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- Herausgeber: e-artnow
- Kategorie: Poesie und Drama
- Sprache: Englisch
- Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2019
This meticulously edited collection is formatted for your eReader with a functional and detailed table of contents: Hermann and Dorothea Erotica Romana Reynard the Fox The Sorcerer's Apprentice Songs Familiar Songs Ballads Cantatas Odes Sonnets Epigrams Parables Art God, Soul, and World Religion and Church Antiques Venetian Epigrams Elegies West-Eastern Divan Songs from Various Plays Miscellaneous Poems
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The Complete Poems
Table of Contents
Hermann and Dorothea
I. Kalliope(Fate and Sympathy)
"Ne'er have I seen the market and streets so thoroughly empty! Still as the grave is the town, clear'd out! I verily fancy Fifty at most of all our inhabitants still may be found there. People are so inquisitive! All are running and racing Merely to see the sad train of poor fellows driven to exile. Down to the causeway now building, the distance nearly a league is, And they thitherward rush, in the heat and the dust of the noonday. As for me, I had rather not stir from my place just to stare at Worthy and sorrowful fugitives, who, with what goods they can carry, Leaving their own fair land on the further side of the Rhine-stream, Over to us are crossing, and wander through the delightful Nooks of this fruitful vale, with all its twistings and windings. Wife, you did right well to bid our son go and meet them, Taking with him old linen, and something to eat and to drink too, Just to give to the poor; the rich are bound to befriend them. How he is driving along! How well he holds in the horses! Then the new little carriage looks very handsome; inside it Four can easily sit, besides the one on the coachbox. This time he is alone; how easily-turns it the corner!" Thus to his wife the host of the Golden Lion discoursed, Sitting at ease in the porch of his house adjoining the market. Then replied as follows the shrewd and sensible hostess "Father, I don't like giving old linen away, for I find it Useful in so many ways, 'tis not to he purchased for money Just when it's wanted. And yet to-day I gladly have given Many excellent articles, shirts and covers and suchlike; For I have heard of old people and children walking half-naked. Will you forgive me, too, for having ransacked your presses? That grand dressing-gown, cover'd with Indian flowers all over, Made of the finest calico, lined with excellent flannel, I have despatch'd with the rest; 'tis thin, old, quite out of fashion."
But the worthy landlord only smiled, and then answer'd I shall dreadfully miss that ancient calico garment, Genuine Indian stuff! They're not to be had any longer. Well! I shall wear it no more. And your poor husband henceforward Always must wear a surtout, I suppose, or commonplace jacket, Always must put on his boots; good bye to cap and to slippers!"
"See," continued his wife, "a few are already returning Who have seen the procession, which long ago must have pass'd by. See how dusty their shoes are, and how their faces are glowing Each one carries a handkerchief, wiping the sweat from his forehead. I, for one, wouldn't hurry and worry myself in such weather Merely to see such a sight! I'm certain to hear all about it."
And the worthy father, speaking with emphasis, added "Such fine weather seldom lasts through the whole of the harvest And we're bringing the fruit home, just as the hay we brought lately, Perfectly dry; the sky is clear, no cloud's in the heavens, And the whole day long delicious breezes are blowing. Splendid weather I call it! The corn already too ripe is, And to-morrow begin we to gather the plentiful harvest."
Whilst he was thus discoursing, the number of men and of women Crossing the market and going towards home kept ever increasing; And there return'd amongst others, bringing with him his daughters, On the other side of the market, their prosperous neighbour, Going full speed to his newbuilt house, the principal merchant, Riding inside an open carriage (in Landau constructed). All the streets were alive; for the town, though small, was well peopled, Many a factory throve there, and many a business also.
Long sat the excellent couple under the doorway, exchanging Many a passing remark on the people who happen'd to pass them. Presently thus to her husband exclaim'd the good-natured hostess "See! Yon comes the minister; with him is walking the druggist: They'll be able to give an account of all that has happen'd, What they witness'd, and many a sight I fear which was painful."
Both of them came in a friendly manner, and greeted the couple, Taking their seats on the wooden benches under the doorway, Shaking the dust from their feet, their handkerchiefs using to fan them. Presently, after exchanging reciprocal greetings, the druggist Open'd his mouth, and almost peevishly vented his feelings "What strange creatures men are! They all resemble each other, All take pleasure in staring, when troubles fall on their neighbours. Ev'ry one runs to see the flames destroying a dwelling, Or a poor criminal led in terror and shame to the scaffold. All the town has been out to gaze at the sorrowing exiles, None of them bearing in mind that a like misfortune hereafter, Possibly almost directly, may happen to be their own portion. I can't pardon such levity; yet 'tis the nature of all men."
Thereupon rejoin'd the noble and excellent pastor, He, the charm of the town, in age scarce more than a stripling:— (He was acquainted with life, and knew the wants of his hearers, Fully convinced of the worth of the Holy Scriptures, whose mission Is to reveal man's fate, his inclinations to fathom; He was also well read in the best of secular writings.) "I don't like to find fault with any innocent impulse Which in the mind of man Dame Nature has ever implanted; For what reason and intellect ne'er could accomplish, is often Done by some fortunate, quite irresistible instinct within him. If mankind were never by curiosity driven, Say, could they e'er have found out for themselves the wonderful manner Things in the world range in order? For first they Novelty look for, Then with untiring industry seek to discover the Useful, Lastly they yearn for the Good, which makes them noble and worthy. All through their youth frivolity serves as their joyous companion, Hiding the presence of danger, and. swiftly effacing the traces Caused by misfortune and grief, as soon as their onslaught is over. Truly the man's to be praised who, as years roll onward, develops Out of such glad disposition an intellect settled and steady,— Who, in good fortune as well as misfortune, strives zealously, nobly; For what is Good he brings forth, replacing whatever is injured."
Then in a friendly voice impatiently spoke thus the hostess:— "Tell us what have you seen; I am eagerly longing to hear it."
Then with emphasis answer'd the druggist:—" The terrible stories Told me to-day will serve for a long time to make me unhappy. Words would fail to describe the manifold pictures of mis'ry. Far in the distance saw we the dust, before we descended Down to the meadows; the rising hillocks hid the procession Long from our eyes, and little could we distinguish about it. When, however, we reach'd the road that winds thro' the valley, Great was the crowd and the noise of the emigrants mix'd with the waggons. We unhappily saw poor fellows passing in numbers, Some of them showing how bitter the sense of their sorrowful flight was, Some with a feeling of joy at saving their lives in a hurry. Sad was the sight of the manifold goods and chattels pertaining Unto a well-managed house, which the careful owner's accustom'd Each in its proper position to place, and in regular order, Always ready for use, for all are wanted and useful.— Sad was the sight of them now, on many a waggon and barrow Heap'd in thorough confusion, and hurriedly huddled together. Over a cupboard was placed a sieve and a coverlet woollen; Beds in the kneeding troughs lay, and linen over the glasses. Ah! and the danger appear'd to rob the men of their senses, Just as in our great fire of twenty years ago happen'd, When what was worthless they saved, and left all the best things behind them.
So on the present occasion with heedless caution they carried Many valueless chattels, o'erlading the cattle and horses,— Common old boards and barrels, a birdcage next to a goosepen. Women and children were gasping beneath the weight of their bundles, Baskets and tubs full of utterly useless articles, bearing. (Man is always unwilling the least of his goods to abandon.) Thus on its dusty way advanced the crowded procession, All in hopeless confusion. First one, whose cattle were weaker, Fain would slowly advance, while others would eagerly hasten. Then there arose a scream of half-crush'd women and children, And a lowing of cattle, with yelping of dogs intermingled, And a wailing of aged and sick, all sitting and shaking, Ranged in their beds on the top of the waggon too-heavily laden. Next some lumbering wheel, push'd out of the track by the pressure, Went to the edge of the roadway; the vehicle fell in the ditch then, Rolling right over, and throwing, in falling, the men who were in it Far in the field, screaming loudly, their persons however uninjured. Then the boxes roll'd off and tumbled close to the waggon. Those who saw them failing full surely expected to see them Smash'd to pieces beneath the weight of the chests and the presses. So the waggon lay broken, and those that it carried were helpless, For the rest of the train went on, and hurriedly pass'd them, Thinking only of self, and carried away by the current. So we sped to the spot, and found the sick and the aged Who, when at home and in bed, could scarcely endure their sad ailments, Lying there on the ground, all sighing and groaning in anguish, Stifled by clouds of dust, and scorch'd by the fierce sun of summer.
Then replied in tones of compassion the sensitive landlord Hermann I trust will find them and give them refreshment and clothing. I should unwillingly see them: I grieve at the eight of such sorrow. Touch'd by the earliest news of the sad extent of the suffering, Hastily sent we a trifle from out of our superabundance, Just to comfort a few, and then our minds were more easy. Now let us cease to discourse on such a sorrowful subject, For men's hearts are easily overshadow'd by terror, And by care, more odious far to me than misfortune. Now let us go to a cooler place, the little back-parlour; There the sun never shines, and the walls are so thick that the hot air Never can enter; and mother shall forthwith bring us a glass each Full of fine Eighty-three, well fitted to drive away trouble. This is a bad place for drinking; the flies will hum round the glasses." So they all went inside, enjoying themselves in the coolness. Then in a well-cut flask the mother carefully brought them Some of that clear good wine, upon a bright metal waiter With those greenish rummers, the fittingest goblets for Rhine wine. So the three sat together, around the glistening polish'd Circular large brown table-on massive feet it was planted. Merrily clink'd together the glasses of host and of pastor, But the other one thoughtfully held his glass without moving, And in friendly fashion the host thus ask'd him to join them:—
"Drink, good neighbour, I pray! A merciful God has protected Us in the past from misfortune, and will protect us in future. All must confess that since He thought fit to severely chastise us, When that terrible fire occurr'd, He has constantly bless'd us. And watch'd over us constantly, just as man is accustom'd His eye's precious apple to guard, that dearest of members. Shall He not for the future preserve us, and be our Protector? For 'tis in danger we learn to appreciate duly His Goodness. This so flourishing town, which He built again from its ashes By the industrious hands of its burghers, and bless'd it so richly, Will He again destroy it, and render their toil unavailing?"
Cheerfully answer'd the excellent pastor, in accents of mildness "Steadfastly cling to this faith, and cherish such worthy opinions; In good fortune they'll make you prudent, and then in misfortune Well-grounded hopes they'll supply, and furnish you true consolation."
Then continued the host, with thoughts full of manhood and wisdom "Oft have I greeted with wonder the rolling flood of the Rhine stream, When, on my business trav'lling, I've once more come to its borders. Grand has it ever appear'd, exalting my feelings and senses; But I could never imagine that soon its beautiful margin Into a wall would be turn'd, to keep the French from our country, And its wide-spreading bed a ditch to hinder and check them. So by Nature we're guarded, we're guarded by valorous Germans, And by the Lord we're guarded; who then would foolishly tremble? Weary the combatants are, and all things indicate peace soon; And when at length the long-expected festival's holden Here in our church, and the bells chime in with the organ in chorus, And the trumpets are blowing, the noble Te Deum upraising,
II. Terpsichore(Hermann)
Then when into the room the well-built son made his entry, Straightway with piercing glances the minister eyed him intently, And with carefulness watch'd his looks and the whole of his bearing, With an inquiring eye which easily faces decyphers; Then he smiled, and with cordial words address'd him as follows "How you are changed in appearance, my friend! I never have seen you Half so lively before; your looks are thoroughly cheerful. You have return'd quite joyous and merry. You've doubtless divided All of the presents amongst the poor, their blessings receiving."
Then in calm accents replied the son, with gravity speaking "Whether I've laudably acted, I know not; I follow'd the impulse Of my own heart, as now I'll proceed to describe with exactness. Mother, you rummaged so long, in looking over old pieces, And in making your choice, that 'twas late when the bundle was ready, And the wine and the beer were slowly and carefully pack'd up. When I at length emerged at the gate, and came on the highway, Streams of citizens met I returning, with women and children, For the train of the exiles had long disappear'd in the distance. So I quicken'd my pace, and hastily drove to the village Where I had heard that to-night to rest and to sleep they intended. Well, as I went on my way, the newly-made causeway ascending, Suddenly saw I a waggon, of excellent timber constructed, Drawn by a couple of oxen, the best and the strongest of foreign. Close beside it there walk'd, with sturdy footsteps, a maiden, Guiding the two strong beasts with a long kind of staff, which with skill she Knew how to use, now driving, and now restraining their progress. When the maiden observed me, she quietly came near the horses, And address'd me as follows:—'Our usual condition, believe me, Is not so sad as perchance you might judge from our present appearance. I am not yet accustom'd to ask for alms from a stranger, Who so often but gives, to rid himself of a beggar. But I'm compell'd to speak by necessity. Here on the straw now Lies the lately-confined poor wife of a wealthy landowner, Whom with much trouble I managed to save with oxen and waggon. We were late in arriving, and scarcely with life she escaped. Now the newly-born child in her arms is lying, all naked, And our friends will be able to give them but little assistance, E'en if in the next village, to which to-night we are going, We should still find them, although I fear they have left it already. If you belong to the neighbourhood, any available linen These poor people will deem a most acceptable present.
"Thus she spake, and wearily raised herself the pale patient Up from the straw and gazed upon me, while thus I made answer 'Oft doth a heavenly spirit whisper to kind-hearted people, So that they feel the distress o'er their poorer brethren impending; For my mother, your troubles foreboding, gave me a bundle Ready prepared for relieving the wants of those who were naked.' Then I loosen'd the knots of the cord, and the dressing-gown gave her Which belong'd to my father, and gave her some shirts and some linen, And she thank'd me with joy and said:—'The fortunate know not How 'tis that miracles happen; we only discover in sorrow God's protecting finger and hand, extended to beckon Good men to good. May your kindness to us by Him be requited.' And I saw the poor patient joyfully handling the linen, Valuing most of all the soft flannel, the dressing-gown lining. Then the maid thus address'd her:—'Now let us haste to the village Where our friends are resting, to-night intending to sleep there There I will straightway attend to what e'er for the infant is needed.' Then she saluted me too, her thanks most heartily giving, Drove the oxen, the waggon went on. I lingerd behind them, Holding my horses rein'd back, divided between two opinions, Whether to hasten ahead, reach the village, the viands distribute 'Mongst the rest of the people, or give them forthwith to the maiden, So that she might herself divide them amongst them with prudence Soon I made up my mind, and follow'd after her softly, Overtook her without delay, and said to her quickly 'Maiden, it was not linen alone that my mother provided And in the carriage placed, as clothing to give to the naked, But she added meat, and many an excellent drink too; And I have got quite a stock stow'd away in the boot of the carriage. Well, I have taken a fancy the rest of the gifts to deposit In your hands, and thus fulfil to the best my commission; You will divide them with prudence, whilst I my fate am obeying.' Then the maiden replied:—'With faithfulness I will distribute All your gifts, and the needy shall surely rejoice at your bounty.' Thus she spake, and I hastily open'd the boot of the carriage, Took out the hams (full heavy they were) and took out the bread-stuffs, Flasks of wine and beer, and handed the whole of them over. Gladly would I have given her more, but empty the boot was. Straightway she pack'd them away at the feet of the patient, and forthwith Started again, whilst I hasten'd back to the town with my horses."
Then when Hermann had ended his story, the garrulous neighbour Open'd his mouth and exclaim'd:—"I only deem the man happy Who lives alone in his house in these days of flight and confusion, Who has neither wife nor children cringing beside him I feel happy at present; I hate the title of father; Care of children and wife in these days would be a sad drawback. Often have I bethought me of flight, and have gather'd together All that I deem most precious, the antique gold and the jewels Worn by my late dear mother, not one of which has been sold yet. Much indeed is left out, that is not so easily carried. Even the herbs and the roots, collected with plenty of trouble, I should he sorry to lose, though little in value they may be. If the dispenser remains, I shall leave my house in good spirits If my ready money is saved, and my body, why truly All is saved, for a bachelor easily flies when 'tis needed."
"Neighbour," rejoin'd forthwith young Hermann, with emphasis speaking "Altogether I differ, and greatly blame your opinions. Can that man be deem'd worthy, who both in good and ill fortune Thinks alone of himself, and knows not the secret of sharing Sorrows and joys with others, and feels no longing to do so? I could more easily now than before determine to marry Many an excellent maiden needs a husband's protection, Many a man a cheerful wife, when sorrow's before him."
Smilingly said then the father:—"I'm pleas'd to hear what you're saying, Words of such wisdom have seldom been utter'd by you in my presence.
Then his good mother broke in, in her turn, with vivacity speaking "Son, you are certainly right. We parents set the example. 'Twas not in time of pleasure that we made choice of each other, And 'twas the saddest of hours, that knitted us closely together.
Monday morning,—how well I remember! the very day after That most terrible fire occurr'd which burnt down the borough, Twenty years ago now; the day, like to-day, was a Sunday, Hot and dry was the weather, and little available water. All the inhabitants, clothed in their festival garments, were walking, Scatter'd about in the inns and the mills of the neighbouring hamlets. At one end of the town the fire broke out, and the flames ran Hastily all through the streets, impell'd by the draught they created. And the barns were consumed, where all the rich harvest was gather'd And all the streets as far as the market; the dwelling house also Of my father hard by was destroy'd, as likewise was this one. Little indeed could we save; I sat the sorrowful night through On the green of the town, protecting the beds and the boxes. Finally sleep overtook me, and when by the cool breeze of morning Which dies away when the sun arises I was awaken'd, Saw I the smoke and the glow, and the half-consumed walls and the chimneys. Then my heart was sorely afflicted; but soon in his glory Rose the sun more brilliant than ever, my spirits reviving. Then in haste I arose, impell'd the site to revisit Where our dwelling had stood, to see if the chickens were living Which I especially loved; for childlike I still was by nature. But when over the ruins of courtyard and house I was climbing, Which still smoked, and saw my dwelling destroy'd and deserted, You came up on the other side, the ruins exploring. You had a horse shut up in his stall; the still-glowing rafters Over it lay, and rubbish, and nought could be seen of the creature.
Over against each other we stood, in doubt and in sorrow, For the wall had fallen which used to sever our courtyards; And you grasp'd my hand, addressing me softly as follows 'Lizzy, what here are you doing? Away! Your soles you are burning, For the rubbish is hot, and is scorching my boots which are thicker.' Then you lifted me up, and carried me off through your courtyard. There still stood the gateway before the house, with its arch'd roof, Just as it now is standing, the only thing left remaining. And you sat me down and kiss'd me, and I tried to stop you, But you presently said, with kindly words full of meaning 'See, my house is destroy'd! Stop here and help me to build it, I in return will help to rebuild the house of your father.' I understood you not, till you sent to my father your mother, And ere long our marriage fulfilid the troth we soon plighted. Still to this day I remember with pleasure the half-consumed rafters, Still do I see the sun in all his majesty rising, For on that day I gain'd my husband; the son of my youth too Gained I during that earliest time of the wild desolation. Therefore commend I you, Hermann, for having with confidence guileless Turn'd towards marriage your thoughts in such a period of mourning, And for daring to woo in war and over the ruins.—"
Then the father straightway replied, with eagerness speaking:— "Sensible is your opinion, and true is also the story Which you have told us, good mother, for so did ev'rything happen. But what is better is better. 'Tis not the fortune of all men All their life and existence to find decided beforehand; All are not doom'd to such troubles as we and others have suffer'd.
O, how happy is he whose careful father and mother Have a house ready to give him, which he can successfully manage! All beginnings are hard, and most so the landlords profession. Numberless things a man must have, and ev'rything daily Dearer becomes, so he needs to scrape together more money. So I am hoping that you, dear Hermann, will shortly be bringing Home to us a bride possessing an excellent dowry, For a worthy husband deserves a girl who is wealthy, And 'tis a capital thing for the wish'd-for wife to bring with her Plenty of suitable articles stow'd in her baskets and boxes. Not in vain for years does the mother prepare for her daughter Stocks of all kinds of linen, both finest and strongest in texture; Not in vain do god-parents give them presents of silver, Or the father lay by in his desk a few pieces of money. For she hereafter will gladden, with all her goods and possessions, That happy youth who is destined from out of all others to choose her. Yes! I know how pleasant it makes a house for a young wife, When she finds her own property placed in the rooms and the kitchen, And when she herself has cover'd the bed and the table. Only well-to-do brides should be seen in a house, I consider, For a poor one is sure at last to be scorn'd by her husband, And he'll deem her a jade who as jade first appear'd with her bundle. Men are always unjust, but moments of love are but transient. Yes, my Hermann, you greatly would cheer the old age of your father If you soon would bring home a daughter-in-law to console me, Out of the neighbourhood too,—yes, out of yon dwelling, the green one!
Rich is the man, in truth his trade and his manufactures Make him daily richer, for when does a merchant not prosper? He has only three daughters; the whole of his wealth they'll inherit. True the eldest's already engaged; but then there's the second, And the third, who still (not for long) may be had for the asking. Had I been in your place, I should not till this time have waited; Bring home one of the girls, as I brought your mother before you.
Then, with modesty, answer'd the son his impetuous father "Truly my wish was, like yours, to marry one of the daughters Of our neighbour. We all, in fact, were brought up together, Sported in youthful days near the fountain adjoining the market, And from the rudeness of boys I often managed to save them. But those days have long pass'd the maidens grew up, and with reason Stop now at home and avoid the rougher pastimes of childhood. Well brought up with a vengeance they are! To please you, I sometimes Went to visit them, just for the sake of olden acquaintance But I was never much pleased at holding intercourse with them, For they were always finding fault, and I had to bear it First my coat was too long, the cloth too coarse, and the colour Far too common, my hair was cut and curl'd very badly. I at last was thinking of dressing myself like the shop-boys, Who are accustom'd on Sundays to show off their persons up yonder, And round whose coats in summer half-silken tatters are hanging. But ere long I discover'd they only intended to fool me This was very annoying, my pride was offended, but more still Felt I deeply wounded that they so mistook the good feelings Which I cherish'd towards them, especially Minnie, the youngest. Well, I went last Easter, politely to pay them a visit, And I wore the new coat now hanging up in the closet, And was frizzled and curld, like all the rest of the youngsters. When I enter'd, they titter'd; but that didn't very much matter. Minnie sat at the piano, the father was present amongst them, Pleased with his daughter's singing, and quite in a jocular humour. Little could I understand of the words in the song she was singing, But I constantly heard of Pamina, and then of Tamino,1 And I fain would express my opinion; so when she had ended, I ask'd questions respecting the text, and who were the persons. All were silent and smiled; but presently answer'd the father 'Did you e'er happen, my friend, to hear of Eve or of Adam?' Then no longer restrain'd they themselves, the girls burst out laughing, All the boys laugh'd loudly, the old man's sides appear'd splitting. In my confusion I let my hat fall down, and the titt'ring Lasted all the time the singing and playing continued. Then I hasten'd home, ashamed and full of vexation, Hung up my coat in the closet, and put my hair in disorder With my fingers, and swore ne'er again to cross o'er their threshold. And I'm sure I was right; for they are all vain and unloving. And I hear they're so rude as to give me the nickname Tamino."
Then the mother rejoin'd:—"You're wrong, dear Hermann, to harbour Angry feelings against the children, for they are but children. Minnie's an excellent girl, and has a tenderness for you; Lately she ask'd how you were. Indeed, I wish you would choose her!"
Then the son thoughtfully answer'd:—"I know not why, but the fact is My annoyance has graven itself in my mind, and hereafter I could not bear at the piano to see her, or list to her singing."
But the father sprang up, and said, in words full of anger "Little comfort you give me, in truth! I always have said it, When you took pleasure in horses, and cared for nothing but fieldwork; That which the servants of prosperous people perform as their duty, You yourself do; meanwhile the father his son must dispense with, Who in his honour was wont to court the rest of the townsfolk. Thus with empty hopes your mother early deceived me, When your reading, and writing, and learning at school ne'er succeeded Like the rest of the boys, and so you were always the lowest. This all comes from a youth not possessing a due sense of honour, And not having the spirit to try and raise his position. Had my father but cared for me, as I have for you, sir, Sent me to school betimes, and given me proper instructors, I should not merely have been the host of the famed Golden Lion."
But the son arose, and approach'd the doorway in silence, Slowly, and making no noise: but then the father in dudgeon After him shouted:—"Be off! I know you're an obstinate fellow! Go and look after the business; else I shall scold you severely;
III. Thalia(The Burghers)
Thus did the prudent son escape from the hot conversation, But the father continued precisely as he had begun it What is not in a man can never come out of him, surely! Never, I fear, shall I see fulfill'd my dearest of wishes, That my son should be unlike his father, but better. What would be the fate of a house or a town, if its inmates Did not all take pride in preserving, renewing, improving, As we are taught by the age, and by the wisdom of strangers? Man is not born to spring out of the ground, just like a mere mushroom, And to rot away soon in the very place that produced him! Leaving behind him no trace of what he has done in his lifetime. One can judge by the look of a house of the taste of its master, As on ent'ring a town, one can judge the authorities' fitness. For where the towers and walls are falling, where in the ditches Dirt is collected, and dirt in every street is seen lying, Where the stones come out of their groove, and are not replaced there, Where the beams are rotting, and vainly the houses are waiting New supports; that town is sure to be wretchedly managed. For where order and cleanliness reign not supreme in high places, Then to dirt and delay the citizens soon get accustom'd, Just as the beggar's accustom'd to wear his cloths full of tatters. Therefore I often have wish'd that Hermann would start on his travels Ere he's much older, and visit at any rate Strasburg and Frankfort, And that pleasant town, Mannheim, so evenly built and so cheerful. He who has seen such large and cleanly cities rests never Till his own native town, however small, he sees better'd. Do not all strangers who visit us praise our well-mended gateways, And the well-whited tower, the church so neatly repair'd too? Do not all praise our pavements? Our well-arranged cover'd-in conduits, Always well furnish'd with water, utility blending with safety, So that a fire, whenever it happens, is straightway extinguish'd,— Is not this the result of that conflagration so dreadful? Six times in Council I superintended the town's works, receiving Hearty thanks and assistance from every well-disposed burgher. How I design'd, follow'd up, and ensured the completion of measures Worthy men had projected, and afterwards left all unfinish'd! Finally, every man in the Council took pleasure in working. All put forth their exertions, and now they have finally settled That new highway to make, which will join our town with the main road. But I am greatly afraid that the young generation won't act thus; Some on the one hand think only of pleasure and trumpery dresses, Others wont stir out of doors, and pass all their time by the fireside, And our Hermann, I fear, will always be one of this last sort."
Forthwith to him replied the excellent sensible mother "Father, you're always unjust whenever you speak of your son, and That is the least likely way to obtain your wishes' fulfillment, For we cannot fashion our children after our fancy. We must have them and love them, as God has given them to us, Bring them up for the best, and let each do as he listeth. One has one kind of gift, another possesses another, Each one employs them, and each in turn in his separate fashion Good and happy becomes. My Hermann shall not be upbraided, For I know that he well deserves the wealth he'll inherit; He'll be an excellent landlord, a pattern to burghers and peasants, And, as I clearly foresee, by no means the last in the Council. But with your blame and reproaches, you daily dishearten him sadly, As you have done just now, and make the poor fellow unhappy."
Then she left the apartment, and after her son hasten'd quickly, Hoping somewhere to find him, and with her words of affection Gladden his heart, for he, the excellent son, well deserved it. Smilingly, when she had closed the door, continued the father "What a wonderful race of people are women and children. All of them fain would do whatever pleases their fancy, And we're only alow'd to praise them and flatter them freely. Once for all there's truth in the ancient proverb which tells us: He who moves not forward, goes backward! a capital saying!"
Speaking with much circumspection, the druggist made answer as follows "What you say, good neighbour, is certainly true, and my plan is Always to think of improvement, provided tho' new, 'tis not costly. But what avails it in truth, unless one has plenty of money, Active and fussy to he, improving both inside and outside? Sadly confined are the means of a burgher; e'en when he knows it, Little that's good he is able to do, his purse is too narrow, And the sum wanted too great; and so he is always prevented. I have had plenty of schemes! but then I was terribly frighten'd At the expense, especially during a time of such danger. Long had my house smiled upon me, decked out in modish exterior, Long had my windows with large panes of glass resplendently glitterd. Who can compete with a merchant, however, who, rolling in riches, Also knows the manner in which what is best can be purchased? Only look at the house up yonder, the new one: how handsome Looks the stucco of those white scrolls on the green-colour'd panels! Large are the plates of the windows—how shining and brilliant the panes are, Quite eclipsing the rest of the houses that stand in the market! Yet at the time of the fire, our two were by far the most handsome, Mine at the sign of the Angel, and yours at the old Golden Lion. Then my garden was famous throughout the whole country, and strangers Used to stop as they pass'd and peep through my red-colourd palings At my beggars of stone, and at my dwarfs, which were painted, He to whom I gave coffee inside my beautiful grotto, Which, alas! is now cover'd with dust and tumbling to pieces, Used to rejoice in the colour'd glimmering light of the mussels, Ranged in natural order around it, and connoisseurs even Used with dazzled eyes to gaze at the spars and the coral. Then, in the drawing-room, people look'd with delight on the painting, Where the prim ladies and gentlemen walked in the garden demurely, And with pointed fingers presented the flowers, and held them. Ah, if only such things were now to be seen! Little care I Now to go out; for everything needs to be alter'd and tasteful, As it is call'd; and white are the benches of wood and the palings; All things are simple and plain; and neither carving not gilding Now are employ'd, and foreign timber is now all the fashion. I should be only too pleased to possess some novelty also,
IV. Euterpe(Mother and Son)
Thus the men discoursed together; and meanwhile the mother Went in search of her son,—at first in front of the dwelling On the bench of stone, for he was accustom'd to sit there. When she found him not there, she went to look in the stable, Thinking perchance he was feeding his splendid horses, the stallions Which he had bought when foals, and which he entrusted to no one. But the servant inform'd her that he had gone to the garden. Then she nimbly strode across the long double courtyard, Left the stables behind, and the barns all made of good timber, Enter'd the garden which stretch'd far away to the walls of the borough, Walk'd across it, rejoicing to see how all things were growing, Carefully straighten'd the props, on which the apple-tree's branches, Heavily loaded, reposed, and the weighty boughs of the pear-tree, Took a few caterpillars from off the strong-sprouting cabbage; For a bustling woman is never idle one moment. In this manner she came to the end of the long-reaching garden, Where was the arbour all cover'd with woodbine: she found not her son there, Nor was he to be seen in any part of the garden. But she found on the latch the door which out of the arbour Through the wall of the town had been made by special permission During their ancestor's time, the worthy old burgomaster. So she easily stepp'd across the dry ditch at the spot where On the highway abutted their well-inclosed excellent vineyard. Rising steeply upwards, its face tow'rd the sun turn'd directly. Up the hill she proceeded, rejoicing, as farther she mounted, At the size of the grapes, which scarcely were hid by the foliage. Shady and well-cover'd in, the middle walk at the top was, Which was ascended by steps of rough flat pieces constructed. And within it were hanging fine chasselas and muscatels also, And a reddish-blue grape, of quite an exceptional bigness, All with carefulness planted, to give to their guests after dinner. But with separate stems the rest of the vineyard was planted, Smaller grapes producing, from which the finest wine made is. So she constantly mounted, enjoying in prospect the autumn. And the festal day, when the neighbourhood met with rejoicing, Picking and treading the grapes, and putting the must in the wine-vats, Every corner and nook resounding at night with the fireworks, Blazing and cracking away, due honour to pay to the harvest. But she uneasy became, when she in vain had been calling Twice and three times her son, and when the sole answer that reach'd her Came from the garrulous echo which out of the town towers issued. Strange it appear'd to have to seek him; he never went far off, (As he before had told her) in order to ward off all sorrow From his dear mother, and her forebodings of coming disaster. But she still was expecting upon the highway to find him, For the doors at the bottom, like those at the top, of the vineyard Stood wide open; and so at length she enter'd the broad field Which, with its spreading expanse, o'er the whole of the hill's back extended. On their own property still she proceeded, greatly rejoicing At their own crops, and at the corn which nodded so bravely, Over the whole field in golden majesty waving. Then on the border between the fields she follow'd the footpath, Keeping her eye on the pear-tree fix'd, the big one, which standing Perch'd by itself on the top of the hill, their property bounded. Who had planted it, no one knew; throughout the whole country Far and wide was it visible; noted also its fruit was. Under its shadow the reaper ate his dinner at noonday, And the herdsman was wont to lie, when tending his cattle. Benches made of rough stones and of turf were placed all about it. And she was not mistaken; there sat her Hermann and rested On his arm he was leaning, and seem'd to be looking cross country Tow'rds the mountains beyond; his back was turn'd to his mother. Softly creeping up, she lightly tapp'd on his shoulder; And he hastily turn'd; she saw that his eyes full of tears were.
"Mother," he said in confusion:—"You greatly surprise me!" and quickly Wiped he away his tears, the noble and sensitive youngster. "What! You are weeping, my son?" the startled mother continued "That is indeed unlike you! I never before saw you crying! Say, what has sadden'd your heart? What drives you to sit here all lonely Under the shade of the pear-tree? What is it that makes you unhappy?"
Then the excellent youth collected himself, and made answer "Truly that man can have no heart, but a bosom of iron, Who no sympathy feels for the wants of unfortunate exiles; He has no sense in his head who, in times of such deep tribulation, Has no concern for himself or for his country's well-being. What I to-day have seen and heard, has stirr'd up my feelings; Well, I have come up here, and seen the beautiful, spreading Landscape, which in fruitful hills to our sight is presented, Seen the golden fruit of the sheaves all nodding together, And a plentiful crop of fruit, full garners foreboding. But, alas, how near is the foe! By the Rhine's flowing waters We are protected indeed; but what are rivers and mountains To such a terrible nation, which hurries along like a tempest! For they summon together the young and the old from all quarters, Rushing wildly along, while the multitude little is caring Even for death; when one falls, his place is straight fill'd by another, Ah! and can Germans dare to remain at home in their dwellings, Thinking perchance to escape from the widely-threat'ning disaster? Dearest mother, I tell you that I to-day am quite sorry That I was lately excused, when they selected the fighters Out of the townfolk. 'Tis true I'm an only son, and more-over Large is our inn, and our business also is very important; Were it not better however for me to fight in the vanguard On the frontier, than here to await disaster and bondage? Yes, my spirit has told me, and in my innermost bosom Feel I courage and longing to live and die for my country, And to others to set an example worthy to follow. Oh, of a truth, if the strength of the German youths was collected On the frontier, all bound by a vow not to yield to the stranger, He on our noble soil should never set foot, or be able Under our eyes to consume the fruits of the land, or to issue Orders unto our men, or despoil our women and maidens! See, good mother, within my inmost heart I've determined Soon and straightway to do what seems to me right and becoming; For the man who thinks long, not always chooses what best is. See, I will not return to the house, but will go from here straightway Into the town, and there will place at the fighters' disposal This stout arm and this heart, to serve, as I best can, my country. Then let my father say whether feelings of honour are stirring In my bosom or not, and whether I yearn to mount upwards."
Then with significance answer'd his good and sensible mother, Shedding tears in silence, which easily rose in her eyelids:— "Son, what has wrought so strange a change in your temper and feelings, That you freely and openly speak to your mother no longer, As you till yesterday did, nor tell her truly your wishes? If another had heard you speaking, he doubtless would praise you Highly, and deem your new resolution as worthy of honour, Being deceived by your words, and by your manner of speaking. I however can only blame you. I know you much better. You are concealing your heart, and very diff'rent your thoughts are; For I am sure you care not at all for drum and for trumpet, Nor, to please the maidens, care you to wear regimentals. For, though brave you may be, and gallant, your proper vocation Is to remain at home, the property quietly watching. Therefore tell me truly: What means this sudden decision?"
Earnestly answer'd the son:—"You are wrong, dear-mother, one day is Unlike another. The youth soon ripens into his manhood. Ofttimes he ripens better to action in silence than living That tumultuous noisy life which ruins so many. And though silent I have been, and am, a heart has been fashion'd Inside my bosom, which hates whatever unfair and unjust is, And I am able right well to discriminate secular matters. Work moreover my arms and my feet has mightily strengthen'd. All that I tell you is true; I boldly venture to say so. And yet, mother, you blame me with reason; you've caught me employing Words that are only half true, and that serve to conceal my true feelings. For I must need confess, it is not the advent of danger Calls me away from my father's house, nor a resolute purpose Useful to be to my country, and dreaded to be by the foeman. Words alone it was that I utter'd,—words only intended Those deep feelings to hide, which within my breast are contending. And now leave me, my mother! For as in my bosom I cherish Wishes that are but vain, my life will be to no purpose. For I know that the Unit who makes a self-sacrifice, only Injures himself, unless all endeavour the Whole to accomplish."
"Now continue," replied forthwith his sensible mother:— "Tell me all that has happen'd, the least as w'ell as the greatest Men are always hasty, and only remember the last thing, And the hasty are easily forced from the road by obstructions. But a woman is skillful, and full of resources, and scorns not Bye-roads to traverse when needed, well-skill'd to accomplish her purpose. Tell me then all, and why you are stirr'd by such violent feelings More than I ever have seen, while the blood is boiling within you, And from your eyes the tears against your will fain would fall now."
Then the youth gave way to his sorrow, and burst into weeping, Weeping aloud on the breast of his mother, and softly replying "Truly, my father's words to-day have wounded me sadly, Never have I deserved at his hands such treatment,—no, never! For to honour my parents was always my wish from my childhood, No one ever appear'd so prudent and wise as my parents, Who in the darker days of childhood carefully watch'd me. Much indeed it has been my lot to endure from my playmates, When with their knavish pranks they used to embitter my temper. Often I little suspected the tricks they were playing upon me: But if they happen'd to ridicule Father, whenever on Sundays Out of church he came with his slow deliberate footsteps, If they laugh'd at the strings of his cap, and his dressing-gown's flowers, Which he in stately wise wore, and to-day at length has discarded, Then in a fury I clench'd my fist, and, storming and raging, Fell upon them and hit and struck with terrible onslaught, Heedless where my blows fell. With bleeding noses they halloed, And could scarcely escape from the force of my blows and my kicking. Then, as in years I advanced, I had much to endure from my father, Who, in default of others to blame, would often abuse me, When at the Council's last sitting his anger perchance was excited, And I the penalty paid of the squabbles and strife of his colleagues. You yourself have oft pitied me; I endured it with patience, Always rememb'ring the much-to-be-honour'd kindness of parents, Whose only thought is to swell for our sakes their goods and possessions, And who deprive themselves of much, to save for their children. But, alas, not saving alone, for enjoyment hereafter, Constitutes happiness, no, not heaps of gold or of silver, Neither field upon field, however compact the estate be. For the father grows old, and his son at the same time grows older, Feeling no joy in To-day, and full of care for To-morrow. Now look down from this height, and see how beauteous before us Lies the fair rich expanse, with vineyard and gardens at bottom; There are the stables and barns, and the rest of the property likewise; There I also descry the back of our house, in the gables Of the roof may be seen the window of my small apartment. When I remember the time when I used to look out for the moon there Half through the night, or perchance at morning awaited the sunrise, When with but few hours of healthy sleep I was fully contented, Ah, how lonely do all things appear! My chamber, the court, and Garden, the beautiful field which spreads itself over the hillside; All appears but a desert to me: I still am unmarried!" Then his good mother answer'd his speech in a sensible manner "Son, your wish to be able to lead your bride to her chamber, Turning the night to the dearest and happiest half of your lifetime, Making your work by day more truly free and unfetter'd, Cannot be greater than that of your father and mother. We always Urged you,—commanded, I even might say,—to choose some fair maiden. But I know full well, and my heart has told me already If the right hour arrives not, or if the right maiden appears not Instantly when they are sought for, man's choice is thrown in confusion, And he is driven by fear to seize what is counterfeit only. If I may tell you, my son, your choice already is taken, For your heart is smitten, and sensitive more than is usual. Answer me plainly, then, for my spirit already has told me: She whom now you have chosen is that poor emigrant maiden!"
"Yes, dear mother, you're right!" the son with vivacity answer'd Yes, it is she! And unless this very day I conduct her Home as my bride, she will go on her way and escape me for ever, In the confusion of war, and in moving backwards and forwards. Mother, then before my eyes will in vain he unfolded All our rich estate, and each year henceforward be fruitful. Yes, the familiar house and the garden will be my aversion. Ah, and the love of my mother no comfort will give to my sorrow, For I feel that by Love each former bond must be loosen'd, When her own bonds she knits; 'tis not the maiden alone who Leaves her father and mother behind, when she follows her husband. So it is with the youth; no more he knows mother and father. When he beholds the maiden, the only beloved one, approaching. Therefore let me go hence, to where desperation may lead me, For my father already has spoken in words of decision, And his house no longer is mine, if he shuts out the maiden Whom alone I would fain take home as my bride from henceforward."
Then the excellent sensible mother answer'd with quickness "Men are precisely like rocks when they stand opposed to each other! Proud and unyielding, the one will never draw near to the other. Neither will suffer his tongue to utter the first friendly accent. Therefore I tell you, my son, a hope still exists in my bosom, If she is worthy and good, he will give his consent to your marriage, Poor though she be, and although with disdain he refused you the poor thing. For in his hot-beaded fashion he utters many expressions Which he never intends; and so will accept the Refused One.
V. Polyhymnia(The Cosmopolite)
But the Three, as before, were still sitting and talking together, With the landlord, the worthy divine, and also the druggist, And the conversation still concern'd the same subject, Which in every form they had long been discussing together. Full of noble thoughts, the excellent pastor continued "I can't contradict you. I know 'tis the duty of mortals Ever to strive for improvement; and, as we may see, they strive also Ever for that which is higher, at least what is new they seek after, But don't hurry too fast! For combined with these feelings, kind Nature Also has given us pleasure in dwelling on that which is ancient, And in clinging to that to which we have long been accustom'd. Each situation is good that's accordant to nature and reason. Many things man desires, and yet he has need of but little; For but short are the days, and confined is the lot of a mortal. I can never blame the man who, active and restless, Hurries along, and explores each corner of earth and the ocean Boldly and carefully, while he rejoices at seeing the profits Which round him and his family gather themselves in abundance. But I also duly esteem the peaceable burgher, Who with silent steps his paternal inheritance paces, And watches over the earth, the seasons carefully noting. 'Tis not every year that he finds his property alter'd; Newly-planted trees cannot stretch out their arms tow'rds the heavens All in a moment, adorn'd with beautiful buds in abundance. No, a man has need of patience, he also has need of Pure unruffled tranquil thoughts and an intellect honest; For to the nourishing earth few seeds at a time he entrusteth, Few are the creatures he keeps at a time, with a view to their breeding, For what is Useful alone remains the first thought of his lifetime. Happy the man to whom Nature a mind thus attuned may have given!
