Chapter IV: Part 4

And while thus dashing on in a breath, and thinking of everything, I have unexpectedly found myself back among old school stories, and I avail myself of this opportunity to show you, Madam, that it was not my fault if I learned so little geography that later in life I could not make my way in the world. For in those days the French had deranged all boundaries; every day countries were re-coloured--those which were once blue suddenly became green, many even blood-red; the old established rules were so confused and confounded that no devil would recognise them. The products of the country also changed--chickory and beets now grew where only hares and hunters running after them were once to be seen; even the characters of different races changed--the Germans became pliant, the French paid compliments no longer, the English ceased making ducks and drakes of their money, and the Venetians were not subtle enough; there was promotion among princes, old kings obtained new uniforms, new kingdoms were cooked up and sold like hot cakes; many potentates, on the other hand, were chased from house and home, and had to find some new way of earning their bread, while others went at once at a trade, and manufactured, for instance, sealing-wax, or--Madam, this sentence must be brought to an end, or I shall be out of breath--in short, it is impossible in such times to advance far in geography.

I succeeded better in natural history, for there we find fewer changes, and we always have standard engravings of apes, kangaroos, zebras, rhinoceroses, etc. And having many such pictures in my memory, it often happens that at first sight many mortals appear to me like old acquaintances.

I did well in mythology; I took real delight in the mob of gods and goddesses who ruled the world in joyous nakedness. I do not believe that there was a schoolboy in ancient Rome who knew the chief articles of his catechism--that is, the loves of Venus--better than I. To tell the truth, it seems to me that if we must learn all the heathen gods by heart, we might as well have kept them from the first, and we have not perhaps made so much out of our new Roman Trinity, or even our Jewish monotheism. Perhaps that mythology was not in reality so immoral as we imagine, and it was, for example, a very decent thought of Homer’s to give the much-loved Venus a husband.

But I succeeded best of all in the French class of the Abbé d’Aulnoi, a French _émigré_, who had written a number of grammars, and wore a red wig, and jumped about very nervously when he recited his _Art poetique_ and his _Histoire Allemande_. He was the only man in the whole gymnasium who taught German history. Still French has its difficulties, and to learn it there must be much quartering of troops, much drumming in, much _apprendre par cœur_, and above all, no one should be a _bête allemande_. Thus many bitter words came in. I remember still, as though it happened yesterday, the scrapes I got into through _la religion_. Six times came the question: “Henri, what is the French for ‘the faith’?” And six times, ever more tearfully, I replied: “It is called _le crédit_.” And at the seventh question, with a deep cherry-red face, my furious examiner cried, “It is called _la religion_,” and there was a rain of blows, and all my schoolfellows laughed. Madam, since that day I can never hear the word _religion_ but my back turns pale with terror, and my cheeks red with shame. And to speak truly, _le crédit_ has during my life stood me in better stead than _la religion_. It occurs to me at this moment that I still owe the landlord of the “Lion,” in Bologna, five thalers; and I pledge you my word of honour that I would give him five thalers more if I could only be certain that I should never again hear that unlucky word _la religion_.

_Parbleu_, Madam, I have succeeded well in French. I understand not only _patois_, but even aristocratic nurse-maid French. Not long ago, when in noble society, I understood full one-half of the conversation of two German Countesses, each of whom could count at least sixty-four years, and as many ancestors. Yes, in the Café Royal, at Berlin, I once heard Monsieur Hans Michel Martens talking French, and understood every word, though there was no understanding in it. We must know the spirit of a language, and this is best learned by drumming. _Parbleu!_ how much do I not owe to the French drummer who was so long quartered in our house, who looked like a devil, and yet had the heart of an angel, and who drummed so excellently?

He was a little nervous figure, with a terrible black moustache, beneath which the red lips turned suddenly outwards, while his fiery eyes glanced around.

I, a youngster, stuck to him like a cur, and helped him to rub his military buttons like mirrors, and to pipe-clay his vest, for Monsieur Le Grand liked to look well; and I followed him to the watch, to the roll-call, to the parade. In those times there was nothing but the gleam of weapons and merriment--_les jours de fête sont passés!_ Monsieur Le Grand knew only a little broken German, only the chief expressions--“Bread,” “kiss,” “honour,” but he could make himself very intelligible with his drum. For instance, if I did not know what the word _liberté_ meant, he drummed the _Marseillaise_, and I understood him. If I did not understand the word _egalité_, he drummed the march, “_Ça ira ... les aristocrats a la lanterne!_” and I understood him. If I did not know what _bêtise_ meant, he drummed the Dessauer March, which we Germans, as Goethe also declares, have drummed in champagne--and I understood him. He once wanted to explain to me the word _l’Allemagne_, and he drummed the all too simple primeval melody, which on market days is played to dancing dogs--namely, _Dum-dum-dum_. I was vexed, but I understood him.

In the same way he taught me modern history. I did not understand the words, it is true; but as he constantly drummed while speaking, I knew what he meant. At bottom this is the best method. The history of the storming of the Bastille, of the Tuilleries, and the like, we understand first when we know how the drumming was done. In our school compendiums of history we merely read: “Their excellencies the Baron and Count, with the most noble spouses of the aforesaid, were beheaded. Their highnesses the Dukes and Princes, with the most noble spouses of the aforesaid, were beheaded. His Majesty the King, with his most sublime spouse, the Queen, was beheaded.” But when you hear the red guillotine march drummed, you understand it correctly for the first time, and you know the how and the why. Madam, that is indeed a wonderful march! It thrilled through marrow and bone when I first heard it, and I was glad that I forgot it. One forgets so much as one grows older, and a young man has nowadays so much other knowledge to keep in his head--whist, Boston, genealogical tables, parliamentary data, dramaturgy, the liturgy, carving--and yet notwithstanding all jogging up of my brain, I could not for a long time recall that tremendous tune! But only think, Madam, not long ago I sat at table with a whole menagerie of counts, princes, princesses, chamberlains, court marshalesses, seneschals, upper court mistresses, court keepers of the royal plate, court hunters’ wives, and whatever else these aristocratic domestics are termed, and their under domestics ran about behind their chairs and shoved full plates before their mouths; but I, who was passed by and neglected, sat without the least occupation for my jaws, and I kneaded little bread-balls, and drummed for _ennui_ with my fingers, and to my astonishment I suddenly drummed the red, long-forgotten guillotine march!

“And what happened?” Madam, the good people were not disturbed in their eating, nor did they know that other people, when they have nothing to eat, suddenly begin to drum, and that, too, very queer marches, which people thought long forgotten.

Is drumming, now, an inborn talent, or was it early developed in me? Enough--it lies in my limbs, in my hands, in my feet, and often manifests itself involuntarily. I once sat at Berlin in the lecture-room of the Privy Councillor Schmaltz, a man who had saved the State by his book on the _Red and Black Coat Danger_. You remember, perhaps, Madam, out of Pausanias, that by the braying of an ass an equally dangerous plot was once discovered; and you also know from Livy, or from Becker’s _History of the World_, that geese once saved the capital; and you must certainly know from Sallust that a loquacious _putain_, the Lady Livia, brought the terrible conspiracy of Cataline to light. But to return to the mutton aforesaid. I listened to international law in the lecture-room of the Herr Privy Councillor Schmaltz, and it was a sleepy summer afternoon, and I sat on the bench and heard less and less--my head had gone to sleep, when all at once I was wakened by the noise of my own feet, which had stayed awake, and had probably observed that the exact opposite of international law and constitutional tendencies was being preached; and my feet, which, with the little eyes of their corns, had seen more of how things go in the world than the Privy Councillor with his Juno eyes--these poor dumb feet, incapable of expressing their immeasurable meaning by words, strove to make themselves intelligible by drumming, and they drummed so loudly that I thereby nearly came to grief.

Cursed, unreflecting feet! They once played me a similar trick, when I on a time, in Göttingen, sponged without subscribing on the lectures of Professor Saalfeld; and as, with an angular activity, he jumped about here and there in his pulpit, and heated himself in order to curse the Emperor Napoleon in regular set style,--no, my poor feet, I cannot blame you for drumming then; indeed, I would not have blamed you if in your dumb _naïveté_ you had expressed yourselves by still more energetic movements. How could I, the scholar of Le Grand, hear the Emperor cursed? The Emperor, the Emperor, the great Emperor!

The Emperor is dead. On a waste island in the Atlantic Ocean is his grave; and he for whom the world was too narrow lies quietly under a little hillock, where five weeping willows hang their green heads, and a little brook, murmuring sorrowfully, ripples by. There is no inscription on his tomb; but Clio, with a just pen, has written thereon invisible words, which will resound, like spirit tones, through thousands of years.

Britannia! the sea is thine. But the sea has not water enough to wash away the shame with which the death of that mighty one has covered thee. Not thy windy Sir Hudson--no, thou thyself wert the Sicilian bravo with whom perjured kings bargained that they might revenge on the man of the people what he had once inflicted on one of themselves. And he was thy guest, and had seated himself by thy hearth.

Strange! A terrible destiny has already overtaken the three greatest enemies of the Emperor. Londonderry has cut his throat, Louis XVIII. has rotted away on his throne, and Professor Saalfeld is still professor in Göttingen.

_Heinrich Heine._

_VERSES FROM HEINE._

IT makes a man happy, no doubt,
But it maketh him weary, i’fegs,
To have three lovely women about him,
And only a couple of legs.

With one I must walk of a morning;
At eve with another I rove;
And a third comes at noontide, and drags me
Right out of my quarters, by Jove!

Farewell, irresistible sirens!
I have but two legs of my own;
Henceforth in some rural seclusion
I’ll worship Dame Nature--alone.

* * * * *

THESE fine ladies, understanding
Honour must to poets be,
Bade me to a lordly luncheon--
My great Genius and me.

There was soup, ah! it was stunning;
There was wine no lip would spurn;
There was poultry, simply godlike,
There was hare cooked to a turn.

They talked I remember of poets,
And when I could eat no more,
I rose, and acknowledged the honour,
And bowed till I reached the door.

* * * * *

FRANKLY, this young man I honour,
He exhibits graces rare.
Often he has stood me oysters,
Also Rhine-wine and liqueurs.

And his clothes exactly fit him,
And his tie proclaims the swell;
And he turns up every morning,
And he hopes I’m pretty well,

Talks about my reputation,
And my wit, and grace of style;
And he’d do, if I would let him,
Oh, a thousand things the while!

And at nights, in rooms surrounded
By the fairest of the fair,
He declaims my ‘Heavenly’ poems
With a soft abstracted air.

Truly, is not this refreshing?
Such young men as him I praise
Are not common; they are growing
Rare and rarer nowadays.

A YOUNG man loves a maiden
Who other hopes has fed,
And her love loves another love,
And to his choice is wed.

The maiden marries straightway
The handiest man to be had,
And this is simple cussedness,
And her young man is mad.

It is an ancient drama,
But any time ’twill fit--
Don’t play “first gentleman” unless
You want your heart to split.

* * * * *

LAID on thy snow-white shoulder
My head is at rest;
And I listen--and know the unquiet
Desire of thy breast.

The gorgeous hussars have stormed it,
And entered without strife!
And, to-morrow, a woman will leave me
That I love as my life.

What tho’ in the morning she leave me,
To-night she is mine--
My head is at rest on her shoulder,
And her snow-white arms entwine.

_Translated by Ernest Radford._

THOU wert a blonde-hair’d maid without a stain,
So neat, so prim, so cool! I stay’d in vain
To see thy bosom’s guarded gates unroll,
And Inspiration breathe upon thy soul.

A zeal and ardour for those lofty themes,
By chilly Reason scorn’d for airy dreams,
But wringing from the noble and the good
The toil of hand and heart, and brain and blood.

On hills with vineyards’ clambering leafage gay,
Glass’d in the Rhine we roamed one summer day;
Bright was the sun, and from the shining cup
Of every flower a giddy scent flew up.

A kiss of fire, a deep voluptuous blush,
Burn’d on each pink and every rosy bush,
Ideal flames in dandelions glow’d
And lit each sorriest weed that edged our road.

But thou went’st on with even-stepping feet,
Clad in white satin, elegant and neat;
No child of Netcher’s brush more trim and nice,
And in thy stays a little heart of ice.

_Translated by Richard Garnett._

_ABOUT MONEY._

THE world is divided into two kinds of human beings--those that have money and those that have none. But the latter are not human beings at all--they are either devils, viz., poor devils; or angels, viz., angels of patience and renunciation.

Without money, without teeth, and without a wife we come into this world; and without money, without teeth, and without a wife we go out of this world. What then have we accomplished in the world? We have made money, cut teeth, and taken unto ourselves wives! A glorious destiny! There are fevers, pains, convulsions, and sufferings of all kinds attendant upon the getting of teeth and wives, and when one has them they hurt the whole year round, and often the best one can do is to have them extracted. Teeth and wives come to you without your doing, and unless most carefully treated they are liable to decay. But money does not come without your doing, and often a man leaves this world without having had money. It would be interesting to hear the reply of such a person when asked on the other side, “What did you do in the world?”

Who has money? The rich people! That is a misfortune! If the poor people only had money then we should see what poor devils these rich fellows are! It is no art to be rich when one has much money, and it is no merit to be poor when one has none.

What is money? Money is a goodly lump which the Lord God attaches to insignificant people, so as not to lose sight of them in his creation, as a good housekeeper puts a big label on a little key.

What is money? Money is a figure which gains in importance as there is a cipher attached to it.

What is money? Money is a metal heel under the boots of little people to make them appear as tall as others.

What is money? Money is an indemnity which God gives to a certain number of persons on condition that they will not make bold to acquire any such goods as Intellect or Genius.

What is money? Money is the _accent grave_ upon a letter which would else be silent.

What is money? Money is the mysterious essence of a being which defines its _ego_ in the following words:--“If I were not what I have, I should not have what I am.”

But what is no money? No money? No money?

No money is a thing of which all empty pockets are full.

No money is the _alibi_ of a being which should testify to our presence in this world.

No money is a disease aggravated by the continuous obstruction of Fortune.

No money is a gentle invitation of nature to incur debts, and a peremptory command not to pay them.

No money is an irresistible inclination to melancholy on the part of our purse caused by hopeless love to an unattainable object.

No money is an _ex_position of no money at all, a _pro_position in abstract philosophy, a fit position for a minister of finance, and a happy _dis_position for platonic love.

No money is a vulgar ballad which common people sing aloud on the streets, but the more refined only hum between their lips within doors.

No money is the watchword of extreme radicalism and the art of making oneself popular at a low price.

Alas, what is man without money? A twice-told anecdote, a song without a tune, a lost poodle-dog without an honest finder, last year’s calendar, etc., etc.

Without money no prince can reign, no minister can minister, no general can make war, no painter can paint, no farmer can till the field; only the bards and poets sing and make verses without money; the poet is true to his muse even though he has no money; indeed he muses more than ever--how to get some.

_M. G. Saphir_ (1795-1858).

_A NIGHT IN THE BREMER RATHSKELLER._

IT struck ten o’clock as I descended the broad steps of the Rathskeller. There was a reasonable hope of finding it empty, for a storm was howling without, the weather-cocks were making strange music, and the rain splashed upon the pavement. But the kellerdiener gave me a questioning look when I told him my desire.

“What, so late, and to-night of all nights?” he exclaimed.

“It’s never too late for me before twelve,” I answered; “and after that it is early enough in the day.”

“Are you expecting company?” asked the man.

“I am alone.”

“You might have some unasked,” he added, looking about timorously at the shadows his lamp cast.

“What do you mean?” I asked in surprise.

“Oh, I was only thinking,” answered he, lighting a couple of candles and setting a large beaker before me. “There are all sorts of odd rumours about the 1st of September. Indeed I can’t do it, sir! Not to-day, sir!”

I took this to be one of those common tricks wherewith custodians, wardens, and the like work upon a stranger’s purse, so I placed a generous coin in his hand, and took him by the arm to make him come with me.

“No, that was not my intention, sir,” he said, trying to give it back to me. “I’ll tell you frankly what my meaning was--there’s nothing in the world would induce me to enter the Apostles’ cellar this night, for it’s the 1st of September.”

“Well, and what of that?”

“In God’s name, then, you may think what you please, but it isn’t as it should be there to-night, and that’s because it is the anniversary day of the _Rose_.”[3]

I laughed till the walls rang again. “Well, I have heard many a ghost-story in my life, but never one about a wine-ghost. Aren’t you ashamed to talk such nonsense, you with your white hair? But I have the permission of the Senate; I may drink in this cellar to-night, wherever I please, and as long as I please. Therefore, in the name of the Senate, I bid you follow me. Unlock the cellar of Bacchus.”

This had the desired effect; unwillingly, but not venturing to remonstrate, he took the candles and beckoned to me. First we traversed one roomy vault, then a smaller one, until we reached a long narrow passage. Our steps reverberated with a hollow sound, and our breath striking against the wall produced what seemed like distant whispering. At last we stood before a door, the keys rattled, with a moan it came yawning open, the light of the candles fell into the cellar, and opposite to me sat Friend Bacchus upon a mighty cask. Refreshing sight! They had not pictured him with delicate grace, those old Bremen artists, not daintily as a Grecian youth; they had not represented him old and drunk, with a disgusting belly, leering eyes, and protruding tongue, as the vulgarised myth profanely portrays him now and then. Outrageous anthropomorphism; blind folly of man! Because some of his priests, grown old in his worship, walk about thus; because their belly swells with satisfaction, their nose takes colour from the burning reflection of the dark-red flood, their eyes turn up in silent bliss--these things must needs be attributed to the god, while they but adorn his worshippers.

Otherwise did the men of Bremen. How blithely and cheerily does the old boy ride his cask! The round blooming face, the merry little wine-enraptured eyes looking down so knowingly, the broad smiling mouth that has tasted of many a bumper, the short powerful neck, the whole little figure teeming with health and good humour! Is one not tempted to expect that in a gay mood, wine-inspired, he will bend his little round knees, press his calves up close, and stem his heels against the old mother-cask, setting her off at a brisk canter, in which all the Roses, Apostles, and common casks will join with a wild “halloo” through the cellar?

“Lord of Heaven!” cried the custodian, clinging tightly to my arm; “don’t you see him roll his eyes and swing his legs?”

“Old fellow, you are crazy!” said I, casting a timid look at the wooden god; “it is the light of the candles flickering about him.” At the same time a queer feeling came over me as I followed the old man out of the Bacchus-cellar. Was it really the light of the candles, was it an illusion what I saw? Did he not nod to me with his little round pate, did he not put out one of his chubby legs and shake and writhe with secret laughter? I ran after the old man and walked close behind him.

“Now to the twelve Apostles,” I said to him. He did not reply; shaking his head dubiously he walked on. There were two or three steps to ascend from the large cellar into a small one, into the subterranean heavens, the seat of the blessed, where abide the twelve Apostles. What are ye, vaults and sepulchres of royal families, beside these catacombs! Place coffin by coffin, laud upon black marble the merits of the man who sleeps below, employ a garrulous keeper in garments of mourning, let him praise the unspeakable greatness of this dust or of that, let him relate the marvellous virtues of a prince who fell at such and such a battle, the exquisite beauty of a princess upon whose sarcophagus the virgin’s myrtle twines with the bursting rosebud--it will remind you of mortality, it may cost you a tear; but can it touch you like this bed-chamber of a century, this resting-place of a glorious race? There they lie in their dark-brown coffins devoid of ornament and frippery. No marble boasts of their silent merits, their inconspicuous virtue, their excellent character; but what man with a heart for virtue of this sort does not feel himself stirred when the old custodian, this keeper of the catacombs, this sexton of the subterranean church, places his candles upon the coffins and lets the light fall upon the illustrious names of the great dead! Like royal heads, these too have no long title and surname; in noble simplicity their names appear upon the brown coffins. There is Andrew, here John, in yonder corner Judas, in this Peter. Who is not touched when he is then told that there lies the noble one of Nierenstein, born 1718; here he of Rüdesheim, born 1726. To the right Paul, to the left James, the good James!

“Good-night, ye old lords of the Rhine; good-night. And if there is anything I can do for you, fiery Judas, or you, gentle Andrew, or you, dear John, come, come to me.”

“Lord of Heaven!” the old man interrupted me, slamming the door and turning the key. “Are you intoxicated already by the few drops you had, that you should thus tempt the devil? Don’t you know that the wine-spirits arise this night, and visit each other, as they always do on the 1st of September? And should I lose my place thereby, I shall run off and leave you if you speak such words again. It is not yet twelve o’clock, but at any moment one of them might come creeping out of his cask and frighten us to death with a hideous grimace.”

“Stop your foolish prattle, old fellow, and be comforted. I will not say another word to wake your wine-spirits. But now take me to the Rose.”

We walked on; we entered a vault, the rose-garden of Bremen. There she lay, old Rose, bulky, tremendous, with an air of commanding sovereignty. What an enormous cask! and every bumper worth its weight in gold! 1615! Where are the hands that planted thee? Where are the eyes that revelled in thy bloom. Where are the happy folks that exulted when thou, noble grape, wert cut upon the heights of the Rhinelands, when thou wert pulled and thy golden flood burst into the tub? They are gone, like the waves of the river that bathed the foot of thy vineyard.

“There, and now good-night, Frau Rose!” said the old servant pleasantly. “Now, good-night, and God bless you; here, this way, sir, not around that corner; this is the way out of the cellar. Here, come, do not run against those casks; I will hold the candle.”

“No, indeed, old chap,” I said; “the joke is only just beginning. All this was but a foretaste. Bring me two or three bottles of your choicest of ’22 in the large room yonder.”

He stood there with eyes wide open, the poor fool. “Sir,” he said solemnly, “put it out of your mind. I will not stay with you for love or money.”

“Who told you to stay with me? Put the wine where I tell you, and, in God’s name, go along with you.”

“But I cannot leave you alone in the cellar,” he replied. “I know, begging your pardon, that you wouldn’t steal anything, but it is against my orders.”

“Well, then, lock the door behind me; put a padlock on, as ponderous as you please, and to-morrow morning at six come and wake me and get your fee.”

He tried to remonstrate, but it was in vain. At last he put down three bottles and nine candles before me, wiped out the beaker, and bade me good-night with a heavy heart as it seemed. He locked the door, and out of tender solicitude for me, as it would seem, more than for the safety of his cellar, hung on a padlock. Just then the clock struck twelve. I heard him mutter a prayer and hasten away. The sound of his steps died away in the vault, and when he shut the outside door of the cellar it reverberated like a peal of thunder through the passages.

So I am alone with thee, my soul, far down in the womb of the earth. Up on the earth they are all asleep and adream, and down here, round about, they slumber in their coffins, the spirits of wine. Do they dream, I wonder, of their short childhood, of the distant hills where they were bred, and of their old father Rhine who murmured a gentle ditty by their cradle?

* * * * *

Hark! Was not that the sound of a door? Certainly very queer; if I were not alone down here, if I did not know that men can only walk the earth above, I should be tempted to think that there are steps resounding through the vaults. Ha! here they come, there is something fumbling at the door; it shakes the latch, but the door is locked and bolted; this night no _mortal_ will disturb me. Ha! What is that? The door opens. Holy horrors!

Outside the door stood two men with ceremonious politeness urging the precedence upon each other. The one was tall and lean, adorned with a great black wig, a dark-red coat, trimmed with gilt cording and gilt-spun buttons; his legs, of abnormal length and thinness, were attired in knee-breeches of black velvet with gold buckles. His sword, with a heft of porcelain, he had stuck through his trousers-pocket; when bowing he waved a little three-cornered silk hat, while the flowing locks of his wig brushed his shoulders. The man had a pale, sorrowful face, deep-set eyes, and a large nose of fiery red. Quite different was the smaller fellow, who had been specially obsequious in urging the other to pass him at the door. His hair was pasted to his head with the white of an egg, and on either side it was fastened securely in two rolls like the holsters of a pistol; a long pig-tail hung down his back; he wore a little coat of grey faced with red; his lower parts were adorned with large jack-boots, his upper with a richly-embroidered vest of state, which fell over his well-rounded little belly down to his knees; and he was buckled about with an enormous sword. There was an expression of exceeding good-nature in his fleshy face, especially in his little eyes that stood out like those of a lobster. His gestures were carried out with an enormous felt hat turned up boldly on either side.

They hung their hats upon the wall, unbuckled their swords, and sat down silently by the table without looking at me. I was about to take heart and address them, when there was a new sound outside. Steps approached, the door was opened, and four other gentlemen, attired in the same old fashion, entered.

“God greet ye, Lords of the Rhine!” said the tall one of the red coat in a deep bass voice, getting up and bowing. “God greet ye,” squeaked the little one; “it’s a long time since last we saw you, James!”

“Hallo and good morning, Matthew,” replied one of the new-comers; “and good morning to you too, Judas! But what is this? Where are our bumpers, our pipes and tobacco? Has the old knave not yet waked out of his sinner’s sleep?”

“The lazy-bones!” cried the little one. “The heavy-eyed rascal! He is still lying over yonder in the graveyard; but, thunder and lightning, I’ll wake him up!” With that he seized a large bell that was standing upon the table, ringing it and laughing in a shrill, cutting voice.

As is the case with genuine old drinkers, so among these guests the conversation would not flow without wine. Just then a new personage appeared at the door. It was a little old man, with shaking legs and grey hair; his head looked like a skull over which a thin hide has been drawn, and his eyes shone dimly out of deep hollows; he was tugging at a large basket, and greeted the guests humbly.

“Ah, here’s our old kellermeister, Balthasar,” called out the guests; “come on, old fellow, put down the beakers and bring our pipes! Why did you tarry so long? It struck twelve long ago.”

The old man gaped once or twice rather indecently, and on the whole looked like a person who has overslept. “Came near sleeping through the 1st of September,” he grunted; “ever since they have paved the churchyard, I don’t hear as well as I did. Where are the other gentlemen?” he proceeded, taking beakers of strange shape and marvellous size out of the basket, and putting them on the table.

“Where are the others? You are only six, and old Rose hasn’t come yet.”

“Put the bottles down first,” exclaimed Judas, “that we may get a drop of something to drink, and then go over yonder--they are still asleep in their casks; tap them with your dry bones and tell them to get up.”

But hardly had Judas ended, when there was a rush and boisterous laughter at the door. “Spinster Rose, her health, hurrah, and her sweetheart Bacchus!” The door flew open, the ghostly fellows at the table jumped up and cried: “It is she, it is she, Spinster Rose and Bacchus and the others! Hurrah! Now we’re in for a jolly good time!” and with that they touched beakers with a ringing sound and laughed, and the fat one struck his belly, and the pale kellermeister threw his cap skilfully between his legs and up to the ceiling, and joined in with the shouts of the others till my ears rang again. What a sight! The wooden Bacchus, that I had but just seen astride the cask in the cellar, had got down, naked as he was; with his broad, smiling face, with his twinkling eyes, he greeted the group and came walking skittishly into the room; by his hand he led with much ceremony as his betrothed an elderly dame of great height and of goodly roundness. I do not know to this day how it was possible, but then and there it was clear as daylight to me that this dame was no other than old Rose, the enormous cask in the Rose-cellar.

And how gorgeously had she got herself up, the old lady from the Rhine! In her youth she must have been a comely lass, for even now, although the fresh colours of girlhood had left her cheeks, although time had painted some little wrinkles about her brow and her mouth, two centuries could not efface the noble features of her fine face. Her eyebrows had turned grey, and a couple of unseemly grey hairs had sprouted upon her pointed chin, but the hair brushed smoothly over her forehead was brown as nuts, and only intermingled here and there with a little silvery grey. Upon her head she wore a black velvet cap, fitting closely above her ears; then she had on a jerkin of finest black cloth, and the bodice of red velvet showing beneath was fastened with silver hooks and chains. About her throat she wore a broad necklace of glittering garnets, fastened to which was a gold medal; an ample skirt of brown cloth fell about her portly figure, and a little white apron trimmed with white lace added a coquettish touch. On one side there was a large pocket of leather, on the other a bunch of tremendous keys--in short, she was as respectable-looking a dame as ever walked across the street of Cologne or Mayence in 1618.

And behind Dame Rose came six shouting fellows, swinging their three-cornered hats, with their wigs on awry, attired in broad-tailed coats and long embroidered vests.

With ceremonious courtesy did Bacchus lead his lady to the head of the table, accompanied by the jubilations of his companions. She bowed with becoming gravity, and sat down. At her side the wooden Bacchus took a seat, after Balthasar, the kellermeister, had put a big cushion under him, for he had else seemed pitifully small and low. The others also sat down, and then I saw that they were the twelve Apostles from the Rhine, who at other times lie sleeping in the Apostles’ cellar in Bremen.

“So here we are, altogether once more, we young people of 1700,” said Peter, after the tumult had somewhat subsided. “Your health, Dame Rose! You don’t look a day older; you’re as comely and stately as you were fifty years ago. Your health, and your sweetheart’s, Bacchus.”

“My humble thanks to you, esteemed Apostle,” answered Dame Rose, bowing her appreciation. “Are you as much of a tease as ever? I don’t know of no sweetheart, and you mustn’t say such things to put out a modest lass!” She cast down her eyes as she said it, and emptied a tremendous bumper.

“Love,” said Bacchus, looking tenderly out of his little eyes, and taking her hand; “Love, don’t put on airs. You know that my heart has inclined to you for two thousand autumns, and that I love you to-day before all others; a fiery kiss upon thy rosy lips shall prove it.”

He leaned tenderly towards her. “If only all the young folks were not about,” she whispered shamefacedly. But under the shouts and laughter of the twelve the wine-god took his tribute with interest.

“You are a rogue,” he cried, laughing.

“You are a Turk, and make love to many at the same time. Do you suppose I don’t know how you pay court to the frivolous Frenchwoman, the Lady of Bordeaux, and to the chalky pale-face of Champagne? Go away; you have a bad character, and are not made for faithful German love.”

“The devil, you carry your jealousy too far,” he cried snappishly. “I can’t break off all of my old connections.”

“What is this I see?” said Dame Rose. “You are thirteen at table. Who is that over there in strange garments? Who brought him here?”

Heavens, how I started! They all looked at me with surprise, and did not seem at all pleased at my intrusion. But I took heart, and said: “Your humble servant, gentlemen. I am nothing further than a mortal, graduated to a Doctor of Philosophy.”

“But how dare you come here at this hour, mortal?” said Peter very solemnly, shooting lightnings out of his eyes at me.

“Your Excellency,” I replied, “there is good reason for that. I am an enamoured friend of noble drink, and by the kindness of your right worthy Senate I have received permission to pay my respects to the twelve Apostles and to Dame Rose.”

“And so you like to drink Rhine-wine?” said Bacchus. “Well, that is one good quality, and is the more to be praised at a time when mortals have grown more or less cold toward this golden fountain. I believe the race feels that it is no longer worthy of a noble drop, so they brew some slip-slop stuff of syrup and whisky, call it Chateau-Margaux, Sillery, St. Julien, and all sorts of pompous names, and when they drink it they get red rings about their mouth because the stuff is coloured, and headache the next day because they have had vile gin.”

“Ah, it was a different life we led,” continued John, “when our blood was young in the years ’19 and ’26. Nay, as late as ’50 there were high times within these noble vaults. Every evening, no matter whether the sun would shine in spring or whether it would rain and snow in winter, every evening these apartments were filled with happy guests. Here, where we are sitting now, sat in state and dignity the Senate of Bremen, splendid wigs upon their heads, weapons at their side, courage in their heart, and a bumper before each.”

“Yes, yes, children,” said old Rose; “it used to be quite different from now say fifty, or one hundred, or two hundred years ago. Then they brought their wives and daughters with them to the cellar, and the handsome Bremen lasses drank Rhine-wine, or of our neighbours’ from the Moselle, and were noted far and near for their blooming cheeks, their crimson lips, and for their lovely, sparkling eyes; now they drink miserable stuff, tea and the like, which grows far away where the Chinamen live, I am told, and which in my day women drank when they had a little cough or other trouble. Rhine-wine, genuine honest Rhine-wine, doesn’t agree with them nowadays; for the land’s sake you wouldn’t believe it! They put sweet Spanish wine with it to make it taste better; they say it’s too sour.”

The Apostles burst into a perfect roar of laughter, which I joined involuntarily, and Bacchus laughed so horribly that old Balthasar had to hold him.

“Ah, the good old times!” cried fat Bartholomew. “Our burghers used to drink two measures, and it seemed as if they had drunk water, so sober were they; but now one goblet throws them down. They are out of practice.”

There was a terrible bang that made the vault ring again, the door flew open, and upon the threshold stood a tall white figure. With measured, ringing steps, a ponderous sword within his hand, in armour but without a helmet, did this gigantic individual strut into the room. He was of stone, his face was set and without expression. Nevertheless, his stony lips parted and he said--

“God greet ye, beloved vines from the Rhine. I needs must come and visit my fair neighbour on her anniversary-day. God greet you, Dame Rose. May I sit down to your carousal?”

They all turned in surprise upon the giant statue. Spinster Rose broke the silence, clapped her hands together with joy, and exclaimed--

“Goodness me! It’s stony Roland, who has stood for many centuries upon the market-place of our dear Bremen town. Oh, it is kind of you to do me the honour, sir knight; lay down your shield and sword and make yourself comfortable; won’t you sit here by my side? Gracious me, how pleased I am!”

The Apostles had moved up closer and made room for their guest on a chair by the ancient maiden. He laid his shield and sword in a corner and sat down rather awkwardly upon the little chair; but alas! this had been made for respectable mortals but not for a stony giant; with a crash it broke under him, and he lay full length upon the floor.

“Base generation, which fabricates such stools upon which in my day no delicate maiden could have sat without breaking through the seat!” grumbled the hero, slowly getting up. The kellermeister rolled a cask up to the table, and invited the knight to be seated. A couple of staves cracked as he sat down, but the cask stood the test.

“How tastes the wine to you?” Bacchus asked the new-comer. “It must be long since last you drank any.”

“It is good, by my sword! Very good! What growth is it?”

“Red Ingelheimer, august sir!” answered the kellermeister.

The stony eye of the knight took life and fire when he heard this; his chiselled features were softened by a smile, and contentedly he looked into his cup.

“Ingelheim! Thou sweet, familiar name!” he said. “Thou noble castle of my knightly emperor; so thy name has outlasted the centuries, and the vines that Charlemagne planted in his Ingelheim still blossom? Does this new world know aught of Roland and of great Carolus, his master?”

“That you must ask the mortal over yonder,” replied Judas; “we have nothing to do with the earth. He is a doctor and magister, and must be able to give an account of his generation.”

The giant fixed his eyes inquiringly upon me, and I replied: “Noble Paladin! Humanity has grown cold and depraved; its shallow skull is nailed to the present, and looks neither forward nor backward; but we are not yet so bad that we should forget the glorious heroes that once walked our earth, and threw their shadows into our times.”

The spirit of song seemed to have come over the company, for no sooner had Andrew ended than Judas began to sing unasked, and the others followed him. With a resounding bass voice Roland sang a war-hymn of the old Franconians, only a few words of which I understood, and at last, when they had all sung, they looked at me, and Rose nodded encouragingly. So I began--

“Am Rhein, am Rhein, da wachsen unsere Reben
Da wächst ein deutscher Wein.”

When I had finished, they all came crowding about me to shake my hand, and Andrew breathed a kiss upon my lips.

“Do they sing that?” cried Bacchus. “Now then, Doctor, I’m mighty glad to hear that; your race cannot be so very frail if it sings such clear and cheery songs.”

“Ah, sir,” I said sadly, “there are many sentimentalists who refuse to give such a song the credit of being poetry, like some pietists who consider the Lord’s prayer not mystic enough for devotion.”

“There have been fools at all times, sir!” replied Peter. “But talking about your generation, tell us what has happened on earth during the last year?”

“If it would interest the ladies and gentlemen,” I replied.

“Go ahead,” cried Roland, and the others joining him, I began--

“As regards German literature----”

“Hold on, _manum de tabula!_” cried Paul. “What do we care about your miserable scribbling, about your puerile, disgusting quarrels, about your poetasters and false prophets and----”

I was dumfounded. If our wonderful, magnificent literature had no interest for these people, what could I tell them? I thought a while, and then continued: “It is evident that Joco, so far as the theatre is concerned----”

“Theatre? Go away with you!” interrupted Andrew. “Why should we hear about your puppet-shows and other follies? Do you suppose it is aught to us if one of your comedy-writers is hissed? Have you nothing interesting--no great historical facts to tell us about?”

“Alack-a-day,” I cried, “we are quite out of historical facts; in that line there is nothing but the Bundestag at Frankfurt.”

The dance the two were performing was according to the mode of two or three centuries ago. Dame Rose had seized her petticoats in both hands, and spread them out so that she looked like an immense cask. She walked trippingly back and forth, bobbing up and down in a succession of curtseys. Much greater vivacity did her partner display, who whirled about her like a top, leaping boldly, snapping his fingers, and shouting ho! and hallo! Odd enough did he look, what with the dainty apron of Mistress Rose, which Balthasar had tied around him, fluttering about in the air; how his little legs jerked, and his round face smiled for heartfelt pleasure and delight!

At last he was tired; he beckoned to Judas and Paul and whispered something to them. They untied his apron, took it by both ends, and pulled and pulled, until suddenly it grew as large as a sheet. “Ah,” thought I, “now they will most likely play a joke on old Balthasar. If only the vault were not so low as it is; I fear me he’ll break his skull.” Then came Judas and Bartholomew and caught hold of me; Balthasar smiled maliciously; I trembled, I resisted, all to no purpose. My senses threatened to leave me as with shouting and laughter they laid me upon the cloth. “Not too high, my honoured patrons,” I cried in great trepidation; but they laughed and shouted the louder. Now they began to rock the sheet, Balthasar blowing a tune on a tunnel. Now it began to go up and down, first 3, 4, or 5 feet, then suddenly they gave a jerk, I flew up, and the ceiling opened like a cloud; up, up higher I flew through the roof of the rathhaus, higher than the steeple of the church. “Well,” I thought, “it’s up with me now! When I fall, I shall break my neck. Farewell, my life and my love!”

I had now reached the highest point of my ascent, and I fell as rapidly. Crash! Right through the roof of the rathhaus, down through the ceiling of the cellar; but I did not fall upon the sheet once more. I lighted on a chair with which I fell over backward upon the floor.

For some time I lay stunned by the fall. A pain in my head and the coolness of the ground woke me at last. At first I could not think whether I had fallen out of bed at home, or what was the matter. At last I remembered, that I had fallen down from some very high region. With some anxiety I examined my limbs; nothing was broken, only my head pained me from the fall. I was in a cellar, the daylight shone in dimly, the light of a candle was dying out upon the table, there were bottles and glasses about, before every chair a little bottle with a long label about its neck. Ah, now I remembered everything. I was in Bremen, in the rathskeller; I had come in here last night, had been locked in, and then----. Full of horror I looked about me. I ventured to cast shy glances into the corners of the room; it was empty. Or was it possible I could have dreamed it all?

Thoughtfully I walked around the table; the little sample-bottles stood where my strange guests had sat. First Rose, then Judas, James, and John. “No, a dream cannot be so like reality,” I said to myself. “All this that I heard and saw did actually occur!” But there was no time for further reflections. I heard keys rattle in the lock, it was slowly opened, and the old rathsdiener entered saying: “It has just struck six.”

_Wilhelm Hauff_ (1802-1827).

_THE DUEL WITH THE DEVIL._

MEANWHILE something occurred which I[4] must not pass over, as it may serve as a commentary to the customs of this peculiar nation. I had been for some time an ardent visitor at the anatomy-rooms, for I was anxious to make the acquaintance of medical students. It happened one day that I was busying myself about a corpse with several friends, dissecting the organs of the mind, the brain, and heart in order to deduce the absurdity of the belief in immortality.

Suddenly I heard a voice behind me, “The devil, how stifling!”

I quickly turned and saw a young student of theology, who had already excited my wrath in a dogmatic lecture by the ardour and gusto with which he had taken notes of the ridiculous conjectures of the professor on the nature of the diabolical. Hearing him make this remark, which at that moment, and from him, I took as referring wholly to myself, I told him pretty strongly that I objected to such personal and insinuating expressions.

According to the ancient sacred law called “Comment,” this was an insult which could only be obliterated with blood. The theologian, a famous bravo, sent me his challenge the next day. This was just such a lark as I had been hoping for. Whoever cared for the good opinion of his fellow-students was expected to have a duel on record, although all of my friends admitted the custom to be utterly irrational and unnatural. I had prevailed upon my opponent to have the affair come off at a public resort, a couple of miles outside the town, and both parties put in an appearance at the designated place and time.

Solemnly each arrival was conducted into a room, where his coat was removed and replaced by the “paukwichs,” a sort of armour in which the duel was to be fought. This “paukwichs,” or armour, consisted in a hat with a broad brim sufficiently protecting the face; an enormously broad bandage made of leather, wadded and decorated with the colours of the society, to be strapped over the abdomen; an immense cravat standing stiffly about the neck, and affording protection to the chin, throat, part of the shoulders, and the upper portion of the chest. The arms were covered from the hands to the elbows with gloves made of old silk stockings. It must be confessed a figure in this unique armour looked funny enough. However, there was great safety in it, for only a part of the face, the upper half of the arm, and a part of the chest were at the mercy of the opponent’s rapier.

A strong impulse to laugh came over me as I examined myself in the mirror. “The devil, in such attire, and about to enter the lists on behalf of the odour in the anatomy-room!”