But this is more than I can bear,That still the laughing sun is bright,As in the days when you were there,That clocks are striking, unaware,And mark the change of day and night—That we, as twilight dims the air,Assemble when the day is done,And that the place where stood your chairAlready many others share,And that you seem thus missed by none;When meanwhile from the gate belowThe narrow strips of moonlight spareInto your vault down deeply goAnd with a ghostly pallid glowAre stealing o'er your coffin there.
But this is more than I can bear,That still the laughing sun is bright,As in the days when you were there,That clocks are striking, unaware,And mark the change of day and night—
That we, as twilight dims the air,Assemble when the day is done,And that the place where stood your chairAlready many others share,And that you seem thus missed by none;
When meanwhile from the gate belowThe narrow strips of moonlight spareInto your vault down deeply goAnd with a ghostly pallid glowAre stealing o'er your coffin there.
The shore is gray, the sea is gray,And there the city stands;The mists upon the houses weighAnd through the calm, the ocean grayRoars dully on the strands.There are no rustling woods, there flyNo birds at all in May,The wild goose with its callous cryAlone on autumn nights soars by,The wind-blown grasses sway.And yet my whole heart clings to thee,Gray city by the sea;And e'er the spell of youth for meDoth smiling rest on thee, on theeGray city by the sea.
The shore is gray, the sea is gray,And there the city stands;The mists upon the houses weighAnd through the calm, the ocean grayRoars dully on the strands.
There are no rustling woods, there flyNo birds at all in May,The wild goose with its callous cryAlone on autumn nights soars by,The wind-blown grasses sway.
And yet my whole heart clings to thee,Gray city by the sea;And e'er the spell of youth for meDoth smiling rest on thee, on theeGray city by the sea.
FOOTNOTES:[2]Translator: Margarete Münsterberg.
[2]Translator: Margarete Münsterberg.
[2]Translator: Margarete Münsterberg.
It is so quiet here. There liesThe heath in noon's warm sunshine gold.A gleam of light, all rosy, fliesAnd hovers round the mounds of old.The herbs are blooming; fragrance fairNow fills the bluish summer air.The beetles rush through bush and trees,In little golden coats of mail;And on the heather-bells the beesAlight on all its branches frail.From out the grass there starts a throngOf larks and fills the air with song.A lonely house, half-crumbled, low:The farmer, in the doorway bent,Stands watching in the sunlight's glowThe busy bees in sweet content.And on a stone near by his boyIs carving pipes from reeds with joy.Scarce trembling through the peace of noonThe town-clock strikes—from far, it seems.The old man's eye-lids droop right soon,And of his honey crops he dreams.—The sounds that tell our time of stressHave not yet reached this loneliness.
It is so quiet here. There liesThe heath in noon's warm sunshine gold.A gleam of light, all rosy, fliesAnd hovers round the mounds of old.The herbs are blooming; fragrance fairNow fills the bluish summer air.
The beetles rush through bush and trees,In little golden coats of mail;And on the heather-bells the beesAlight on all its branches frail.From out the grass there starts a throngOf larks and fills the air with song.
A lonely house, half-crumbled, low:The farmer, in the doorway bent,Stands watching in the sunlight's glowThe busy bees in sweet content.And on a stone near by his boyIs carving pipes from reeds with joy.
Scarce trembling through the peace of noonThe town-clock strikes—from far, it seems.The old man's eye-lids droop right soon,And of his honey crops he dreams.—The sounds that tell our time of stressHave not yet reached this loneliness.
FOOTNOTES:[3]Translator: Margarete Münsterberg.
[3]Translator: Margarete Münsterberg.
[3]Translator: Margarete Münsterberg.
Let come to me whatever may,While you are with me it is day.Though in the world I wander far,My home is ever—where you are.Your face is all in all to me,The future's frown I do not see.
Let come to me whatever may,While you are with me it is day.
Though in the world I wander far,My home is ever—where you are.
Your face is all in all to me,The future's frown I do not see.
FOOTNOTES:[4]Translator: Charles Wharton Stork.
[4]Translator: Charles Wharton Stork.
[4]Translator: Charles Wharton Stork.
By Ewald Eiserhardt, Ph.D.
Assistant Professor of German, University of Rochester
WilhelmRaabe was born on the eighth of September, 1831, in the little town of Eschershausen in the Duchy of Braunschweig. He received his schooling at the Gymnasiums in Holzminden and Wolfenbüttel; from 1849-53 he was employed in a bookstore in Magdeburg; then, while living with his mother in Wolfenbüttel, he prepared for the university, and later went to Berlin, where he studied chiefly history, philosophy, and literature. After the success of his first book,Records of Sparrow Lane(1857), he turned entirely to authorship. In 1862 he married and moved to Stuttgart, where he remained till 1870. From then on until his death in 1910 he lived in Braunschweig. Raabe was an extraordinarily productive writer, yet during the last ten years of his life he entirely gave up all literary activity, and left his last work,Old Folks in the Old Home, unfinished.
The underlying theme of Raabe's writings is the inner life of the individual man and his specifically human sphere of family, society, community, nation. With this he combines a strong preference for what is characteristically German, which he loves just as much where it is merely German, in fact, German to the point of being odd and bizarre, as where it merges into the universally human. Raabe believes, however, that both the peculiarly German and the broadly human types are found with greater richness and depth among the Germans of the first two-thirds of the nineteenth century than among those of the last third. The period before the development of modern Germany is that in which he loves best to linger. Whenhe forsakes it, he does so to go still farther back, into the realm of history proper.
What was it that interested Raabe in history? Not so much the causal connection of events; not so much historical growth, as historical conditions. And, moreover, to him the outward circumstances are merely the necessary premises for what he really wishes to grasp, the spirit of a period, the constitution of the folk-soul. The great historical figures who led up to a period and stand out prominently in it he pushes into the background. It is the forgotten men and women that he seeks, and he pictures how circumstances or events ordered their lives, whether the individual lived apart from his age and contrasted with the mass, or whether the "milieu" wrought in him a particular condition of mind and heart, so that he was drawn into situations and events, into the "Zeitgeist," without actually exercising any decisive influence. InElse von der Tannethe German peasants, at the end of the Thirty Years' War, are sunk in "brutish stupor," inwardly and outwardly coarsened and demoralized, filled with boundless suspicion. When Else, "the purest, holiest flower in the horrible devastation of the earth," appears among them, they look upon her as something monstrous, they make a witch of her, and under their stoning the gentle miracle falls stricken at the threshold of the house of God. InSankt Thomasthe struggle between Spain and the Netherlands kindles heroism in the heart of a woman who, like a phenomenon, interposes in the fight, in which she perishes after all, without being able to give its course a favorable turn. "That was no longer that Camilla who had swung in the hammock. * * * She now appeared as the beautiful but deadly genius of this island; it was as if the destructive power of the tropical sun had become embodied in her. * * * Camilla Drago, in league with the fire from heaven, defended the castell Pavaosa." InThe Crown of the Realmthe heroine feels the necessity of making her lover go through the campaigns in Bohemia and Hungary fromwhere he returns afflicted with leprosy. He gives up his happiness for lost, but the girl, from whom he has hidden, finds him, acknowledges her love for him, nurses him until his death and becomes in the end the mother-nurse of the exiled lepers.
We do not really feel this last story to be historical; for the spirit of the age, all the events and even the fate of the hero and heroine are far eclipsed by the triumphant strength of those powers that, standing above all time, are able to determine human life.The Crown of the Realmwas indeed written after Raabe had tried inThe People of the Forestand in his trilogyThe Hunger Pastor,Abu Telfan, andThe Dead-Wagon—works round which all Raabe's writings circle as round a pole—to comprehend the eternally problematical in human life and to take up some attitude toward it.
"Gib Acht auf die Gassen!" (Watch the Streets), and "Blick auf zu den Sternen!" (Look up to the Stars), are the mottos at whose point of intersection lies the life-wisdom ofThe People of the Forest. To wrestle with the factors of every-day life, to have a clear eye for the different values of these factors, and in general to respect the dignity of the common are indispensable to every real human life. But, if one is to attain the goals that lie in the land of promise, one's gaze must not remain fixed on the ground. For the universe and the human soul are, in themselves, dark, and receive their light only from the shining spheres that we call stars. In man's sky these are love, friendship, faith, patience, mercy, courage, humility, honor. Still more wonderful, however, than the existence of these stars is perhaps the fact that originally we did not possess them at all, but have only found them in the course of thousands of years. And how did they become ours? Through life's suffering and distress and infamy. Here, indeed, we arrive at the centre of Raabe's thought and work. All that is high in the world has developed through friction with what is low, all that is high requiresthe low. For just as white is seen in all its intensity only in contrast with black, so, too, depth of love, nobility of mind, strength to aspire are best manifested and unfolded in the conflict with selfishness, baseness, indifference, and every kind of distress and pain. That is why Hans Unwirrsch has Moses Freudenstein for a companion; that is why the author lays so many and such different obstacles in his way; that is why he allows him to attain only to such a modest happiness at last; for the satisfied do not hunger, and hunger for all that is noble is the meaning of our existence. That is why, too, a book likeThe Hunger Pastorexercises, on the whole, no liberative influence; it does, however, strengthen and edify our souls and warms our hearts with its inner glow.
But how is it? If the antagonism of those elements that increase life and those that weaken it is necessary, must they therefore exist eternally beside each other, and to which side will the final victory incline? "If ye knew what I know, ye would weep much and laugh little:" with these words of Mohammed'sAbu Telfancloses. Accordingly the ideal, symbolized inThe Hunger Pastorby the cobbler's luminous ball that accompanies Hans Unwirrsch everywhere, here finds only a place of refuge in the secluded "Katzenmühle" (cat's mill). Deep resignation is the predominant mood of this work. And in theThe Dead-Wagonthe place of the shining ball is taken even by the hearse, and the motto of this book is, "TheCanailleis lord and remains lord." Antonie Häusler falls into the power of her rascally grandfather, and attempts to rescue her fail. Nevertheless chevalier von Gläubigern reports to Jane Warwolf: "I got there in time, she is happy! Believe no one who tries to tell you that she died in misery. * * * Pay no attention to Hennig and those others about us, they know nothing * * *" The chevalier is right. Antonie died, but in the triumph of martyrdom, and this triumph, still and unnoticed as it was, continues to burn in the heartsof the three old people whom we leave at the end of the novel in the home for the old and sick in Krodebeck.
The circle of our trilogy is closed. Light and darkness war against each other in all three parts. InThe Hunger Pastorlove and work finally win both external and internal victory; inAbu Telfanwe are left full of worry that light is diminishing more and more; in theThe Dead-Wagonthe deepest shadows prevail, the noble and the life-affirming forces experience external defeat, but they remain unconquerable in themselves.
Further than in theThe Dead-Wagona wise author who is just to the world may not go in his pessimism, in spite of his study of Schopenhauer, if he would not appear to indulge in mannerism, to be one-sided. Raabe does not fall a victim to his deep penetration into the hardship and infamy of life; it finally becomes to him merely the means to an end. For he thus obtains from his strict conscience the right from now on to develop for its own sake a side of his talent which had already flashed through almost all his works—his humor. In whatever relation good and evil, happiness and suffering may stand to one another, man can not entirely get rid of either of these sides of life. The idealist or pessimist seeks to emphasize one of the two sides, the realist simply takes them as they are and bears them, the humorist tries to reconcile one with the other. This reconciliation must, of course, be subjective in its nature. It takes place in the mind and heart of the man. A humorist like Raabe allows the oppressive a place within him, and is untroubled because he recognizes that it is an integral part of his lot, of humanity's lot. He does not bear it with ridicule or bitterness, indifference or resignation, because he knows he must, but rather he rejoices in the strength of his soul, he rejoices that he can do it. In the consciousness of this ability he has cast away "the fear of the earthly" and looks down smiling on the mysterious play of the forces of life. He smiles at those who allow themselves to be consumed by distress, he smiles athis own distress which he has to overcome again and again, and is yet affected by grief, is full of the deepest sympathy for all creation, for he knows that he is fighting a common battle with it all. Humor is hearty, humor is brave, humor is full of sunny, smiling wisdom. We have works and characters in German literature that are more pronouncedly and purely humorous than Raabe's. But probably in no other German writer has humor become such a controlling mood of life as in him. With no one else do we feel the faithful humorous personality of the author behind and in his works as we do with Raabe.Horacker(1876),Old Familiar Corners(1879),The Hold-All(1890) may be quoted here.
By virtue of its elevation Raabe's humor has a quiet and certain glance, and is apt to spend its all-embracing sympathy on what is overlooked, what is insignificant, and in all it finds greatness and light hidden and operative. The apparently contradictory attracts him whether it appears to be contradictory in itself or contradictory to what is generally accepted and traditional. He makes friends with originals and oddities; he leads us into the isolation of small German towns, and we feel at home in their sociability and narrowness, in their affection for things and customs of olden times, in their solidity and singularity, in all their local joys and sorrows. Among his many stories we may refer in this connection to:Der Dräumling(1872),Wunnigel(1878),The Horn of Wanza(1880).
Even in Germany Raabe became known only slowly. This was due to his quiet character that disdained all striving after effect, to the intentional mixture of various elements in his art which sometimes makes it difficult to grasp the purpose of a work as a whole, to his persistent pursuit of ends that lay outside the ruling interests of his time. When once his countrymen began to come to themselves again, however, he did not lack homage. And so it will probably continue to be. An age whose interests are centered largely in the external side of life will thinklittle of him and pass him by, while one whose gaze is directed rather within will take the pains to understand and appreciate him. May his image never be blotted out entirely! For he belongs to those who feel ever rising within them the question, "What shall it profit a man, if he shall gain the whole world, and lose his own soul?"
WILHELM RAABE
WILHELM RAABE
WILHELM RAABE
TRANSLATED AND ABRIDGED BY MURIEL ALMON
Itis of hunger that I am going to speak in this good book of mine: what it means, what it desires, what it is able to do. I cannot, to be sure, show how, for the world as a whole, hunger is both Shiva and Vishnu, destroyer and preserver in one; it is for history to show that; but I can describe how it works in the individual as destroyer and preserver, and will continue so to work till the end of the world.
To hunger, to the sacred power of genuine, true hunger, I dedicate these pages, and, indeed, they belong to it by rights, as will, I hope, be perfectly clear by the time we have reached the end. With this latter assurance I am relieved of the necessity of writing a further introduction which, after all, would contribute only in the slightest degree to the reader's comfort, emotion, and excitement; and will begin my story with unlimited good will toward my fellow men, past, present and future, as well as toward myself and all those shadow-figures that will pass before me in the course of this tale—reflexes of the great cycle of birth, being, and passing away, of the infinite growth that is called the evolution of the world—slightly more interesting and richer than this book, it is true, but, unlike this book, not obliged to come to a satisfactory conclusion in three parts.
"Here we have the boy at last! We have him at last—atlast!" cried the father of my hero, and drew a long breath of relief like a man who, after long, vain yearning, hard work, many troubles and cares, had finally reached his happy goal. He looked down with wise, shining eyes at the tiny, pitiable bit of humanity that the midwife had laid in his arms just as the evening bell had sounded. A tear stole over the man's haggard cheek and the sharp, pointed, wise fatherly nose sank ever lower and lower toward the insignificant, scarcely recognizable little nose of the new-born infant, till it suddenly rose up again with a jerk and turned with anxious inquiry toward the kind, capable woman who had contributed so much to his delight.
"Oh, Mrs. Tiebus—good Mrs. Tiebus, is it really a boy? Tell me again that you aren't mistaken—that it is really, really so!"
The midwife, who till now had watched the first tender greeting between father and son with self-assured, smiling nods of the head, now jerkedhernose into the air, dispelled all the spirits and sprites of good will and contentment which had fluttered about her, with an inimitable gesture of both arms, placed them akimbo, and, with scorn, contempt, and insulted self-respect, began to speak:
"Master Unwirrsch, you are a fool! Have your picture painted on the wall!... Is it one? Did ever anybody hear the like from such a sensible old man and the head of a house?... Is it one? Master Unwirrsch, next, I believe, you'll forget how to tell a boot from a shoe. This just shows what a cross it is when God's gift comes so late. Isn't that a boy that you've got there in your arms? Isn't that really a boy, a fine, proper boy? Lord, if the old creature didn't have the poor little thing in his arms I'd like to give him a good box on the ears for putting such a silly, meddlesome question! Not a boy? Indeed it is a boy, Father Pitch-thread—not one of the heaviest, to be sure; but still a boy, and a proper boy at that! And how shouldn't it be a boy? Isn't Bonnyparty, isn't Napoleum on his way again across the water and won't there be warand tussling between today and tomorrow, and don't we need boys, and isn't it exactly for that reason that in these strange times of ours more boys than girls come into the world, and aren't there three boys to one girl? and you come to me, to an experienced and sensible person like me, and ask such outrageous questions? Have your picture painted on the wall, Father Unwirrsch, and have written underneath it what I think of you. Here, give the boy to me, you don't deserve to have him bother with you—go along with you to your wife—perhaps you'll ask her too, if it's—a—boy!"
Ungently the infant was snatched from the arms of the despised, crushed father and, after getting his breath, Master Anton Unwirrsch hobbled into the bedroom of his wife, and the evening bells still rang. But we will not disturb either the father and mother or the bells—let them give full utterance to their feelings with no one to interfere.
Poor people and rich people have different ways of life in this world; but when the sun of happiness shines into their huts, houses, or palaces, it gilds with the very same gold the wooden bench and the velvet chair, the whitewashed wall and the gilt one, and more than one sly dog of a philosopher says he has noticed that as far as joy and sorrow are concerned the difference between rich and poor people is not nearly as great as both classes often, very often, extremely often think. Be that as it may; it is enough for us that laughter is not a monopoly nor weeping an obligation on this spherical, fire-filled ball with its flattened poles, onto which we find our way without desiring it, and from which, without desiring it, we depart, after the interval between our coming and going has been made bitter enough for us.
The sun now shone into the house of poor people. Happiness, smiling, stooped to enter the low doorway, both her open hands extended in greeting. There was great joy over the birth of the son on the part of the parents, the shoemaker Unwirrsch and his wife, who had waited forhim so long that they were almost on the point of giving up hope altogether.
And now he had come after all, come an hour before work ceased for the day! All Kröppel Street already knew of the event, and the glad tidings had even reached Master Nikolaus Grünebaum, the brother of the woman who had just given birth to the child, though he lived almost at the opposite end of the town. A grinning shoemaker's apprentice, carrying his slippers under his arm so as to be able to run quicker, bore the news there and shouted it breathlessly into Master Grünebaum's less deaf ear with the result that for five minutes the good man looked much stupider than he really was. But now he was already on his way to Kröppel Street, and as he, a citizen, householder and resident master of his trade, could not take his slippers under his arm, the consequence was that one of them deserted him faithlessly at a street corner, to begin life with nothing to depend on but its own hands, or rather its own sole.
When Uncle Grünebaum arrived at his brother-in-law's house he found so many good women of the neighborhood there, giving advice and expressing their opinions, that, in his lamentable capacity of old bachelor and pronounced woman-hater, he could but appear highly superfluous to himself. And he did see himself in this light and would almost have turned back if the thought of his brother-in-law and fellow-craftsman, left miserably alone in the midst of all this "racket" had not enabled him to master his feelings after all. Growling and grunting he pushed his way through the womenfolk and at last did find his brother-in-law in a not very enviable nor brilliant position and attitude.
The poor man had been pushed completely aside. Mrs. Tiebus had taken measures to exclude him from his wife's room; in the living room among the neighbors he was also entirely superfluous; Master Grünebaum finally discovered him sitting in a miserable heap on a stool in the cornerwhere only the cat that was rubbing against his legs showed any sympathy for him. But his eyes were still shining with that radiance that seemed to come from another world; Master Unwirrsch heard nothing of the women's whispering and chattering, saw nothing of the confusion that reigned among them, nor did he see his brother-in-law till the latter seized him by the shoulder and, not very gently, shook him back to consciousness.
"Give a sign that you're still in the land of the living, Anton!" growled Master Grünebaum. "Be a man, and drive the womenfolk out, all of them except—except Auntie Schlotterbeck there. For although the devil takes them one and all, odd and even, still she is the only one among them that lets a man get in a word at least once an hour. Won't you? Can't you? Don't you dare to? Well, then catch hold of my coat behind till I get you out of this tumult in safety; come upstairs and let things go on as they will down here. So the boy is here? Well, praise be to God, I began to think we'd waited in vain again."
The two fellow-craftsmen pushed their way sideways through the women, got out into the passage with difficulty, and mounted the narrow creaking stairs that led to the upper story of the house. There Auntie Schlotterbeck had rented a small living room, bedroom and kitchen, which left only one room at the disposal of the Unwirrsch family, and that was stuffed so full of all kinds of articles that scarcely enough space remained for the two worthy guild-brothers to squat down and exchange the innermost thoughts of their souls. Boxes and chests, bunches of herbs, ears of corn, bundles of leather, strings of onions, hams, sausages, endless odds and ends had here been hung, or flung, stuffed or stuck below, above, before, beside and among one another with a skill that approached genius, and it was no wonder that Brother-in-law Grünebaum lost his second slipper there.
But through both the low windows the last rays of the sun shone into the room; the comrades were safe fromMrs. Tiebus and the neighbors.... They sat down opposite each other on two boxes and shook hands for five well-counted minutes.
"Congratulations, Anton!" said Nikolaus Grünebaum.
"I thank you, Nikolaus!" said Anton Unwirrsch.
"Hooray, he is here! Hooray, long may he live! And again, hoo—" shouted Master Grünebaum with the full power of his lungs, but broke off when his brother-in-law held his hand over his mouth.
"Not so loud, for mercy's sake, not so loud, Nik'las. The wife is right underneath us here and has trouble enough as it is with all those women."
The new-made uncle let his fist fall on his knee:
"You're right, Brother; the devil take them, one and all, odd and even. But now let her go, old man, and tell us how you feel. Not a bit the way you usually do? Oh ho! And how does the little tadpole look? Everything in the right place? Nose, mouth, arms, legs? Nothing wrong anywhere? Everything in order: straps and legs, upper, vamp, heel and sole? Well pitched, nailed, and neatly polished?"
"Everything as it should be, Brother," cried the happy father, rubbing his hands. "A prize boy! May God bless us in him! Oh, Nik'las, I wanted to say a thousand things to you, but I choke too much in my throat; everything about me goes round——"
"Let it go as it will; when the cat is thrown down from the roof she has to take time to collect herself," said Master Grünebaum. "The wife is doing well, I suppose?"
"Yes, thank God. She behaved like a heroine; an empress couldn't have done better."
"She is a Grünebaum," said Nikolaus with pride, "and in case of necessity the Grünebaums can clench their teeth. What name are you going to have the boy called by, Anton?"
The father of the new-born child passed his lean handover his high, furrowed forehead and stared out of the window into space for a few moments. Then he said:
"He shall be christened after three fellow-craftsmen. He shall be called Johannes like the poet in Nuremberg, and Jakob like the highly honored philosopher of Goerlitz, and the two names shall be to him as two wings on which to rise from the earth to the blue sky and take his share of light. But as a third name I will give him Nikolaus so that he may always know that he has a true friend and protector on earth, one to whom he can turn when I am no longer here."
"I call that a sentence with a head full of sense and reason, and a clumsy, ridiculous tail. Give him the names and it will be an honor for all three of us, but keep away from me with those old foolish notions of death. You're not fat, to be sure, and you couldn't exactly knock an ox down with your bare fist either; but you can draw the pitch-thread through the leather for many a long year yet, you ruminating bookworm."
Master Unwirrsch shook his head and changed the subject, and the two brothers-in-law discussed this and that with each other till it had grown perfectly dark in the storeroom.
Somebody knocked at the door, and Master Grünebaum called:
"Who is there? No womenfolk will be admitted."
"It's I," called a voice outside.
"Who?"
"I!"
"It's Auntie Schlotterbeck," said Unwirrsch. "Push the bolt back; we've sat up here long enough; perhaps I may see the wife again now."
His brother-in-law obeyed, growling, and the light from Auntie Schlotterbeck's lamp shone into the room.
"Here they are, really. Well, come along, you heroes; the women have gone. Creep out. Your wife, Master Unwirrsch? Yes, she is well taken care of; she is sleepingand you mustn't disturb her; but I've a piece of news that you shall hear and thank God. At the house of the Jew, Freudenstein, across the street, the same thing happened today as in this house; but it wasn't quite the same. The child is alive—a boy, too, but Blümchen Freudenstein is dead, and there is great lamentation over there. Praise the Lord, Master Unwirrsch; and you, Master Grünebaum, go home. Come, come, Unwirrsch, don't stand there so dumbfounded; death enters, or passes by, according to God's command. I feel as if I'd been broken on the wheel, and am going to bed. Good night to you both."
Auntie Schlotterbeck disappeared behind her door, the two masters stole downstairs on tiptoe, and in the public-house which he frequented regularly, Uncle Grünebaum had far less to say that evening about politics, municipal and other affairs than usual. Master Unwirrsch lay all night without closing his eyes; the infant screamed mightily, and it was no wonder that these unaccustomed tones kept the father awake and stirred up a whirling throng of hopes and cares and drove it in a wild chase through his heart and head.
It is not easy to produce a good sermon; but neither is it easy to make a good boot. Skill, much skill is necessary to do either, and bunglers and botchers had better keep their hands off, if they have any regard for their fellow-men's welfare. I, for my part, have an uncommon partiality for shoemakers, in their totality when they march in holiday parades as well as for the individuals. As the people say, they are a "ruminating tribe," and no other trade produces such excellent and odd peculiarities in the members of its guild. The low work-table, the low stool, the glass globe filled with water which catches the light of the little oil lamp and reflects it with greater brilliance, the pungent odor of leather and of pitch must naturally exert a lasting effect on human nature, and that is just what they do, and powerfully too. What curious originals this admirable trade has produced! A whole library couldbe written about "remarkable shoemakers" without the materials being in the least exhausted! The light which falls through the hanging glass globe onto the work-table is the realm of fantastic spirits; during the meditative work it fills the imagination with strange figures and pictures and gives to thought a tinge that no other lamp, patented or unpatented, can lend it. It makes one think of all sorts of rhymes, queer legends, marvelous tales and merry and sad events of the world which, when they have once been put on paper by an unpractised hand, amaze the neighbors; at which the shoemaker's wife laughs or is afraid when her husband hums them in a low voice in the dusk. Or, perhaps, we begin to ponder still deeper, we feel the necessity of "unraveling life's beginning." Deeper and deeper we look into the glowing globe, and in the glass we see the universe in all its forms and natures: we pass freely through the portals of all the heavens and know them with all their stars and elements; intuitive perception opens our minds to sublime visions and we write them down while Pastor Richter, head clergyman of the parish, stirs up the mob against us from the pulpit and the constable of Goerlitz, who is to fetch us to prison, stands before the door.
"For this is eternity's right and eternal existence, that it has onlyonewill. If it had two one would break the other and there would be strife. It is indeed great in strength and miraculousness; but its life is but love alone, from which light and majesty emanate. All creatures in Heaven haveonewill, and that is directed to God's own heart and lives in God's own spirit, in the centre of multiplicity, in growing and blooming; but God's spirit is life in all things,Centrum Naturægives being, majesty and power, and the Holy Ghost is the leader."
Whoever has anything against shoemakers and does not know how to appreciate their excellence individually and generally, let him keep away from me. Whoever goes so far as to turn up his nose at them contemptuously becauseof their often curious appearance, their crooked legs, their hard, black paws, their crazy noses, their unkempt tufts of hair, is no good to me; if he is lost I shall offer no reward for his return. I treasure and love shoemakers, and above them all I value the worthy Master Anton Unwirrsch, the father of Hans Jakob Nikolaus Unwirrsch. Alas, it was not long after those vesper bells had given greeting to his first and only born that the evening bells of his own day on earth began to ring. Yet there are so many threads of his life that run on into his son's that we cannot omit a description of his personality and being. Physically, as we already know, he stood not very firmly on his feet, but mentally he was straight and strong enough and could cope with many a man who thought himself far superior. All the relics of his hidden life show that he did his utmost to make up for the defects of a neglected education, that he had a thirst for knowledge—a very keen thirst. And even though he never learnt to spell quite correctly he yet possessed a poetic soul, like his celebrated fellow-craftsman from the "Mouse-trap" in Nuremberg, and read as much as he possibly could. Moreover, what he read he usually understood too; and if in some things he did not find the meaning that the author had intended, he got another meaning out of it or read it into it which belonged entirely to him alone and with which the author might very often be well content. Although he loved his trade and did not neglect it in any way it was no gold mine to him, and he remained a poor man. Golden dreams, however, his occupation did bring him, and all occupations that can do that are good and make those who practise them happy. Anton Unwirrsch saw the world from his cobbler's stool almost exactly as Hans Sachs had once seen it, but he did not become so famous. He left a little book in close, fine handwriting which his widow first kept like a sacred relic in the depths of her chest, together with her hymn book, bridal wreath and a little black box of which we shall hear more later on. As she would have asacred relic, the mother delivered the little book over to her son and he gave it the place of honor in his library between the Bible and Shakespeare, although in poetry and content it ranks a little below these two.
Auntie Schlotterbeck and Master Grünebaum had a vague suspicion of the existence of this manuscript, but only the poet's wife had definite knowledge of it. To her it was the most marvelous thing that could be imagined. For did it not rhyme "like the hymn book," and had not her husband written it? That was far beyond anything that the neighborhood could bring to light.
To the son these leaves, sewed together, were a dear legacy and a touching sign that even among the lowly there is an eternal striving upward out of the depths and darkness to the heights, to the light, to beauty.
The harmless, formless outpourings of shoemaker Unwirrsch's soul were naturally devoted to the phenomena of nature, to the home, his handicraft, and certain great facts of history, chiefly the deeds and heroes of the War of Liberation which had just thundered by. They testified to thought that, in all these directions, was sometimes charmingly simple-hearted, sometimes lofty. There was a little humor mixed up in it, but it was the pathetic that was most prominent and, indeed, most often brought forth the familiar smile. The worthy Master Anton had experienced so much thunder and lightning, so many hailstorms, fires and floods, had seen so many Frenchmen, Rhenish Confederates, Prussians, Austrians and Russians marching past his house that it was no wonder if now and then he, too, tried his hand a little at lightning and thunder and smiting dead. This did not cause any enmity between him and his neighbors, for he remained what he was, a "good fellow," and when he died he was mourned not alone by his wife, his brother-in-law Grünebaum and Auntie Schlotterbeck; no, all Kröppel Street knew and said that a good man had passed away and that it was a pity.
He had waited long and yearningly for the birth of ason. He often pictured to himself what he could and would make of him. He transferred all his earnest striving for knowledge to him; the son should and must attain to what his father could not. The thousand insurmountable obstacles which life had thrown in the way of Master Anton should not halt the career of the future Unwirrsch. He should find his course clear, and no door of wisdom or of education should be closed to him by life's labors and hardships.
Thus did Anton dream, and one year after another of his married life passed. A daughter was born, but she died soon after; and then for a long time there came nothing, and then—then at last came Johannes Jakob Nikolaus Unwirrsch, whose entrance into the world has already given us the material for a number of the foregoing pages and whose later sufferings, joys, adventures, and travels—in short, whose destinies will form the greater part of this book.
We saw the brother-in-law and uncle, Grünebaum, lose his slipper, we saw and heard the tumult of the women, made the acquaintance of Mrs. Tiebus and Auntie Schlotterbeck;—we saw, finally, the two brothers-in-law sitting in the storeroom and saw the dusk creeping in after the eventful sunset. Master Anton lived one more year after the birth of his son and then died of pneumonia. Fate treated him as she does many another: she gave him his share of joy in his hopes, and refused him their fulfillment, which, indeed, never can catch up with fleet-winged hope itself.
Johannes screamed lustily in the hour of his father's death, but not for his father. But Mrs. Christine cried much for her husband and for a long time could not be quieted either by Auntie Schlotterbeck's words of consolation or by the philosophic admonitions of the wise Master Nikolaus Grünebaum. The latter promised his dying brother-in-law to do his best for those who were left and to stand by them in all the crises of life according to hisbest ability. Once more Anton Unwirrsch struggled for air, but the air for him was too full of flames of fire; he sighed and died. The doctor wrote his death certificate; Mrs. Kiebike, the layer-out, came and washed him, his coffin was ready at the right time, a goodly train of neighbors and friends accompanied him to the churchyard, and in the corner, beside the stove, sat Mrs. Christine, who held her child on her lap and gazed with fixed, red and swollen eyes at the low black work-stool and the low black work-table and who still could not believe that her Anton would never again sit on the one and in front of the other. Auntie Schlotterbeck cleared away the empty cake plates, bottles and glasses which had been placed, full, before the mourners, the pall-bearers and the condoling neighbors to give them strength in their sorrow. Hans Jakob Nikolaus Unwirrsch crowed with childish joy and stretched out his tiny hands longingly toward the shining glass globe above his father's table, on which the sun now fell and which had shed such a remarkable lustre on Anton Unwirrsch's world of thought. The influence of this globe was long to continue. The mother had become so accustomed to its light that she could not dispense with it even after her husband's death; it shone on far into the son's youth, Johannes heard many a tale of his father's worth and excellence by its light, and gradually in the son's mind the image of his father was joined inseparably to the brilliance of this globe.
The ancients thought that it was to be considered a great piece of good fortune if the gods allowed a man to be born in a famous town. But as this good fortune has not fallen to the share of many famous men, such towns as Bethlehem, Eisleben, Stratford, Kamenz, Marbach, not having formerly been particularly brilliant spots in the minds of men, it probably makes little difference to HansUnwirrsch that he first saw the light of the world in a little town called Neustadt. There are not a few towns and townlets of the same name, but they have not quarreled with one another for the honor of counting our hero among their citizens. Johannes Jakob Nikolaus Unwirrsch did not make his birthplace more famous in the world.
In the year 1819 the place had ten thousand inhabitants; today it has a hundred and fifty more. It lay and lies in a wide valley, surrounded by hills and mountains from which forests extend down to the town limits. In spite of its name it is no longer new; with difficulty it has maintained its existence through wild centuries, and now enjoys a quiet, sleepy old age. It has gradually given up the hope of ever attaining to bigger things and does not feel less comfortable on that account. However, in the little State to which it belongs it is after all a factor, and the government is considerate of it. The sound of its church-bells made a pleasant impression on the wayfarer, as he came out of the woods on the nearest height; and when the sun just happened to shine in the windows of the two churches and of the houses the same wayfarer seldom thought that all is not gold that glitters and that the sound of bells, fertile fields, green meadows and a pretty little town in the valley are far from being enough to produce an idyl. Amyntas, Palaemon, Daphnis, Doris and Chloe were often able to make life down in the valley very unpleasant for one another. But lads courted and lasses consented and, taken all in all, they went through life quite comfortably, to which the fact that the necessaries of life were not unattainably dear, probably contributed. The devil take dear old Gessner with all his rustic idyls when fruit and must don't turn out well and milk and honey are rare in Arcadia!
But we shall have occasion again here and there to drop a few words about all this, and if not it is of no consequence. For the present we must turn back to the youngArcadian Hans Unwirrsch and see in what way he makes himself at home in life.
The shoemaker's widow was truly an uneducated woman. She could scarcely read and write, her philosophic education had been entirely neglected, she cried easily and willingly. Born in darkness, she remained in darkness, nursed her child, stood him on his feet, taught him to walk; put him on his feet for life and taught him to walk firmly for the rest of his life. That deserves great credit and the most educated mother cannot do more for her child.
In a low dark room, into which little fresh air and still less sun penetrated, Hans awakened to consciousness, and in one respect this was good; later he was not too much afraid of the caverns in which far the greater part of humanity that participates in the blessings of civilization, must spend its life. Throughout his life he took light and air for what they are, articles of luxury which fortune gives or refuses and which she seems better pleased to refuse than to give.
The living room which looked out on the street and which had also been Master Anton's workshop was kept unchanged in its former condition. With anxious care his widow watched over it to see that none of her blessed husband's tools was moved from its place. Uncle Grünebaum had indeed wanted to buy all the superfluous stock in trade for a very fair price, but Mrs. Christine could not make up her mind to part with any of it. In all her leisure hours she sat in her usual place beside the low cobbler's table and in the evening, as we know, she could knit or sew or spell out the words in her large hymn-book only by the light of the glass-globe.
The poor woman was now obliged to toil miserably in order to provide an honest living for herself and her child; in the little bedroom, the windows of which looked out on the yard, she lay awake many a night, worrying, while Hans Unwirrsch in his father's big bedstead dreamt of the large slices of bread and butter and the rolls enjoyedby happier neighbors' children. Wise Master Grünebaum did what he could for his relatives; but his trade did not yield to him such blessings as one might expect from copy-book maxims; he was much too fond of making much too long speeches at the "Red Ram" and his customers preferred to trust him with the cure of a pair of sick shoes rather than to order a new pair from him. He had hard work to keep his own head above water;—but he was not backward with advice, which he gave willingly and in large quantities and we regret to have to add that, as is not seldom the case, the quantity usually did not stand at all in the proper relation to the quality. Auntie Schlotterbeck, although far from being as wise as Master Grünebaum, was more practical and it was on her advice that Mrs. Christine became a washerwoman, who rose in the morning between two and three o'clock and in the evening at eight, dead tired and aching all over, came home to satisfy the first, the physical, hunger of her child and to translate his dreams into reality.
Hans Unwirrsch retained dark, vague, curious memories of this period in his life and later told his nearest friends about them. From his earliest childhood he slept lightly and so he was often wakened by the glimmer of the sulphur match with which his mother lit her lamp in the cold dark winter night, in order to get ready for her early walk to work. He lay warm among his pillows and did not move until his mother bent over him to see whether the click-clack of her slippers had not wakened the little sleeper. Then he twined his arms about her neck and laughed, received a kiss and the admonition to go to sleep again quick, as it wouldn't be day for a long time yet. He followed this advice either at once, or not until later. In the latter case he watched the burning lamp, his mother and the shadows on the wall through half-closed eyelids.
Curiously enough nearly all these early memories were of winter time. There was a ring of vapor round the flame of the lamp and the breath was drawn in a cloud toward thelight; the frozen window-panes shimmered, it was bitterly cold, and with the comfort of his warm safe bed there was mixed for the little watcher the dread of the bitter cold from which he had to hide his little nose under the cover.
He could not understand why his mother got up so early while it was so dark and cold and while such mad black shadows passed by on the wall, nodded, straightened themselves up and bent down. His ideas of the places where his mother went were still less clearly defined; according to the mood in which he happened to be he imagined these places to be more or less pleasant and with his imaginings were mixed all sorts of details out of fairy-tales and fragments of conversation that he had heard from grown people and which, in these vague moments between sleeping and waking, took on more and more variegated colors and mixed with one another.
At last his mother had finished dressing and bent once more over the child's bed. Once more he received a kiss, all kinds of good admonitions and tempting promises so that he should lie still, should not cry, should go to sleep again soon. To these were added the assurance that morning and Auntie Schlotterbeck would come soon; the lamp was blown out, the room sank back into the deepest darkness, the door squeaked, his mother's steps grew fainter;—sleep took possession of him again quickly and when he woke the second time Auntie Schlotterbeck was generally sitting by his bed and the fire was crackling in the stove in the next room.
Although she was not older than Mrs. Christine Unwirrsch, Auntie Schlotterbeck had always been Auntie Schlotterbeck. No one in Kröppel Street knew her by any other name and she was as well known in Kröppel Street as "Old Fritz," emperor "Napoleum" and old Blücher, although she bore no other resemblance to these three famous heroes than that she took snuff like the great Prussian king, and had an aquiline nose like the "Corsicanravager." As to any resemblance to Marshal "Forward!" that would indeed have been difficult to find.
Auntie Schlotterbeck had formerly also been a washerwoman but she had long since been mustered out and managed to make a wretched living by spinning, knitting stockings and similar work. The city magistrates had granted her a scanty sum as poor-relief, and Master Anton, whose very distant relative she was, had, out of kindness, let her have the little room which she occupied in his house, for a very low price. In reality she would deserve to have a whole chapter in this book devoted to her, for she had a gift which not everybody can claim; to her those who had died had not passed away from the earth, she saw them walking through the streets, she met them in the marketplaces looking like living persons and unexpectedly ran into them at the street corners. There was not the slightest tinge of uncanniness connected with this to her; she spoke of it as of something perfectly natural, usual, and there was absolutely no difference to her between the mayor Eckerlein who had died in the year 1769 and who passed her in front of the "Lion" pharmacy in his wig and red velvet coat, and his grandchild to whom in 1820 this same "Lion" pharmacy belonged and who was just looking out of the window without being able to take any notice of his august grandfather.
At last even Auntie Schlotterbeck's acquaintances ceased to regard her gift with any feeling of "creepiness." The incredulous ones stopped smiling at it and the credulous—of whom there were a good number—no longer blessed themselves and clapped their hands together over their heads. This high distinction had no detrimental influence on the character of the good little woman herself. Auntie Schlotterbeck took no undue pride in her strange gift of sight; she looked upon it as an undeserved favor from God and remained humbler than many other people who did not see nearly as much as the elderly spinster in Kröppel Street.
As regards appearance, Auntie Schlotterbeck was of medium height but she stooped very much when she walked and poked her head forward. Her clothes hung on her like things that were not in their right place, and her nose, as we have already heard, was very sharp and very hooked. This nose would have made a disagreeable impression if it had not been for her eyes. They made up for all the sins her nose committed. They were remarkable eyes and, as we know, saw remarkable things too. They remained clear and bright even when she was very, very old,—young, blue eyes in an old, old dried-up face. Hans Unwirrsch never forgot them although later he looked into eyes much more beautiful still.
In a naïve way Auntie Schlotterbeck was devoted to learning. She had tremendous respect for scholarship and especially for theological learning; little Hans owed her his first introduction to all those branches of learning which he later mastered more or less. She could have told fairy-tales to the Grimm brothers and when the wicked queen drove the golden needle into her hated stepdaughter's head Hans Unwirrsch felt the point way down to his diaphragm.
Hans and Auntie Schlotterbeck were inseparable companions during the first years of the boy's life. From early in the morning till late in the evening the seer of spirits had to fill his mother's place; nothing that concerned him was done without her advice and assistance; she satisfied his hunger for many things, but it was through her that he learnt to know hunger for many other things. Uncle Grünebaum growled often enough when he came to visit them; nothing good could come of such companionship with women, he said, the devil take them, one and all, odd and even; crochets, whimseys and spirit-imaginings were of no use to any man and only made him an addle-pate and a muddlehead. "It's nonsense! That's what I say and I'll stick to it."
In answer to such attacks Auntie Schlotterbeck merelyshrugged her shoulders and Hans crept closer to her side. Growling, as he had come, Uncle Grünebaum departed;—he considered himself exceedingly practical and clear-headed and snorted contempt through his nose without stopping to think that even the best pipe stem may become clogged.
Hans Unwirrsch was a precocious child and learnt to speak almost before he learnt to walk; reading came as easily to him as playing. Auntie Schlotterbeck understood the difficult art well and only stumbled over words that were all too long or all too foreign. She liked to read aloud and with a whining pathos which made the greatest impression on the child. Her library was composed mainly of the Bible, hymn book and a long series of popular almanacs which followed one another without a break from the year 1790 and each of which contained a touching, a comic or a thrilling story besides a treasury of home and secret remedies and a fine selection of humorous anecdotes. For the lively imagination of a child an infinitely rich world was hidden in these old numbers, and spirits of all sorts rose out of them, smiled and laughed, grinned, threatened and led the young soul alternately through thrills of awe and ecstasies. When the rain pelted against the panes, when the sun shone into the room, when thunderstorms reached across the roofs with black arms of cloud and hurled their red flashes above the town, when the thunder rolled and the hail pattered and bounded on the street pavement, in some way all these things came to be connected with the figures and scenes in the almanacs and the heroes and heroines of the stories strode through good and bad weather, perfectly clear, plain and distinct, past dreamy little Hans who had laid his head in the old spirit-seer's lap. The story of "good little Jasper and pretty little Annie" struck a chord in his heart which continued to ring through Hans' whole life; but the "book of books," the Bible, made a still greater impression on the boy. The simple grandeur of the first chapters of Genesis cannot but overwhelm children as well as grown people,the poor in spirit as well as the millionaires of intellect. Infinitely credible are these stories of the beginnings of things and credible they remain even though every day it is more clearly proven that the world was not created in seven days. At Auntie Schlotterbeck's feet Hans lost himself with shuddering delight in the dark abyss of chaos: and the earth was without form and void;—till God divided the light from the darkness and the waters which were under the firmament from the waters which were above the firmament. When sun, moon and stars began their dance and God let them be for signs and for seasons and for days and years, then he breathed freely again; and when the earth brought forth grass and herb and the tree yielding fruit, when the water, the air and the earth brought forth abundantly the moving creature that hath life and every winged fowl after his kind, then he clapped his little hands and felt that he stood on firm ground once more. The manner in which God breathed the breath of life into Adam was perfectly clear to him and of incontrovertible truth, whereas the first critical doubt arose in the child's mind when the woman was created out of the man's rib, for "that must hurt."
But following the simple stories of Paradise, of Cain and Abel, of the flood, came the numbering of the tribes with the long difficult names. These names were real bushes of thorns for reader and listener; they were pitfalls into which they pitched heels over head, they were stones over which they stumbled and fell on their noses. Ever again they untangled themselves, rose to their feet and toiled on with reverential solemnity: but the sons of Gomer are these: Ashkenez, Riphath and Togarmah; and the sons of Javan are: Elishah, Tarshish, Kittim and Dodanim.
But the days did not pass entirely in reading and telling stories. Just as soon as Hans Unwirrsch ceased throwing his hands about in half involuntary movements or stuffing them into his mouth, his mother and Auntie Schlotterbeck introduced him to the great principle of work. AuntieSchlotterbeck was an ingenious woman who earned a little extra money by dressing dolls for a large toy factory, an occupation which lay near enough to a child's sphere of interest and in which, before long, Hans gladly assisted. Ladies and gentlemen, peasant lads and lasses, shepherds and shepherdesses and many other merry little men and women of all classes and ages took form under the hands of Auntie Schlotterbeck, who worked bravely with glue and needle, pieces of bright-colored fabrics, gold and silver tinsel, and gave to each his share of these according to the price. It was a philosophic occupation and the worker might indulge in many thoughts while engaged in it; Hans Unwirrsch took to it kindly even though his childish joy in these toys naturally soon disappeared. He who grows up in a shop full of jumping-jacks cares little for the individual jumping-jack however motley may be his garb and however funnily he may jerk his arms and legs.
After Martinmas, which famous day could unfortunately not be celebrated by the consumption of a roast goose, manufacturing began as an independent undertaking. Auntie Schlotterbeck was now able to make the greatest profit out of her talent for plastic art; she built little men of raisins for the Christmas trade and others of prunes for more easily satisfied souls. The first prune-man that Hans completed without assistance gave him just as much pleasure as the disciple of art takes in the piece of work that wins for him a stipend with which to go to Italy. The opening of the Christmas-fair was a great event for the little modeler. Epic poets describe many feelings by explaining why they cannot describe them; Hans' feelings on this occasion were of that kind, and with rapture he carried the lantern ahead while, on a little cart, Auntie Schlotterbeck dragged her bench, her basket, her fire-pan and a little table to the fair.
The opening of the business, in an angle of the buildings that was sheltered from the keenest wind, was in itself a marvelous event. To crouch down under the big old umbrella, to fan the glowing coals in the fire-pan by blowing on them, to arrange the articles of trade on the table, the first quiet and yet expectant glance at the bustle of the fair—all these things had a heart-thrilling charm. The first prune-man that was bargained about, sold and bought, raised a genuine storm of ecstacy in the breast of Schlotterbeck & Company. Dinner, which a good-natured child from Kröppel Street brought in an earthenware pot, tasted entirely different out on the open market-place from what it did at home in the dark room; but best of all was the evening with its fog, its gleaming lights and lamps, and its redoubled crowding and pushing and shouting and bustling.
The child could not always sit quietly on the bench beside the old woman. Spellbound, in spite of cold, in spite of rain and snow, he went on expeditions over the whole market-place and, as a partner in the firm of Schlotterbeck & Company, he pushed his chin onto the table of every other firm, with self-assurance and critical attitude.
At eight o'clock his mother came and took the younger partner of the firm of Schlotterbeck home; but this was not done without opposition, crying and struggling, and only the assurance that "there would be another day tomorrow," could, at last, persuade the tiny merchant prince to leave the business to the care of Auntie till the hour of closing at eleven o'clock.
One thing that belongs to this period of our hero's life must be reported. With the money gained by the sale of a raisin-man that he had made himself, he bought—another raisin-man from a commercial house which had established itself at the opposite end of the market. This bore witness to a quality which was of great importance in the boy's future development. Hans Unwirrsch, who made these black fellows for others, wanted to know where the pleasure lay in buying such a fellow oneself. He wanted to get to the bottom of this pleasure and naturally found no joy in this much too early analysing. When the pennies had been swept into the drawer by the seller and the purchaser heldthe creature in his hand, the full measure of regret took possession of him. Crying loudly he stood in the middle of the street and finally threw his purchase far away from him and ran off as fast as he could, swallowing the bitterest tears as he went. Neither Auntie nor his mother ever found out where the groschen, for which one could have bought up the whole fair, had gone.
Winter brings many joys, but with it come also the greatest hardships. We have to do with very poor people and poor people usually don't begin to live again till spring and the may-beetles come. Hundreds of thousands, millions of people might well envy those happy creatures that sleep through the cold days in comfortable unconsciousness.
After Christmas Eve, which was kept as well as it could be, came New Year's Day and after that the Three Wise Men of the East approached. The shades of many of those who were dead passed Auntie Schlotterbeck in the streets at this time, or entered the church with her and walked round the altar. After Candlemas some people said that the days were growing longer but it wasn't very noticeable yet. By the time the Annunciation came, however, the fact could no longer be denied; the snowdrops had dared to come out, the snow could no longer keep the world buried, the buds swelled and burst open, Auntie Schlotterbeck's nose lost much of its redness; when Hans' mother got up early in the morning now the lamp no longer shone through a frosty circle of vapor. Hans Unwirrsch no longer yelled blue murder in front of the wash basin, and his feet did not now have to be forced into his shoes. The means of keeping warm was no longer carted into town by loutish wood-cutters and sold at a "wicked price." The days now arrived when the sun shone for nothing and did not even ask a word of thanks. Palm Sunday came before anyone realized it and Easter started the weaving of the wreath which the festival of joy, the verdant, blooming, jubilant Whitsuntide pressed on the young year's brow. AuntieSchlotterbeck now did her knitting on the bench in front of the door, and earnestly and shyly Hans Unwirrsch watched Freudenstein, the junk-dealer across the street, as he pushed his little Moses, a delicate, thin, miserable little piece of humanity, well packed up in cushions and covers, out into the sun on a wheelchair.
[The boy, Hans Unwirrsch, was much admired and spoilt by his mother and Auntie Schlotterbeck and it was a good thing for him when he grew to be of school age. He was sent to the charity school. It stood in a dark, blind alley and was a damp, one-story building in which the teacher, Karl Silberlöffel, had to fight equally against gout and tuberculosis and against the rude boys and girls he taught. Hans was no better than his school-fellows. Just as at home he gradually sought to free himself from the absolute dominion of the women and began to criticize fairy tales and almanac stories, so too at school he joined his comrades with word and deed in all their mischievous enterprises against the helpless old master.
Here, however, Uncle Grünebaum's beneficial influence stepped in. Hans often visited his uncle in the latter's untidy workshop where he only did enough work to earn a scanty living for himself and his birds and to pay for thePost Courierwhich provided him with political reading. It was particularly interesting just at that time because the Greek struggle for independence against the Turks was raging and our cobbler, like Auntie Schlotterbeck, was an enthusiastic Philhellenist. He called Hans to account and tried to make it clear to him that he and his school-fellows would drive their consumptive master into his grave by their behavior and that it was no laughing matter to have a murder on one's conscience. He advised Hans to be careful that the devil did not take him, together with the other rogues, because of his conduct.
Such conversation had its effect. Hans did not take part in the next conspiracy, and did not regret the pummeling he received from the other boys on that account, for the next morning the teacher did not appear at school in consequence of a hemorrhage. Not long after he died. Uncle Grünebaum and Auntie Schlotterbeck were kind to him during his last illness, and Hans with Auntie Schlotterbeck stood beside the bed of the dying man. The exhausted man spoke of the bitterness of his life, but Auntie Schlotterbeck understood little and Hans nothing of what he said. He talked of how he had been hungry for love and thirsty for knowledge and of how everything else had been as nothing; of how he had lived in the shade and yet had been born for the light; of how shining, golden fruit had fallen all around him, while his hands were bound. Nothing had fallen to his share but his yearning, and that too was coming to an end. He would be satisfied—in death.
Much as Hans had felt the solemn shudder of death, on the day after the funeral, which had been attended by the whole charity school, he was already playing again merrily in the street. Snow had fallen in the night and a mighty snowman was built in Kröppel Street. When he was finished and the boys were playing together, Moses Freudenstein, the junk-dealer's son, happened to get into the crowd. They formed a ring about him and made him hold out his hand to each in turn and every young Christian spit into it with a shout of scorn. Up to that hour Hans had howled with the wolves in such things too, but now it flashed through him in an instant that something very low and cowardly was being done. He did not spit into Moses' hand, but struck it away and, turning protector, started to do battle for the Jewish boy. A fearful fight ensued, the end of which was that Hans and Moses, dizzy, bruised, with bleeding mouths and swollen eyes, rolled down into the shop of the junk-dealer, Samuel Freudenstein. This hour had an incalculable influence on Hans Unwirrsch's life, for he rolled out of the street battleinto relations which were to be infinitely important for him.
Samuel Freudenstein had seen more of the world than all the other Neustädians together. After extensive commercial journeys, especially in Southeastern Europe, he had settled in Neustadt and begun to trade in second-hand goods and junk, as heavy losses in a speculation prevented his embarking on a greater enterprise. He got on, and married, but his wife died at the birth of their son in 1819, on the very day when Hans Unwirrsch, too, was born. Samuel Freudenstein brought up his son in his own way, which in many respects differed widely from the curriculum of the charity school.
Samuel thanked Hans for the protection he had given Moses, and Hans' mother and Uncle Grünebaum allowed him to continue his visits to the Jew's house. Hans now discovered so many wonders in the gloom of the junkshop that for the first time his life seemed to be filled with real substance. At the same time he mounted a rung higher on the ladder of knowledge by entering the lowest class of the grammar school. On this occasion Uncle Grünebaum did not fail to make one of his finest and longest speeches and to present Hans with his first pair of high boots.
Now, too, for the first time Hans entered into a more intimate relation with the other sex. He found his first love, Sophie, the daughter of an apple-woman. With her cat, Sophie sat in her mother's booth opposite the school, sold her fruit with seriousness and had difficulty, on her way home, in defending herself and her cat from the rough schoolboys. Hans lent her his protection and he and Moses kept up a friendly intercourse with her through the spring and summer. But in the course of the winter one of the diseases of childhood carried her off, and her companion, the cat, did not long outlive her. The death of little Sophie and the cat made a deep impression on Hans. He did not become friends with any other girl at present; but fromnow on the second-hand shop gained an ever greater influence over him.