Tales of the German Imagination from the Brothers Grimm to Ingeborg Bachmann (Penguin Classics) (22 page)

I charted the geography of the interior of Africa and that of the frozen polar ice caps, mapped out Asia from its centre to its eastern coastline. My
Historia stirpium plantarum utriusque orbis
is a major, albeit fragmentary, contribution to the
Flora universalis terrae
and an important link in my
Systema naturae
. In my painstaking work, I believe that I have not only increased by a third the number of known species, but have added my share to our knowledge of the natural order and the geography of plants. I am working studiously on my fauna. I will take pains to see that before my death my manuscripts are deposited in the library of the University of Berlin. And you, my dear Chamisso, I have chosen as the executor of my wondrous story, so that once I no longer walk the earth my story may yet serve as a moral lesson to some of its citizens. But to you, my dear friend, I say that if you wish to live among your fellow man, learn to value your shadow more than gold. If, on the other hand, you choose to live only for the sake of your own better self, then you need no advice from me.

EXPLICIT

1819

Josef von Eichendorff

It was on a lovely summer evening that Florio, a young nobleman, slowly approached the gates of Lucca, delighting in the pleasant breeze that swept over the splendid landscape and the towers and rooftops of the city, and rustled the gay garments of the elegant ladies and gentlemen strolling along, engaged in cheerful chatter beneath the tall chestnut alleys on both sides of the street.

Then another brightly attired rider on a gallant mount, heading in the same direction, with a golden chain around his neck and a velvet feathered bonnet gracing his dark brown locks, came riding up beside him with a friendly greeting. Trotting along, side by side, in the darkening eventide, the two soon struck up a conversation, and Florio was so taken by the stranger’s slender figure, his bold and cheerful manner and the sound of his merry voice, that he could not look away.

‘What business brings you to Lucca?’ the stranger finally asked.

‘No business at all,’ Florio replied, a bit timidly.

‘No business? Then you must surely be a poet!’ the latter replied with a hearty laugh.

‘Most definitely not!’ Florio responded, turning red in the face. ‘I did indeed try my hand at the merry minstrel’s art, but when I turned back to the grand old masters, and saw how all that I could only dream of and suggest was there in body and soul, then my own voice sounded like the feeble little chirp of a lark wafted by the wind in the measureless expanse of heaven’s dome.’

‘Everyone sings God’s praises in his own way,’ the stranger
said, ‘and the mingling of all voices makes the spring.’ As he spoke, the stranger’s big soulful eyes fell with evident fondness on the comely young man who took in the world at twilight with such an innocent mien.

‘All I want right now is to travel,’ the latter continued in a bolder, more confident tone of voice, ‘and I feel as though released from a prison, free to indulge all my old wishes and whims. Having grown up in the silence of the country, for years I gazed with longing at those distant blue mountains when spring came sweeping through our garden like an enchanted minstrel, inveigling me with hymns of the lovely distance and hinting at the great untold pleasures that await me.’

These last words set the stranger thinking: ‘Have you then never,’ he asked in an amused, albeit serious, tone of voice, ‘heard of the magical flutist who lures the youth into an enchanted mountain from which none return? Better be careful, my boy!’

Florio did not know what to make of the stranger’s words, nor did he get the chance to ask him to explain; since, instead of riding up to the gate, unwittingly following the strolling crowd, they found themselves in a wide green place planted with colourful tents, where a merry company of musicians mingled with people on horseback and on foot in the last glimmering light of evening.

‘Here’s a good place to turn in for the night,’ the stranger said merrily, swinging out of his saddle; ‘see you again soon, I hope!’ whereupon he promptly disappeared in the crowd.

Florio gazed a while in quiet ecstasy at the unexpected sight. Then he followed the example of his erstwhile companion, passed the reins of his horse to his servant and mingled with the merry throng.

Hidden choirs burst into song all around him from behind blossoming bushes, beneath the tall trees stately ladies strolled up and down and let their lovely downcast eyes survey the glittering lawn, laughing and chattering, nodding with brightly coloured feathers in the evening glimmer like a bed of flowers wafting in the wind. On a green field not far away a group of girls amused themselves playing badminton. The brightly feathered shuttlecocks fluttered like butterflies, tracing arches back
and forth in the blue air, while the girls scampering up and down the green expanse never lost their sweet expressions. One girl, in particular, attracted Florio’s attention with her comely, still almost childlike, figure and the grace of all her movements. She wore a full and brilliant wreath of flowers in her hair and looked like the picture of spring itself, now flying with a burst of energy across the field, now bending, now leaping again with her lovely limbs. A blunder by her opponents made her shuttlecock take a wrong turn and land at Florio’s feet. He picked it up and handed it to the wreathed maiden, who came running after it. She froze, as though struck dumb, and gazed at him in silence with her big, beautiful eyes. Then, blushing, she bowed and bounded back to her playmates.

The ever-swelling stream of glittering carriages and riders slowly and splendidly wending their way along the main alley, meanwhile, drew Florio’s attention away from this charming game, and he rambled alone for a good hour amongst the ever-changing spectacle.

All of a sudden he heard a number of women and the gentlemen beside them cry out: ‘It’s the singer Fortunato!’ He spun around to look in the direction in which they pointed and, to his great amazement, spotted the handsome stranger who had accompanied him to this place earlier on. Off to the side in a meadow, the stranger stood leaning against a tree in the midst of an elegant circle of ladies and gentlemen, all listening to his singing, to which several voices from the crowd sometimes sang back sweetly. Among them Florio once again spotted the beautiful badminton player who, quietly contented, seemed to soak up every note with her wide-open eyes.

Struck dumb, Florio bethought how before he had been engaged in such friendly chatter with the famous singer, whom he had so long admired by reputation, and now stood timidly at a considerable distance, taking in the sweet strains of the song contest. Heartened by the notes that wafted his way, he would have gladly stood there listening all night long, and was downright angry when Fortunato soon stopped singing and the flock of listeners rose from the lawn.

Then the singer spotted the young man in the distance and
promptly walked up to him. Warmly he clasped him by both hands and, ignoring all protests, pulled the young fool along, like a friendly prisoner, to the nearby open tent where the group now gathered for a merry dinner party. Everyone greeted him like an old acquaintance, many a lovely eye rested with well-disposed wonder on the pink-cheeked young stripling.

After several cheerful chats, everyone gathered round the table standing in the middle of the tent. Refreshing fruits and wine in cut-glass goblets sparkled on the blinding white surface of the tablecloth; big bushels of flowers in silver vases, amongst which pretty girls’ faces peered forth, emitted a beguiling scent; while outside, the last flicker of twilight shone golden on the lawn and the mirror-smooth stream that flowed by. Florio had almost inadvertently attached himself to the lovely badminton player. She recognized him again and sat in timid silence, but her long, nervous lashes made a bad job of hiding the glow of her dark looks.

It was decided in the circle that everyone would sing the praises of his beloved in a little improvised ditty. The light strains of music that wafted through the tent like a spring breeze, only grazing the surface of life without plumbing its depths, moved the revellers to many a merry image round the table. Florio was beside himself with joy, his heart aflutter with pleasant thoughts, all foolish fear drained from his soul, and peered out through the lights and flowers at the lovely landscape fading in the last glimmer of twilight. And when his turn came to sing a toast, he raised his goblet in the air and sang:

Every young swain his sweetheart gladly names,

But I alone am left out of the game,

For lest my beloved feel the same,

It would not do by a stranger to be named.

So must I let this wave of passion pass me by,

And on spring’s beachhead dry out and die.

At these words his lovely dining companion flashed him a gambolling grin and dropped her gaze again as soon as their eyes met. But his song had been so heartfelt and the look on his
handsome face so intense that she put up no resistance when he pressed his hot lips to hers. ‘Bravo, bravo!’ cried many a merry gent, whereupon a gay, but guileless, laughter erupted round the table. Flustered and confused, Florio dropped his glass; and, blushing crimson, the lovely object of his kiss peered down at her lap, her face looking indescribably beautiful among the flowers.

So every gay blade merrily selected his beloved. Only Fortunato seemed to belong to no one or to all and looked almost lonesome in this comely chaos. He was boisterously merry and some might have called him downright cocky, completely letting loose, as he did, with wildly alternating bursts of jesting, seriousness and tomfoolery, had the look in his crystal-clear eyes not suddenly turned almost alarmingly thoughtful. Florio had firmly resolved to tell him outright at table of the affection and respect he had long harboured for him. But he couldn’t manage it today; all of his quiet attempts slid off the singer’s unyielding merriment as off a duck’s back. He simply could not fathom him.

Outside, meanwhile, everything had grown silent and solemn, lone stars appeared between the darkening crests of the trees, the river purled more noisily through the cooling dark. Then at last came Fortunato’s turn to hold forth. He jumped up, reached for his guitar and sang:

How sweet the sound

That through my bosom wafts!

To the clouds and beyond,

Will it lift me aloft?

High as a mountain my spirit soars

Watching life unfurl,

With all my heart I do adore

All that’s lovely in this world.

Yes, Bacchus, I know,

How godly you seem!

I understand your glow,

The lightness of your dreams.

A wreath of roses in your hair,

The picture of eternal youth,

The soothing twinkle of your stare,

Eyes flickering with sweet truth.

Is it love or devotion

That fills your heart with glee?

Whatever the emotion,

Spring laughs and you agree.

Dame Venus, glad goddess,

So frivolous and fair,

Rosy dawn is your bodice,

The world is your boudoir.

On yon sunny height,

Your courtiers at hand,

Winged cherubs alight

At your command.

Like heralds they clamour

And gaily invite

In gilded dreams of amour

To visit the queen of delight.

The ladies turn their heads,

The knights fall to their knees,

And make of the field a flower bed,

The fair blossoms all buzzing with bees.

And every youth with soft caress

Woos the beauty on his arm,

And so like some
Liebesfest

The merry company moves on.

Here he suddenly shifted manner and tone and continued:

The music faints,

The ladies look perplexed,

Nature’s drawn with paler paint,

The gentlemen grow vexed.

With a heavenly clamour

Serenity is wrenched,

Gone the flush of amour,

The gardens and fields are drenched.

And there amidst the bacchanal

I glimpse a lad so pale!

Silent as a funeral pall,

From whence, I wonder, did he hail?

With blossoming poppies

His head is bound,

And braided with lilies

He wears like a crown.

Like a kiss he brings

From the blue beyond

A wink from the winged

And a wave of the wand.

Holding a flame

Flickering bright,

‘Who, say your name,

With me will alight?’

And sometimes in play

He turns the torch around,

And the whole world fades

Without a blessed sound.

No sooner do the blossoms sink,

The earth become a withered thing,

Than the night sky begins to blink

With its nocturnal flowering.

Oh heaven-sent boy,

A blessing for the eye!

I’ll leave behind the hoi polloi

And follow you on high.

Why linger here when heaven calls?

Aloft, aloft, I’ll go!

The gates are opening to that great hall

Oh Father, don’t leave me below!

Fortunato went silent and so did everyone else, as the merry din died down outside and, little by little, the music faded, the crowd dispersed and all the magic of the moment gave way to the immeasurable majesty of the starry sky and the mighty murmur of the river and the woods. Then a tall, slender knight, whose lavish attire cast a greenish-golden shimmer on the forest’s flickering light, stepped into the tent. A wild, fiery look shot out of the deep hollows of his eyes, his face was handsome, but pale and expressionless. His sudden appearance made everyone think immediately with an involuntary shudder of the silent guest in Fortunato’s song. But, following a fleeting bow, he hastened to the host’s buffet and, practically panting with thirst, his pale lips trembling, in deep draughts gulped down a goblet of dark red wine.