“Very true. We ought sometimes to be content with feeling. Here, now, is an exquisite piece, which soothes one like the fall of evening shadows, — like the dewy coolness of twilight after a sultry day. I shall not give you a bald translation of my own, because I have laid up in my memory another, which, though not very literal, equals the original in beauty. Observe how finely it commences.
“Many a year is in its grave,
Since I crossed this restless wave;
And the evening, fair as ever,
Shines on ruin, rock, and river.
“Then, in this same boat, beside,
Sat two comrades old and tried;
One with all a father’s truth,
One with all the fire of youth.
“One on earth in silence wrought,
And his grave in silence sought;
But the younger, brighter form
Passed in battle and in storm!
“So, whene’er I turn my eye
Back upon the days gone by,
Saddening thoughts of friends come o’er me, —
Friends, who closed their course before me.
“Yet what binds us, friend to friend,
But that soul with soul can blend?
Soul-like were those hours of yore;
Let us walk in soul once more!
“Take, O boatman, thrice thy fee;
Take, — I give it willingly;
For, invisibly to thee,
Spirits twain have crossed with me!”
“O, that is beautiful,— ‘beautiful exceedingly!’ Who translated it?”
“I do not know. I wish I could find him out. It is certainly admirably done; though in the measure of the original there is something like the rocking motion of a boat, which is not preserved in the translation.”
“And is Uhland always so soothing and spiritual?”
“Yes, he generally looks into the spirit-world. I am now trying to find here a little poem on the Death of a Country Clergyman; in which he introduces a beautiful picture. But I cannot turn to it. No matter. He describes the spirit of the good old man, returning to earth on a bright summer morning, and standing amid the golden corn and the red and blue flowers, and mildly greeting the reapers as of old. The idea is beautiful, is it not?”
“Yes, very beautiful!”
“But there is nothing morbid in Uhland’s mind. He is always fresh and invigorating, like a breezy morning. In this he differs entirely from such writers as Salis and Matthisson.”
“And who are they?”
“Two melancholy gentlemen to whom life was only a Dismal Swamp, upon whose margin they walked with cambric handkerchiefs in their hands, sobbing and sighing, and making signals to Death, to come and ferry them over the lake. And now their spirits stand in the green fields of German song, like two weeping-willows, bending over agrave. To read their poems, is like wandering through a village churchyard on a summer evening, reading the inscription upon the grave-stones, and recalling sweet images of the departed; while above you,
‘Hark! in the holy grove of palms,
Where the stream of life runs free,
Echoes, in the angels’ psalms,
‘Sister spirit! hail to thee!’”
“How musically those lines flow! Are they Matthisson’s!”
“Yes; and they do indeed flow musically. I wish I had his poems here. I should like to read to you his Elegy on the Ruins of an Ancient Castle. It is an imitation of Gray’s Elegy. You have been at Baden-Baden?
“Yes; last summer.”
“And have not forgotten—”
“The old castle? Of course not. What a magnificent ruin it is!”
“That is the scene of Matthisson’s Poem, andseems to have filled the melancholy bard with more than wonted inspiration.”
“I should like very much to see the poem, I remember that old ruin with so much delight.”
“I am sorry I have not a translation of it for you. Instead of it I will give you a sweet and mournful poem from Salis. It is called the Song of the Silent Land.
“Into the Silent Land!
Ah! who shall lead us thither!
Clouds in the evening sky more darkly gather,
And shattered wrecks lie thicker on the strand.
Who leads us with a gentle hand,
Thither, oh, thither.
Into the Silent Land?
“Into the Silent Land!
To you, ye boundless regions
Of all perfection! Tender morning-visions
Of beauteous souls! Eternity’s own band!
Who in Life’s battle firm doth stand,
Shall bear Hope’s tender blossoms
Into the Silent Land!
“O Land! O Land!
For all the broken-hearted
The mildest herald by our fate allotted,
Beckons, and with inverted torch doth stand
To lead us with a gentle hand
Into the land of the great departed,
Into the Silent Land!
Is not that a beautiful poem?”
Mary Ashburton made no answer. She had turned away to hide her tears. Flemming wondered, that Berkley could say she was not beautiful. Still he was rather pleased than offended at it. He felt at that moment how sweet a thing it would be to possess one, who should seem beautiful to him alone, and yet to him be more beautiful than all the world beside! How bright the world became to him at that thought! It was like one of those paintings in which all the light streams from the face of the Virgin. O, there is nothing holier in this life of ours, than the first consciousness of love, — the first fluttering of its silken wings; the first rising sound and breath of thatwind, which is so soon to sweep through the soul, to purify or to destroy!
Old histories tell us, that the great Emperor Charlemagne stamped his edicts with the hilt of his sword. The greater Emperor, Death, stamps his with the blade; and they are signed and executed with the same stroke. Flemming received that night a letter from Heidelberg, which told him, that Emma of Ilmenau was dead. The fate of this poor girl affected him deeply; and he said in his heart;
“Father in Heaven! Why was the lot of this weak and erring child so hard! What had she done, to be so tempted in her weakness, and perish? Why didst thou suffer her gentle affections to lead her thus astray?”
And, through the silence of the awful midnight, the voice of an avalanche answered from the distant mountains, and seemed to say;
“Peace! peace! Why dost thou question God’s providence!”
CHAPTER VII. TAKE CARE!
Fair is the valley of Lauterbrunnen with its green meadows and overhanging cliffs. The ruined castle of Unspunnen stands like an armed warder at the gate of the enchanted land. In calm serenity the snowy mountains rise beyond. Fairer than the Rock of Balmarusa, you frowning precipice looks down upon us; and, from the topmost cliff, the white pennon of the Brook of Dust shimmers and waves in the sunny air!
It was a bright, beautiful morning after nightrain. Every dewdrop and raindrop had a whole heaven within it; and so had the heart of Paul Flemming, as, with Mrs. Ashburton and her dark-eyed daughter, he drove up the Valley of Lauter-brunnen, — the Valley of Fountains-Only.
“How beautiful the Jungfrau looks this morning!” exclaimed he, looking at Mary Ashburton.
She thought he meant the mountain, and assented. But he meant her likewise.
“And the mountains, beyond,” he continued; “the Monk and the Silver-horn, the Wetter-horn the Schreck-horn, and the Schwarz-horn, all those sublime apostles of Nature, whose sermons are avalanches! Did you ever behold anything more grand!”
“O yes. Mont Blanc is more grand, when you behold it from the hills opposite. It was there that I was most moved by the magnificence of Swiss scenery. It was a morning like this; and the clouds, that were hovering about on their huge, shadowy wings, made the scene only the more magnificent. Before me lay the whole panorama of the Alps; pine forests standing dark and solemn at the base o
f the mountains; and half-way up a veil of mist; above which rose the snowy summits, and sharp needles of rock, which seemed to float in the air, like a fairy world. Then the glaciersstood on either side, winding down through the mountain ravines; and, high above all, rose the white, dome-like summit of Mont Blanc. And ever and anon from the shroud of mist came the awful sound of an avalanche, and a continual roar, as of the wind through a forest of pines, filled the air. It was the roar of the Arve and Aveiron, breaking from their icy fountains. Then the mists began to pass away; and it seemed as if the whole firmament were rolling together. It recalled to my mind that sublime passage in the Apocalypse; ‘I saw a great white throne; and him that sat thereon; before whose face the heavens and the earth fled away, and found no place!’ O, I cannot believe that upon this earth there is a more magnificent scene.”
“It must be grand, indeed,” replied Flemming. “And those mighty glaciers, — huge monsters with bristling crests, creeping down into the valley! for it is said they really move.”
“Yes; it filled me with a strange sensation of awe to think of this. They seemed to me like the dragons of Northern Romance, which come down from the mountains and devour whole villages. A little hamlet in Chamouni was once abandoned by its inhabitants, terrified at the approach of the icy dragon. But is it possible you have never been at Chamouni?
“Never. The great marvel still remains unseen by me.”
“Then how can you linger here so long? Were I in your place I would not lose an hour.”
These words passed over the opening blossoms of hope in the soul of Flemming, like a cold wind over the flowers in spring-time. He bore it as best he could, and changed the subject.
I do not mean to describe the Valley of Lauterbrunnen, nor the bright day passed there. I know that my gentle reader is blessed with the divine gift of a poetic fancy; and can see already how the mountains rise, and the torrents fall, and the sweet valley lies between; and how, along the dusty road, the herdsman blows his horn, and travellers come and go in charabans, like Punch and Judy in a show-box. He knows already how romantic ladies sketch romantic scenes; while sweet gentlemen gather sweet flowers; and how cold meat tastes under the shadow of trees, and how time flies when we are in love, and the beloved one near. One little incident I must, however, mention, lest his fancy should not suggest it.
Flemming was still sitting with the ladies, on the green slope near the Staubbach, or Brook of Dust, when a young man clad in green, came down the valley. It was a German student, with flaxen ringlets hanging over his shoulders, and a guitar in his hand. His step was free and elastic, and his countenance wore the joyous expression of youth and health. He approached the company with a courteous salutation; and, after the manner of travelling students, asked charity with the confident air of one unaccustomed to refusal. Nor was he refused in this instance. The presence of those we love makes us compassionate and generous. Flemming gave him a piece of gold; and after a short conversation he seated himself, at alittle distance on the grass, and began to play and sing. Wonderful and many were the sweet accords and plaintive sounds that came from that little instrument, touched by the student’s hand. Every feeling of the human heart seemed to find an expression there, and awaken a kindred feeling in the hearts of those who heard him. He sang sweet German songs, so full of longing, and of pleasing sadness, and hope and fear, and passionate desire, and soul-subduing sorrow, that the tears came into Mary Ashburton’s eyes, though she understood not the words he sang. Then his countenance glowed with triumph, and he beat the strings like a drum, and sang;
“O, how the drum beats so loud!
Close beside me in the fight,
My dying brother says, Good Night!
And the cannon’s awful breath
Screams the loud halloo of Death!
And the drum,
And the drum,
Beats so loud!”
Many were the words of praise, when the young musician ended; and, as he rose to depart, they still entreated for one song more. Whereupon he played a lively prelude; and, looking full into Flemming’s face, sang with a pleasant smile, and still in German, this little song.
“I KNOW a maiden fair to see,
Take care!
She can both false and friendly be,
Beware! Beware!
Trust her not,
She is fooling thee!
“She has two eyes, so soft and brown,
Take care!
She gives a side-glance and looks down,
Beware! Beware!
Trust her not,
She is fooling thee!
“And she has hair of a golden hue,
Take care!
And what she says, it is not true,
Beware! Beware!
Trust her not,
She is fooling thee!
“She has a bosom as white as snow,
Take care!
She knows how much it is best to show,
Beware! Beware!
Trust her not,
She is fooling thee!
“She gives thee a garland woven fair,
Take care!
It is a fool’s cap for thee to wear,
Beware! Beware!
Trust her not,
She is fooling thee!”
The last stanza he sung in a laughing, triumphant tone, which resounded above the loud clang of his guitar, like the jeering laugh of Till Eulenspiegel. Then slinging his guitar over his shoulder, he took off his green cap, and made a leg to the ladies, in the style of Gil Blas; waved his hand in the air, and walked quickly down the valley, singing “Adé! Adé! Adé!”
CHAPTER VIII. THE FOUNTAIN OF OBLIVION.
The power of magic in the Middle Ages created monsters, who followed the unhappy magician everywhere. The power of Love in all ages creates angels, who likewise follow the happy or unhappy lover everywhere, even in his dreams. By such an angel was Paul Flemming now haunted, both when he waked and when he slept. He walked as in a dream; and was hardly conscious of the presence of those around him. A sweet face looked at him from every page of every book he read; and it was the face of Mary Ashburton! a sweet voice spake to him in every sound he heard; and it was the voice of Mary Ashburton! Day and night succeeded each other, with pleasant interchange of light and darkness; but to him thepassing of time was only as a dream. When he arose in the morning, he thought only of her, and wondered if she were yet awake; and when he lay down at night he thought only of her, and how, like the Lady Christabel,
“Her gentle limbs she did undress,
And lay down in her loveliness.”
And the livelong day he was with her, either in reality or in day-dreams, hardly less real; for, in each delirious vision of his waking hours, her beauteous form passed like the form of Beatrice through Dante’s heaven; and, as he lay in the summer afternoon, and heard at times the sound of the wind in the trees, and the sound of Sabbath bells ascending up to heaven, holy wishes and prayers ascended with them from his inmost soul, beseeching that he might not love in vain! And whenever, in silence and alone, he looked into the silent, lonely countenance of Night, he recalled the impassioned lines of Plato; —
“Lookest thou at the stars? If I were heaven,
With all the eyes of heaven would I look down on thee!”
O how beautiful it is to love! Even thou, that sneerest at this page, and laughest in cold indifference or scorn if others are near thee, thou, too, must acknowledge its truth when thou art alone; and confess, that a foolish world is prone to laugh in public, at what in private it reverences, as one of the highest impulses of our nature, — namely, Love!
One by one the objects of our affection depart from us. But our affections remain, and like vines stretch forth their broken, wounded tendrils for support. The bleeding heart needs a balm to heal it; and there is none but the love of its kind, — none but the affection of a human heart! Thus the wounded, broken affections of Flemming began to lift themselves from the dust and cling arou
nd this new object. Days and weeks passed; and, like the Student Crisostomo, he ceased to love because he began to adore. And with this adoration mingled the prayer, that, in that hour when the world is still, and the voices that praise are mute, and reflection cometh like twilight, and themaiden, in her day-dreams, counted the number of her friends, some voice in the sacred silence of her thoughts might whisper his name! And was it indeed so? Did any voice in the sacred silence of her thoughts whisper his name? — We shall soon learn.
They were sitting together one morning, on the green, flowery meadow, under the ruins of Burg Unspunnen. She was sketching the ruins. The birds were singing one and all, as if there were no aching hearts, no sin nor sorrow, in the world. So motionless was the bright air, that the shadow of the trees lay engraven on the grass. The distant snow-peaks sparkled in the sun, and nothing frowned, save the square tower of the old ruin above them.
“What a pity it is,” said the lady, as she stopped to rest her weary fingers; “what a pity it is, that there is no old tradition connected with this ruin.”
“I will make you one, if you wish,” said Flemming.
“Can you make old traditions?”
“O yes; I made three the other day for the Rhine, and one very old one for the Black Forest. A lady with dishevelled hair; a robber with a horrible slouched hat; and a night-storm among the roaring pines.”
“Delightful! Do make one for me.”
“With the greatest pleasure. Where will you have the scene? Here, or in the Black Forest?”
“In the Black Forest, by all means? Begin.”
“First promise not to interrupt me. If you snap the golden threads of thought, they will float away on the air like gossamer threads, and I shall never be able to recover them.”
“I promise.”
“Listen, then, to the Tradition of ‘The Fountain of Oblivion.’”
“Begin.”
Flemming was reclining on the flowery turf, at the lady’s feet, looking up with dreamy eyes into her sweet face, and then into the leaves of the linden-trees overhead.
“Gentle Lady! Dost thou remember the linden-trees of Bülach, those tall and stately trees, with velvet down upon their shining leaves and rustic benches underneath their overhanging eaves! A leafy dwelling, fit to be the home of elf or fairy, where first I told my love to thee, thou cold and stately Hermione! A little peasant girl stood near, and listened all the while, with eyes of wonder and delight, and an unconscious smile, to hear the stranger still speak on in accents deep yet mild, — none else was with us in that hour, save God and that peasant child!”
Delphi Complete Works of Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (Delphi Poets Series Book 13) Page 165
