The German Classics of The Nineteenth and Twentieth Centuries, Vol. IV by Editor in Chief: Kuno Francke

E >> Editor in Chief: Kuno Francke >> The German Classics of The Nineteenth and Twentieth Centuries, Vol. IV

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"I had already traversed mountains and several forests when evening
came, and I was obliged to pass the night in a village. I was very
timid when I entered the public-house; they showed me to a room and a
bed, and I slept fairly well, except that I dreamt of the old woman,
who was threatening me.

"My journey was rather monotonous; but the further I went the more the
picture of the old woman and the little dog worried me. I thought how
he would probably starve to death without my help, and in the forest I
often thought I would suddenly meet the old woman. Thus, crying and
sighing, I wandered along, and as often as I rested and put the cage
on the ground, the bird sang its wonderful song, and reminded me
vividly of the beautiful home I had deserted. As human nature is prone
to forget, I now thought that the journey I had made as a child was
not as dismal as the one I was now making, and I wished that I were
back in the same situation.

"I had sold a few gems, and now, after wandering many days, I arrived
in a village. Even as I was entering it, a strange feeling came over
me--I was frightened and did not know why. But I soon discovered
why--it was the very same village in which I was born. How astonished
I was! How the tears of joy ran down my cheeks as a thousand strange
memories came back to me! There were a great many changes; new houses
had been built, others, which had then only recently been erected,
were now in a state of dilapidation. I came across places where there
had been a fire. Everything was a great deal smaller and more crowded
than I had expected. I took infinite delight in the thought of seeing
my parents again after so many years. I found the little house and the
well-known threshold--the handle on the door was just as it used to
be. I felt as if I had only yesterday left it ajar. My heart throbbed
vehemently. I quickly opened the door--but faces entirely strange to
me stared at me from around the room. I inquired after the shepherd,
Martin, and was told that both he and his wife had died three years
before. I hurried out and, crying aloud, left the village.

"I had looked forward with such pleasure to surprising them with my
riches, and as a result of a remarkable accident the dream of my
childhood had really come true. And now it was all in vain--they could
no longer rejoice with me--the fondest hope of my life was lost to me
forever.

"I rented a small house with a garden in a pleasant city, and engaged
a waiting-maid. The world did not appear to be such a wonderful place
as I had expected, but the old woman and my former home dropped more
and more out of my memory, so that, upon the whole, I lived quite
contentedly.

"The bird had not sung for a long time, so that I was not a little
frightened one night when he suddenly began again. The song he sang,
however, was different--it was:

O solitude
Of lonely wood,
A vanished good
In dreams pursued,
In absence rued,
O solitude!

"I could not sleep through the night; everything came back to my mind,
and I felt more than ever that I had done wrong. When I got up the
sight of the bird was positively repugnant to me; he was constantly
staring at me, and his presence worried me. He never ceased singing
now, and sang more loudly and shrilly than he used to. The more I
looked at him the more uneasiness I felt. Finally, I opened the cage,
stuck my hand in, seized him by the neck and squeezed my fingers
together forcibly. He looked at me imploringly, and I relaxed my
grip--but he was already dead. I buried him in the garden.

"And now I was often seized with fear of my waiting-maid. My own past
came back to me, and I thought that she too might rob me some day, or
perhaps even murder me. For a long time I had known a young knight
whom I liked very much--I gave him my hand, and with that, Mr.
Walther, my story ends."

"You should have seen her then," broke in Eckbert quickly. "Her youth,
her innocence, her beauty--and what an incomprehensible charm her
solitary breeding had given her! To me she seemed like a wonder, and I
loved her inexpressibly. I had no property, but with the help of her
love I attained my present condition of comfortable prosperity. We
moved to this place, and our union thus far has never brought us a
single moment of remorse."

"But while I have been chattering," began Bertha again, "the night has
grown late. Let us go to bed."

She rose to go to her room. Walther kissed her hand and wished her a
good-night, adding:

"Noble woman, I thank you. I can readily imagine you with the strange
bird, and how you fed the little Strohmi."

Without answering she left the room. Walther also lay down to sleep,
but Eckbert continued to walk up and down the room.

"Aren't human beings fools?" he finally asked himself. "I myself
induced my wife to tell her story, and now I regret this confidence!
Will he not perhaps misuse it? Will he not impart it to others? Will
he not perhaps--for it is human nature--come to feel a miserable
longing for our gems and devise plans to get them and dissemble his
nature?"

It occurred to him that Walther had not taken leave of him as
cordially as would perhaps have been natural after so confidential a
talk. When the soul is once led to suspect, it finds confirmations of
its suspicions in every little thing. Then again Eckbert reproached
himself for his ignoble distrust of his loyal friend, but he was
unable to get the notion entirely out of his mind. All night long he
tossed about with these thoughts and slept but little.

Bertha was sick and could not appear for breakfast. Walther seemed
little concerned about it, and furthermore he left the knight in a
rather indifferent manner. Eckbert could not understand his conduct.
He went in to see his wife--she lay in a severe fever and said that
her story the night before must have excited her in this manner.

After that evening Walther visited his friend's castle but rarely, and
even when he did come he went away again after a few trivial words.
Eckbert was exceedingly troubled by this behavior; to be sure, he
tried not to let either Bertha or Walther notice it, but both of them
must surely have been aware of his inward uneasiness.

Bertha's sickness grew worse and worse. The doctor shook his head--the
color in her cheeks had disappeared, and her eyes became more and more
brilliant.

One morning she summoned her husband to her bedside and told the maids
to withdraw.

"Dear husband," she began, "I must disclose to you something which has
almost deprived me of my reason and has ruined my health, however
trivial it may seem to be. Often as I have told my story to you, you
will remember that I have never been able, despite all the efforts I
have made, to recall the name of the little dog with which I lived so
long. That evening when I told the story to Walther he suddenly said
to me when we separated: 'I can readily imagine how you fed the little
Strohmi.' Was that an accident? Did he guess the name, or did he
mention it designedly? And what, then, is this man's connection with
my lot? The idea has occurred to me now and then that I merely imagine
this accident--but it is certain, only too certain. It sent a feeling
of horror through me to have a strange person like that assist my
memory. What do you say, Eckbert?"

Eckbert looked at his suffering wife with deep tenderness. He kept
silent, but was meditating. Then he said a few comforting words to her
and left the room. In an isolated room he walked back and forth with
indescribable restlessness--Walther for many years had been his sole
male comrade, and yet this man was now the only person in the world
whose existence oppressed and harassed him. It seemed to him that his
heart would be light and happy if only this one person might be put
out of the way. He took down his cross-bow with a view to distracting
his thoughts by going hunting.

It was a raw and stormy day in the winter; deep snow lay on the
mountains and bent down the branches of the trees. He wandered about,
with the sweat oozing from his forehead. He came across no game, and
that increased his ill-humor. Suddenly he saw something move in the
distance--it was Walther gathering moss from the trees. Without
knowing what he was doing he took aim--Walther looked around and
motioned to him with a threatening gesture. But as he did so the arrow
sped, and Walther fell headlong.

Eckbert felt relieved and calm, and yet a feeling of horror drove him
back to his castle. He had a long distance to go, for he had wandered
far into the forest. When he arrived home, Bertha had already
died--before her death she had spoken a great deal about Walther and
the old woman.

For a long time Eckbert lived in greatest seclusion. He had always
been somewhat melancholy because the strange story of his wife rather
worried him; he had always lived in fear of an unfortunate event that
might take place, but now he was completely at variance with himself.
The murder of his friend stood constantly before his eyes--he spent
his life reproaching himself.

In order to divert his thoughts, he occasionally betook himself to the
nearest large city, where he attended parties and banquets. He wished
to have a friend to fill the vacancy in his soul, and then again, when
he thought of Walther, the very word friend made him shudder. He was
convinced that he would necessarily be unhappy with all his friends.
He had lived so long in beautiful harmony with Bertha, and Walther's
friendship had made him happy for so many years, and now both of them
had been so suddenly taken from him that his life seemed at times more
like a strange fairy-tale than an actual mortal existence.

A knight, Hugo von Wolfsberg, became attached to the quiet, melancholy
Eckbert, and seemed to cherish a genuine fondness for him. Eckbert was
strangely surprised; he met the knight's friendly advances more
quickly than the other expected. They were now frequently together,
the stranger did Eckbert all sorts of favors, scarcely ever did either
of them ride out without the other, they met each other at all the
parties--in short, they seemed to be inseparable.

Eckbert was, nevertheless, happy only for short moments at a time, for
he felt quite sure that Hugo loved him only by mistake--he did not
know him, nor his history, and he felt the same impulse again to
unfold his soul to him in order to ascertain for sure how staunch a
friend Hugo was. Then again doubts and the fear of being detested
restrained him. There were many hours in which he felt so convinced
of his own unworthiness as to believe that no person, who knew him at
all intimately, could hold him worthy of esteem. But he could not
resist the impulse; in the course of a long walk he revealed his
entire history to his friend, and asked him if he could possibly love
a murderer. Hugo was touched and tried to comfort him. Eckbert
followed him back to the city with a lighter heart.

However, it seemed to be his damnation that his suspicions should
awaken just at the time when he grew confidential; for they had no
more than entered the hall when the glow of the many lights revealed
an expression in his friend's features which he did not like. He
thought he detected a malicious smile, and it seemed to him that he,
Hugo, said very little to him, that he talked a great deal with the
other people present, and seemed to pay absolutely no attention to
him. There was an old knight in the company who had always shown
himself as Eckbert's rival, and had often inquired in a peculiar way
about his riches and his wife. Hugo now approached this man, and they
talked together a long time secretly, while every now and then they
glanced toward Eckbert. He, Eckbert, saw in this a confirmation of his
suspicions; he believed that he had been betrayed, and a terrible rage
overcame him. As he continued to stare in that direction, he suddenly
saw Walther's head, all his features, and his entire figure, so
familiar to him. Still looking, he became convinced that it was nobody
but Walther himself who was talking with the old man. His terror was
indescribable; completely beside himself, he rushed out, left the city
that night, and, after losing his way many times, returned to his
castle.

Like a restless spirit he hurried from room to room. No thought could
he hold fast; the pictures in his mind grew more and more terrible,
and he did not sleep a wink. The idea often occurred to him that he
was crazy and that all these notions were merely the product of his
own imagination. Then again he remembered Walther's features, and it
was all more puzzling to him than ever. He resolved to go on a journey
in order to compose his thoughts; he had long since given up the idea
of a friend and the wish for a companion.

Without any definite destination in view, he set out, nor did he pay
much attention to the country that lay before him. After he had
trotted along several days on his horse, he suddenly lost his way in a
maze of rocks, from which he was unable to discover any egress.
Finally he met an old peasant who showed him a way out, leading past a
water-fall. He started to give him a few coins by way of thanks, but
the peasant refused them.

"What can it mean?" he said to himself. "I could easily imagine that
that man was no other than Walther." He looked back once more--it was
indeed no one else but Walther!

Eckbert spurred on his horse as fast as it could run--through meadows
and forests, until, completely exhausted, it collapsed beneath him.
Unconcerned, he continued his journey on foot.

Dreamily he ascended a hill. There he seemed to hear a dog barking
cheerily close by--birch trees rustled about him--he heard the notes
of a wonderful song:

O solitude
Of lonely wood,
Thou chiefest good,
Where thou dost brood
Is joy renewed,
O solitude!

Now it was all up with Eckbert's consciousness and his senses; he
could not solve the mystery whether he was now dreaming or had
formerly dreamt of a woman Bertha. The most marvelous was confused
with the most ordinary--the world around him was bewitched--no
thought, no memory was under his control.

An old crook-backed woman with a cane came creeping up the hill,
coughing.

"Are you bringing my bird, my pearls, my dog?" she cried out to him.
"Look--wrong punishes itself. I and no other was your friend Walther,
your Hugo."

"God in Heaven!" said Eckbert softly to himself. "In what terrible
solitude I have spent my life."

"And Bertha was your sister."

Eckbert fell to the ground.

"Why did she desert me so deceitfully? Otherwise everything would have
ended beautifully--her probation-time was already over. She was the
daughter of a knight, who had a shepherd bring her up--the daughter of
your father."

"Why have I always had a presentiment of these facts?" cried Eckbert.

"Because in your early youth you heard your father tell of them. On
his wife's account he could not bring up this daughter himself, for
she was the child of another woman."

Eckbert was delirious as he breathed his last; dazed and confused he
heard the old woman talking, the dog barking, and the bird repeating
its song.

THE ELVES[37] (1811)

By LUDWIG TIECK

TRANSLATED BY FREDERIC H. HEDGE

"Where is our little Mary?" asked the father.

"She is playing out upon the green there, with our neighbor's boy,"
replied the mother.

"I wish they may not run away and lose themselves," said he; "they are
so heedless."

The mother looked for the little ones, and brought them their evening
luncheon. "It is warm," said the boy; and Mary eagerly reached out for
the red cherries.

"Have a care, children," said the mother, "and do not run too far from
home, or into the wood; father and I are going to the fields."

Little Andrew answered: "Never fear, the wood frightens us; we shall
sit here by the house, where there are people near us."

The mother went in, and soon came out again with her husband. They
locked the door, and turned toward the fields to look after their
laborers and see their hay-harvest in the meadow. Their house lay upon
a little green height, encircled by a pretty ring of paling, which
likewise inclosed their fruit and flower-garden. The hamlet stretched
somewhat deeper down, and on the other side lay the castle of the
Count. Martin rented the large farm from this nobleman, and was living
in contentment with his wife and only child; for he yearly saved some
money, and had the prospect of becoming a man of substance by his
industry, for the ground was productive, and the Count not illiberal.

As he walked with his wife to the fields, he gazed cheerfully round,
and said: "What a different look this quarter has, Brigitta, from the
place we lived in formerly! Here it is all so green; the whole village
is bedecked with thick-spreading fruit-trees; the ground is full of
beautiful herbs and flowers; all the houses are cheerful and cleanly,
the inhabitants are at their ease: nay, I could almost fancy that the
woods are greener here than elsewhere, and the sky bluer; and, so far
as the eye can reach, you have pleasure and delight in beholding the
bountiful Earth."

"And whenever you cross the stream," said Brigitta, "you are, as it
were, in another world, all is so dreary and withered; but every
traveler declares that our village is the fairest in the country, far
or near."

"All but that fir-ground," said her husband; "do but look back to it,
how dark and dismal that solitary spot is lying in the gay scene--the
dingy fir-trees, with the smoky huts behind them, the ruined stalls,
the brook flowing past with a sluggish melancholy."

"It is true," replied Brigitta; "if you but approach that spot, you
grow disconsolate and sad, you know not why. What sort of people can
they be that live there, and keep themselves so separate from the rest
of us, as if they had an evil conscience?"

"A miserable crew," replied the young farmer; "gipsies, seemingly,
that steal and cheat in other quarters, and have their hoard and
hiding-place here. I wonder only that his lordship suffers them."

"Who knows," said the wife, with an accent of pity, "but perhaps they
may be poor people, wishing, out of shame, to conceal their poverty;
for, after all, no one can say aught ill of them; the only thing is,
that they do not go to church, and none knows how they live; for the
little garden, which indeed seems altogether waste, cannot possibly
support them; and fields they have none."

"God knows," said Martin, as they went along, "what trade they follow;
no mortal comes to them; for the place they live in is as if
bewitched and excommunicated, so that even our wildest fellows will
not venture into it."

Such conversation they pursued while walking to the fields. That
gloomy spot they spoke of lay apart from the hamlet. In a dell, begirt
with firs, you might behold a hut and various dilapidated farm-houses;
rarely was smoke seen to mount from it, still more rarely did men
appear there; though at times curious people, venturing somewhat
nearer, had perceived upon the bench before the hut some hideous
women, in ragged clothes, dandling in their arms some children equally
dirty and ill-favored; black dogs were running up and down upon the
boundary; and, at eventide, a man of monstrous size was seen to cross
the foot-bridge of the brook, and disappear in the hut; then, in the
darkness, various shapes were observed, moving like shadows round an
open fire. This piece of ground, the firs, and the ruined hut, formed
in truth a strange contrast with the bright green landscape, the white
houses of the hamlet, and the stately new-built castle.

The two little ones had now eaten their fruit; it came into their
heads to run races; and the little nimble Mary always got the start of
the less active Andrew. "It is not fair," cried Andrew at last; "let
us try it for some length, then we shall see who wins."

"As thou wilt," said Mary; "only to the brook we must not run."

"No," said Andrew; "but there, on the hill, stands the large
pear-tree, a quarter of a mile from this. I shall run by the left,
round past the fir-ground; thou canst try it by the right, over the
fields; so we do not meet till we get up, and then we shall see which
of us is the swifter."

"Done," cried Mary, and began to run; "for we shall not interfere with
each other by the way, and my father says it is as far to the hill by
that side of the gipsies' house as by this."

Andrew had already started, and Mary, turning to the right, could no
longer see him. "It is very silly," said she to herself; "I have only
to take heart, and run along the bridge, past the hut, and through the
yard, and I shall certainly be first." She was already standing by the
brook and the clump of firs. "Shall I? No; it is too frightful," said
she. A little white dog was standing on the farther side, and barking
with might and main. In her terror, Mary thought the dog some monster,
and sprang back. "Fie! fie!" said she, "the dolt is gone half way by
this time, while I stand here considering." The little dog kept
barking, and, as she looked at it more narrowly, it seemed no longer
frightful, but, on the contrary, quite pretty; it had a red collar
round its neck, with a glittering bell; and as it raised its head, and
shook itself in barking, the little bell sounded with the finest
tinkle. "Well, I must risk it!" cried she: "I will run for life;
quick, quick, I am through; certainly to Heaven, they cannot eat me up
alive in half a minute!" And with this, the gay, courageous little
Mary sprang along the foot-bridge; passed the dog, which ceased its
barking, and began to fawn on her; and in a moment she was standing on
the other bank, and the black firs all round concealed from view her
father's house and the rest of the landscape.

But what was her astonishment when here! The loveliest, most
variegated flower-garden lay round her; tulips, roses, and lilies,
were glittering in the fairest colors; blue and gold-red butterflies
were wavering in the blossoms; cages of shining wire were hung on the
espaliers, with many-colored birds in them, singing beautiful songs;
and children in short white frocks, with flowing yellow hair and
brilliant eyes, were frolicking about; some playing with lambkins,
some feeding the birds, or gathering flowers and giving them to one
another; some, again, were eating cherries, grapes, and ruddy
apricots. No but was to be seen; but instead of it, a large fair
house, with a brazen door and lofty statues, stood glancing in the
middle of the space. Mary was confounded with surprise, and knew not
what to think; but, not being bashful, she went right up to the first
of the children, held out her hand, and wished the little creature
good evening.

"Art thou come to visit us, then?" asked the glittering child; "I saw
thee running, playing on the other side, but thou wert frightened for
our little dog."

"So you are not gipsies and rogues," exclaimed Mary, "as Andrew always
told me! He is a stupid thing, and talks of much he does not
understand."

"Stay with us," said the strange little girl; "thou wilt like it
well."

"But we are running a race."

"Thou wilt find thy comrade soon enough. There, take and eat."

Mary ate, and found the fruit more sweet than any she had ever tasted
in her life before; and Andrew, and the race, and the prohibition of
her parents, were entirely forgotten.

A stately woman, in a shining robe, came toward them, and asked about
the stranger child. "Fairest lady," said Mary, "I came running hither
by chance, and now they wish to keep me."

"Thou art aware, Zerina," said the lady, "that she can be here for but
a little while; besides, thou shouldst have asked my leave."

"I thought," said Zerina, "when I saw her admitted across the bridge,
that I might do it; we have often seen her running in the fields, and
thou thyself hast taken pleasure in her lively temper. She will have
to leave us soon enough."

"No, I will stay here," said the little stranger; "for here it is so
beautiful, and here I shall find the prettiest playthings, and store
of berries and cherries to boot. On the other side it is not half so
grand."

The gold-robed lady went away with a smile; and many of the children
now came bounding round the happy Mary in their mirth, and twitched
her, and incited her to dance; others brought her lambs, or curious
playthings; others made music on instruments, and sang to it.

She kept, however, by the playmate who had first met her; for Zerina
was the kindest and loveliest of them all. Little Mary cried and cried
again: "I will stay with you forever; I will stay with you, and you
shall be my sisters;" at which the children all laughed, and embraced
her. "Now, we shall have a royal sport," said Zerina. She ran into the
palace, and returned with a little golden box, in which lay a quantity
of seeds, like glittering dust. She lifted a few with her little hand,
and scattered some grains on the green earth. Instantly the grass
began to move, as in waves; and, after a few moments, bright
rose-bushes started from the ground, shot rapidly up, and budded all
at once, while the sweetest perfume filled the place. Mary also took a
little of the dust, and, having scattered it, she saw white lilies,
and the most variegated pinks, pushing up. At a signal from Zerina,
the flowers disappeared, and others rose in their room. "Now," said
Zerina, "look for something greater." She laid two pine-seeds in the
ground, and stamped them in sharply with her foot. Two green bushes
stood before them. "Grasp me fast," said she; and Mary threw her arms
about the slender form. She felt herself borne upward; for the trees
were springing under them with the greatest speed; the tall pines
waved to and fro, and the two children held each other fast embraced,
swinging this way and that in the red clouds of the twilight, and
kissed each other, while the rest were climbing up and down the trunks
with quick dexterity, pushing and teasing one another with loud
laughter when they met; if any fell down in the press, they flew
through the air, and sank slowly and surely to the ground. At length
Mary was beginning to be frightened; and the other little child sang a
few loud tones, and the trees again sank down and set them on the
ground as gently as they had lifted them before to the clouds.

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