Tales of the German Imagination from the Brothers Grimm to Ingeborg Bachmann (Penguin Classics)

by Unknown

  Fortunato gazed at the youth in amazement. ‘Then, by God, you must be head over heels in love!’

  Fortunato, who wanted to take a ride, had, in the meantime, ordered his horse to be brought to him. He lovingly stroked the bent neck of his elegantly decked-out steed, which snorted with high-spirited impatience. Then he turned back to Florio and, smiling, reached out his hand. ‘I feel bad for you, my friend,’ he said. ‘There are far too many sensitive, love-struck, good young lads like yourself in this world hell-bent on being miserable. Forget about melancholy, moonbeams and all that poppycock; and if ever you’re feeling really down, then ride out into the wide open fields of God’s good morning and shake it off in heartfelt prayer – things would really have to be pretty bad if that didn’t restore your spirits!’ With these words he swung himself into the saddle and rode past hilltop vineyards and flowery gardens out into the colourful echoing distance, himself as bright and brilliant as the morning that lay before him.

  Florio peered after him a long while, till the dust clouds dissolved on the distant sea of the horizon. Then he abruptly turned and paced back and forth beneath the trees. The things he saw last night left a deep, uncertain longing in his soul. On the other hand, Fortunato’s words of admonition had made him strangely moody and confused. Like a sleepwalker roused at the sound of his name, he himself no longer knew what he wanted. Lost in thought, he often paused before the wondrous spectacle of nature, as though he wanted to seek counsel with the merry majesty of it all. But, filtered through the foliage, the flickers of early morning sunlight only occasionally pierced the walls of his feverish breast, which was still in the thrall of another power. For in his heart the stars still cast their magic spell, in the glimmer of which the unspeakably lovely marble sculpture peered back at him again with irresistible force.

  So at last he resolved to seek out the pond again, and struck out in the same direction in which he’d wandered the night before.

  But how altogether different everything looked there now! Cheerful people made their busy way through the vineyards and gardens and up and down the alleys; children played quietly on the sunny lawns in front of cottages, which same structures, metamorphosed into sleeping sphinxes nestled beneath the dream spectres of the trees, had terrified him the night before; the moon hung pale and distant in the clear sky; and countless birds twittered and flitted about in the woods. It was inconceivable to him how he could possibly have been struck by such a strange terror in this placid place.

  Meanwhile, lost in thought, he noticed that he had wandered far afield. He looked carefully all around him, now doubling back, now ambling forward again, but to no avail; the more attentive his gaze, the more unknown and altogether different everything appeared.

  He staggered around like this for a long while. Soon the birds went silent, the circle of hills around him grew more and more still. The rays of the midday sun played, opalescent, burning down on the woodlands beyond, which seemed lost in slumber and reverie, as though smothered beneath a veil of stifling heat. Then he found himself, unexpectedly, standing before an iron gate, through the elegantly gilded bars of which he peered into a vast and splendid pleasure garden. A sentient burst of coolness wafted forth, refreshing the weary wanderer. The gate was not locked; he quietly opened it and stepped in.

  Towering rows of beech trees received him with their festive shadows, beneath which, every now and then, golden birds fluttered about like falling petals, while big strange flowers, the like of which Florio had never seen, waved their yellow and red bells back and forth in the gentle breeze. Countless fountains splashed, churning up golden bubble after bubble in this vast solitude. Through the trees, in the distance, one could make out a resplendent palace surrounded with shimmering, tall, thin columns. There was not a living soul in sight; everything was silent. Only every now and then a nightingale awakened and sang out, almost as though it were sobbing in its sleep. Florio stared in surprise at trees, fountains and flowers, for it seemed to him as if all this were buried in the tides of time, as if the current of the day passed over him in light, clear waves, and beneath him lay the garden bound and bewitched, dreaming of a life gone by.

  He hadn’t gone very far when he thought he heard the strains of a lute, now resounding loudly, now softly fading again, drowned out by the gurgle of the fountains. He stood still and listened, the notes came ever closer and closer, when, suddenly, a tall, slender woman of wondrous beauty stepped out from behind the trees into the silent arbour, slowly ambling along without looking up. In her arms she carried a splendid lute, its belly lavishly decorated in gold leaf, on which, as though lost in thought, she strummed occasional chords. Her golden hair fell in thick curls over the dazzling whiteness of her practically bare shoulders, down her back; the long, wide sleeves of her blouse looked as though they were woven out of a snow of cherry blossoms and were clasped at the wrists by elegant golden bangles; her willowy body was wrapped in a sky-blue dress embroidered at the hemline with brightly coloured flowers wondrously intertwined with one another. Just then a bright burst of sunlight shone through an opening in the arbour illuminating the lovely figure. Florio went weak at the knees – hers were unmistakably the features of the beautiful statue of Venus he’d glimpsed at the pond. But she sang to herself, seemingly oblivious to the stranger:

  Why rouse me yet again, you saucy season, spring?

  A wondrous stirring grips the fertile land,

  Reviving old longings with the wave of a wand,

  Quickening my limbs into sweet awakening.

  Oh lovely mother saluted by a thousand songs,

  Just to see you young again, bedecked with bridal wreath.

  The woods are whispering, the rivers purling underneath,

  And naiads singing as they scamper along.

  Hidden in the cloistered valley like a rose,

  Fanned by the flirtatious gust,

  Blushing as it stretches in that sultry clime,

  So would you wake me from my sweet repose

  To laugh alive the season of lust,

  And make me swoon for scent and rhyme.

  Singing, she sauntered off, now disappearing in the green distance, now reappearing, always further and further off, until finally she vanished altogether in the proximity of the palace. Now everything went silent again, only the trees and fountains rustled and gurgled as before. Florio stood there, lost in dreams; it was as if he had known the lovely lute player for a long, long time, and had only forgotten and lost track of her in the course of life’s many distractions, and as though she were driven by wistfulness to amble among the bubbling fountains, and kept beckoning him to follow. Deeply moved, he hurried on into the garden in the direction in which she disappeared. Under the canopy of ancient trees he came upon a crumbling wall, on which, here and there, the traces of lovely painted murals were still half visible. Beside the wall, between scattered broken slabs of marble and the foundations of fallen columns, amongst which grass and flowers grew wild, a man lay sleeping. Stunned, Florio recognized the knight Donati. But his facial features were strangely distorted in sleep; he looked almost like a dead man. Florio felt a furtive shudder at the sight of him. He gave the sleeping man a shove with considerable force. Donati slowly opened his eyes, and their initial expression was so strange, fixed and wild that Florio shrank back in terror. Moreover, he muttered a few dark words between sleeping and waking that Florio did not understand. When at last he had completely shaken the sleep from his eyes he leapt up and looked at Florio, so it seemed, with great amazement. ‘Where am I?’ Florio cried out abruptly. ‘What noble lady lives in this lovely garden?’

  Whereupon Donati asked in dead earnest: ‘How ever did you get into this garden?’ Florio gave a brief account of how he got there, which led the knight to sink into silent reflection. The young man repeated with great urgency his aforementioned questions, and Donati replied a bit distractedly: ‘The lady is a relative of mine, she is rich and powerful and her land holdings extend far out into
the surrounding country. Sometimes she’s here, sometimes she’s there; occasionally you can even find her in Lucca.’ The string of words had a strange effect on Florio, as it now became clearer and clearer to him that what he had previously suspected in passing was indeed the case – namely that he had already seen the lady somewhere before in his early youth, but he could not remember where.

  In the meantime, swiftly strolling, without knowing how they got there, they arrived at the gilded garden gate. It was not the same gate through which Florio had passed before. Surprised, he surveyed the unfamiliar terrain; far in the distance, beyond the fields, the towers of the city glistened, bathed in sunlight. Donati’s horse stood tied to the gate and, snorting, scraped the ground with its hooves.

  Timidly, Florio expressed the desire to see the lovely lady of the garden again one day. Donati, who until then still seemed lost in his own thoughts, only now suddenly appeared to come to his senses. ‘The lady,’ he said with his usual cautious courtly manner, ‘will be pleased to make your acquaintance. Today, however, we would be disturbing her, and I, too, have pressing business to attend to at home. Perhaps I could come and pick you up tomorrow.’ Hereupon, he bid the youth a well-worded farewell, mounted his horse and soon disappeared among the hills.

  Florio peered after him a long time, then rushed off like a drunken man back to the city. There the sultry heat still held all living souls prisoner in the cool darkness indoors behind venetian blinds. The streets and squares were deserted, nor had Fortunato come back yet. Such sad solitude was too suffocating for the blissful boy. He hastily saddled up his horse and rode back out into the wide, open country.

  ‘Tomorrow, tomorrow!’ his soul kept crying out. He was beside himself with joy. The lovely marble statue had come alive and stepped down from its stone pedestal into the flush of spring, the still pond had suddenly transformed itself into a sprawling landscape, the reflected stars sprouted into wild flowers and the resplendent spectacle of spring bespoke the joy in his heart. Enraptured, he rode through the hills and valleys around Lucca, past the splendid villas, cascades and grottoes, until the curtain of twilight fell over the joy-filled expanse.

  The stars already studded the night sky as he slowly rode back through the quiet streets to his lodgings. On one of the solitary squares stood a big, beautiful house bathed in moonlight. Through an open window decorated with potted flowers he spied two women who seemed to be engaged in a lively conversation. Flabbergasted, he clearly heard his own name repeated several times. And in the timbre of the stray words the wind wafted past his ears he thought he recognized the voice of the lady with the dazzling voice. But in the shimmer and shadows of moonlight he could not distinguish her figure from the fluttering leaves and flowers. He stopped below to try to listen in. But the two ladies noticed, and all went still again above.

  Frustrated, Florio rode on, but as he rounded a bend he saw one of the ladies lean out and peer after him through the flower pots before pulling the window shut.

  The following morning, no sooner had Florio shaken off the pleasant aura of his dreams and peered happily out of the window at the sparkling towers and cupolas of the city, than the knight Donati unexpectedly strode into his room. He was dressed all in black and today appeared uncommonly troubled, rushed and almost wild. Florio jumped for joy at the sight of him, as he immediately thought of the lovely lady. ‘Can I see her?’ he promptly cried out to him.

  Donati shook his head, and with a downcast expression said: ‘Today is Sunday.’ Then he quickly continued, composing himself: ‘But I wanted to take you along on the hunt.’

  ‘On the hunt,’ replied Florio, greatly surprised, ‘today, on this day of God?’

  ‘Don’t tell me,’ the knight interrupted with a fierce, repulsive laugh, ‘you intend to wander arm in arm with the strumpets to church to kneel in a corner and piously implore God for his blessing when Lady Nose sneezes!’

  ‘I don’t know what you mean by that,’ said Florio, ‘and you may well laugh at me, but I couldn’t go hunting today, not on the day of rest, when all work is suspended – everything seems so silent, festive and full of grace, field and forest bathed in a golden light to sing God’s praises, as if the angels flew down from their heavenly blue home!’

  Donati stood, lost in thought, at the window, and Florio thought he noticed him secretly shuddering as he gazed out at the Sunday silence of the fields.

  In the meantime, the bells of the church towers began to toll, the sound of which wafted like a prayer through the clear morning air. Whereupon, as if gripped by a burst of fear, Donati reached for his hat and pressed Florio, almost beseeching the youth to accompany him, which Florio steadfastly declined. ‘Off then!’ the knight finally murmured under his breath, and, as if with a burst of profound discord, squeezed the startled youth’s hand and dashed off.

  Almost immediately thereafter, Florio was enveloped by a comforting feeling when, like a messenger of peace, like a breath of fresh air, the clear-eyed singer Fortunato burst into his room. He brought with him an invitation to a gathering the following evening at a villa just outside the city. ‘Prepare yourself, my friend,’ he said, ‘to meet an old acquaintance there!’

  Dumbfounded, Florio asked: ‘Who?’ But Fortunato laughingly refused to elaborate and promptly took his leave. ‘Could it be the lovely singer?’ Florio thought to himself, his heart pounding in his chest.

  He then went to church, but he could not pray, he was just too giddy. Idly he ambled through the streets. Everything looked so clean and festive, well-dressed gentlemen and ladies merrily made their way to church. But, oh, the loveliest was not among them! Yesterday’s adventure came to mind as he headed back to the inn. He searched for the street and soon found the big, beautiful house again; but, strangely enough, the door was closed, all the windows were shut and shuttered, and nobody seemed to live there.

  To no avail did he roam through the neighbourhood the whole of the next day to try and glean word of the whereabouts of his unknown beloved, or, if possible, to see her again. Her palace, as well as the garden he’d chanced upon on that happy noontime hour the other day, seemed to have disappeared, and Donati, too, was nowhere to be found. So his heart beat impatiently, bursting with cheerful expectation, when at last, on the evening of the invitation, with a tight-lipped Fortunato at his side, he rode out to the country house.

  It was already pitch-dark when they got there. Surrounded by a garden, so it seemed, stood a stately villa ringed with slender columns, beyond the walls of which lay another garden planted with orange trees and all sorts of fragrant flowers. Tall chestnut trees stood scattered about, boldly stretching their oddly illuminated, far-reaching branches, spreading the light that emanated from the windows far into the night. The host, an elegant, merry, middle-aged gentleman, whom Florio could not recall ever having met before, graciously received the singer and his friend at the door and led them up a wide flight of steps to the hall.

  They were met by sprightly strains of dance music, and a big crowd of guests bumped brightly and brilliantly about, bathed in the light of countless crystal chandeliers that glistened like a firmament of stars. Some danced, others were engaged in lively conversations, many were masked – and so, unintentionally, on account of their disguise, sometimes added an almost eerie aspect to the otherwise resplendent festivity.

  Florio stood, frozen in place, blinded by the spectacle, another pretty picture surrounded by the rest. Then a graceful girl stepped towards him lightly draped in a Greek toga, her lovely hair artfully wreathed upon her comely head. A mask hid half her face and made the other half appear all the rosier and more entrancing. She curtsied, handed him a rose and promptly, swept up in the merriment, disappeared in the crowd.

  At that same moment, he also noticed his host standing directly beside him with a scrutinizing gaze but quickly looking away when Florio turned towards him.

  Surprised, Florio threaded his way through the chattering crowd. Nowhere did he find what he secretly ho
ped for, and he almost regretted having so light-heartedly followed the merry Fortunato to this lake of delight that seemed to lead him further away from the tall, lonesome figure he longed for. Meanwhile the free and easy waves of idle sociability washed over him with flattery and flirtation, taking the pensive youth unawares, changing his ideas. Dance music, even if superficial, is like spring, softly and powerfully falling upon us; and, as do the first signs of summer, its strains magically awaken all the songs asleep in us, stirring wells of emotion, making flowers and memories blossom, and the frozen stiffness of our life turns liquid and light, melting into a clear stream on which, with fluttering pennants, the heart floats cheerfully on a bed of long-abandoned desires. So the general mood of merriment soon infected Florio too; he felt light-hearted, as though the heavy riddles that weighed upon his spirit could be easily resolved.

  Curious now, he searched for the charming Greek. He found her engaged in a lively conversation with another masked reveller, but he noticed that, mid-sentence, her eyes scanned the room and already saw him coming from afar. He invited her to dance. She bowed her head in a friendly manner, but as soon as he reached for and held her hand, her graceful, vivacious manner cramped up. She followed him in silence and with a bowed head – whether in jest or sadness it was impossible to say. The music started up and he could make neither head nor tail of the glances cast by that lovely trickster, which struck him like the inscrutable looks of the charmed nymphs in ancient Greek depictions. ‘You know me,’ she whispered, barely audibly, when at one point in the dance their lips almost touched.

  The dance finally came to an end, the music stopped suddenly – when, looking up, Florio thought he saw the spitting image of the same delicate dancer at the far end of the hall. She wore the same costume, a robe of the same colour, the same hairstyle. The picture of loveliness appeared to keep staring at him and stood stock-still amidst the swarm of scattered dancers, like a sparkling star, now hidden by passing clouds, now shining forth again. The graceful Greek did not seem to notice, or to take notice, of him, but rather, without saying a word and with a quiet, quick squeeze of the hand, took leave of her dancing partner.