The Baron replied with a smile;
“There is only one Paris; and out of Paris there is no salvation for decent people.”
Thus conversing of many things, sat the two friends under the linden-trees on the Rent Tower, till gradually the crowd disappeared from the garden, and the objects around them grew indistinct, in the fading twilight. Between them and the amber-colored western sky, the dense foliage of the trees looked heavy and hard, as if cast in bronze; and already the evening stars hung like silver lamps in the towering branches of that Tree of Life, brought more than two centuries ago from its primeval Paradise in America, to beautify the gardens of the Palatinate.
“I take a mournful pleasure in gazing at that tree,” said Flemming, as they rose to depart. “It stands there so straight and tall, with iron bandsaround its noble trunk and limbs, in silent majesty, or whispering only in its native tongue, and freighting the homeward wind with sighs! It reminds me of some captive monarch of a savage tribe, brought over the vast ocean for a show, and chained in the public market-place of the city, disdainfully silent, or breathing only in melancholy accents a prayer for his native forest, a longing to be free.”
“Magnificent!” cried the Baron. “I always experience something of the same feeling when I walk through a conservatory. The luxuriant plants of the tropics, — those illustrious exotics, with their gorgeous, flamingo-colored blossoms, and great, flapping leaves, like elephant’s ears, — have a singular working upon my imagination; and remind me of a menagerie and wild-beasts kept in cages. But your illustration is finer; — indeed, a grand figure. Put it down for an epic poem.”
CHAPTER IV. A BEER-SCANDAL.
On their way homeward, Flemming and the Baron passed through a narrow lane, in which was a well-known Studenten-Kneipe. At the door stood a young man, whom the Baron at once recognised as his friend Von Kleist. He was a student; and universally acknowledged, among his young acquaintance, as a “devilish handsome fellow”; notwithstanding a tremendous scar on his cheek, and a cream-colored mustache, as soft as the silk of Indian corn. In short he was a renowner, and a duellist.
“What are you doing here, Von Kleist?”
“Ah, my dear Baron! Is it you? Come in; come in. You shall see some sport. A Fox-Commerce is on foot, and a regular Beer-Scandal.”
“Shall we go in, Flemming?”
“Certainly. I should like to see how these things are managed in Heidelberg. You are a Baron, and I am a stranger. It is of no consequence what you and I do, as the king’s fool Angeli said to the poet Bautru, urging him to put on his hat at the royal dinner-table.”
William Lilly, the Astrologer, says, in his Autobiography, that, when he was committed to the guard-room in White Hall, he thought himself in hell; for “some were sleeping, others swearing, others smoking tobacco; and in the chimney of the room there were two bushels of broken tobacco-pipes, and almost half a load of ashes.” What he would have thought if he had peeped into this Heidelberg Studenten-Kneipe, I know not. He certainly would not have thought himself in heaven; unless it were a Scandinavian heaven. The windows were open; and yet so dense was the atmosphere with the smoke of tobacco, and the fumes of beer, that the tallow candles burnt but dimly. A crowd of students were sitting at three long tables, in the large hall; a medley of fellows, known at German Universities under the cant names of Old-Ones, Mossy-Heads, Princes of Twilight, and Pomatum-Stallions. They were smoking, drinking, singing, screaming, and discussing the great Laws of the Broad-Stone and the Gutter. They had a great deal to say, likewise, about Besens, and Zobels, and Poussades; and, if they had been charged for the noise they made, as travellers used to be, in the old Dutch taverns, they would have had a longer bill to pay for that, than for their beer.
In a large arm-chair, upon the middle table, sat one of those distinguished individuals, known among German students as a Senior, or Leader of a Landsmannschaft. He was booted and spurred, and wore a very small crimson cap, and a very tight blue jacket, and very long hair, and a very dirty shirt. He was President of the night; and, as Flemming entered the hall with the Baron and his friend, striking upon the table with a mighty broadsword, he cried in a loud voice;
“Silentium!”
At the same moment a door at the end of the hall was thrown open, and a procession of newcomers, or Nasty-Foxes, as they are called in the college dialect, entered two by two, looking wild, and green, and foolish. As they came forward, they were obliged to pass under a pair of naked swords, held cross-wise by two Old-Ones, who, with pieces of burnt cork, made an enormous pair of mustaches, on the smooth, rosy cheeks of each, as he passed beneath this arch of triumph. While the procession was entering the hall, the President lifted up his voice again, and began to sing the well-known Fox-song, in the chorus of which all present joined lustily.
What comes there from the hill?
What comes there from the hill?
What comes there from the leathery hill?
Ha! Ha!
Leathery hill!
What comes there from the hill?
It is a postilion!
It is a postilion!
It is a leathery postilion!
Ha! Ha!
Postilion!
It is a postilion!
What brings the postilion?
What brings the postilion?
What brings the leathery postilion?
Ha! Ha!
Postilion!
What brings the postilion?
He bringeth us a Fox!
He bringeth us a Fox!
He bringeth us a leathery Fox!
Ha! Ha!
Leathery Fox!
He bringeth us a Fox!
Your servant, Masters mine!
Your servant, Masters mine!
Your servant, much-honored Masters mine!
Ha! Ha!
Much-honored Masters mine!
Your servant, Masters mine!
How does the Herr Papa?
How does the Herr Papa?
How does the leathery Herr Papa?
Ha! Ha!
Herr Papa!
How does the Herr Papa?
He reads in Cicero!
He reads in Cicero!
He reads in leathery Cicero!
Ha! Ha!
Cicero!
He reads in Cicero!
How does the Frau Mama?
How does the Frau Mama?
How does the leathery Frau Mama?
Ha! Ha!
Frau Mama!
How does the Frau Mama?
She makes the Papa tea!
She makes the Papa tea!
She makes the Papa leathery tea!
Ha! Ha!
Leathery tea!
She makes the Papa tea!
How does the Mamsell Sœur?
How does the Mamsell Sœur?
How does the leathery Mamsell Sœur?
Ha! Ha!
Mamsell Sœur!
How does the Mamsell Sœur?
She knits the Papa stockings!
She knits the Papa stockings!
She knits the Papa leathery stockings!
Ha! Ha!
Leathery stockings!
She knits the Papa stockings!
How does the Herr Rector?
How does the Herr Rector?
How does the leathery Herr Rector?
Ha! Ha!
Herr Rector!
How does the Herr Rector?
He calls the scholar, Boy!
He calls the scholar, Boy!
He calls the scholar, leathery Boy!
Ha! Ha!
Leathery Boy!
He calls the scholar, Boy!
And smokes the Fox tobacco?
And smokes the Fox tobacco?
And smokes the leathery Fox tobacco?
Ha! Ha!
Fox tobacco!
And smokes the Fox tobacco?
A little, Masters mine!
A little, Masters mine!
A little, much-
honored Masters mine!
Ha! Ha!
Much-honored Masters mine!
A little, Masters mine!
Then let him fill a pipe!
Then let him fill a pipe!
Then let him fill a leathery pipe!
Ha! Ha!
Leathery pipe!
Then let him fill a pipe!
O Lord! It makes me sick!
O Lord! It makes him sick!
O Lord! It makes me leathery sick!
Ha! Ha!
Leathery sick!
O Lord! It makes me sick!
Then let him throw it off!
Then let him throw it off!
Then let him throw it leathery off!
Ha! Ha!
Leathery off!
Then let him throw it off!
Now I again am well!
Now he again is well!
Now I again am leathery well!
Ha! Ha!
Leathery well!
Now I again am well!
So grows the Fox a Bursch!
So grows the Fox a Bursch!
So grows the leathery Fox a Bursch!
Ha! Ha!
Fox a Bursch!
So grows the Fox a Bursch!
At length the song was finished. Meanwhile large tufts and strips of paper had been twisted into the hair of the Branders, as those are called who have been already one semestre at the University, and then at a given signal were set on fire, and the Branders rode round the table on sticks, amid roars of laughter. When this ceremony was completed, the President rose from his chair, and in a solemn voice pronounced a long discourse, in which old college jokes were mingled with much parental advice to young men on entering life, and the whole was profusely garnished with select passages from the Old Testament. Then they all seated themselves at the table and the heavy beer-drinking set in, as among the Gods and Heroes of the old Northern mythology.
“Brander! Brander!” screamed a youth, whose face was hot and flushed with supper and with beer; “Brander, I say? Thou art a Doctor! No, — a Pope; — thou art a Pope, by—”
These words were addressed to a pale, quiet-looking person, who sat opposite, and was busy in making a wretched, shaved poodle sit on his hind legs in a chair, by his master’s side, and hold a short clay pipe in his mouth, — a performance to which the poodle seemed no wise inclined.
“Thou art challenged!” replied the pale Student, turning from his dog, who dropped the pipe from his mouth and leaped under the table.
Seconds were chosen on the spot; and the arms ordered; namely, six mighty goblets, or Bassgläser, filled to the brim with foaming beer. Three were placed before each duellist.
“Take your weapons!” cried one of the seconds, and each of the combatants seized a goblet in his hand.
“Strike!”
And the glasses rang, with a salutation like the crossing of swords.
“Set to!”
Each set the goblet to his lips.
“Out!”
And each poured the contents down his throat, as if he were pouring them through a tunnel into a beer-barrel. The other two glasses followed in quick succession, hardly a long breath drawn between. The pale Student was victorious. He was first to drain the third goblet. He held it for a moment inverted, to let the last drops fall out, and then placing it quietly on the table, looked his antagonist in the face, and said;
“Hit!”
Then, with the greatest coolness, he looked under the table and whistled for his dog. His antagonist stopped midway in his third glass. Every vein in his forehead seemed bursting; his eyes were wild and bloodshot, his hand gradually loosened its hold upon the table, and he sank and rolled together like a sheet of lead. He was drunk.
At this moment a majestic figure came stalking down the table, ghost-like, through the dim, smoky atmosphere. His coat was off, his neck bare, his hair wild, his eyes wide open, and looking right before him, as if he saw some beckoning hand in the air, that others could not see. His left hand was upon his hip, and in his right he held a drawn sword extended, and pointing downward. Regardless of every one, erect, and with a martial stride he marched directly along the centre of the table, crushing glasses and overthrowing bottles at everystep. The students shrunk back at his approach; till at length one more drunk, or more courageous, than the rest, dashed a glass full of beer into his face. A general tumult ensued, and the student with the sword leaped to the floor. It was Von Kleist. He was renowning it. In the midst of the uproar could be distinguished the offensive words;
“Arrogant! Absurd! Impertinent! Dummer Junge!”
Von Kleist went home that night with no less than six duels on his hands. He fought them all out in as many days; and came off with only a gash through his upper lip and another through his right eyelid from a dexterous Suabian Schlaeger.
CHAPTER V. THE WHITE LADY’S SLIPPER AND THE PASSION-FLOWER.
That night Emma of Ilmenau went to her chamber with a heavy heart, and her dusky eyes were troubled with tears. She was one of those gentle beings, who seem created only to love and to be loved. A shade of melancholy softened her character. She shunned the glare of daylight and of society, and wished to be alone. Like the evening primrose, her heart opened only after sunset; but bloomed through the dark night with sweet fragrance. Her mother, on the contrary, flaunted in the garish light of society. There was no sympathy between them. Their souls never approached, never understood each other, and words were often spoken which wounded deeply. And therefore Emma of Ilmenau went to her chamber that night with tears in her eyes.
She was followed by her French chamber-maid, Madeleine, a native of Strassburg, who had grown old in the family. In her youth, she had been poor, — and virtuous because she had never been tempted; and, now that she had grown old, and seen no immediate reward for her virtue, as is usual with weak minds, she despaired of Providence, and regretted she had never been tempted. Whilst this unfortunate personage was lighting the wax tapers on the toilet, and drawing the bed-curtains, and tattling about the room, Emma threw herself into an arm-chair, and, crossing her hands in her lap, and letting her head fall upon her bosom, seemed lost in a dream.
“Why have these gentle feelings been given me!” said she in her heart. “Why have I been born with all these warm affections, — these ardent longings after what is good, if they lead only to sorrow and disappointment? I would love some one; — love him once and forever; — devote myselfto him alone, — live for him, — die for him, — exist alone in him! But alas! in all this wide world there is none to love me, as I would be loved, — none whom I may love, as I am capable of loving. How empty, how desolate, seems the world about me! Why has Heaven given me these affections, only to fall and fade!”
Alas! poor child! thou too must learn like others, that the sublime mystery of Providence goes on in silence, and gives no explanation of itself, — no answer to our impatient questionings!
“Bless me, child, what ails you?” exclaimed Madeleine, perceiving that Emma paid no attention to her idle gossip. “When I was of your age—”
“Do not talk to me now, good Madeleine. Leave me, I wish to be alone?”
“Well, here is something,” continued the maid, taking a billet from her bosom, “which I hope will enliven you. When I was of your age—”
“Hush! hush!” said Emma, taking the billetfrom the hard hand of Madeleine. “Once more I beg you, leave me! I wish to be alone!”
Madeleine took the lamp and retired slowly, wishing her young mistress many good nights and rosy dreams. Emma broke the seal of the note. As she read, her face became deadly pale, and then, as quick as thought, a crimson blush gleamed on her cheek, and her hands trembled. Tenderness, pity, love, offended pride, the weakness and dignity of woman, were all mingled in her look, changing and passing over her fine countenance like cloud-shadows. She sunk back in her chair, covering her face with her hands, as if she would hide it from herself and Heaven.
“He loves me!” said she
to herself; “loves me; and is married to another, whom he loves not! and dares to tell me this! O, never, — never, — never! And yet he is so friendless and alone in this unsympathizing world, — and an exile, and homeless! I can but pity him; — yet I hate him, and will see him no more!”
This short reverie of love and hate was brokenby the sound of a clear, mellow voice, which, in the universal stillness of the hour, seemed almost like the voice of a spirit. It was a voice, without the accompaniment of any instrument, singing those sweet lines of Goethe;
“Under the tree-tops is quiet now!
In all the woodlands hearest thou
Not a sound!
The little birds are asleep in the trees,
Wait! wait! and soon like these,
Sleepest thou!”
Emma knew the voice and started. She rushed to the window to close it. It was a beautiful night, and the stars were shining peacefully over the mountain of All-Saints. The sound of the Neckar was soft and low, and nightingales were singing among the brown shadows of the woods. The large red moon shone, like a ruby, in the horizon’s ample ring; and golden threads of light seemed braided together with the rippling current of the river. Tall and spectral stood the white statues on the bridge. The outline of thehills, the castle, the arches of the bridge, and the spires and roofs of the town were as strongly marked as if cut out of pasteboard. Amid this fairy scene, a little boat was floating silently down the stream. Emma closed the window hastily, and drew the curtains close.
“I hate him; and yet I will pray for him,” said she, as she laid her weary head upon that pillow, from which, but a few months before, she thought she should never raise it again. “O, that I had died then! I dare not love him, but I will pray for him!”
Sweet child! If the face of the deceiver comes so often between thee and Heaven, I tremble for thy fate! The plant that sprang from Helen’s tears destroyed serpents; — would that from thine might spring up heart’s-ease; — some plant, at least, to destroy the serpents in thy bosom. Believe me, upon the margin of celestial streams alone, those simples grow, which cure the heartache!
Delphi Complete Works of Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (Delphi Poets Series Book 13) Page 157
