‘Adieu, canaille—canards, canaux!’
still, be thankful for being where you are, take your coffee, and let us have a ramble through the Park.
Alas! the autumn is running into the winter; each breeze that sighs along the ground is the dirge over the dead leaves that lie strewn around us. The bare branches throw their gaunt arms to and fro as the cold grey clouds flit past; the student, too, has donned his fur-lined mantle, and strides along, with cap bent down, and hurried step. But a few weeks since, and these alleys were crowded with gay and smiling groups, lingering beneath the shadow of tall trees, and listening to the Jager band that played in yonder pavilion. The grey-haired professor moved slowly along, uncovering his venerable head as some student passed, and respectfully saluting him; and there too walked his fair daughters, the ‘frauleins with the yellow hair.’ How calmly sweet their full blue eyes! what gentleness is written in their quiet gait! Yet, see! as each bar of the distant waltz is heard beating on the ear, how their footsteps keep time and mark the measure! Alas! the summer hours have fled, and with them those calm nights when by the flickering moon the pathways echoed to the steps of lingering feet now homeward turning.
I never can visit a University town in Germany without a sigh after the time when I was myself a Bursche, read myself to sleep each night with Ludwig Tieck, and sported two broadswords crosswise above my chimney.
I was a student at Göttingen, the Georgia Augusta; and in the days I speak of—I know not well what King Ernest has done since—it was rather a proud thing to be ein Göttinger Bursche. There was considered something of style to appertain to it above the other Universities; and we looked down upon a Heidelberger or a Halle man as only something above a ‘Philister.’ The professors had given a great celebrity to the University too. There was Stromeyer in chemistry, and Hausman in philology; Behr in Greek, Shrader in botany; and, greater than all, old Blumenbach himself, lecturing four days each week on everything he could think of—natural philosophy, physics, geography, anatomy, physiology, optics, colours, metallurgy, magnetism, and the whale-fishery in the South Seas—making the most abstruse and grave subjects interesting by the charm of his manner, and elevating trivial topics into consequence by their connection with weightier matters. He was the only lecturer I ever heard of who concluded his hour to the regret of his hearers, and left them longing for the continuation. Anecdote and illustration fell from him with a profusion almost inconceivable and perfectly miraculous, when it is borne in mind that he rarely was known to repeat himself in a figure, and more rarely still in a story; and when he had detected himself in this latter he would suddenly stop short, with an ‘Ach Gott, I’m growing old,’ and immediately turn into another channel, and by some new and unheard-of history extricate himself from his difficulty. With all the learning of a Buffon and a Cuvier, he was simple and unaffected as a child. His little receptions in the summer months were in his garden. I have him before me this minute, seated under the wide-spreading linden-tree, with his little table before him, holding his coffee and a few books—his long hair, white as snow, escaping beneath his round cap of dark-green velvet, falling loosely on his shoulders, and his large grey eyes, now widely opened with astonishment at some piece of intelligence a boy would have heard without amazement, then twinkling with sly humour at the droll thoughts passing through his mind; while around him sat his brother professors and their families, chatting pleasantly over the little news of their peaceful community —the good vraus knitting and listening, and the frauleins demurely sitting by, wearing a look of mock attention to some learned dissertation, and ever and anon stealing a sly glance at the handsome youth who was honoured by an invitation to the soirée.
How charming, too, to hear them speak of the great men of the land as their old friends and college companions! It was not the author ofWallensteinandDon Carlos, but Frederick Schiller, the student of medicine, as they knew him in his boyhood—bold, ardent, and ambitious; toiling along a path he loved not, and feeling within him the working of that great genius which one day was to make him the pride of his Fatherland; and Wieland, strange and eccentric, old in his youth, with the innocence of a child and the wisdom of a sage; and Hoffman, the victim of his gloomy imagination, whose spectral shapes and dark warnings were not the forced efforts of his brain, but the companions of his wanderings, the beings of his sleep. How did they jest with him on his half-crazed notions, and laugh at his eccentricities! It was strange to hear them tell of going home with Hummel, then a mere boy, and how, as the evening closed in, he sat down to the pianoforte, and played and sang, and played again for hours long, now exciting their wonder by passages of brilliant and glittering effect, now knocking at their hearts by tones of plaintive beauty. There was a little melody he played the night they spoke of—some short and touching ballad, the inspiration of the moment—made on the approaching departure of some one amongst them, which many years after inFideliocalled down thunders of applause; mayhap the tribute of his first audience was a sweeter homage after all.
While thus they chatted on, the great world without and all its mighty interests seemed forgotten by them. France might have taken another choleric fit, and been in march upon the Rhine; England might have once more covered the ocean with her fleets, and scattered to the waves the wreck of another Trafalgar; Russia might be pouring down her hordes from the Don and Dnieper—little chance had they of knowing aught of these things! The orchards that surrounded the ramparts shut out the rest of Europe, and they lived as remote from all the collisions of politics and the strife of nations as though the University had been in another planet.
I must not forget the old Hofrath Froriep, Ordentliche-Professor von—Heaven knows what! No one ever saw his collegium (lecture-room); no one ever heard him lecture. He had been a special tutor to the Princes—as the Dukes of Cumberland and Cambridge were then called—about forty years ago, and he seemed to live upon the memory of those great days when a Royal Highness took notes beside his chair, and when he addressed his class as ‘Princes and Gentlemen!’ What pride he felt in his clasp of the Guelph, and an autograph letter of the Herzog von Clarence, who once paid him a visit at his house in Gottingen! It was a strange thing to hear the royal family of England spoken thus of among foreigners, who neither knew our land nor its language. One was suddenly recalled to the recollection of that Saxon stock from which our common ancestry proceeded—the bond of union between us, and the source from which so many of the best traits of English character take their origin. The love of truth, the manly independence, the habits of patient industry which we derived from our German blood are not inferior to the enterprising spirit and the chivalrous daring of Norman origin.
But to return to the Hofrath, or Privy Councillor Froriep, for so was he most rigidly styled. I remember him so well as he used to come slowly down the garden-walk, leaning on his sister’s arm. He was the junior by some years, but no one could have made the discovery now; the thing rested on tradition, however, and was not disputed. The Fräulein Martha von Froriep was the daguerreotype of her brother. To see them sitting opposite each other was actually ludicrous; not only were the features alike, but the expressions tallied so completely that it was as if one face reflected the other. Did the professor look grave, the Fräulein Martha’s face was serious; did he laugh, straightway her features took a merry cast; if his coffee was too hot, or did he burn his fingers with his pipe, the old lady’s sympathies were with him still. The Siamese twins were on terms of distant acquaintanceship, compared with the instinctive relation these two bore each other.
How was it possible, you will ask, that such an eternal similarity should have marked their dispositions? The answer is an easy one. The fräulein was deaf, perfectly destitute of hearing. The last recorded act of her auditory nerves was on the occasion of some public rejoicing, when twenty-four large guns were discharged in a few seconds of time, and by the reverberation broke every window in Göttingen; the old lady, who was knitting at the time, merely stopped her work and called out ‘Come in!’ thinking it was a tap at the room door. To her malady, then, was it owing that she so perfectly resembled the professor, her brother. She watched him with an anxious eye; his face was the dial that regulated every hour of her existence; and as the telegraph repeats the signal that is made to it, yet knows not the interpretation of the sign, so did she signalise the passing emotions of his mind long perhaps after her own could take interest in the cause.
Nothing had a stranger effect, however, than to listen to the professor’s conversation, to which the assent of the deaf old lady chimed in at short and regular intervals. For years long she had been in the habit of corroborating everything he said, and continued the practice now from habit; it was like a clock that struck the hour when all its machinery had run down. And so, whether the Hofrath descanted on some learned question of Greek particles, some much-disputed fact of ancient history, or, as was more often the case, narrated with German broadness some little anecdote of his student life, the old lady’s ‘Ja, ja, den sah ich selbst; da war ich auch!’ (Yes, yes, I saw it myself; I was there, too!) bore testimony to the truth of Tacitus or Herodotus, or, more remarkable still, to these little traits of her brother’s youthful existence, which, to say the least, were as well uncorroborated.
The Hofrath had passed his life as a bachelor—a circumstance which could not fail to surprise, for his stories were generally of his love adventures and perils; and all teemed with dissertations on the great susceptibility of his heart, and his devoted admiration of female beauty—weaknesses of which it was plain he felt vain, and loved to hear authenticated by his old associates. In this respect Blumenbach indulged him perfectly—now recalling to his memory some tender scene, or some afflicting separation, which invariably drew him into a story.
If these little reminiscences possessed not all the point and interest of more adventurous histories, to me at least they were more amusing by the force of truth, and by the singular look, voice, and manner of him who related them. Imagine, then, a meagre old man, about five feet two, whose head was a wedge with the thin side foremost, the nose standing abruptly out, like the cut-water of a man-o’-war gig; a large mouth, forming a bold semicircle, with the convexity downwards, the angles of which were lost in a mass of wrinkles on his withered cheeks; two fierce-looking, fiery, little grey eyes set slantwise in his head without a vestige of eyelash over them. His hair combed back with great precision, and tied behind into a queue, had from long pulling gradually drawn the eyebrows upwards to double their natural height, where they remained fixed, giving to this uncouth face an expression of everlasting surprise—in fact, he appeared as if he were perpetually beholding the ghost of somebody. His voice was a strange, unnatural, clattering sound, as though the machinery of speech had been left a long while without oiling, and could not work flippantly; but to be sure, the language was German, and that may excuse much.
Such was the Herr Hofrath Froriep—once, if you were to believe himself, a lady-killer of the first water. Indeed, still, when he stretched forth his thin and twisted shanks attired in satin shorts and black silk stockings, a gleam of conscious pride would light up his features, and he would seem to say to himself, ‘These legs might do some mischief yet.’ Caroline Pichler, the novelist, had been one of his loves, and, if you believed himself, a victim to his fascinations. However, another version of the tale had obtained currency, and was frequently alluded to by his companions at those moments when a more boastful spirit than they deemed suitable animated his discourse; and at such times I remarked that the Hofrath became unusually sensitive, and anxious to change the subject.
It was one evening, when we sat somewhat later than our wont in the garden, tempted by the delicious fragrance of the flowers and the mild light of a new moon, that at last the Hofrath’s madchen made her appearance, lantern in hand, to conduct him home. She carried on her arm a mass of cloaks, shawls, and envelopes that would have clothed a procession, with which she proceeded leisurely and artistically to dress up the professor and his sister, until the impression came over the bystanders that none but she who hid them in that mountain of wearables would ever be able to discover them again.
‘Ach Gott,’ exclaimed the Hofrath, as she crowned him with a quilted nightcap, whose jaws descended and fastened beneath the chin like an antique helmet, leaving the miserable old face, like an uncouth pattern, in the middle of the Berlin embroidery—‘Ach Gott, but for that!’
‘But for that!’ reiterated old Hausman, in a solemn tone, as if he knew the secret grief his friend alluded to, and gave him all his sympathy.
‘Sit down again, Froriep,’ said Blumenbach; ‘it is an hour too soon for young folk like us to separate. We’ll have a glass of Rosenthaler, and you shall tell us that story.’
‘Be it so,’ said the Hofrath, as he made signs to the madchen that he would cast his skin. ‘Ich bin dabei (I ‘m ready).’
‘Wi’ tippenny we fear nae evil;Wi’ usquebaugh we ‘d face the devil,’
quoth Burns; and surely Tarn’s knowledge of human nature took a wide circuit when he uttered those words. The whole philosophy of temptation is comprised in the distich, and the adage of coming up ‘to a man’s price’ has no happier illustration; and certainly, had the poet been a Bursche in Germany, he could not have conveyed the ‘sliding scale’ of professors’ agreeability under a more suitable formula. He who would be civil with a pipe becomes communicative with coffee, and brotherly with beer; but he opens every secret of his nature under the high-pressure power of a flask of Rhenish. The very smack of the Hofrath’s lips as he drained his glass to the bottom, and then exclaimed in a transport, ‘Er ist zum küssen, der Wein!’ announced that the folding-doors of his heart stood wide open, and that he might enter who would.
‘Rosenthaler was Goethe’s favourite,’ quoth Stromeyer; ‘and he had a good taste in wine.’
‘Your great folk,’ said Hausman, ‘ever like to show some decided preference to one vintage above the rest; Napoleon adopted chambertin, Joseph the Second drank nothing but tokay, and Peter the Great found brandy the only fluid to his palate.’
‘A plague on their fancies!’ interrupted old Blumenbach. ‘Let us have the story!’
‘Ah, well, well,’ said the Hofrath, throwing up his eyes with an air of sentimentalism, ‘so you shall. Love’s young dream was sweet, after all! We were in the Hartz,’ continued he, at once springing into his story with a true Demosthenic abruptness—‘we were in the Hartz Mountains, making a little tour, for it was semester, and all the classes were closed in the University. There was Tieck, and Feldtbourg the Dane, and Upsal, and old Langendorf of Jena, and Grotchen von Zobelschein, and Mina Upsal, and Caroline, and Martha there—she, poor thing, was getting deaf at the time, and could not take the same pleasure as the rest of us. She was always stupid, you know.’
Here he looked over at her, when she immediately responded—
‘Yes, yes, what he says is true.’
‘Each morning we used to set off up the mountains, botanising and hammering among the limestone rocks, and seeking for cryptogamia and felspar, lichens and jungermannia and primitive rock—mingling our little diversions with pleasant talk about the poets, and reciting verses to one another from Hans Sachs and the old writers, and chatting away about Schiller: the “Lager” was just come out, and more than one among us could scarcely believe it was Frederick did it.
‘Tieck and I soon found that we were rivals; for before a week each of us was in love with Caroline. Now, Ludwig was a clever fellow, and had a thousand little ways of ingratiating himself with a pretty woman—and a poetess besides. He could come down every day to breakfast with some ode or sonnet, or maybe a dream; and then he was ready after dinner with his bit of poetry, which sometimes, when he found a piano, he ‘d set to music; or maybe in the evening he’d invent one of those strange rigmarole stories of his, about a blue-bottle fly dying for love of a white moth or some superannuated old drone bee, retiring from public life, and spending his days reviling the rest of the world. You know his nonsense well; but somehow one could not help listening, and, what’s worse, feeling interest in it. As for Caroline, she became crazed about gnats and spiders, and fleas, and would hear for whole days long the stories of their loves and sorrows.
‘For some time I bore up as well as I could. There was a limit—Heaven be thanked!—to that branch of the creation; and as he had now got down to millepedes, I trusted that before the week was over he ‘d have reached mites, beyond which it was impossible he could be expected to proceed. Alas! I little knew the resources of his genius; for one evening, when I thought him running fast aground, he sat down in the midst of us, and began a tale of the life and adventures of the Herr Baron von Beetroot, in search of his lost love the Fräulein von Cucumber. This confounded narrative had its scene in an old garden in Silesia, where there were incidents of real beauty and interest interwoven, ay, and verses that would make your heart thrill. Caroline could evidently resist no longer. The Baron von Beetroot was ever uppermost in her mind; and if she ate Gurken-salat, it brought the tears into her eyes. In this sad strait I wandered out alone one evening, and without knowing it reached the “Rase Mühle,” near Oltdorf. There I went in and ordered a supper; but they had nothing but thick-milk and kalte-schade. *
* Thick-milk—a mess of sour cream thickened with sugar andcrumbs of breadKallte-schade—the same species ofabomination, the only difference being beer, for cream, forthe fluid.
No matter, thought I—a man in such grief as mine need little care what he eats; and I ordered both, that I might afterwards decide which I’d prefer. They came, and were placed before me. Himmel und Erde! what did I do but eat the two!—beer and cream, cream and beer, pepper and sugar, brown bread and nutmeg! Such was my abstraction, that I never noticed what I was doing till I saw the two empty bowls before me. “I am a dead Hofrath before day breaks,” said I, “and I’ll make my will”; but before I could put the plan into execution I became very ill, and they were obliged to carry me to bed. From that moment my senses began to wander; exhaustion, sour beer, and despair were all working within me, and I was mad. It was a brief paroxysm, but a fearful one. A hundred and fifty thousand ridiculous fancies went at racing speed through my mind, and I spent the night alternately laughing and crying. My pipe, that lay on the chair beside the bed, figured in nearly every scene, and performed a part in many a strange adventure.
‘By noon the others learned where I was, and came over to see me. After sitting for half an hour beside me they were going away, when I called Caroline and Martha back. Caroline blushed; but, taking Martha’s arm, she seated herself upon a sofa, and asked in a timid voice what I wished for.
‘“To hear before I die,” replied I; “to listen to a wonderful vision I have seen this night.”
“A vision,” said Caroline; “oh, what was it?”
‘“A beautiful and a touching one. Let me tell it to you. I will call it ‘The-never-to-be-lost-sight-of, though not-the-less-on-that-account-to-be-concealed, Loves of the Mug and the Meerschaum.’”
‘Caroline sprang to my side as I uttered these words, and as she wiped the tears from her eyes she sobbed forth—
‘“Let me but hear it! let me but hear it!”
‘“Sit down,” said I, taking her hand and pressing it to my lips—“sit down, and you shall.” With that I began my tale. I suppose,’ continued the Hofrath, ‘you don’t wish to have the story?’
‘Gott bewahre (Heaven forbid)!’ broke in the whole company in a breath. ‘Leave the Mug and the Meerschaum, and go on with Caroline!’
‘Well, from that hour her heart was mine. Ludwig might call all the reptiles that ever crawled, every vegetable that ever grew, to his aid—the victory was with me. He saw it, and, irritated by defeat, returned to Berlin without bidding us even farewell; and we never heard of him till we saw his new novel ofFortunio. But to go on. The day after Tieck left us was my birthday, and they all arranged to give me a little fête; and truly nothing could be prettier. The garden of the inn was a sweet spot, and there was a large linden like this, where the table was spread; and there was a chair all decked with roses and myrtle for me—Caroline herself had done it; and they had composed a little hymn in honour of me, wherein were sundry compliments to my distinction in science and poesy, the gifts of my mind and the graces of my person. Ach, ja! I was handsome then.
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‘Well, well, I must close my tale—I cannot bear to think of it even now. Caroline came forward, dressed in white, with a crown of roses and laurel leaves intertwined, and approached me gracefully, as I sat waiting to receive her—all the rest ranged on either side of me.
‘Auf seine Stirne, wo das Licht——-’(Upon that brow where shines the light)
said Caroline, raising the chaplet.
‘“Ach, Du Heiliger!” screamed Martha, who only that instant saw I was bareheaded, “the dear man will catch his death of cold!” and with that she snatched this confounded nightcap from her pocket, and rushing forward clapped it on my head before I could know it was done. I struggled and kicked like one possessed, but it was of no use; she had tied the strings in a black knot, and they could neither be loosened nor broken. “Be still there!” said she; “thou knowest well that at fifty-three——” You can conceive,’ said the Hofrath in a parenthesis, ‘that her passion obliterated her memory. At fifty-three one can’t play the fool like at twenty.’
‘Ach, ja! it was over with me for ever. Caroline screamed at the cap, first laughing, then crying, and then both; the rest nearly died of it, and so did I. Caroline would never look at me after, and I came back home, disappointed in my love—and all because of a woollen nightcap.’
When the Hofrath concluded, he poured the remainder of the Rosenthaler into his glass, and bowing to each in turn, wished us good-night, while taking the Fraulein Martha’s arm they both disappeared in the shade, as the little party broke up and each wended his way homeward.
If I were not sketching a real personage, and retailing an anecdote once heard, I should pronounce the Hofrath von Froriep a fictitious character, for which reason I bear you no ill-will if you incline to that opinion. I have no witness to call in my defence. There were but two Englishmen in Gottingen in my day; one of them is now no more. Poor fellow! he had just entered the army; his regiment was at Corfu, and he was spending the six months of his first leave in Germany. We chanced to be fellow-travellers, and ended by becoming friends. When he left me, it was for Vienna, from which after a short stay he departed for Venice, where he purchased a yacht, and with eight Greek sailors sailed for a cruise through the Ionian Islands. He was never seen alive again; his body, fearfully gashed and wounded, was discovered on the beach at Zante. His murderers, for such they were, escaped with the vessel, and never were captured. Should any Sixty-first man throw his eye over these pages he will remember that I speak of one beloved by every one who knew him. With all the heroic daring of the stoutest heart, his nature was soft and gentle as a child’s. Poor G——! some of the happiest moments of my life were spent with you; some of the saddest, in thinking over your destiny.
You must take my word for the Hofrath, then, good reader. They who read the modern novels of Germany—the wild exaggerations of Fouqué and Hoffman, Musaeus and Tieck—will comprehend that the story of himself has no extravagance whatever. To ascribe language and human passions to the lower animals, and even to the inanimate creation, is a favourite German notion, the indulgence of which has led to a great deal of that mysticism which we find in their writings; and the secret sympathies of cauliflowers and cabbages for young ladies in love is a constant theme among this class of novelists.
A word now of the students, and I have done. Whatever the absurdities in their code of honour, however ludicrous the etiquette of the ‘comment’ as it is called, there is a world of manly honesty and true-heartedness among them. There is nothing mean or low, nothing dishonourable or unworthy in the spirit of the Burschen-schaft. Exaggerated ideas of their own importance, an overweening sense of their value to the Fatherland, there are in abundance, as well as a mass of crude, unsettled notions about liberty and the regeneration of Germany. But, after all, these are harmless fictions; they are not allied to any evil passions at the time, they lead to no bad results for the future. The murder of Kotzebue, and the attempt on the life of Napoleon by Staps, were much more attributable to the mad enthusiasm of the period than to the principles of the Student-league. The spirit of the nation revolted at the tyranny they had so long submitted to, and these fearful crimes were the agonised expression of endurance pushed to madness. Only they who witnessed the frantic joy of the people when the tide of fortune turned against Napoleon, and his baffled legions retreated through Germany on their return from the Russian campaign, can understand how deeply stored were the wrongs for which they were now to exact vengeance. TheVölker Schlacht(the ‘people’s slaughter’), as they love to call the terrible fight of Leipsic, was the dreadful recompense of all their sufferings.
When the French Revolution first broke out, the German students, like many wiser and more thinking heads than theirs in our own country, were struck with the great movement of a mighty people in their march to liberty; but when, disgusted with the atrocities that followed, they afterwards beheld France the first to assail the liberties and trample on the freedom of every other country, they regarded her as a traitor to the cause she once professed. And while their apathy in the early wars of the republican armies marked their sympathy with the wild notions of liberty of which Frenchmen affected to be the apostles in Europe, yet when they saw the lust of conquest and the passion for dominion usurp the place of those high-sounding virtues—Liberté, Egalité—the reverse was a tremendous one, and may well excuse, if excuse were needful, the proud triumph of the German armies when they bivouacked in the streets of Paris.
The changed fortunes of the Continent have of course obliterated every political feature in the student life of Germany; or if such still exist, it takes the form merely of momentary enthusiasm in favour of some banished professor, or a Burschen festival in honour of some martyr of the Press. Still their ancient virtues survive, and the German student is yet a type—one of the few remaining—-of the Europe of thirty years ago. Long may he remain so, say I; long may so interesting a land have its national good faith and brotherly affection rooted in the minds of its youth; long may the country of Schiller, of Wieland, and of Goethe possess the race of those who can appreciate their greatness, or strive to emulate their fame!
I leave to others the task of chronicling their beer orgies, their wild festivals, and their duels; and though not disposed to defend them on such charges, I might, were it not invidious, adduce instances nearer home of practices little more commendable. At those same festivals, at many of which I have been present, I have heard music that would shame most of our orchestras, and listened to singing such as I have never heard surpassed except within the walls of a grand opera. And as to their duelling, the practice is bad enough in all conscience; but still I would mention one instance, of which I myself was a witness, and perhaps even in so little fertile a field we may find one grain of goodly promise.
Among my acquaintances in Gôttingen were two students, both Prussians, and both from the same small town of Magdebourg. They had been school-fellows, and came together to the University, where they lived together on terms of brotherly affection, which even there, where friendship takes all the semblance of a sacred compact, was the subject of remark. Never were two men less alike, however, than these. Eisendecker was a bold, hotheaded fellow, fond of all the riotous excesses of Burschen life; his face, seamed with many a scar, declared him a ‘hahn,’ as in student phrase a confirmed duellist is termed. He was ever foremost in each scheme of wild adventure, and continually being brought up before the senate on some charge of insubordination. Von Mühry, his companion, was exactly the opposite. His sobriquet—for nearly every student had one—was ‘der Zahme (the gentle),’ and never was any more appropriate. His disposition was mildness itself. He was very handsome, almost girlish in his look, with large blue eyes and fine, soft silky hair, which, Germanlike, he wore upon his neck. His voice—the index of his nature—soft, low, and musical, would have predisposed you at once in his favour. Still, those disparities did not prevent the attachment of the two youths; on the contrary, they seemed rather to strengthen the bond between them—each, as it were, supplying to the other the qualities which Nature had denied him. They were never separate in lecture-room, at home, or in theallée(as the promenade was called) or in the garden, where each evening the students resorted to sup, and listen to the music of the Jâger band. Eisendecker and Mühry were names that no one ever heard separated, and when one appeared the other was never more than a few yards off.
Such was their friendship, when an unhappy incident occurred to trouble its even course, and sow dissension between these who never had known a passing difference in their lives. The sub-rector of Göttingen was in the habit of giving little receptions every week, to which many of the students were invited, and to which Eisendecker and Mühry were frequently asked, as they both belonged to the professor’s class. In the quiet world of a little University town, these soirées were great occasions; and the invited plumed themselves not a little on the distinction of a card which gave the privilege of bowing in the Herr professor’s drawing-room, and kissing the hand of his fair daughter the Frederica von Ettenheim, the belle of Göttingen. Frederica was the prettiest German girl I ever saw; for this reason, that having been partly educated at Paris, Frenchespièglerierelieved what had been otherwise the too regular monotony of her Saxon features, and imparted a character of sauciness—orfiertéis a better word—to that quietude which is too tame to give the varied expression so charming in female beauty. Theesprit, that delicious ingredient which has been so lamentably omitted in German character, she had imbibed from her French education; and in lieu of that plodding interchange of flat commonplaces which constitute the ordinary staple of conversation between the young of opposite sexes beyond the Rhine, she had imported the light, delicate tone of Parisian raillery—the easy and familiar gaiety of French society, so inexpressibly charming in France, and such a boon from heaven when one meets it by accident elsewhere.
Oh, confess it, ye who, in the dull round of this world’s so-called pleasure, in the Eryboean darkness of the dinners and evening parties of your fashionable friends, sit nights long, speaking and answering, half at random, without one thought to amuse, without one idea to interest you—what pleasure have you felt when some chance expression, some remark—a mere word, perhaps—of your neighbour beside you, reveals that she has attained that wondrous charm, that most fascinating of all possessions—the art to converse; that neither fearful of being deemed pedantic on the one hand, or uninformed on the other, she launches forth freely on the topic of the moment, gracefully illustrating her meaning by womanly touches of sensibility and delicacy, as though to say, these lighter weapons were her own peculiar arms, while men might wield the more massive ones of sense and judgment. Then with what lightness she flits along from theme to theme, half affecting to infer that she dares not venture deep, yet showing every instant traits of thoughtfulness and reflection!
How long since have you forgotten that she who thus holds you entranced is the brunette, with features rather too bold than otherwise; that those eyes which now sparkle with the fire of mind seemed but half an hour ago to have a look of cold effrontery? Such is the charm ofesprit; and without it the prettiest woman wants her greatest charm. A diamond she may be, and as bright and of purest water; but the setting, which gives such lustre to the stone, is absent, and half the brilliancy of the gem is lost to the beholder.
Now, of all tongues ever invented by man, German is the most difficult and clumsy for all purposes of conversation. You may preach in it, you may pray in it, you may hold a learned argument, or you may lay down some involved and intricate statement—you may, if you have the gift, even tell a story in it, provided the hearers be patient, and some have gone so far as to venture on expressing a humorous idea in German; but these have been bold men, and their venturous conduct is more to be admired than imitated. At the same time, it is right to add that a German joke is a very wooden contrivance at best, and that the praise it meets with is rather in the proportion of the difficulty of the manufacture than of the superiority of the article—just as we admire those Indian toys carved with a rusty nail, or those fourth-string performances of Paganini and his followers.
And now to come back to the students, whom mayhap you deem to have been forgotten by me all this time, but for whose peculiar illustration my digression was intended—it being neither more nor less than to show that if Frederica von Ettenheim turned half the heads in Göttingen, Messrs. Eisendecker and Mühry were of the number. What a feature it was of the little town, her coming to reside in it! What a sweet atmosphere of womanly gracefulness spread itself like a perfume through those old salons, whose dusty curtains and moth-eaten chairs looked like the fossils of some antediluvian furniture! With what magic were the old ceremonials of a professor’s reception exchanged for the easier habits of a politer world! The venerable dignitaries of the University felt the change, but knew not where it lay, and could not account for the pleasure they now experienced in the vice-rector’s soirees; while the students knew no bounds to the enthusiastic admiration, and ‘Die Ettenheim’ reigned in every heart in Göttingen.
Of all her admirers none seemed to hold a higher place in her favour than Von Mühry. Several causes contributed to this, in addition to his own personal advantages and the distinction of his talents, which were of a high order. He was particularly noticed by the vice-rector, from the circumstance of his father holding a responsible position in the Prussian Government; while Adolphe himself gave ample promise of one day making a figure in the world. He was never omitted in any invitation, nor forgotten in any of the many little parties so frequent among the professors; and even where the society was limited to the dignitaries of the college, some excuse would ever be made by the vice-rector to have him present, either on the pretence of wanting him for something, or that Frederica had asked him without thinking.
Such was the state of this little world when I settled in it, and took up my residence at the Meissner Thor, intending to pass my summer there. The first evening I spent at the vice-rector’s, the matter was quite clear to my eyes. Frederica and Adolphe were lovers. It was to no purpose that when he had accompanied her on the piano he retreated to a distant part of the room when she ceased to sing. It signified not that he scarcely ever spoke to her, and when he did, but a few words, hurriedly and in confusion. Their looks met once; I saw them exchange one glance—a fleeting one, too—but I read in it their whole secret, mayhap even more than they knew themselves. Well had it been, if I alone had witnessed this, but there was another at my side who saw it also, and whispered in my ear, ‘Der Zahme is in love.’ I turned round—it was Eisendecker: his face, sallow and sickly, while large circles of dark olive surrounded his eyes, and gave him an air of deep suffering. ‘Did you see that?’ said he suddenly, as he leaned his hand on my arm, where it shook like one in ague.
‘Did you see that?’
‘What—the flower?’
‘Yes, the flower. It was she dropped it, when she crossed the room. You saw him take it up, didn’t you?’
The tone he spoke in was harsh and hissing, as if he uttered the words with his teeth clenched. It was clear to me now that he, too, was in love with Frederica, and I trembled to think of the cruel shock their friendship must sustain ere long.
A short time after, when I was about to retire, Eisendecker took my arm, and said, ‘Are you for going home? May I go with you?’ I gave a willing assent, our lodgings being near, and we spent much of every day in each other’s chambers. It was the first time we had ever returned without waiting for Mühry; and fearing what a separation, once begun, might lead to, I stopped suddenly on the stairs, and said, as if suddenly remembering—‘By-the-bye, we are going without Adolphe.’
Eisendecker’s fingers clutched me convulsively, and while a bitter laugh broke from him, he said, ‘You wouldn’t tear them asunder, would you?’ For the rest of the way he never spoke again, and I, fearful of awakening the expression of that grief which, when avowed, became confirmed, never opened my lips, save to say, ‘Good-night.’
I never intended to have involved myself in a regular story when I began this chapter, nor must I do so now, though, sooth to say, it would not be without its interest to trace the career of these two youths, who now became gradually estranged from each other, and were no longer to be seen, as of old, walking with arms on each other’s shoulder—the most perfect realisation of true brotherly affection. Day by day the distance widened between them; each knew the secret of the other’s heart, yet neither dared to speak of it. From distrust there is but a short step to dislike—alas! it is scarcely even a step. They parted.
Every one knows that the reaction which takes place when some long-standing friendship has been ruptured is proportionate to the warmth of the previous attachment. Still the cause of this, in a great measure, is more attributable to the world about us than to ourselves; we make partisans to console us for the loss of one who was our confidant, and in the violence oftheirpassions we are carried away as in a current. The students were no exception to this theory; scarcely had they ceased to regard each other as friends when they began to feel as enemies. Alas! is it not ever so? Does not the good soil, which, when cultivated with care, produce the fairest flowers and the richest fruits, rear up, when neglected and abandoned, the most noxious weeds and the rankest thistles? And yet it was love for another—that passion so humanising in its influence, so calculated to assuage the stormy and vindictive traits of even a savage nature—it was love that made them thus. To how many is the ‘light that lies in woman’s eyes’ but a beacon to lure to ruin? When we think that but one can succeed where so many strive, what sadness and misery must not result to others?
Another change came over them, and a stranger still. Eisendecker, the violent youth, of ungovernable temper and impetuous passion, who loved the wildest freak of student-daring, and ever was the first to lead the way in each mad scheme, had now become silent and thoughtful; a gentle sadness tempered down the fierce traits of his hot nature, and he no longer frequented his old haunts of the cellar and the fighting school, but wandered alone into the country, and spent whole days in solitude. Von Muhry, on the other hand, seemed to have assumed the castaway mantle of his once friend: the gentle bearing and almost submissive tone of his manner were exchanged for an air of conscious pride—a demeanour that bespoke a triumphant spirit; and the quiet youth suddenly seemed changed to a rash, high-spirited boy, reckless from very happiness. During this time, Eisendecker had attached himself particularly to me; and although I had always hitherto preferred Von Muhry, the feeling of the other’s unhappiness, a sense of compassion for suffering, which it was easy to see was great, drew me closer in my friendship towards him; and, at last, I scarcely saw Adolphe at all, and when we did meet, a mutual feeling of embarrassment separated and estranged us from each other. About this time I set off on an excursion to the Hartz Mountains, to visit the Brocken, and see the mines; my absence, delayed beyond what I first intended, was above four weeks, and I returned to Gottingen just as the summer vacation was about to begin.
About five leagues from Gottingen, on the road towards Nordheim, there is a little village called Meissner, a favourite resort of the students, in all their festivals; while, at something less than a mile distant, stands a water-mill, on a little rivulet among the hills—a wild, sequestered spot, overgrown with stunted oak and brushwood. A narrow bridle-path leads to it from the village, and this was the most approved place for settling all those affairs of honour whose character was too serious to make it safe to decide nearer the University: for, strangely enough, while by the laws of the University duelling was rigidly denounced, yet whenever the quarrel was decided by the sword, the authorities never or almost never interfered, but if a pistol was the weapon, the thing at once took a more serious aspect.
For what reasons the mills have been always selected as the appropriate scenes for such encounters, I never could discover; but the fact is unquestionable, and I never knew a University town that did not possess its ‘water-privileges’ in this manner.
Towards the mill I was journeying at the easy pace of my pony, early on a summer’s morning, preferring the rural breakfast with the miller—for they are always a kind of innkeepers—to the fare of the village. I entered the little bridle-path that conducted to his door, and was sauntering listlessly along, dreaming pleasantly, as one does, when the song of the lark and the heavy odour of dew-pressed flowers steep the heart in happiness all its own, when, behind me, I heard the regular tramp of marching. I listened; had I been a stranger to the sound, I should have thought them soldiers, but I knew too well the measured tread of the student, and I heard the jingling of their heavy sabres—a peculiar clank a student’s ear cannot be deceived in. I guessed at once the object of their coming, and grew sick at heart to think that the storm of men’s stubborn passions and the strife of their revengeful nature should desecrate a peaceful spot like this. I was about to turn back, disgusted at the thought, when I remembered I must return by the same path, and meet them; but even this I shrank from. The footsteps came nearer and nearer, and I had barely time to move off the path into the brushwood, and lead my pony after, when they turned the angle of the way. They who walked first were muffled in their cloaks, whose high collars concealed their faces; but the caps of many a gaudy colour proclaimed them students. At a little distance behind, and with a slower step, came another party, among whom I noticed one who walked between two others, his head sunk on his bosom, and evidently overcome with emotions of deep sorrow. A movement of my horse at this instant attracted their attention towards the thicket; they stopped, and a voice called out my name. I looked round, and there stood Eisendecker before me. He was dressed in deep mourning, and looked pale and worn, his black beard and moustache deepening the haggard expression of features, to which the red borders of his eyelids, and his bloodless lips, gave an air of the deepest suffering. ‘Ah, my friend,’ said he, with a sad effort at a smile, ‘you are here quiteà propos. I am going to fight Adolphe this morning.’ A fearful presentiment that such was the case came over me the instant I saw him; but when he said so, a thrill ran through me, and I grew cold from head to foot.
‘I see you are sorry,’ said he, tenderly while he took my hand within both of his; ‘but you would not blame me—indeed you would not—if you knew all.’
‘What, then, was the cause of this quarrel? How came you to an open rupture?’
He turned round, and as he did so his face was purple, the blood suffused every feature, and his very eyeballs seemed as if about to burst. He tried to speak; but I only heard a rushing noise like a hoarse-drawn breath.
‘Be calm, my dear Eisendecker,’ said I. ‘Cannot this be settled otherwise than thus?’
‘No, no!’ said he, in the voice of indignant passion I used to hear from him long before, ‘never!’ He waved his hand impatiently as he spoke, and turned his head from me. At the same moment one of his companions made a sign with his hand towards me.
‘What!’ whispered I in horror—‘a blow?’
A brief nod was the reply. Alas! from that minute all hope left me. Too well I knew the desperate alternative that awaited such an insult. Reconciliation was no longer to be thought of. I asked no more, but followed the group along the path towards the mill.
In a little garden, as it was called—we should rather term it a close-shaven grass-plot—where some tables and benches were placed under the shade of large chestnut-trees, Adolphe von Muhry stood, surrounded by a number of his friends. He was dressed in his costume as a member of the Prussian club of the Landsmanschaft—a kind of uniform of blue and white, with a silver braiding on the cuffs and collar—and looked handsomer than ever I saw him. The change his features had undergone gave him an air of manliness and confidence that greatly improved him, and his whole carriage indicated a degree of self-reliance and energy which became him perfectly. A faint blush coloured his cheek as he saw me enter, and he lifted his cap straight above his head and saluted me courteously, but with an evident effort to appear at ease before me. I returned his salute mournfully—perhaps reproachfully, too, for he turned away and whispered something to a friend at his side.
Although I had seen many duels with the sword, it was the first time I was present at an affair with pistols in Germany; and I was no less surprised than shocked to perceive that one of the party produced a dice-box and dice, and placed them on a table.
Eisendecker all this time sat far apart from the rest, and, with folded arms and half-closed eyelids, seemed to wait in patience for the moment of being called on.
‘What are they throwing for, yonder?’ whispered I to a Saxon student near me.
‘For the shot, of course,’ said he; ‘not but that they might spare themselves the labour. Eisendecker must fire first; and as for who comes second after him——’
‘Is he so sure as that?’ asked I in terror; for the fearful vision of blood would not leave my mind.
‘That is he. The fellow that can knock a bullet off a champagne bottle at five-and-twenty paces may chance to hit a man at fifteen.’
‘Mühry has it,’ cried out one of those at the table; and I heard the words repeated from mouth to mouth till they reached Eisendecker, as he moved his cane listlessly to and fro in the mill-stream.
‘Remember Ludwig,’ said his friend, as he grasped his arm with a stronger clasp; ‘remember what I told you.’
The other nodded carelessly, and merely said, ‘Is all ready?’
‘Stand here, Eisendecker,’ said Mühry’s second, as he dropped a pebble in the grass.
Mühry was already placed, and stood erect, his eyes steadily directed to his antagonist, who never once looked towards him, but kept his glance fixed straight in front.
‘You fire first, sir,’ said Mühry’s friend, while I could mark that his voice trembled slightly at the words. ‘You may reserve your fire till I have counted twenty after the word is given.’
As he spoke he placed the pistol in Eisendecker’s hand, and called out—
‘Gentlemen, fall back, fall back; I am about to give the word. Herr Eisendecker, are your ready?’
A nod was the reply.
‘Now!’ cried he, in a loud voice; and scarcely was the word uttered when the discharge of the pistol was heard. So rapid, indeed, was the motion, that we never saw him lift his arm; nor could any one say what direction the ball had taken.
‘I knew it, I knew it,’ muttered Eisendecker’s friend, in tones of agony. ‘All is over with him now.’
Before a minute elapsed, the word to fall back was again given, and I now beheld Von Mühry standing with his pistol in hand, while a smile of cool but determined malice sat on his features.
While the second repeated the same words over to him, I turned to look at Eisendecker, but he evinced no apparent consciousness of what was going on about him; his eyes, as before, were bent on vacancy; his pale face, unmoved, showed no signs of passion. In an instant the fearful ‘Now’ rang out, and Mühry slowly raised his arm, and, levelling his pistol steadily, stood with his eye bent on his victim. While the deep voice of the second slowly repeated one—two—three—four—never was anything like the terrible suspense of that moment. It seemed as if the very seconds of human life were measuring out one by one. As the word ‘ten’ dropped from his lips, I saw Mühry’s hand shake. In his revengeful desire to kill his man, he had waited too long, and now he was growing nervous; he let fall his arm to his side, and waited for a few seconds, then raising it again, he took a steady aim, and at the word ‘nineteen’ fired.
A slight movement of Eisendecker’s head at this instant brought his face full front; and the bullet, which would have transfixed his head, now merely passed along his cheek, tearing a rude flesh-wound as it went.
A half-cry broke from Mühry: I heard not the word; but the accent I shall never cease to remember. It was now Eisendecker’s time; and as the blood streamed down his cheek, and fell in great drops upon his neck and shoulders, I saw his face assume the expression it used to wear in former days. A terrible smile lit up his dark features, and a gleam of passionate vengeance made his eye glow like that of a maniac.
‘I am ready—give the word,’ cried he, in frantic impatience.
But Mühry’s second, fearful of giving way to such a moment of passion, hesitated; when Eisendecker again called out, ‘The word, sir, the word!’ and the bystanders, indignant at the appearance of unfairness, repeated the cry.
The crowd fell back, and the word was given. Eisendecker raised his weapon, poised it for a second in his hand, and then, elevating it above his head, brought it gradually down, till, from the position where I stood, I could see that he aimed at the heart.
His hand was now motionless, as if it were marble; while his eye, riveted on his antagonist, seemed to be fixed on one small spot, as though his whole vengeance was to be glutted there. Never was suspense more dreadful, and I stood breathless, in the expectation of the fatal flash, when, with a jerk of his arm, he threw up the pistol and fired above his head; and then, with a heart-rending cry of ‘Mein bruder, mein brader!’ he rushed into Mühry’s arms, and fell into a torrent of tears.
The scene was indeed a trying one, and few could witness it unmoved. As for me, I turned away completely overcome; while my heart found vent in thankfulness that such a fearful beginning should end thus happily.
‘Yes,’ said Eisendecker, as we rode home together that evening, when, after a long silence, he spoke; ‘yes, I had resolved to kill him; but when my finger was even on the trigger, I saw a look upon his features that reminded me of those earlier and happier days when we had but one home and one heart, and I felt as if I was about to become the murderer of my brother.’
Need I add that they were friends for ever after?
But I must leave Göttingen and its memories too. They recall happy days, it is true; but they who made them so—where are they?