apples, and burdening boughs of
the pear-tree.
Next some caterpillars removed from a stout, swelling
cabbage;
For an industrious woman allows no step to be wasted.
Thus was she come at last to the end of the far-reaching
garden,
Where stood the arbor embowered in woodbine; nor there
did she find him,
More than she had hitherto in all her search through
the garden.
But the wicket was standing ajar, which out of the
arbor,
Once by particular favor, had been through the walls
of the city
Cut by a grandsire of hers, the worshipful burgomaster.
So the now dried-up moat she next crossed over with
comfort,
Where, by the side of the road, direct the well-fenced
vineyard,
Rose with a steep ascent, its slope exposed to the
sunshine.
Up this also she went, and with pleasure as she was
ascending
Marked the wealth of the clusters, that scarce by
Strange it was for her to seek him; he never had gone
to a distance
That he told her not first, to spare his affectionate
mother
Every anxious thought, and fear that aught ill had
befallen.
Still did she constantly hope that, if further she
went, she should find him;
For the two doors of the vineyard, the lower as well
as the upper,
Both were alike standing open. So now she entered
the cornfield,
That with its broad expanse the ridge of the hill
covered over.
Still was the ground that she walked on her own; and
the crops she rejoiced in,—
All of them still were hers, and hers was the proud-waving
grain, too,
Over the whole broad field in golden strength that
was stirring.
Keeping the ridgeway, the footpath, between the fields
she went onward,
Having the lofty pear-tree in view, which stood on
the summit,
And was the boundary-mark of the fields that belonged
to her dwelling.
Who might have planted it, none could know, but visible
was it
Far and wide through the country; the fruit of the
pear-tree was famous.
’Neath it the reapers were wont to enjoy their
meal at the noon-day,
And the shepherds were used to tend their flocks in
its shadow.
Benches of unhewn stones and of turf they found set
about it.
And she had not been mistaken, for there sat her Hermann,
and rested,—
Sat with his head on his hand, and seemed to be viewing
the landscape
That to the mountains lay: his back was turned
to his mother.
Towards him softly she crept, and lightly touched
on the shoulder;
Quick he turned himself round: there were tears
in his eyes as he met her.
“Mother, how hast thou surprised me!”
he said in confusion; and quickly
Wiped the high-spirited youth his tears away.
But the mother,
“What! do I find thee weeping, my son?”
exclaimed in amazement.
“Nay, that is not like thyself: I never
before have so seen thee!
Tell me, what burdens thy heart? what drives thee
here, to be sitting
Under the pear-tree alone? These tears in thine
eyes, what has brought them?”
Then, collecting himself, the excellent youth made
her answer:
“Truly no heart can that man have in his bosom
of iron,
Who is insensible now to the needs of this emigrant
people;
He has no brains in his head, who not for his personal
safety,
Not for his fatherland’s weal, in days like
the present is anxious.
Deeply my heart had been touched by the sights and
sounds of the morning;
Then I went forth and beheld the broad and glorious
landscape
Spreading its fertile slopes in every direction about
us,
Saw the golden grain inclining itself to the reapers,
And the promise of well-filled barns from the plentiful
harvest.
But, alas, how near is the foe! The Rhine with
its waters
Guards us, indeed; but, ah, what now are rivers and
mountains
’Gainst that terrible people that onward bears
like a tempest!
For they summon their youths from every quarter together,
Call up their old men too, and press with violence
forward.
Death cannot frighten the crowd: one multitude
follows another.
And shall a German dare to linger behind in his homestead?
Hopes he perhaps to escape the everywhere threatening
evil?
Nay, dear mother, I tell thee, to-day has made me
regretful
That I was lately exempt, when out of our townsmen
were chosen
Those who should serve in the army. An only son
I am truly,
Also our business is great, and the charge of our
household is weighty.
Yet were it better, I deem, in the front to offer
resistance
There on the border, than here to await disaster and
bondage.
So has my spirit declared, and deep in my innermost
bosom
Courage and longing have now been aroused to live
for my country,
Yea, and to die, presenting to others a worthy example.
If but the strength of Germany’s youth were
banded together
There on the frontier, resolved that it never would
yield to the stranger,
Ah, he should not on our glorious soil be setting
his foot-steps,
Neither consuming before our eyes the fruit of our
labor,
Ruling our men, and making his prey of our wives and
our daughters.
Hark to me, mother: for I in the depths of my
heart am determined
Quickly to do, and at once, what appears to me right
and in reason;
For he chooses not always the best who longest considers.
Hearken, I shall not again return to the house; but
directly
Go from this spot to the city, and there present to
the soldiers
This right arm and this heart, to be spent in the
fatherland’s service.
Then let my father say if there be no feeling of honor
Dwelling within my breast, nor a wish to raise myself
higher.”
Then with significant words spoke the good and intelligent
mother,
While from her eyes the quick-starting tears were
silently falling:
“Son, what change has come o’er thee to-day,
and over thy temper,
That thou speakest no more, as thou yesterday didst,
and hast always,
Open and free, to thy mother, and tellest exactly
Earnestly answered the son: “Nay, thou
art mistaken, dear mother:
One day is not like another. The youth matures
into manhood:
Better in stillness oft ripening to deeds than when
in the tumult
Wildering and wild of existence, that many a youth
has corrupted.
And, for as still as I am and was always, there yet
in my bosom
Has such a heart been shaped as abhors all wrong and
injustice;
And I have learned aright between worldly things to
distinguish.
Arm and foot, besides, have been mightily strengthened
by labor.
All this, I feel, is true: I dare with boldness
maintain it.
Yet dost thou blame me with reason, O mother! for
thou hast surprised me
Using a language half truthful and half that of dissimulation.
For, let me honestly own,—it is not the
near danger that calls me
Forth from my father’s house; nor is it the
lofty ambition
Helpful to be to my country, and terrible unto the
foeman.
They were but words that I spoke: they only were
meant for concealing
Those emotions from thee with which my heart is distracted;
And so leave me, O mother! for, since the wishes are
fruitless
Which in my bosom I cherish, my life must go fruitlessly
over.
For, as I know, he injures himself who is singly devoted,
When for the common cause the whole are not working
together.”
“Hesitate not,” replied thereupon the
intelligent mother,
“Every thing to relate me, the smallest as well
as the greatest.
Men will always be hasty, their thoughts to extremes
ever running:
Easily out of their course the hasty are turned by
a hindrance.
Whereas a woman is clever in thinking of means, and
will venture
E’en on a roundabout way, adroitly to compass
her object.
Let me know every thing, then; say wherefore so greatly
excited
’As I ne’er saw thee before, why thy blood
is coursing so hotly,
Wherefore, against thy will, tears are filling thine
eyes to o’erflowing.”
Then he abandoned himself, the poor boy, to his sorrow,
and weeping,
Weeping aloud on his kind mother’s breast, he
brokenly answered:
“Truly my father’s words to-day have wounded
me sorely,—
Words which I have not deserved; not to-day, nor at
any time have I:
For it was early my greatest delight to honor my parents.
No one knew more, so I deemed, or was wiser than those
who begot me,
And had with strictness ruled throughout the dark
season of childhood.
Many the things, in truth, I with patience endured
from my playmates,
When the good-will that I bore them they often requited
with malice.
Often I suffered their flings and their blows to pass
unresented;
But if they ventured to ridicule father, when he of
a Sunday
Home from Church would come, with his solemn and dignified
bearing;
If they made fun of his cap-string, or laughed at
the flowers of the wrapper
He with such stateliness wore, which was given away
but this morning,—
Threateningly doubled my fist in an instant; with
furious passion
Fell I upon them, and struck out and hit, assailing
them blindly,
Seeing not where. They howled as the blood gushed
out from their noses:
Scarcely they made their escape from my passionate
kicking and beating.
Then, as I older grew, I had much to endure from my
father;
Violent words he oft vented on me, instead of on others,
When, at the board’s last session, the council
had roused his displeasure,
And I was made to atone for the quarrels and wiles
of his colleagues.
Thou has pitied me often thyself; for much did I suffer,
Ever remembering with cordial respect the kindness
of parents,
Solely intent on increasing for us their goods and
possessions,
Much denying themselves in order to save for their
children.
But, alas! saving alone, for the sake of a tardy enjoyment,—
That is not happiness: pile upon pile, and acre
on acre,
Make us not happy, no matter how fair our estates
may be rounded.
For the father grows old, and with him will grow old
the children,
Losing the joy of the day, and bearing the care of
tomorrow.
Look thou below, and see how before us in glory are
lying,
Fair and abundant, the corn-fields; beneath them,
the vineyard and garden;
Yonder the stables and barns; our beautiful line of
possessions.
But when I look at the dwelling behind, where up in
the gable
We can distinguish the window that marks my room in
the attic;
When I look back, and remember how many a night from
that window
I for the moon have watched; for the sun, how many
a morning!
When the healthful sleep of a few short hours sufficed
me,—
Ah, so lonely they seem to me then, the chamber and
courtyard,
Garden and glorious field, away o’er the hill
that is stretching;
All so desert before me lie: ’tis the wife
that is wanting.”
Thereupon spoke the good mother, and thus with intelligence
answered:
“Son, not greater thy wish to bring thee a bride
to thy chamber,
That thou mayst find thy nights a beautiful part of
existence,
And that the work of the day may gain independence
and freedom,
Than is thy father’s wish too, and thy mother’s.
We always have counselled,—
Yea, we have even insisted,—that thou shouldst
select thee a maiden.
But I was ever aware, and now my heart gives me assurance,
That till the hour appointed is come, and the maiden
appointed
Shall with the hour appear, the choice will be left
for the future,
While more strong than all else will be fear of grasping
the wrong one.
If I may say it, my son, I believe thou already hast
chosen;
For thy heart has been touched, and been made more
than wontedly tender.
Speak it out honestly, then; for my soul has told
me beforehand:
That same maiden it is, the exile, whom thou hast
elected.”
“Thou has said, mother!” the son thereupon
with eagerness answered.
“Yes, it is she; and if I to-day as my bride
do not bring her
Home to our dwelling, she from me will go, perhaps
vanish for ever,
Lost in the war’s confusion and sad movings
hither and thither.
Mother, for ever in vain would then our abundant possessions
Prosper before me, and seasons to come be in vain
to me fruitful.
Yea, I should hold in aversion the wonted house and
the garden:
Even my mother’s love, alas! would not comfort
my sorrow.
Every tie, so I feel in my heart, by love is unloosened
Soon as she fastens her own; and not the maid is it
only
Leaves behind father and mother, to follow the man
she has chosen.
He too, the youth, no longer knows aught of mother
and father,
When he the maiden, his only beloved, sees vanishing
from him.
Suffer me, then, to go hence wherever despair shall
impel me:
Since by my father himself the decisive words have
been spoken;
Since his house can no longer be mine if he shut out
the maiden,
Her whom alone as my bride I desire to bring to our
dwelling.”
Thereupon quickly made answer the good and intelligent
mother:
“How like to rocks, forsooth, two men will stand
facing each other!
Proud and not to be moved, will neither draw near
to his fellow;
Neither will stir his tongue to utter the first word
of kindness.
Therefore I tell thee, my son, a hope yet lives in
my bosom,
So she be honest and good, thy father will let thee
espouse her,
Even though poor, and against a poor girl so decisive
his sentence.
Many a thing he is wont to speak out in his violent
fashion
Which he yet never performs; and so what he denies
will consent to.
Yet he requires a kindly word, and is right to require
it: He is the father!
Besides we know that his wrath after dinner,—
When he most hastily speaks, and questions all others’
opinions,—
Signifies naught; the full force of his violent will
Thus she hastily spoke, and up from the stone then
arising,
Drew from his seat her son, who willingly followed.
In silence
Both descended the hill, their important purpose revolving.
THE CITIZEN OF THE WORLD
Here the three men, however, still sat conversing
together,
With mine host of the Lion, the village doctor, and
pastor;
And their talk was still on the same unvarying subject,
Turning it this way and that, and viewing from every
direction.
But with his sober judgment the excellent pastor made
answer:
“Here will I not contradict you. I know
that man should be always
Striving for that which is better; indeed, as we see,
he is reaching
Always after the higher, at least some novelty craving.
But be careful ye go not too far, for with this disposition
Nature has given us pleasure in holding to what is
familiar;
Taught us in that to delight to which we have long
been accustomed.
Every condition is good that is founded on reason
and nature.
Many are man’s desires, yet little it is that
he needeth;
Seeing the days are short and mortal destiny bounded.
Ne’er would I censure the man whom a restless
activity urges,
Bold and industrious, over all pathways of land and
of ocean,
Ever untiring to roam; who takes delight in the riches,
Heaping in generous abundance about himself and his
children.
Yet not unprized by me is the quiet citizen also,
Making the noiseless round of his own inherited acres,
Tilling the ground as the ever-returning seasons command
him.
Not with every year is the soil transfigured about
him;
Not in haste does the tree stretch forth, as soon
as ’tis planted,
Full-grown arms towards heaven and decked with plenteous
blossoms.
No: man has need of patience, and needful to
him are also
Calmness and clearness of mind, and a pure and right
understanding.
Few are the seeds he intrusts to earth’s all-nourishing
bosom;
Few are the creatures he knows how to raise and bring
to perfection.
Centred are all his thoughts alone on that which is
useful.
Happy to whom by nature a mind of such temper is given,
For he supports us all! And hail, to the man
whose abode is
Where in a town the country pursuits with the city
are blended.
On him lies not the pressure that painfully hampers
Thus he spoke; and scarce had he ended when entered
the mother,
Holding her son by the hand, and so led him up to
her husband.
“Father,” she said, “how oft when
we two have been chatting together,
Have we rejoiced in the thought of Hermann’s
future espousal,
When he should bring his bride to be the light of
our dwelling!
Over and over again the matter we pondered: this
maiden
Fixing upon for him first, and then that, with the
gossip of parents.
But that day is now come; and Heaven at last has the
maiden
Brought to him hither, and shown him; and now his
heart has decided.
Said we not always then he should have his own choice
in the matter?
Was it not just now thy wish that he might with lively
affection
Feel himself drawn to some maiden? The hour is
come that we hoped for.
Yes; he has felt and has chosen and come to a manly
decision.
That same maiden it is that met him this morning,
the stranger:
Say he may have her, or else, as he swears, his life
shall be single.”
“Give her me, father,” so added the son:
“my heart has elected
Clear and sure; she will be to you both the noblest
of daughters.”
But the father was silent. Then hastily rose
the good pastor,
Took up the word and said: “The moment
alone is decisive;
Fixes the life of man, and his future destiny settles.
After long taking of counsel, yet only the work of
a moment
Every decision must be; and the wise alone seizes
the right one.
Dangerous always it is comparing the one with the
other
When we are making our choice, and so confusing our
feelings.
Hermann is pure. From childhood up I have known
him, and never
E’en as a boy was he wont to be reaching for
this and the other:
What he desired was best for him too, and he held
to it firmly.
Be not surprised and alarmed that now has appeared
of a sudden,
What thou hast wished for so long. It is true
that the present appearance
Bears not the form of the wish, exactly as thou hadst
conceived it:
For our wishes oft hide from ourselves the object
we wish for;
Gifts come down from above in the shapes appointed
by Heaven.
Therefore misjudge not the maiden who now of thy dearly
beloved,
Good and intelligent son has been first to touch the
affections:
Happy to whom at once his first love’s hand
shall be given,
And in whose heart no tenderest wish must secretly
languish.
Yes: his whole bearing assures me that now his
fate is decided.
Genuine love matures in a moment the youth into manhood;
He is not easily moved; and I fear that if this be
refused him,
Sadly his years will go by, those years that should
be the fairest,”
Straightway then in a thoughtful tone the doctor made
answer,
On whose tongue for a long time past the words had
been trembling:
“Pray let us here as before pursue the safe
middle course only.
Make haste slowly: that was Augustus the emperor’s
motto.
Willingly I myself place at my well-beloved neighbor’s
disposal,
Ready to do him what service I can with my poor understanding.
Youth most especially stands in need of some one to
guide it.
Let me therefore go forth that I may examine the maiden,
And may question the people among whom she lives and
who know her.
Me ’tis not easy to cheat: I know how words
should be valued.”
Straightway the son broke in, and with wing’ed
words made he answer:
“Do so, neighbor, and go and make thine inquiries;
but with thee
I should be glad if our minister here were joined
in the errand:
Two such excellent men would be irreproachable judges.
O my father! believe me, she’s none of those
wandering maidens,
Not one of those who stroll through the land in search
of adventure,
And who seek to ensnare inexperienced youth in their
meshes.
No: the hard fortunes of war, that universal
destroyer,
Which is convulsing the earth and has hurled from
its deep foundations
Many a structure already, have sent the poor girl
into exile.
Are not now men of high birth, the most noble, in
misery roaming?
Princes fly in disguise and kings are in banishment
living.
So alas! also is she, the best among all of her sisters,
Driven an exile from home; yet, her personal sorrows
forgetting,
She is devoted to others; herself without help, she
is helpful.
Great is the want and the suffering over the earth
that are spreading:
Shall not some happiness, too, be begotten of all
this affliction,
And shall not I in the arms of my wife, my trusted
companion,
Look back with joy to the war, as do ye to the great
conflagration?”
Outspoke the father then in a tone of decision, and
answered:
“Strangely thy tongue has been loosened, my
son, which many a year past
Seemed to have stuck in thy mouth, and only to move
on compulsion!
I must experience to-day, it would seem, what threatens
all fathers,
That the son’s headstrong will the mother with
readiness favors,
Showing too easy indulgence; and every neighbor sides
with them
When there is aught to be carried against the father
and husband.
But I will not oppose you, thus banded together:
how could I?
For I already perceive here tears and defiance beforehand.
Go ye therefore, inquire, in God’s name, bring
me the daughter.
But if not so, then the boy is to think no more of
the maiden.”
Thus the father. The son cried out with joyful
demeanor,
“Ere it is evening the noblest of daughters
shall hither be brought you,
Such as no man with sound sense in his breast can
fail to be pleased with.
Happy, I venture to hope, will be also the excellent
maiden.
Yes; she will ever be grateful for having had father
and mother
Given once more in you, and such as a child most delights
in.
Now I will tarry no longer, but straightway harness
the horses,
Drive forth our friends at once on the footsteps of
my beloved,
Leaving them then to act for themselves, as their
wisdom shall dictate,
Guide myself wholly, I promise, according to what
they determine,
And, until I may call her my own, ne’er look
on the maiden.”
Thus he went forth: the others meanwhile remained
in discussion,
Rapid and earnest, considering deeply their great
undertaking.
Hermann hasted straightway to the stable, where quietly
standing
Found he the spirited stallions, the clean oats quickly
devouring,
And the well-dried hay that was cut from the richest
of meadows.
On them without delay the shining bits he adjusted,
Hastily drew the straps through the buckles of beautiful
plating,
Firmly fastened then the long broad reins, and the
horses
Led without to the court-yard, whither the willing
assistant
Had with ease, by the pole, already drawn forward
the carriage.
Next to the whipple-tree they with care by the neatly
kept traces
Joined the impetuous strength of the freely travelling
horses.
Whip in hand took Hermann his seat and drove under
the doorway.
Soon as the friends straightway their commodious places
had taken,
Quickly the carriage rolled off, and left the pavement
behind it,
Left behind it the walls of the town and the fresh-whitened
towers.
Thus drove Hermann on till he came to the well-known
causeway.
Rapidly, loitering nowhere, but hastening up hill
and down hill.
But as he now before him perceived the spire of the
village,
And no longer remote the garden-girt houses were lying,
Then in himself he thought that here he would rein
up the horses.
Under the solemn shade of lofty linden-trees lying,
Which for centuries past upon this spot had been rooted,
Spread in front of the village a broad and grass-covered
common,
Favorite place of resort for the peasants and neighboring
townsfolk.
Here, at the foot of the trees, sunk deep in the ground
was a well-spring;
When you descended the steps, stone benches you found
at the bottom,
Stationed about the spring, whose pure, living waters
were bubbling
Ceaselessly forth, hemmed in by low walls for convenience
of drawing.
Hermann resolved that here he would halt, with his
horses and carriage,
Under the shade of the trees. He did so, and
said to the others;
“Here alight, my friends, and go your ways to
discover
Whether the maiden in truth be worthy the hand that
Thus he spoke. The friends thereupon went their
way to the village,
Where, in the houses and gardens and barns, the people
were swarming;
Wagons on wagons stood crowded together along the
broad highway.
Men for the harnessed horses and lowing cattle were
caring,
While the women were busy in drying their clothes
on the hedges,
And in the running brook the children were merrily
splashing.
Making their way through the pressure of wagons, of
people and cattle,
Went the commissioned spies, and to right and to left
looked about them,
If they a figure might see that answered the maiden’s
description;
But not one of them all appeared the beautiful damsel.
Denser soon grew the press. A contest arose round
the wagons
’Mongst the threatening men, wherein blended
the cries of the women.
Rapidly then to the spot, and with dignified step,
came an elder,
Joined the clamoring group, and straightway the uproar
was silenced,
As he commanded peace, and rebuked with a fatherly
sternness.
“Has, then, misfortune,” he cried, “not
yet so bound us together,
That we have finally learned to bear and forbear one
another,
Though each one, it may be, do not measure his share
of the labor?
He that is happy, forsooth, is contentious! Will
sufferings never
Teach you to cease from your brawls of old between
brother and brother?
Grudge not one to another a place on the soil of the
stranger;
Rather divide what ye have, as yourselves, ye would
hope to find mercy.”
Thus spoke the man and all became silent: restored
to good humor,
Peaceably then the people arranged their cattle and
wagons.
But when the clergyman now had heard what was said
by the stranger,
And had the steadfast mind of the foreign justice
discovered,
He to the man drew near and with words of meaning
addressed him:
“True it is, father, that when in prosperity
people are living,
Feeding themselves from the earth, which far and wide
opens her bosom,
And in the years and months renews the coveted blessings,—
All goes on of itself, and each himself deems the
wisest,
Deems the best, and so they continue abiding together,
He of greatest intelligence ranking no higher than
others;
All that occurs, as if of itself, going quietly forward.
But let disaster unsettle the usual course of existence,
Tear down the buildings about us, lay waste the crops
and the garden,
Banish the husband and wife from their old, familiar-grown
dwelling,
Drive them to wander abroad through nights and days
of privation,—
Then, ah then! we look round us to see what man is
the wisest,
And no longer in vain his glorious words will be spoken.
Tell me, art thou not judge among this fugitive people,
Father, who thus in an instant canst bid their passions
be quiet?
Thou dost appear to-day as one of those earliest leaders,
Who through deserts and wanderings guided the emigrant
nations.
Yea, I could even believe I were speaking with Joshua
or Moses.”
Then with serious look the magistrate answered him,
saying:
“Truly our times might well be compared with
all others in strangeness,
Which are in history mentioned, profane or sacred
tradition;
For who has yesterday lived and to-day in times like
the present,
He has already lived years, events are so crowded
together.
If I look back but a little, it seems that my head
must be hoary
Under the burden of years, and yet my strength is
still active.
Well may we of this day compare ourselves unto that
people
Who, from the burning bush, beheld in the hour of
their danger
God the Lord: we also in cloud and in fire have
beheld him.”
Seeing the priest was inclined to speak yet more with
the stranger,
And was desirous of learning his story and that of
his people,
Privately into his ear his companion hastily whispered:
“Talk with the magistrate further, and lead
him to speak of the maiden.
I, however, will wander in search, and as soon as
I find her,
Come and report to thee here.” The minister
nodded, assenting;
And through the gardens, hedges, and barns, went the
spy on his errand.
THE AGE
Now when the foreign judge had been by the minister
questioned
As to his people’s distress, and how long their
exile had lasted,
Thus made answer the man: “Of no recent
date are our sorrows;
Since of the gathering bitter of years our people
have drunken,—
Bitterness all the more dreadful because such fair
hope had been blighted.
Who will pretend to deny that his heart swelled high
in his bosom,
And that his freer breast with purer pulses was beating;
When we beheld the new sun arise in his earliest splendor,
When of the rights of men we heard, which to all should
be common,
Were of a righteous equality told, and inspiriting
freedom?
Every one hoped that then he should live his own life,
and the fetters,
Binding the various lands, appeared their hold to
be loosing,—
Fetters that had in the hand of sloth been held and
self-seeking.
Looked not the eyes of all nations, throughout that
calamitous season,
Towards the world’s capital city, for so it
had long been considered,
And of that glorious title was now, more than ever,
deserving?
Were not the names of those men who first delivered
the message,
Names to compare with the highest that under the heavens
are spoken?
Did not, in every man, grow courage and spirit and
language?
And, as neighbors, we, first of all, were zealously
kindled.
Thereupon followed the war, and armed bodies of Frenchmen
Pressed to us nearer; yet nothing but friendship they
seemed to be bringing;
Ay, and they brought it too; for exalted the spirit
within them:
They with rejoicing the festive trees of liberty planted,
Promising every man what was his own, and to each
his own ruling.
High beat the heart of the youths, and even the aged
were joyful;
Gaily the dance began about the newly raised standard.
Thus had they speedily won, these overmastering Frenchmen,
First the spirits of men by the fire and dash of their
bearing,
Then the hearts of the women with irresistible graces.
Even the pressure of hungry war seemed to weigh on
us lightly,
So before our vision did hope hang over the future,
Luring our eyes abroad into newly opening pathways.
Oh, how joyful the time when with her belov’ed
the maiden
Whirls in the dance, the longed-for day of their union
awaiting!
But more glorious that day on which to our vision
the highest
Heart of man can conceive seemed near and attainable
to us.
Loosened was every tongue, and men—the
aged, the stripling—
Spoke aloud in words that were full of high feeling
and wisdom.
Soon, however, the sky was o’ercast. A
corrupt generation
Fought for the right of dominion, unworthy the good
to establish;
So that they slew one another, their new-made neighbors
and brothers
Held in subjection, and then sent the self-seeking
masses against us.
Chiefs committed excesses and wholesale plunder upon
us,
While those lower plundered and rioted down to the
Taking delight in blood, in the shrieking of anguish
exulting.
Thereupon fiercely arose in our men the stern resolution
What had been lost to avenge, and defend whate’er
was remaining,
Every man sprang to his arms, by the flight of the
foeman encouraged,
And by his blanching cheeks, and his timorous, wavering
glances.
Ceaselessly now rang out the clanging peal of the
tocsin.
Thought of no danger to come restrained their furious
anger.
Quick into weapons of war the husbandman’s peaceful
utensils
All were converted; dripped with blood the scythe
and the ploughshare.
Quarter was shown to none: the enemy fell without
mercy.
Fury everywhere raged and the cowardly cunning of
weakness.
Ne’er may I men so carried away by injurious
passion
See again! the sight of the raging wild beast would
be better.
Let not man prattle of freedom, as if himself he could
govern!
Soon as the barriers are torn away, then all of the
evil
Seems let loose, that by law had been driven deep
back into corners.”
“Excellent man!” thereupon with emphasis
answered the pastor:
“Though thou misjudgest mankind, yet can I not
censure thee for it.
Evil enough, I confess, thou hast had to endure from
man’s passions,
Yet wouldst thou look behind over this calamitous
season,
Thou wouldst acknowledge thyself how much good thou
also hast witnessed.
How many excellent things that would in the heart
have hidden,
Had not danger aroused them, and did not necessity’s
pressure
Bring forth the angel in man, and make him a god of
deliv’rance.”
Thereupon answered and said the reverend magistrate,
smiling:
“There thou remindest me aptly of how we console
the poor fellow,
After his house has been burned, by recounting the
gold and the silver
Melted and scattered abroad in the rubbish, that still
is remaining.
Little enough, it is true; but even that little is
precious.
Then will the poor wretch after it dig and rejoice
if he find it.
Thus I likewise with happier thoughts will gratefully
turn me
Towards the few beautiful deeds of which I preserve
the remembrance.
Yes, I will not deny, I have seen old quarrels forgotten,
Ill to avert from the state; I also have witnessed
how friendship,
Love of parent and child, can impossibilities venture;
Seen how the stripling at once matured into man; how
the aged
Grew again young; and even the child into youth was
developed,
Yea, and the weaker sex too, as we are accustomed
to call it,
Showed itself brave and strong and ready for every
emergence.
Foremost among them all, one beautiful deed let me
mention,
Bravely performed by the hand of a girl, an excellent
maiden;
Who, with those younger than she, had been left in
charge of a farmhouse,
Since there, also, the men had marched against the
invader.
Suddenly fell on the house a fugitive band of marauders,
Eager for booty, who crowded straightway to the room
of the women.
There they beheld the beautiful form of the fully
grown maiden,
Looked on the charming young girls, who rather might
still be called children.
Savage desire possessed them; at once with merciless
passion
They that trembling band assailed and the high-hearted
maiden.
But she had snatched in an instant the sword of one
from its scabbard,
Felled him with might to the ground, and stretched
him bleeding before her.
Then with vigorous strokes she bravely delivered the
maidens,
Smiting yet four of the robbers; who saved themselves
only by flying.
Then she bolted the gates, and, armed, awaited assistance.”
Now when this praise the minister heard bestowed on
the maiden,
Rose straightway for his friend a feeling of hope
in his bosom,
And he had opened his lips to inquire what further
befell her,
If on this mournful flight she now with her people
were present;
When with a hasty step the village doctor approached
them,
Twitched the clergyman’s coat, and said in his
ear in a whisper:
“I have discovered the maiden at last among
several hundreds;
By the description I knew her, so come, let thine
own eyes behold her!
Bring too the magistrate with thee, that so we may
hear him yet further.”
But as they turned to go, the justice was summoned
to leave them,
Sent for by some of his people by whom his counsel
was needed.
Straightway the preacher, however, the lead of the
doctor had followed
Up to a gap in the fence where his finger he meaningly
pointed.
“Seest thou the maiden?” he said:
“she has made some clothes for the baby
Out of the well-known chintz,—I distinguish
it plainly; and further
There are the covers of blue that Hermann gave in
his bundle.
Well and quickly, forsooth, she has turned to advantage
the presents.
Evident tokens are these, and all else answers well
the description.
Mark how the stomacher’s scarlet sets off the
arch of her bosom,
Prettily laced, and the bodice of black fits close
to her figure;
Neatly the edge of her kerchief is plaited into a
ruffle,
Which, with a simple grace, her chin’s rounded
outline encircles;
Freely and lightly rises above it the bead’s
dainty oval,
And her luxuriant hair over silver bodkins is braided.
Now she is sitting, yet still we behold her majestical
stature,
And the blue petticoat’s ample plaits, that
down from her bosom
Hangs in abundant folds about her neatly shaped ankles,
She without question it is; come, therefore, and let
us discover
Whether she honest and virtuous be, a housewifely
maiden.”
Then, as the seated figure he studied, the pastor
made answer:
“Truly, I find it no wonder that she so enchanted
the stripling,
Since, to a man’s experienced eye, she seems
lacking in nothing.
Happy to whom mother Nature a shape harmonious has
given!
Such will always commend him, and he can be nowhere
a stranger.
All approach with delight, and all are delighted to
linger,
If to the outward shape correspond but a courteous
spirit.
I can assure thee, in her the youth has found him
a maiden,
Who, in the days to come, his life shall gloriously
brighten,
Standing with womanly strength in every necessity
by him.
Surely the soul must be pure that inhabits a body
so perfect,
And of a happy old age such vigorous youth is the
promise.”
Thereupon answered and said the doctor in language
of caution:
“Often appearances cheat; I like not to trust
to externals.
For I have oft seen put to the test the truth of the
proverb:
Till thou a bushel of salt with a new acquaintance
hast eaten,
Be not too ready to trust him; for time alone renders
thee certain
How ye shall fare with each other, and how well your
friendship shall prosper.
Let us then rather at first make inquiries among the
good people
By whom the maiden is known, and who can inform us
about her.”
“Much I approve of thy caution,” the preacher
replied as he followed.
“Not for ourselves is the suit, and ’tis
delicate wooing for others.”
Towards the good magistrate, then, the men directed
their footsteps,
Who was again ascending the street in discharge of
his duties.
Him the judicious pastor at once addressed and with
caution.
“Look! we a maiden have here descried in the
neighboring garden,
Under an apple-tree sitting, and making up garments
for children
Out of second-hand stuff that somebody doubtless has
given;
And we were pleased with her aspect: she seems
like a girl to be trusted.
Tell us whatever thou knowest: we ask it with
honest intentions.”
Soon as the magistrate nearer had come, and looked
into the garden,
“Her thou knowest already,” he said; “for
when I was telling
Of the heroic deed performed by the hand of that maiden,
When she snatched the man’s sword, and delivered
herself and her charges,
This was the one! she is vigorous born, as thou seest
by her stature;
Yet she is good as strong, for her aged kinsman she
tended
Until the day of his death, which was finally hastened
by sorrow
Over his city’s distress, and his own endangered
possessions.
Also, with quiet submission, she bore the death of
her lover,
Who a high-spirited youth, in the earliest flush of
excitement,
Kindled by lofty resolve to fight for a glorious freedom,
Hurried to Paris, where early a terrible death he
encountered.
For as at home, so there, his foes were deceit and
oppression.”
Thus the magistrate spoke. The others saluted
and thanked him,
And from his purse a gold-piece the pastor drew forth:—for
the silver
He had some hours before already in charity given,
When he in mournful groups had seen the poor fugitives
passing;—
And to the magistrate handed it, saying: “Apportion
the money
’Mongst thy destitute people, and God vouchsafe
it an increase.”
But the stranger declined it, and, answering, said:
“We have rescued
Many a dollar among us, with clothing and other possessions,
And shall return, as I hope, ere yet our stock is
exhausted.”
Then the pastor replied, and pressed the money upon
him:
“None should be backward in giving in days like
the present, and no one
Ought to refuse to accept those gifts which in kindness
are offered.
None can tell how long he may hold what in peace he
possesses,
None how much longer yet he shall roam through the
land of the stranger,
And of his farm be deprived, and deprived of the garden
that feeds him.”
“Ay, to be sure!” in his bustling way
interrupted the doctor:
“If I had only some money about me, ye surely
should have it,
Little and big; for certainly many among you must
need it.
Yet I’ll not go without giving thee something
to show what my will is,
Even though sadly behind my good-will must lag the
performance.”
Thus, as he spoke, by its straps his embroidered pocket
of leather,
Where his tobacco was kept, he drew forth,—enough
was now in it
Several pipes to fill,—and daintily opened,
and portioned.
“Small is the gift,” he added. The
justice, however, made answer:
“Good tobacco can ne’er to the traveller
fail to be welcome.”
Then did the village doctor begin to praise his canister.
But the clergyman drew him away, and they quitted
the justice.
“Let us make haste,” said the thoughtful
man: “the youth’s waiting in torture;
Come I let him hear, as soon as he may, the jubilant
tidings.”
So they hastened their steps, and came to where under
the lindens
Hermann against the carriage was leaning. The
horses were stamping
Wildly the turf; he held them in check, and, buried
in musing,
Stood, into vacancy gazing before him; nor saw the
two envoys,
Till, as they came, they called out and made to him
signals of triumph.
E’en as far off as they then were, the doctor
began to address him;
But they were presently nearer come and then the good
pastor
Grasped his hand and exclaimed, interrupting the word
of his comrade:
“Hail to thee, O young man! thy true eye and
heart have well chosen;
Joy be to thee and the wife of thy youth; for of thee
she is worthy.
Come then and turn us the wagon, and drive straightway
to the village,
There the good maid to woo, and soon bring her home
to thy dwelling.”
Still, however, the young man stood, without sign
of rejoicing
Hearing his messenger’s words, though heavenly
they were and consoling.
Deeply he sighed as he said: “With hurrying
wheels we came hither,
And shall be forced, perchance, to go mortified homeward
and slowly.
For disquiet has fallen upon me since here I’ve
been waiting,
Doubt and suspicion and all that can torture the heart
of a lover.
Think ye we have but to come, and that then the maiden
will follow
Merely because we are rich, while she is poor and
an exile?
Poverty, too, makes proud, when it comes unmerited!
Active
Seems she to be, and contented, and so of the world
is she mistress.
Think ye a maiden like her, with the manners and beauty
that she has,
Can into woman have grown, and no worthy man’s
love have attracted?
Think ye that love until now can have been shut out
from her bosom?
Drive not thither too rashly: we might to our
mortification
Have to turn softly homewards our horses’ heads.
For my fear is
That to some youth already this heart has been given;
already
This brave hand has been clasped, has pledged faith
to some fortunate lover.
Then with my offer, alas! I should stand in confusion
before her.”
Straightway the pastor had opened his lips to speak
consolation,
When his companion broke in, and said in his voluble
fashion:
“Years ago, forsooth, unknown had been such
a dilemma.
All such affairs were then conducted in regular fashion.
Soon as a bride for their son had been by the parents
selected,
First some family friend they into their councils
would summon,
Whom they afterwards sent as a suitor to visit the
parents
Of the elected bride. Arrayed in his finest apparel,
Soon after dinner on Sunday he sought the respectable
burgher,
When some friendly words were exchanged upon general
subjects,
He knowing how to direct the discourse as suited his
purpose.
After much circumlocution he finally mentioned the
daughter,
Praising her highly; and praising the man and the
house that had sent him.
“Let that be as it may!” made answer the
youth, who had scarcely
Unto the words paid heed; but in silence had made
his decision.
“I will go thither myself, will myself hear
my destiny spoken
Out of the lips of a maiden in whom I a confidence
cherish
Greater than heart of man has e’er before cherished
in woman.
Say what she will, ’twill be good and wise;
of that I am certain.
Should I behold her never again, yet this once will
I see her;
Yet this once the clear gaze of those dark eyes will
encounter,
If I must press her ne’er to my heart, yet that
neck and that bosom
Will I behold once more, that my arm so longs to encircle;
Once more that mouth will see, whose kiss and whose
‘yes’ would for ever
Render me happy, from which a ‘no’ will
for ever destroy me.
But ye must leave me alone. Do not wait for me
here; but return ye
Back to my father and mother again, and give them
the knowledge
That their son has not been deceived, that the maiden
is worthy.
So then leave me alone! I shall follow the footpath
that crosses
Over the hill by the pear-tree, and thence descends
through our vineyard,
Taking a shorter way home. And oh, may I bring
to our dwelling,
Joyful and quick my beloved! but perhaps I alone may
come creeping
Over that path to the house, and ne’er again
tread it with gladness.”
Thus he spoke, and gave up the reins to the hand of
the pastor,
Who understandingly grasped them, the foaming horses
controlling,
Speedily mounted the carriage, and sat in the seat
of the driver.
But thou didst hesitate, provident neighbor, and say
in remonstrance:
“Heart and soul and spirit, my friend, I willingly
trust thee;
But as for life and limb, they are not in the safest
of keeping,
When the temporal reins are usurped by the hand of
the clergy.”
But thou didst laugh at his words, intelligent pastor,
and answer:
“Sit thee down, and contentedly trust me both
body and spirit;
For, in holding the reins, my hand grew long ago skilful,
Long has my eye been trained in making the nicest
of turnings;
For we were practised well in driving the carriage
Thereupon, half-reassured, the neighbor ascended the
wagon,
Sat like one who for a prudent leap is holding him
ready,
And the stallions sped rapidly homeward, desiring
their stable.
Clouds of dust whirled up from under their powerful
hoofbeats.
Long the youth stood there yet, and saw the dust in
its rising,
Saw the dust as it settled again: he stood there
unheeding.
DOROTHEA
Like as the traveller, who, when the sun is approaching
its setting,
Fixes his eyes on it once again ere quickly it vanish,
Then on the sides of the rocks, and on all the darkening
bushes,
Sees its hovering image; whatever direction he look
in
That hastes before, and flickers and gleams in radiant
colors,—
So before Hermann’s eyes moved the beautiful
shape of the maiden
Softly, and seeming to follow the path that led into
the cornfield.
But he aroused from his wildering dream and turned
himself slowly
Towards where the village lay and was wildered again;
for again came
Moving to meet him the lofty form of the glorious
maiden.
Fixedly gazed he upon her; herself it was and no phantom.
Bearing in either hand a larger jar and a smaller,
Each by the handle, with busy step she came on to
the fountain.
Joyfully then he hastened to meet her; the sight of
her gave him
Courage and strength; and thus the astonished girl
he accosted:
“Do I then find thee, brave-hearted maiden,
so soon again busy,
Rendering aid unto others, and happy in bringing them
comfort?
Say why thou comest alone to this well which lies
at such a distance,
When all the rest are content with the water they
find in the village?
This has peculiar virtues, ’tis true; and the
taste is delicious.
Thou to that mother wouldst bring it, I trow, whom
thy faithfulness rescued.”
Straightway with cordial greeting the kindly maiden
made answer:
“Here has my walk to the spring already been
amply rewarded,
Since I have found the good friend who bestowed so
abundantly on us;
For a pleasure not less than the gifts is the sight
of the giver.
Come, I pray thee, and see for thyself who has tasted
thy bounty;
Come, and the quiet thanks receive of all it has solaced.
But that thou straightway the reason mayst know for
which I am hither
Come to draw, where pure and unfailing the water is
flowing,
This I must tell thee,—that all the water
we have in the village
Has by improvident people been troubled with horses
and oxen
Wading direct through the source which brings the
inhabitants water.
And furthermore they have also made foul with their
washings and rinsings
All the troughs of the village, and all the fountains
have sullied;
For but one thought is in all, and that how to satisfy
quickest
Self and the need of the moment, regardless of what
may come after.”
Thus she spoke, and the broad stone steps meanwhile
had descended
With her companion beside her, and on the low wall
of the fountain
Both sat them down. She bent herself over to
draw, and he also
Took in his hand the jar that remained, and bent himself
over,
And in the blue of the heavens, they, seeing their
image reflected,
Friendly greetings and nods exchanged in the quivering
mirror.
“Give me to drink,” the youth thereupon
in his gladness petitioned,
And she handed the pitcher. Familiarly sat they
and rested,
Both leaning over their jars, till she presently asked
her companion:
“Tell me, why I find thee here, and without
thy horses and wagon,
Far from the place where I met thee at first? how
camest thou hither?”
Thoughtful he bent his eyes on the ground, then quietly
raised them
Up to her face, and, meeting with frankness the gaze
of the maiden,
Felt himself solaced and stilled. But then impossible
was it,
That he of love should speak; her eye told not of
affection,
Only of clear understanding, requiring intelligent
answer.
And he composed himself quickly, and cordially said
to the maiden:
Hearken to me, my child, and let me reply to thy question.
’Twas for thy sake that hither I came; why seek
to conceal it?
Know I live happy at home with both my affectionate
parents,
Faithfully giving my aid their house and estates in
directing,
Being an only son, and because our affairs are extensive.
Mine is the charge of the farm; my father bears rule
in the household;
While the presiding spirit of all is the diligent
mother.
But thine experience doubtless has taught thee how
grievously servants,
Now through deceit, and now through their carelessness,
harass the mistress,
Forcing her ever to change and replace one fault with
another.
Long for that reason my mother has wished for a maid
in the household,
Who not with hand alone, but with heart, too, will
lend her assistance,
Taking the daughter’s place, whom, alas! she
was early deprived of.
How when to-day by the wagon I saw thee, so ready
and cheerful,
Witnessed the strength of thine arms, and thy limbs
of such healthful proportion,
When thy intelligent speech I heard, I was smitten
with wonder.
Hastening homeward, I there to my parents and neighbors
the stranger
Praised as she well deserved. But I now am come
hither to tell thee
What is their wish as mine.—Forgive me
my stammering language.”
“Hesitate not,” she, answering, said,
“to tell me what follows.
Thou dost not give me offence; I have listened with
gratitude to thee:
Speak it out honestly therefore; the sound of it will
not alarm me.
Thou wouldst engage me as servant to wait on thy father
and mother,
And to look after the welt-ordered house of which
ye are the owners;
And thou thinkest in me to find them a capable servant,
One who is skilled in her work, and not of a rude
Joyfully hearkened the youth to the willing maiden’s
decision,
Doubtful whether he ought not at once to make honest
confession.
Yet it appeared to him best to leave her awhile in
her error,
Nor for her love to sue, before leading her home to
his dwelling.
Ah! and the golden ring he perceived on the hand of
the maiden,
Wherefore he let her speak on, and gave diligent ear
to her language.
“Come,” she presently said, “Let
us back to the village; for maidens
Always are sure to be blamed if they tarry too long
at the fountain.
Yet how delightful it is to chat by the murmuring
water!”
Then from their seats they rose, and both of them
turned to the fountain
One more look behind, and a tender longing possessed
them.
Both of the water-jars then in silence she took by
the handle,
Carried them up the steps, while behind her followed
her lover.
One of the pitchers he begged her to give him to lighten
the burden.
“Nay, let it be!” she said: “I
carry them better so balanced.
Nor shall the master, who is to command, be doing
me service.
Look not so gravely upon me, as thinking my fortune
a hard one.
Early a woman should learn to serve, for that is her
calling;
Since through service alone she finally comes to the
headship,
Comes to the due command that is hers of right in
the household.
Early the sister must wait on her brother, and wait
on her parents;
Life must be always with her a perpetual coming and
going,
Or be a fetching and carrying, making and doing for
others.
Happy for her be she wonted to think no way is too
grievous,
And if the hours of the night be to her as the hours
of the daytime;
If she find never a needle too fine, nor a labor too
trifling;
Wholly forgetful of self, and caring to live but in
Thus she spoke, and was come, meanwhile, with her
silent companion,
Far as the floor of the barn, at the furthermost end
of the garden,
Where was the sick woman lying, whom, glad, she had
left with her daughters,
Those late rescued maidens: fair pictures of
innocence were they.
Both of them entered the barn; and, e’en as
they did so, the justice,
Leading a child in each hand, came in from the other
direction.
These had been lost, hitherto, from the sight of their
sorrowing mother;
But in the midst of the crowd the old man now had
descried them.
Joyfully sprang they forward to meet their dear mother’s
embraces,
And to salute with delight their brother, their unknown
companion.
Next upon Dorothea they sprang with affectionate greeting,
Asking for bread and fruit, but more than all else
for some water.
So then she handed the water about; and not only the
children
Drank, but the sick woman too, and her daughters,
and with them the justice.
All were refreshed, and highly commended the glorious
water;
Acid it was to the taste, and reviving, and wholesome
to drink of.
Then with a serious face the maiden replied to them,
saying:
“Friends, for the last time now to your mouth
have I lifted my pitcher;
And for the last time by me have your lips been moistened
with water.
But henceforth in the heat of the day when the draught
shall refresh you,
When in the shade ye enjoy your rest beside a clear
fountain,
Think of me then sometimes and of all my affectionate
service,
Prompted more by my love than the duty I owed you
as kindred.
I shall acknowledge as long as I live the kindness
ye’ve shown me.
’Tis with regret that I leave you; but every
one now is a burden,
More than a help to his neighbor, and all must be
finally scattered
Far through a foreign land, if return to our homes
be denied us.
See, here stands the youth to whom we owe thanks for
the presents.
He gave the cloak for the baby, and all these welcome
provisions.
Now he is come, and has asked me if I will make one
in his dwelling,
That I may serve therein his wealthy and excellent
parents.
And I refuse not the offer; for maidens must always
be serving;
Burdensome were it for them to rest and be served
in the household.
Therefore I follow him gladly. A youth of intelligence
seems he,
And so will also the parents be, as becometh the wealthy.
So then farewell, dear friend; and mayst thou rejoice
in thy nursling,
Living, and into thy face already so healthfully looking!
Many were come, meanwhile, near relatives all of the
mother,
Bringing her various gifts, and more suitable quarters
announcing.
All of them, hearing the maiden’s decision,
gave Hermann their blessing,
Coupled with glances of meaning, while each made his
special reflections.
Hastily one and another would say in the ear of his
neighbor:
“If in the master a lover she find, right well
were she cared for.”
Hermann took her at last by the hand, and said as
he did so:
“Let us be going; the day is declining, and
distant the city.”
Eager and voluble then the women embraced Dorothea;
Hermann drew her away; but other adieus must be spoken:
Lastly the children with cries fell upon her and terrible
weeping,
Clung to her garments, and would not their dear second
mother should leave them.
But in a tone of command the women said, one and another:
“Hush now, children, she’s going to the
town, and will presently bring you
Plenty of nice sweet cake that was by your brother
bespoken
When by the stork just now he was brought past the
shop of the baker.
Soon you will see her come back with sugar-plums splendidly
gilded.”
Then did the little ones loose their hold, and Hermann,
though hardly,
Tore her from further embraces away, and far-waving
kerchiefs.
HERMANN AND DOROTHEA
Towards the setting sun the two thus went on their
journey:
Close he had wrapped himself round with clouds portending
a tempest.
Out from the veil, now here and now there, with fiery
flashes,
Gleaming over the field shot forth the ominous lightning.
“May not these threatening heavens,” said
Hermann, “be presently sending
Hailstones upon us and violent rains; for fair is
the harvest.”
And in the waving luxuriant grain they delighted together:
Almost as high it reached as the lofty shapes that
moved through it.
Thereupon spoke the maiden, and said to her guide
and companion:
“Friend, unto whom I soon am to owe so kindly
a fortune,
Shelter and home, while many an exile’s exposed
to the tempest,
Tell me concerning thy parents, I pray thee, and teach
me to know them,
Them whom with all my heart I desire to serve in the
future.
Who understands his master, more easily gives satisfaction,
Having regard to the things which to him seem chief
in importance,
And on the doing of which his firm-set mind is determined.
Tell me therefore, I pray, how to win thy father and
mother.”
And to her question made answer the good and intelligent
Hermann:
“Ah, what wisdom thou showest, thou good, thou
excellent maiden,
Asking thus first of all concerning the tastes of
my parents!
Know that in vain hitherto I have labored in serving
my father,
Taking upon me as were it my own, the charge of the
household;
Early and late at work in the fields, and o’erseeing
the vineyard.
But my mother I fully content, who can value my service;
And thou wilt also appear in her eyes the worthiest
of maidens,
If for the house thou carest, as were it thine own
thou wast keeping.
Otherwise is it with father, who cares for the outward
appearance.
Do not regard me, good maiden, as one who is cold
and unfeeling,
That unto thee a stranger I straightway discover my
father.
Nay, I assure thee that never before have words such
as these are
Freely dropped from my tongue, which is not accustomed
to prattle;
But from out of my bosom thou lurest its every secret.
Some of the graces of life my good father covets about
him,
Outward signs of affection he wishes, as well as of
honor;
And an inferior servant might possibly give satisfaction,
Who could turn these to account, while he might be
displeased with a better.”
Thereupon said she with joy, the while her hastening
footsteps
Over the darkening pathway with easy motion she quickened:
“Truly I hope to them both I shall equally give
satisfaction:
For in thy mother’s nature I find such an one
as mine own is,
And to the outward graces I’ve been from my
childhood accustomed.
Greatly was courtesy valued among our neighbors the
Frenchmen,
During their earlier days; it was common to noble
and burgher,
As to the peasant, and every one made it the rule
Thus she said, and e’en as she spoke they stood
under the pear-tree.
Down from the heavens the moon at her full was shedding
her splendor.
Night had come on, and wholly obscured was the last
gleam of sunlight,
So that contrasting masses lay side by side with each
other,
Clear and bright as the day, and black with the shadows
of midnight;
Gratefully fell upon Hermann’s ear the kindly
asked question
Under the shade of the glorious tree, the spot he
so treasured,
Which but this morning had witnessed the tears he
had shed for the exile.
And while they sat themselves down to rest them here
for a little,
Thus spoke the amorous youth, as he grasped the hand
of the maiden:
“Suffer thy heart to make answer, and follow
it freely in all things.”
Yet naught further he ventured to say although so
propitious
Seemed the hour: he feared he should only haste
on a refusal.
Ah, and he felt besides the ring on her finger, sad
token!
Therefore they sat there, silent and still, beside
one another.
First was the maiden to speak: “How sweet
is this glorious moonlight!”
Said she at length: “It is as the light
of the day in its brightness.
There in the city I plainly can see the houses and
courtyards,
And in the gable—methinks I can number
its panes-is a window.”
“What thou seest,” the modest youth thereupon
made her answer,—
“What thou seest is our dwelling, to which I
am leading thee downward,
And that window yonder belongs to my room in the attic,
Which will be thine perhaps, for various changes are
making.
All these fields, too, are ours; they are ripe for
the harvest to-morrow.
Here in the shade we will rest, and partake of our
noontide refreshment.
But it is time we began our descent through the vineyard
and garden;
For dost thou mark how yon threatening storm-cloud
comes nearer and nearer,
Charged with lightning, and ready our fair full moon
to extinguish?”
So they arose from their seats, and over the cornfields
descended,
Through the luxuriant grain, enjoying the brightness
of evening,
Until they came to the vineyard, and so entered into
its shadow.
Then he guided her down o’er the numerous blocks
that were lying,
Rough and unhewn on the pathway, and served as the
steps of the alley.
Slowly the maiden descended, and leaning her hands
on his shoulder,
But she with playfulness said, concealing the pain
that she suffered:
“That is a sign of misfortune, so timorous persons
would tell us,
When on approaching a house we stumble not far from
the threshold;
And for myself, I confess, I could wish for a happier
omen.
Let us here linger awhile that thy parents may not
have to blame thee,
Seeing a limping maid, and thou seem an incompetent
landlord.”
PROSPECT
Muses, O ye who the course of true love so willingly
favor,
Ye who thus far on his way the excellent youth have
conducted,
Even before the betrothal have pressed to his bosom
the maiden;
Further your aid vouchsafe this charming pair in uniting,
Straightway dispersing the clouds which over their
happiness lower!
Yet first of all declare what is passing meanwhile
at the Lion.
Now for the third time again the mother impatient
had entered
Where were assembled the men, whom anxious but now
she had quitted;
Spoke of the gathering storm, and the moonlight’s
rapid obscuring;
Then of her son’s late tarrying abroad and the
dangers of nightfall;
Sharply upbraided her friends that without having
speech of the maiden,
And without urging his suit, they had parted from
Hermann so early.
“Make it not worse than it is,” the father
replied with displeasure.
“For, as thou seest, we tarry ourselves and
are waiting the issue.”
Calmly, however, from where he was sitting the neighbor
made answer:
“Never in hours of disquiet like this do I fail
to be grateful
Unto my late, blessed father, who every root of impatience
Tore from my heart when a child, and left no fibre
remaining;
So that I learned on the instant to wait as do none
of your sages.”
“Tell us,” the pastor returned, “what
legerdemain he made use of.”
“That will I gladly relate, for all may draw
from it a lesson;”
So made the neighbor reply. “When a boy
I once stood of a Sunday
Full of impatience, and looking with eagerness out
for the carriage
Which was to carry us forth to the spring that lies
under the lindens.
Still the coach came not. I ran, like a weasel,
now hither, now thither,
Up stairs and down, and forward and back, ’twixt
the door and the window;
Even my fingers itched to be moving; I scratched on
the tables,
Went about pounding and stamping, and hardly could
keep me from weeping.
All was observed by the calm-tempered man; but at
last when my folly
Came to be carried too far, by the arm he quietly
took me,
Led me away to the window, and spoke in this serious
language:
’Seest thou yonder the carpenter’s shop
that is closed for the Sunday?
He will re-open to-morrow, when plane and saw will
be started,
And will keep on through the hours of labor from morning
till evening.
But consider you this,—a day will be presently
coming
When that man shall himself be astir and all of his
workmen,
Making a coffin for thee to be quickly and skilfully
finished.
Then that house of boards they will busily bring over
hither,
Which must at last receive alike the impatient and
patient,
And which is destined soon with close-pressing roof
to be covered.’
Straightway I saw the whole thing in my mind as if
it were doing;
Saw the boards fitting together, and saw the black
color preparing,
Sat me down patiently then, and in quiet awaited the
carriage.
Now when others I see, in seasons of anxious expectance,
Running distracted about, I cannot but think of the
coffin.”
Smiling, the pastor replied: “The affecting
picture of death stands
Not as a dread to the wise, and not as an end to the
pious.
Those it presses again into life, and teaches to use
it;
These by affliction it strengthens in hope to future
salvation.
Death becomes life unto both. Thy father was
greatly mistaken
When to a sensitive boy he death in death thus depicted.
Let us the value of nobly ripe age, point out to the
young man,
And to the aged the youth, that in the eternal progression
Both may rejoice, and life may in life thus find its
completion.”
But the door was now opened, and showed the majestical
couple.
Filled with amaze were the friends, and amazed the
affectionate parents,
Seeing the form of the maid so well matched with that
of her lover.
Yea, the door seemed too low to allow the tall figures
to enter,
As they together now appeared coming over the threshold.
Hermann, with hurried words, presented her thus to
his parents:
“Here is a maiden,” he said; “such
a one as ye wish in the household.
Kindly receive her, dear father: she merits it
well; and thou, mother,
Question her straightway on all that belongs to a
housekeeper’s duty,
That ye may see how well she deserves to ye both to
be nearer.”
Quickly he then drew aside the excellent clergyman,
saying:
“Help me, O worthy sir, and speedily out of
this trouble;
Loosen, I pray thee, this knot, at whose untying I
tremble.
Know that ’tis not as a lover that I have brought
hither the maiden;
But she believes that as servant she comes to the
house, and I tremble
Lest in displeasure she fly as soon as there’s
mention of marriage.
But be it straightway decided; for she no longer in
error
Thus shall be left, and I this suspense no longer
can suffer.
Hasten and show us in this a proof of the wisdom we
honor.”
Towards the company then the clergyman instantly turned
him;
But already, alas! had the soul of the maiden been
troubled,
Hearing the father’s speech; for he, in his
sociable fashion,
Had in these playful words, with the kindest intention
addressed her:
“Ay, this is well, my child! with delight I
perceive that my Hermann
Has the good taste of his father, who often showed
his in his young days,
Leading out always the fairest to dance, and bringing
the fairest
Finally home as his wife; our dear little mother here
that was.
For by the bride that a man shall elect we can judge
what himself is,
Tell what the spirit is in him, and whether he feel
his own value.
Nor didst thou need for thyself, I’ll engage,
much time for decision;
For, in good sooth, methinks, he’s no difficult
person to follow.”
Hermann had heard but in part; his limbs were inwardly
trembling,
And of a sudden a stillness had fallen on all of the
circle.
But by these words of derision, for such she could
not but deem them,
Wounded, and stung to the depths of her soul, the
excellent maiden,
Stood, while the fugitive blood o’er her cheeks
and e’en to her bosom,
Poured its flush. But she governed herself, and
her courage collecting,
Answered the old man thus, her pain not wholly concealing:
“Truly for such a reception thy son had in no
wise prepared me,
When he the ways of his father described, the excellent
burgher.
Thou art a man of culture, I know, before whom I am
standing;
Dealest with every one wisely, according as suits
his position;
But thou hast scanty compassion, it seems, on one
such as I am,
Who, a poor girl, am now crossing thy threshold with
purpose to serve thee;
Else, with such bitter derision, thou wouldst not
have made me remember
How far removed my fortune from that of thyself and
thy son is.
True, I come poor to thy house, and bring with me
naught but my bundle
Here where is every abundance to gladden the prosperous
inmates.
Yet I know well myself; I feel the relations between
us,
Say, is it noble, with so much of mockery straightway
to greet me,
That I am sent from the house while my foot is scarce
yet on the threshold?”
Anxiously Hermann turned and signed to his ally the
pastor
That he should rush to the rescue and straightway
dispel the delusion.
Then stepped the wise man hastily forward and looked
on the maiden’s
Tearful eyes, her silent pain and repressed indignation,
And in his heart was impelled not at once to clear
up the confusion,
Rather to put to the test the girl’s disquieted
spirit.
Therefore he unto her said in language intended to
try her:
“Surely, thou foreign-born maiden, thou didst
not maturely consider,
When thou too rashly decidedst to enter the service
of strangers,
All that is meant by the placing thyself ’neath
the rule of a master;
For by our hand to a bargain the fate of the year
is determined,
And but a single ‘yea’ compels to much
patient endurance.
Not the worst part of the service the wearisome steps
to be taken,
Neither the bitter sweat of a labor that presses unceasing;
Since the industrious freeman must toil as well as
the servant.
But ’tis to bear with the master’s caprice
when he censures unjustly,
Or when, at variance with self, he orders now this,
now the other;
Bear with the petulance, too, of the mistress, easily
angered,
And with the rude, overbearing ways of unmannerly
children.
All this is hard to endure, and yet to go on with
thy duties
Quickly, without delay, nor thyself grow sullen and
stubborn.
Yet thou appearest ill fitted for this, since already
so deeply
Stung by the father’s jests: whereas there
is nothing more common
Than for a girl to be teased on account of a youth
she may fancy.”
Thus he spoke. The maiden had felt the full force
of his language,
And she restrained her no more; but with passionate
outburst her feelings
Made themselves way; a sob broke forth from her now
heaving bosom,
And, while the scalding tears poured down, she straightway
made answer:
“Ah, that rational man who thinks to advise
us in sorrow,
Knows not how little of power his cold words have
in relieving
Ever a heart from that woe which a sovereign fate
has inflicted.
Ye are prosperous and glad; how then should a pleasantry
wound you?
Yet but the lightest touch is a source of pain to
the sick man.
Nay, concealment itself, if successful, had profited
nothing.
Better show now what had later increased to a bitterer
anguish,
And to an inward consuming despair might perhaps have
reduced me.
Let me go back! for here in this house I can tarry
no longer.
I will away, and wander in search of my hapless companions,
Whom I forsook in their need; for myself alone choosing
the better.
This is my firm resolve, and I therefore may make
a confession
Which might for years perhaps have else lain hid in
my bosom.
Deeply indeed was I hurt by the father’s words
of derision;
Not that I’m sensitive, proud beyond what is
fitting a servant;
But that my heart in truth had felt itself stirred
Thus she spoke and back to the door she hastily turned
her,
Still bearing under her arm, as she with her had brought
it, her bundle.
But with both of her arms the mother seized hold of
the maiden,
Clasping her round the waist, and exclaiming, amazed
and bewildered:
“Tell me, what means all this? and these idle
tears, say, what mean they?
I will not let thee depart: thou art the betrothed
of my Hermann.”
But still the father stood, observing the scene with
displeasure,
Looked on the weeping girl, and said in a tone of
vexation:
“This then must be the return that I get for
all my indulgence,
That at the close of the day this most irksome of
all things should happen!
For there is naught I can tolerate less than womanish
weeping,
Violent outcries, which only involve in disorder and
Thereupon answered and said the excellent clergyman,
smiling:
“Tell me, what other device could have drawn
this charming confession
Out of the good maiden’s lips, and thus have
revealed her affection?
Has not thy trouble been straightway transformed into
gladness and rapture?
Therefore speak up for thyself; what need of the tongue
of another?”
Thereupon Hermann came forward, and spoke in these
words of affection:
“Do not repent of thy tears, nor repent of these
passing distresses;
For they complete my joy, and—may I not
hope it-thine also?
Not to engage the stranger, the excellent maid, as
a servant,
Unto the fountain I came; but to sue for thy love
I came thither.
Only, alas! my timorous look could thy heart’s
inclination
Nowise perceive; I read in thine eyes of nothing but
kindness,
As from the fountain’s tranquil mirror thou
gavest me greeting.
Might I but bring thee home, the half of my joy was
accomplished.
But thou completest it unto me now; oh, blest be thou
for it!”
Then with a deep emotion the maiden gazed on the stripling;
Neither forbade she embrace and kiss, the summit of
rapture,
When to a loving pair they come as the longed-for
assurance,
Pledge of a lifetime of bliss, that appears to them
now never-ending.
Unto the others, meanwhile, the pastor had made explanation.
But with feeling and grace the maid now advanced to
the father,
Bent her before him, and kissing the hand he would
fain have withholden,
Said: “Thou wilt surely be just and forgive
one so startled as I was,
First for my tears of distress, and now for the tears
of my gladness.
That emotion forgive me, and oh! forgive me this also.
For I can scarce comprehend the happiness newly vouchsafed
me.
Yes, let that first vexation of which I, bewildered,
was guilty
Be too the last. Whatever the maid of affectionate
service
Faithfully promised, shall be to thee now performed
by the daughter.”
Straightway then, concealing his tears, the father
embraced her,
Cordially, too, the mother came forward and kissed
her with fervor,
Pressing her hands in her own: the weeping women
were silent.
Thereupon quickly he seized, the good and intelligent
pastor,
First the father’s hand, and the wedding-ring
drew from his finger,—
Not so easily either: the finger was plump and
detained it,—
Next took the mother’s ring also, and with them
betrothed he the children,
Saying: “These golden circlets once more
their office performing
Firmly a tie shall unite, which in all things shall
equal the old one,
Deeply is this young man imbued with love of the maiden,
And, as the maiden confesses, her heart is gone out
to him also.
Here do I therefore betroth you and bless for the
years that are coming,
With the consent of the parents, and having this friend
as a witness.”
Then the neighbor saluted at once, and expressed his
good wishes;
But when the clergyman now the golden circlet was
drawing
Over the maiden’s hand, he observed with amazement
the other,
Which had already by Hermann been anxiously marked
at the fountain.
And with a kindly raillery thus thereupon he addressed
her:
“So, then thy second betrothal is this? let
us hope the first bridegroom
May not appear at the altar, and so prohibit the marriage.”
But she, answering, said: “Oh, let me to
this recollection
Yet one moment devote; for so much is due the good
giver,
Him who bestowed it at parting, and never came back
to his kindred.
All that should come he foresaw, when in haste the
passion for freedom,
When a desire in the newly changed order of things
to be working,
Urged him onward to Paris, where chains and death
he encountered.
‘Fare thee well,’ were his words; ’I
go, for all is in motion
Now for a time on the earth, and every thing seems
to be parting.
E’en in the firmest states fundamental laws
are dissolving;
Property falls away from the hand of the ancient possessor;
Friend is parted from friend; and so parts lover from
lover.
Here I leave thee, and where I shall find thee again,
or if ever,
Who can tell? Perhaps these words are our last
ones together.
Man’s but a stranger here on the earth, we are
told and with reason;
And we are each of us now become more of strangers
than ever.
Ours no more is the soil, and our treasures are all
of them changing:
Silver and gold are melting away from their time-honored
patterns.
All is in motion as though the already-shaped world
into chaos
Meant to resolve itself backward into night, and to
shape itself over.
Mine thou wilt keep thine heart, and should we be
ever united
Over the ruins of earth, it will be as newly made
creatures,
Beings transformed and free, no longer dependent on
fortune;
For can aught fetter the man who has lived through
days such as these are!
But if it is not to be, that, these dangers happily
over,
Ever again we be granted the bliss of mutual embraces,
Oh, then before thy thoughts so keep my hovering image
That with unshaken mind thou be ready for good or
Thus she spoke, and placed the two rings on her finger
together.
But her lover replied with a noble and manly emotion:
“So much the firmer then, amid these universal
convulsions,
Be, Dorothea, our union! We two will hold fast
and continue,
Firmly maintaining ourselves, and the right to our
ample possessions.
For that man, who, when times are uncertain, is faltering
in spirit,
Only increases the evil, and further and further transmits
it;
While he refashions the world, who keeps himself steadfastly
minded.
Poorly becomes it the German to give to these fearful
excitements
Aught of continuance, or to be this way and that way
inclining.
This is our own! let that be our word, and let us
maintain it!
For to those resolute peoples respect will be ever
accorded,
Who for God and the laws, for parents, women and children,
Fought and died, as together they stood with their
front to the foeman.
Thou art mine own; and now what is mine, is mine more
than ever.
Not with anxiety will I preserve it, and trembling
enjoyment;
Rather with courage and strength. To-day should
the enemy threaten,
Or in the future, equip me thyself and hand me my
weapons.
Let me but know that under thy care are my house and
dear parents,
Oh! I can then with assurance expose my breast
to the foeman.
And were but every man minded like me, there would
be an upspring
Might against might, and peace should revisit us all
with its gladness.”