The German Classics of the Nineteenth and Twentieth Centuries, Volume 06

"'Good heavens!' she cried, starting up and wringing her hands. 'Father! Father!' The old man entered. 'What was that you read in the papers today?' 'About the secretary?' he asked. 'Yes, yes!' 'Oh, he absconded, left nothing but debts, and swindled everybody. A warrant for his arrest has been issued.' 'Father,' she cried, 'here's one of his victims. He intrusted his money to him. He is ruined!'

"'Oh, you blockhead! The fools aren't all dead yet,' cried the old man. 'Didn't I tell her so? But she always found an excuse for him. At one time she ridiculed him, at another time he was honesty itself. But I'll take a hand in this business! I'll show you who's master in this house. You, Barbara, go to your room, and quickly. And you, sir, get out, and spare us your visits in future. We're not in the charity business here.' 'Father,' said the girl, 'don't be harsh with him; he's unhappy enough as it is!' 'That's the very reason I don't want to become unhappy too,' cried the old man. 'There, sir,' he continued, pointing to the letter Barbara had thrown upon the table a short time before, 'there's a man for you! He's got brains in his head and money in his purse. He doesn't swindle any one, but he takes good care at the same time not to let any one swindle him. And that's the main thing in being honest!' I stammered something about the loss of the bond not being certain. 'Ha, ha,' he cried, 'that secretary was no fool, the sly rascal! And now you'd better run after him, perhaps you can still catch him.' As he said this, he laid the palm of his hand on my shoulder and pushed me toward the door. I moved to one side and turned toward the girl, who was standing with her hands resting on the counter and her eyes fixed on the ground. She was breathing heavily. I wanted to approach her, but she angrily stamped her foot upon the floor; and when I held out my hand, hers twitched as though she were going to strike me again. Then I went, and the old man locked the door behind me.

"I tottered through the streets out of the city gate into the open fields. Sometimes despair gripped me, but then hope returned. I recollected having accompanied the secretary to the commercial court to deposit the bond. There I had waited in the gateway while he had gone upstairs alone. When he came down he told me that everything was in order and that the receipt would be sent to my residence. As a matter of fact I had received none, but there was still a possibility. At daybreak I returned to the city, and made straightway for the residence of the secretary. But the people there laughed and asked whether I hadn't read the papers? The commercial court was only a few doors away. I had the clerks examine the records, but neither his name nor mine could be found. There was no indication that the sum had ever been paid, and thus the disaster was certain. But that wasn't all, for inasmuch as a partnership contract had been drawn up, several of his creditors insisted upon seizing my person, which the court, however, would not permit. For this decision I was profoundly grateful, although it wouldn't have made much difference in the end.

"I may as well confess that the grocer and his daughter had, in the course of these disagreeable developments, quite receded into the background. Now that things had calmed down and I was considering what steps to take next, the remembrance of that last evening came vividly back to my mind. The old man, selfish as he was, I could understand very well; but the girl! Once in a while it occurred to me that if I had taken care of my money and been able to offer her a comfortable existence, she might have even—but she wouldn't have accepted me." With that he surveyed his wretched figure with hands outstretched. "Besides, she disliked my courteous behavior toward everybody."

"Thus I spent entire days thinking and planning. One evening at twilight—it was the time I had usually spent in the store—I had transported myself in spirit to the accustomed place. I could hear them speaking, hear them abusing me; it even seemed as though they were ridiculing me. Suddenly I heard a rustling at the door; it opened, and a woman entered. It was Barbara. I sat riveted to my chair, as though I beheld a ghost. She was pale, and carried a bundle under her arm. When she had reached the middle of the room she remained standing, looked at the bare walls and the wretched furniture, and heaved a deep sigh. Then she went to the wardrobe which stood on one side against the wall, opened her bundle containing some shirts and handkerchiefs—she had been attending to my laundry during the past few weeks—and pulled out the drawer. When she beheld the meagre contents she lifted her hands in astonishment, but immediately began to arrange the linen and put away the pieces she had brought, whereupon she stepped back from the bureau. Then she looked straight at me and, pointing with her finger to the open drawer, she said, 'Five shirts and three handkerchiefs. I'm bringing back what I took away.' So saying she slowly closed the drawer, leaned against the wardrobe, and began to cry aloud. It almost seemed as though she were going to faint, for she sat down on a chair beside the wardrobe and covered her face with her shawl. By her convulsive breathing I could see that she was still weeping. I had approached her softly and took her hand, which she willingly left in mine. But when, in order to make her look up, I moved my hand up to the elbow of her limp arm, she rose quickly, withdrew her hand, and said in a calm voice, 'Oh, what's the use of it all? You've made yourself and us unhappy; but yourself most of all, and you really don't deserve any pity'—here she became more agitated—'since you're so weak that you can't manage your own affairs and so credulous that you trust everybody, a rogue as soon as an honest man—and yet I'm sorry for you! I've come to bid you farewell. You may well look alarmed. And it's all your doing. I've got to go out among common people, something that I've always dreaded; but there's no help for it. I've shaken hands with you, so farewell, and forever!' I saw the tears coming to her eyes again, but she shook her head impatiently and went out. I felt rooted to the spot. When she had reached the door she turned once more and said, 'Your laundry is now in order. Take good care of it, for hard times are coming!' And then she raised her hand, crossed herself, and cried, 'God be with you, James! Forever and ever, Amen!' she added in a lower voice, and was gone.

"Not until then did I regain the use of my limbs. I hurried after her and called to her from the landing, whereupon she stopped on the stairway, but when I went down a step she called up, 'Stay where you are,' descended the rest of the way, and passed out of the door.

"I've known hard days since then, but none to equal this one. The following was scarcely less hard to bear, for I wasn't quite clear as to how things stood with me. The next morning, therefore, I stole over to the grocery store in the hope of possibly receiving some explanation. No one seemed to be stirring, and so I walked past and looked into the store. There I saw a strange woman weighing goods and counting out change. I made bold to enter, and asked whether she had bought the store. 'Not yet,' she said. 'And where are the owners?' 'They left this morning for Langenlebarn.'63 'The daughter, too?' I stammered. 'Why, of course,' she said, 'she went there to be married.'

"In all probability the woman told me then what I learned subsequently from others. The Langenlebarn butcher, the same one I had met in the store on my first visit, had been pursuing the girl for some time with offers of marriage, which she had always rejected until finally, a few days before, pressed by her father and in utter despair, she had given her consent. Father and daughter had departed that very morning, and while we were talking, Barbara was already the butcher's wife.

"As I said, the woman no doubt told me all this, but I heard nothing and stood motionless, till finally customers came, who pushed me aside. The woman asked me gruffly whether there was anything else I wanted, whereupon I took my departure.

"You'll believe me, my dear sir," he continued, "when I tell you that I now considered myself the most wretched of mortals, but it wasn't for long, for as I left the store and looked back at the small windows at which Barbara no doubt had often stood and looked out, a blissful sensation came over me. I felt that she was now free of all care, mistress of her own home, that she did not have to bear the sorrow and misery that would have been hers had she cast in her lot with a homeless wanderer—and this thought acted like a soothing balm, and I blessed her and her destiny.

"As my affairs went from bad to worse, I decided to earn my living by means of music. As long as my money lasted, I practised and studied the works of the great masters, especially the old ones, copying all of the music. But when the last penny had been spent, I made ready to turn my knowledge to account. I made a beginning in private circles, a gathering at the house of my landlady furnishing the first opportunity. But as the compositions I rendered didn't meet with approval, I visited the courtyards of houses, believing that among so many tenants there must be a few who value serious music. Finally, I even stood on public promenades, where I really had the satisfaction of having persons stop and listen, question me and pass on, not without a display of sympathy. The fact that they left was the very object of my playing, and then I saw that famous artists, whom I didn't flatter myself I equaled, accepted money for their performances, sometimes very large sums. In this way I have managed to make a scanty, but honest, living to this day.

"After many years another piece of good fortune was granted to me. Barbara returned. Her husband had prospered and acquired a butcher shop in one of the suburbs. She was the mother of two children, the elder being called James, like myself. My profession and the remembrance of old times didn't permit me to intrude; but at last they sent for me to give the elder boy lessons on the violin. He hasn't much talent to be sure, and can play only on Sundays, since his father needs him in his business during the week. But Barbara's song, which I have taught him, goes very well, and when we practise and play in this way, the mother sometimes joins in with her voice. She has, to be sure, changed greatly in these many years; she has grown stout, and no longer cares much for music; but the melody still sounds as sweet as of old."

With these words the old man took up his violin and began to play the song, and kept on playing and playing without paying any further attention to me. At last I had enough. I rose, laid a few pieces of silver upon the table near me, and departed, while the old man continued fiddling eagerly.

Soon after this incident I set out on a journey, from which I did not return until the beginning of winter. New impressions had crowded out the old, and I had almost forgotten my musician. It wasn't until the ice broke up in the following spring and the low-lying suburbs were flooded in consequence, that I was again reminded of him. The vicinity of Gardener's Lane had become a lake. There seemed to be no need of entertaining fears for the old man's life, for he lived high up under the roof, whereas death had claimed its numerous victims among the residents of the ground floor. But cut off from all help, how great might not his distress be! As long as the flood lasted, nothing could be done. Moreover, the authorities had done what they could to send food and aid in boats to those cut off by the water. But when the waters had subsided and the streets had become passable, I decided to deliver at the address that concerned me most my share of the fund that had been started for the benefit of the sufferers and that had assumed incredible proportions.

The Leopoldstadt was in frightful condition. Wrecked boats and broken tools were lying in the streets, while the cellars of some houses were still filled with water covered with floating furniture. In order to avoid the crowd I stepped aside toward a gate that stood ajar; as I brushed by it yielded, and in the passageway I beheld a row of dead bodies, which had evidently been picked up and laid out there for official inspection. Here and there I could even see unfortunate victims inside the rooms, still clinging to the iron window bars. For lack of time and men it was absolutely impossible to take an official census of so many fatalities.

Thus I went on and on. On all sides weeping and tolling of funeral bells, anxious mothers searching for their children and children looking for their parents. At last I reached Gardener's Lane. There also the mourners of a funeral procession were drawn up, seemingly at some distance, however, from the house I was bound for. But as I came nearer I noticed by the preparations and the movements of the people that there was some connection between the funeral procession and the gardener's house. At the gate stood a respectable looking man, somewhat advanced in years, but still vigorous. In his high top-boots, yellow leather breeches, and long coat, he looked like a country butcher. He was giving orders, but in the intervals conversed rather indifferently with the bystanders. I passed him and entered the court. The old gardener's wife came toward me, recognized me at once, and greeted me with tears in her eyes. "Are you also honoring us?" she said, "Alas, our poor old man! He's playing with the angels, who can't be much better than he was here below. The good man was sitting up there safe in his room; but when the water came and he heard the children scream, he jumped down and helped; he dragged and carried them to safety, until his breathing sounded like a blacksmith's bellows. And when toward the very last—you can't have your eyes everywhere—it was found that my husband had forgotten his tax-books and a few paper gulden in his wardrobe, the old man took an axe, entered the water which by that time reached up to his chest, broke open the wardrobe and fetched everything like the faithful creature he was. In this way he caught a cold, and as we couldn't summon aid at once, he became delirious and went from bad to worse, although we did what we could and suffered more than he did himself. For he sang incessantly, beating time and imagining that he was giving lessons. When the water had subsided somewhat and we were able to call the doctor and the priest, he suddenly raised himself in bed, turned his head to one side as though he heard something very beautiful in the distance, smiled, fell back, and was dead. Go right up stairs; he often spoke of you. The lady is also up there. We wanted to have him buried at our expense, but the butcher's wife would not allow it."

She urged me to go up the steep staircase to the attic-room. The door stood open, and the room itself had been cleared of everything except the coffin in the centre, which, already closed, was waiting for the pall-bearers. At the head sat a rather stout woman no longer in the prime of life, in a colored cotton dress, but with a black shawl and a black ribbon in her bonnet. It seemed almost as though she could never have been beautiful. Before her stood two almost grown-up children, a boy and a girl, whom she was evidently instructing how to behave at the funeral. Just as I entered she was pushing the boy's arm away from the coffin, on which he had been leaning in rather awkward fashion; then she carefully smoothed the projecting corners of the shroud. The gardener's wife led me up to the coffin, but at that moment the trombones began to play, and at the same time the butcher's voice was heard from the street, "Barbara, it's time." The pall-bearers appeared and I withdrew to make room for them. The coffin was lifted and carried down, and the procession began to move. First came the school children with cross and banner, then the priest and the sexton. Directly behind the coffin marched the two children of the butcher, and behind them came the parents. The man moved his lips incessantly, as if in devout prayer, yet looked constantly about him in both directions. The woman was eagerly reading in her prayer-book, but the two children caused her some trouble. At one time she pushed them ahead, at another she held them back; in fact the general order of the funeral procession seemed to worry her considerably. But she always returned to her prayer-book. In this way the procession arrived at the cemetery. The grave was open. The children threw down the first handful of earth, being followed by their father, who remained standing while their mother knelt, holding her book close to her eyes. The grave-diggers completed their business, and the procession, half disbanded, returned. At the door there was a slight altercation, as the wife evidently considered some charge of the undertaker too high. The mourners scattered in all directions. The old musician was buried.

A few days later—it was a Sunday—I was impelled by psychological curiosity and went to the house of the butcher, under the pretext that I wished to secure the violin of the old man as a keepsake. I found the family together, showing no token of recent distress. But the violin was hanging beside the mirror and a crucifix on the opposite wall, the objects being arranged symmetrically. When I explained the object of my visit and offered a comparatively high price for the instrument, the man didn't seem averse to concluding a profitable bargain. The woman, however, jumped up from her chair and said, "Well, I should say not. The violin belongs to James, and a few gulden more or less make no difference to us." With that she took the instrument from the wall, looked at it from all sides, blew off the dust, and laid it in the drawer, which she thereupon closed violently, looking as though she feared some one would steal it. Her face was turned away from me, so that I couldn't see what emotions were passing over it. At this moment the maid brought in the soup, and as the butcher, who didn't allow my visit to disturb him, began in a loud voice to say grace, in which the children joined with their shrill voices, I wished them a good appetite and left the room. My last glance fell upon the wife. She had turned around and the tears were streaming down her cheeks.

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MY JOURNEY TO WEIMAR64

TRANSLATED BY ALFRED REMY, A.MProfessor of Modern Languages. Brooklyn Commercial High School

A journey is an excellent remedy for a perplexed state of mind. This time the goal of my journey was to be Germany. The German geniuses had, indeed, almost all departed from this life, but there was still one living, Goethe, and the idea of speaking with him or even of merely seeing him made me happy in anticipation. I never was, as was the fashion at that time, a blind worshipper of Goethe, any more than I was of any other one poet. True poetry seemed to me to lie where they met on common ground; their individual characteristics lent them, on the one hand, the charm of individuality, while, on the other hand, they shared the general propensity of mankind to err. Goethe, in particular, had, since the death of Schiller, turned his attention from poetry to science. By distributing his talents over too many fields, he deteriorated in each; his latest poetic productions were tepid or cool, and when, for the sake of pose, he turned to the classical, his poetry became affected. The impassiveness which he imparted to that period contributed perhaps more than anything else to the decadence of poetry, inasmuch as it opened the door to the subsequent coarseness of Young Germany, of popular poetry, and of the Middle-high German trash. The public was only too glad to have once again something substantial to feed upon. Nevertheless, Goethe is one of the greatest poets of all time, and the father of our poetry. Klopstock gave the first impulse, Lessing blazed the trail, Goethe followed it. Perhaps Schiller means more to the German nation, for a people needs strong, sweeping impressions; Goethe, however, appears to be the greater poet. He fills an entire page in the development of the human mind, while Schiller stands midway between Racine and Shakespeare. Little as I sympathized with Goethe's most recent activity, and little as I could expect him to consider the author of The Ancestress and The Golden Fleece worthy of any consideration, in view of the dispassionate quietism which he affected at the time, I nevertheless felt that the mere sight of him would be sufficient to inspire me with new courage. Dormit puer, non mortuus est. (The boy sleeps, he is not dead.)

* * * * *

At last I arrived in Weimar and took quarters in "The Elephant," a hostelry at that time famous throughout Germany and the ante-room, as it were, to the living Valhalla of Weimar. From there I dispatched the waiter with my card to Goethe, inquiring whether he would receive me. The waiter returned with the answer that His Excellency, the Privy-councilor, was entertaining some guests and could not, therefore, receive me at the moment. He would expect me in the evening for tea.

I dined at the hotel. My name had become known through my card and the report of my presence spread through the town, so that I made many acquaintances.

Toward evening I called on Goethe. In the reception-room I found quite a large assemblage waiting for His Excellency, the Privy-councilor, who had not yet made his appearance. Among these there was a court councilor, Jacob or Jacobs, with his daughter, whom Goethe had entertained at dinner. The daughter, who later won a literary reputation under the pseudonym of Talvj, was as young as she was beautiful, and as beautiful as she was cultured, and so I soon lost my timidity and in my conversation with the charming young lady almost forgot that I was in Goethe's house. At last a side door opened, and he himself entered. Dressed in black, the star65 on his breast, with erect, almost stiff bearing, he stepped among us with the air of a monarch granting an audience. He exchanged a few words with one and another of his guests, and finally crossed the room and addressed me. He inquired whether Italian literature was cultivated to any great extent in our country. I told him, which was a fact, that the Italian language was, indeed, widely known, since all officials were required to learn it; Italian literature, on the other hand, was completely neglected; the fashion was rather to turn to English literature, which, despite its excellence, had an admixture of coarseness that seemed to me to be anything but advantageous to the present state of German culture, especially of poetry. Whether my opinion pleased him or not, I have no means of knowing; I am almost inclined to believe it did not, inasmuch as he was at that very time in correspondence with Lord Byron. He left me, talked with others, returned, conversed I no longer remember on what subjects, finally withdrew, and we were dismissed.

I confess that I returned to the hostelry in a most unpleasant frame of mind. It was not that my vanity had been offended—on the contrary, Goethe had treated me more kindly and more attentively than I had anticipated—but to see the ideal of my youth, the author of Faust, Clavigo, and Egmont, in the rôle of a formal minister presiding at tea brought me down from my celestial heights. Had his manner been rude or had he shown me the door, it would have pleased me better. I almost repented having gone to Weimar.

Consequently I determined to devote the following day to sightseeing, and ordered horses at the inn for the day following. On the morning of the next day visitors of all sorts put in an appearance, among them the amiable and respected Chancellor Müller, and, above all, my fellow-countryman Hummel, who for many years had been occupying the position of musical director in Weimar. He had left Vienna before my poetry had attracted attention, so that we had not become acquainted with each other. It was almost touching to witness the joy with which this ordinarily unsociable man greeted me and took possession of me. In the first place I probably revived in him memories of his native city, which he had left with reluctance; then, too, it probably gave him satisfaction to find his literary countryman honored and respected in Weimar, where he heard nothing but disparaging opinions regarding the intellectual standing of Austria. And, finally, he had an opportunity of conversing with a Viennese in his home dialect, which he had preserved pure and unadulterated while living among people who spoke quite differently. I do not know whether it was the contrast, or whether this really was the worst German I had ever heard in my life. While we were planning to visit some points of interest in Weimar, and while Chancellor Müller, who had probably noticed my depression, was assuring me that Goethe's formality was nothing but the embarrassment always displayed by him on meeting a stranger for the first time, the waiter entered and handed me a card containing an invitation from Goethe to dine with him the next day. I therefore had to prolong my stay and to countermand the order for the horses. The morning was passed in visiting the places that had become famous through their literary associations. Schiller's house interested me most of all, and I was especially delighted to find in the poet's study, really an attic-room in the second story, an old man who is said to have acted as prompter at the theatre in Schiller's time, teaching his grandson to read. The little boy's open and intelligently animated expression prompted the illusion that out of Schiller's study a new Schiller might some day emerge—an illusion which, to be sure, has not been realized.