No More Learning

Mat re-
turned with his arms full of clothes for Argus, and asked her if
she would be good enough to step out with Virginia, and go to
bed. There wasn't any use in praying now, for they were back.
Not one of them thought of the unhappy crew, all lost except
one who lay before them.
“That 'ere Virginia,” said Mat, when she and Roxalana had
gone, and he was watching the man's eyelids, “is as mealy a gal
as I ever saw in my life. She's cool, and smooth, and soft. She
beat Moll in rubbing. Hullo! his eyes are open.
Look here,
Spaniard, you belong to us. Drink this, my lad, and let me
hold you up. So - all right, young un. Shut up, Gates: you are
drunk, and have reason to be. I reckon you are black and blue
from the bruises you got. I've had a pint of swipes myself, and
feel inwardly correct. Hark ye,- he's off in a reglar, natural
sleep, ain't he ? »
[The following poems are copyrighted, and are reprinted by permission of
Houghton, Mifflin & Co. , publishers. )
A SUMMER NIGHT
I
FEEL the breath of the summer night,
Aromatic fire;
The trees, the vines, the flowers are astir
With tender desire.
The white moths flutter about the lamp,
Enamored with light;
And a thousand creatures softly sing
A song to the night!
But I am alone; and how can I sing
Praises to thee?
Come, Night! unveil the beautiful soul
That waiteth for me.


## p. 14025 (#211) ##########################################

ELIZABETH BARSTOW STODDARD
14025
EL MANALO
I
N THE still dark shade of the palace wall,
Where the peacocks strut,
Where the Queen may have heard my madrigal,
Together we sat.
My sombrero hid the fire in my eyes,
And shaded her own;
This serge cloak stifled her sweet little cries,
When I kissed her mouth.
The pale olive-trees on the distant plain,
The jagged blue rocks,
The vaporous sea — like mountain chain
Dropped into the night.
We saw the lights in the palace flare;
The musicians played;
The red guards slashed and sabred the stair
And cursed the old king.
In the long black shade of the palace wall,
We sat the night through;
Under my cloak— but I cannot tell all
The Queen may have seen!
MERCEDES
UP
NDER a sultry yellow sky
On the yellow sand I lie;
The crinkled vapors smite my brain,–
I smolder in a fiery pain.
-
Above the crags the condor flies,-
He knows where the red gold lies;
He knows where the diamonds shine:
If I knew, would she be mine?
Mercedes in her hammock swings;
In her court a palm-tree flings
Its slender shadow on the ground;
The fountain falls with silver sound.


## p. 14026 (#212) ##########################################

14026
ELIZABETH BARSTOW STODDARD
ish it up;
Her lips are like this cactus cup;
With my hand I
I tear its flaming leaves apart. —
Would that I could tear her heart.
Last night a man was at her gate,–
In the hedge I lay in wait;
I saw Mercedes meet him there,
By the fireflies in her hair.
I waited till the break of day,
Then I rose and stole away;
But I left my dagger in the gate;-
Now she knows her lover's fate!
NAMELESS PAIN
1
SHOULD be happy with my lot:
A wife and mother,- is it not
Enough for me to be content?
What other blessing could be sent ?
A quiet house, and homely ways,
That make each day like other days;
I only see Time's shadow now
Darken the hair on baby's brow.
No world's work ever comes to me,
No beggar brings his misery;
I have no power, no healing art,
With bruised soul or broken heart.
I read the poets of the age, -
'Tis lotus-eating in a cage;
I study art, but art is dead
To one who clamors to be fed
With milk from Nature's rugged breast,
Who longs for Labor's lusty rest.
O foolish wish! I still should pine
If any other lot were mine.


## p. 14027 (#213) ##########################################

ELIZABETH BARSTOW STODDARD
14027
ON THE CAMPAGNA
S"
TOP on the Appian Way,
In the Roman Campagna, -
Stop at my tomb,
The tomb of Cecilia Metella!
To-day as you see it
Alaric saw it, ages ago,
When he, with his pale-visaged Goths,
Sat at the gates of Rome,
Reading his Runic shield.
Odin! thy curse remains!
Beneath these battlements
My bones were stirred with Roman pride,
Though centuries before my Romans died:
Now my bones are dust; the Goths are dust.
The river-bed is dry where sleeps the king;
My tomb remains.
When Rome commanded the earth,
Great were the Metelli:
I was Metellus's wife;
I loved him,- and I died.
Then with slow patience built he this memorial :
Each century marks his love.
Pass by on the Appian Way
The tomb of Cecilia Metella.
Wild shepherds alone seek its shelter,
Wild buffaloes tramp at its base,
Deep in its desolation,
Deep as the shadow of Rome!
ON MY BED OF A WINTER NIGHT
N of night,
,
What care I for the wild wind's scream ?
What to me is its crooked flight ?
O Deep in a sleep, and deep in a dream,
On the sea of a summer's day,
Wrapped in the folds of a snowy sail,


## p. 14028 (#214) ##########################################

14028
ELIZABETH BARSTOW STODDARD
What care I for the fitful gale,
Now in earnest, and now in play?
What care I for the fitful wind,
That groans in a gorge, or sighs in a tree?
Groaning and sighing are nothing to me;
For I am a man of steadfast mind.


## p. 14029 (#215) ##########################################

14029
RICHARD HENRY STODDARD
(1825-)
.
(
HE poems of Richard Henry Stoddard, one of America's truest
lyrical poets, were collected and published in a complete
edition in 1880. The Early Poems) form the first of the
periods into which, for convenience's sake, the book is divided; the
'Songs of Summer) with «The King's Bell’ the second; the “Songs
of the East) the third; and Later Poems' the fourth. They repre-
sent the work of thirty years. In 1890 he published The Lion's Cub
and Other Verses,' a book not unworthy of
his maturity.
Stoddard's early verses, too good to be
purely original, are perhaps the nearest
approach made by any youthful poet to the
tuneful phrases and overflowing melody of
Keats. But the poet of twenty had lighted
his fire with the divine torch. The song

«You know the old Hidalgo,”
the serenade
-
«But music has a golden key,” --
songs of the gay troubadour singing under R. H. STODDARD
the latticed window,- are true lyrics, show-
ing those peculiar traits of poetic power which are recognizable
through all the changes consequent upon nearly fifty years of study
and development. These traits are a passionate love of beauty,
affluence, virility, and imagination; and a minor but unusual quality,
that of childlike unselfconsciousness. He propounds no questions, he
seeks to solve no problems. He is a poet, not a metaphysician.
Stoddard learned to "find” his art, according to his own confes-
sion, in his early poems. 'The Songs of Summer' are made up of
short poems in which his warm imagination gives life to the simplest
themes. Among the best known of them are There are Gains for
all Our Losses,' (Two Brides,' Through the Night, and the songs
The Sky is a Drinking-Cup, and Birds are Singing Round my
Window. )


## p. 14030 (#216) ##########################################

14030
RICHARD HENRY STODDARD
Beginning with a measure a little less regular than that of Keats,
Stoddard departed gradually from the even ten-syllabled rhyme, and
adopted freer movements for his varied themes. This is perceptible
in-
“The young child Jesus had a garden
Full of roses rich and rare,"
a poem which might be inscribed under one of Francia's pictures.
Few men have sung with so pure a spontaneity, preserving at the
same time the canons of art. There is infinite variety in 'The Book
of the East. Its versifications are made from translations by many
hands, and not translations at first hand. That love of beauty, that
“sensuous love of earth” which passionately possessed him, led Stod-
dard to use in maturer years the language of the Orient, as in
youth it had led him to echo 'Endymion. But through the caressing
measures of the Persian, the ringing rhythm of the Tartar, the sensu-
ous tenderness of the Arab songs, through the Chinese songs where
he runs the gamut of sweetness, sentiment, homely naturalism, and
savage passion, - through all these themes and quantities the poet
keeps himself always within the limits of accurate and organic com-
position.
His narrative poems, scattered through all four volumes, owe
much of their simplicity and strength to the vigor and purity of his
prose. In “The Fisher and Charon,' in Proserpine,' in 'The King's
Sentinel,' in “The Pearl of the Philippines, and in "Wratislaw,' his
imagination and his strength blending, find completest expression.
It was said of Browning that he was a woman's man. ” Stoddard
is essentially “a man's man. ” In his Book of the East,'. poems
which exhibit to the full his delicate sensuousness, he has the Ori-
ental view of woman, feeling her helplessness and her witchery. In
his Songs of the Mystic' he watches the passing of youth and love,
the approach of age and sorrow, with all of the poet's, of the man's,
regret; yet retains his strength and sweetness, his love of love and
warfare, to the end. The Later Poems) contain many of his noblest
efforts,- poems that express the highest flights and largest freedom
of his poetical genius.
Mr. Stoddard was born July 20, 1825, at Hingham, Massachusetts.
His father was a sea-captain, who died when his son was ten years
old. It was doubtless owing to this parentage, and to his early influ-
ences and associations, that the poet's songs of the sea are so appre-
ciative of its mystery and its charm. After his father's death he
came with his mother to New York, where he received a common-
school education, supplemented by independent study. He served for
some time in the New York Dock Department, and spent seventeen
(


## p. 14031 (#217) ##########################################

RICHARD HENRY STODDARD
14031
years in the Custom House, in an employment dignified by the ex-
ample of Hawthorne at Salem, and of Lamb at the East India House.
During this time he did much scholarly prose work, generally as a
literary essayist and critic.
SONG
From “The Poems of Richard Henry Stoddard. Copyright 1880, by
Charles Scribner's Sons
Yºu
ou know the old Hidalgo
(His box is next to ours)
Who threw the Prima Donna
The wreath of orange-flowers:
He owns the half of Aragon,
With mines beyond the main;
A very ancient nobleman
And gentleman of Spain.
They swear that I must wed him,
In spite of yea or nay,
Though uglier than the Scaramouch,
The spectre in the play;
But I will sooner die a maid
Than wear a gilded chain,
For all the ancient noblemen
And gentlemen of Spain !
A SERENADE
From "The Poems of Richard Henry Stoddard. ' Copyright 1880, by
Charles Scribner's Sons
T""
HE moon is muffled in a cloud
That folds the lover's star,
But still beneath thy balcony
I touch my soft guitar.
If thou art waking, Lady dear,
The fairest in the land,
Unbar thy wreathèd lattice now,
And wave thy snowy hand.
She hears me not, her spirit lies
In trances mute and deep;


## p. 14032 (#218) ##########################################

14032
RICHARD HENRY STODDARD
But Music has a golden key
That opes the gate of Sleep.
Then let her sleep; and if I fail
To set her spirit free,
My song will mingle in her dream,
And she will dream of me.
THE YELLOW MOON
From "The Poems of Richard Henry Stoddard. Copyright 1880, by
Charles Scribner's Sons
He yellow Moon looks slantly down
Through seaward mists, upon the town;
And ghost-like there the moonshine falls
Between the dimn and shadowy walls.
TH
I see a crowd in every street,
But cannot hear their falling feet;
They float like clouds through shade and light,
And seem a portion of the Night.
The ships have lain for ages fled
Along the waters, dark and dead;
The dying waters wash no more
The long black line of spectral shore.
There is no life on land or sea,
Save in the quiet Moon and me;
Nor ours is true, but only seems,
Within some dead old World of Dreams.
THE SKY IS A DRINKING-CUP
Adapted from the Persian. From “The Poems of Richard Henry Stoddard. '
Copyright 1880, by Charles Scribner's Sons
T"
THE sky is a drinking-cup
That was overturned of old,
And it pours in the eyes of men
Its wine of airy gold.
We drink that wine all day,
Till the last drop is drained up,
And are lighted off to bed
By the jewels in the cup!


## p. 14033 (#219) ##########################################

RICHARD HENRY STODDARD
14033
THE TWO BRIDES
From (The Poems of Richard Henry Stoddard. Copyright 1880 by
Charles Scribner's Sons
I
SAW two maids at the kirk,
And both were fair and sweet:
One in her wedding robe,
And one in her winding-sheet.
The choristers sang the hymn,
The sacred rites were read;
And one for life to Life,
And one to Death, was wed.
They were borne to their bridal beds
In loveliness and bloom;
One in a merry castle,
And one in a solemn tomb.
One on the morrow woke
In a world of sin and pain;
But the other was happier far,
And never awoke again.
THE FLIGHT OF YOUTH
From "The Poems of Richard Henry Stoddard. Copyright 1880, by
Charles Scribner's Sons
THER
WHERE are gains for all our losses,
There are balms for all our pain;
But when youth, the dream, departs,
It takes something from our hearts,
And it never comes again.
We are stronger and are better,
Under manhood's sterner reign:
Still we feel that something sweet
Followed youth with flying feet,
And will never come again.
Something beautiful is vanished,
And we sigh for it in vain:
We behold it everywhere,
On the earth and in the air,
But it never comes again.
XXIV-878


## p. 14034 (#220) ##########################################

14034
RICHARD HENRY STODDARD
THE SEA
From "The Poems of Richard Henry Stoddard. Copyright 1880, by
Charles Scribner's Sons
Yºu
ou stooped and picked a red-lipped shell,
Beside the shining sea:
“This little shell, when I am gone,
Will whisper still of me. ”
I kissed your hands, upon the sands,
For you were kind to me.
I hold the shell against my ear,
And hear its hollow roar:
It speaks to me about the sea,
But speaks of you no more.
I pace the sands, and wring my hands,
For you are kind no more.
THE SEA
From "The Poems of Richard Henry Stoddard. Copyright 1880, by Charles
Scribner's Sons
TH
HOU pallid fisher maiden,
That standest by the shore,
Why dost thou watch the ocean,
And hearken to its roar ?
It is some Danish sailor,
That sails the Spanish main;
Nor will thy roses redden
Till he returns again.
Thou simple fisher maiden,
He cares no more for thee:
He sleeps with the mermaidens,
The witches of the sea.
Thou shouldst not watch the ocean,
And hearken to its roar,
When bridal bells are ringing
In little kirks ashore.
Go, dress thee for thy bridal:
A stalwart man like me
Is worth a thousand sailors
Whose bones are in the sea.


## p. 14035 (#221) ##########################################

RICHARD HENRY STODDARD
14035
ALONG THE GRASSY SLOPE I SIT
From «The Poems of Richard Henry Stoddard. Copyright 1880, by
Charles Scribner's Sons
A
LONG the grassy slope I sit,
And dream of other years;
My heart is full of soft regrets,
My eyes of tender tears.
The wild bees hummed about the spot,
The sheep-beils tinkled far,
Last year when Alice sat with me,
Beneath the evening star.
The same sweet star is o'er me now,
Around the same soft hours;
But Alice molders in the dust
With all the last year's flowers.
I sit alone, and only hear
The wild bees on the steep,
And distant bells that seem to float
From out the folds of Sleep.
THE SHADOW OF THE HAND
From The Poems of Richard Henry Stoddard. Copyright 1880, by
Charles Scribner's Sons
(ITALY)
You
ou were very charming, Madam,
In your silks and satins fine;
And you made your lovers drunken,
But it was not with your wine.
There were court-gallants in dozens,
There were princes of the land,
And they would have perished for you,
As they knelt and kissed your hand.
For they saw no stain upon it,
It was such a snowy hand.
But for me, I knew you better;
And while you were flaunting there,


## p. 14036 (#222) ##########################################

14036
RICHARD HENRY STODDARD
I remembered some one lying
With the blood on his white hair.
He was pleading for you, Madam,
Where the shriven spirits stand;
But the Book of Life was darkened
By the shadow of a hand.
It was tracing your perdition,
For the blood upon your hand !
PAIN IN AUTUMN
From (The Poems of Richard Henry Stoddard. "
Scribner's Sons
Copyright 1880, by Charles
, a
A Preys on my heart, and clouds my brain;
And shadows brood above my dreams,
Like spectral mists o'er haunted streams.
There is no fire within the grate,
The room is cold and desolate,
And dampness on the window-panes
Foretells the equinoctial rains.
The stony road runs past the door,
Dry and dusty evermore;
Up and down the people go,
Shadowy figures, sad and slow,
And the strange houses lie below.
Across the road the dark elms wait,
Ranged in a row before the gate,
Giving their voices to the wind,
And their sorrows to my mind.
Behind the house the river flows,
Half unrest and half repose:
Ships lie below with mildewed sails,
Tattered in forgotten gales;
Along each hulk a whitish line,
The dashing of the ancient brine.
Beyond, the spaces of the sea,
Which old Ocean's portals be:
The land runs out its horns of sand,
And the sea comes in to meet the land.


## p. 14037 (#223) ##########################################

RICHARD HENRY STODDARD
14037
Sky sinks to sea, sea swells to sky,
Till they meet, and mock the eye,
And where they meet the sand-hills lie;
No cattle in their pastures seen,
For the yellow grass was never green.
With a calm and solemn stare
They look to heaven in blank despair,
And heaven, with pity dumb the while,
Looks down again with a sickly smile.
The sky is gray, half dark, half bright,
Swimming in dim, uncertain light,
Something between the day and night.
And the winds blow, but soft and low,
Unheard, unheeded in their woe;
Like some sick heart, too near o'erthrown
To vent its grief by sigh or moan,
Some heart that breaks, like mine - alone.
And here I dwell, condemned to see,
And be, what all these phantoms be,
Within this realm of penal pain,
Beside the melancholy main:
The waste which lies, as legend saith,
Between the worlds of Life and Death;
A soul from Life to Death betrayed,
A shadow in the world of shade.
BIRDS
From «The Poems of Richard Henry Stoddard. Copyright 1880, by Charles
Scribner's Sons
B
IRDS are singing round my window,
Tunes the sweetest ever heard;
And I hang my cage there daily,
But I never catch a bird.
So with thoughts my brain is peopled,
And they sing there all day long;
But they will not fold their pinions
In the little cage of Song!


## p. 14038 (#224) ##########################################

14038
RICHARD HENRY STODDARD
THE DEAD
From “The Poems of Richard Henry Stoddard. "
Scribner's Sons
Copyright 1880, by Charles
1
THINK about the dead by day,
I dream of them at night:
They seem to stand beside my chair,
Clad in the clothes they used to wear,
And by my bed in white.
The commonplaces of their lives,
The lightest words they said,
Revive in me, and give me pain,
And make me wish them back again,
Or wish that I were dead.
I would be kinder to them now,
Were they alive once more;
Would kiss their cheeks, and kiss their hair,
And love them, like the angels there,
Upon the silent shore.


## p. 14039 (#225) ##########################################

14039
THEODOR STORM
(1817-1888)
TEODOR STORM is one of the masters of the German novelle.
His range is somewhat limited, for he is intensely national,
almost sectional. Born in Husum, a small town on the sea-
coast of Schleswig-Holstein, he had the Northerner's deep love for
home; and all his work is colored by this love. After passing through
the gymnasium of his native town, he went to Lübeck to prepare for
the university. Here his love of poetry was awakened; and Goethe,
Eichendorf, and Heine exerted an influence
upon him which he never outgrew. He stud-
ied law at Kiel and at Berlin, and settled
down to a quiet practice at Husum. The
revolutionary disturbances of 1848 drove him
from his home, and led him to accept posi-
tions under the Prussian government; first
at Potsdam, and then at Heiligenstadt in
Southern Germany. During these latter
years he acquired that intimate acquaint-
ance with Southern manners and modes of
thinking which he turned to artistic uses in
some of his stories. He returned to Husum
in 1864, where he held the position of land- THEODOR STORM
vogt until 1880. He then retired to his
country home in Holstein; and some of his most delightful work was
produced in his old age.
Storm led the most uneventful of lives: happy in his family and
conscientious in his official duties. In his literary work there is
very curiously an ever-returning undertone of sadness, of lost hopes,
of disappointed lives. He began his literary career as lyric poet, - by
Liederbuch Dreier Freunde (Song-Book of Three Friends), a small
volume published in 1843 in conjunction with Tycho and Theodor
Mommsen. By their truth to nature and their simple pathos these
poems promised to place Storm high among German lyric poets, had
not his growing fame as story-teller led him to cultivate prose at the
expense of poetry. His first great success was 'Immen-see,' published
in 1850. Even to-day it is one of the most popular and best known
of his works. It is a story of reminiscence,- an old man going back



## p. 14040 (#226) ##########################################

14040
THEODOR STORM
to his youth to live over again, in the twilight hour, the days of his
young lost love. This harking back to bygone times runs more or
less through all of Storm's work. It determines the form,-a tale
told in the first person by an elderly speaker; and it colors the spirit,
toning it down to the gray of sorrows outlived but not forgotten.
Renunciation and resignation are the watchwords of most of his
stories.
With his return home in 1864, a new and the most fruitful period
of his work began, marked by a great advance in characterization
and in firmness of touch; he is also more dramatic: 'In St. Jürgen'
is an example.
He next tried the artist novel, a favorite type with
German writers. Psyche, published in 1875, has been especially
praised by German critics. Some of his strongest work was done in
the so-called chronicle novels,– romantic tales with a historic back-
ground, delineating North German life in the seventeenth century.
(Aquis Submersis) is one of the best of these, and by some critics
considered the finest he ever wrote. Pole Poppenspäler' (Paul the
Puppet-Player), written in 1877 for the children's magazine Deutsche
Jugend, is one of his most charming stories. He composed it with
the utmost care, on the principle that only the best is good enough
for children, and that one should not “write down ) to them. He
has also cultivated the Märchen: of these, 'Die Regentrude' (Rain-
Gertrude) is a most happy example of the blending of the real with
the fantastic.
After his retirement his country home became a Mecca for liter-
ary pilgrimages. He was a favorite of the German reading public,
because of his poetical, dreamy sentiment, his simplicity, his love
of home, and his finished workmanship. He knows how to create an
atmosphere and to produce a mood; he is one of the great masters
of the short story of character and sentiment.
(
AFTER YEARS
From Immen-see)
0
NCE more years have fled. It is a warm spring afternoon;
and a young man, with sunburnt and strongly marked
features, strolls leisurely along a shady road leading down
the side of a hill. His grave gray eyes seem watching attent-
ively for some alteration in the monotonous features of the
road, which is long in making its appearance. By-and-by a
cart comes slowly up the hill. Halloo, good friend,” cries the


## p. 14041 (#227) ##########################################

THEODOR STORM
14041
>
wanderer to the peasant trudging by its side, does this road
lead to Immen-see ? »
"Straight on,” replies the man, touching his round hat.
“Is it far from here ? »
Your Honor's just there. You'll see the lake before you
could half finish a pipe: the manor-house is close on to it. ”
The peasant went his way, and the other quickened his pace
under the trees. After a quarter of a mile their friendly shade
ceased on the left hand; and the path lay along the ridge of a
descent, wooded with ancient oaks, whose crests hardly reached
the level on which the traveler stood. Beyond these a wide
landscape was glowing in the sunlight. Far beneath him lay the
lake, calm, dark-blue, almost encircled by green waving forests,
which, opening on but one side, disclosed an extensive perspect-
ive, bounded in its turn by a blue mountain range. Exactly
opposite, it seemed as if snow had been strown among the green
foliage of the woods: this effect was caused by the fruit-trees,
now in full blossom; and amidst them, crowning the bank of
the lake, stood the whitewashed manor-house,- a substantial edi.
fice covered with red tiles. A stork flew from the chimney and
circled slowly over the water. “ Immen-see! » cried the traveler.
It almost seemed as if he had reached the end of his journey;
for he stood several minutes perfectly motionless, gazing over the
summits of the trees at his feet towards the opposite shore, where
the reflection of the house lay gently quivering on the water.
Then suddenly he continued his course.
The descent now became steep, so that the trees again shaded
the path; but also shut out all view of the prospect beyond, of
which a glimpse could only now and then be caught through
their branches. Soon the ground again rose, and the woods
were replaced by well-cultivated vineyards; on both sides of the
road stood blossoming fruit-trees, among whose fragrant branches
the bees were humming merrily and rifling the flowers. A
stately man, clad in a brown coat, now advanced to meet our
pedestrian; and when within a few paces he waved his cap in
the air, and in a clear hearty voice joyfully exclaimed, “Welcome,
brother Reinhardt! welcome to Immen-see!
"God bless you, Eric! thanks for your kind welcome! » cried
the other in answer.
Here the old friends met, and a hearty shaking of hands
followed. "But is it really you? ” said Eric after the first
»


## p. 14042 (#228) ##########################################

14042
THEODOR STORM
greeting, as he looked closely into the grave countenance of his
old schoolfellow.
“Certainly it is I. And you are your old self too, Eric;
only you look, if possible, even more cheerful than you always
used to do. ”
At these words a pleasant smile made Eric's simple feat-
ures look even merrier than before. “Yes, brother Reinhardt,”
said he, once more pressing his friend's hand: “since then I
have drawn the great prize. But you know all about that. ” Then,
rubbing his hands and chuckling with inward satisfaction, he
added, “That will be a surprise! She'd never expect him,- not
him, to all eternity! ”
“A surprise? To whom then? ” demanded Reinhardt.
« To Elizabeth. ”
"Elizabeth! You do not mean that you have not told her of
-
my visit ? »
“Not a word, brother Reinhardt! She's not expecting you,
nor does mother either. I invited you quite privately, that the
pleasure might be all the greater. You know how I enjoy car-
rying out my little plans sometimes. ”
Reinhardt grew thoughtful; and as they approached the house,
he with difficulty drew breath. On the left hand the vineyards
were soon succeeded by a large kitchen-garden, stretching down
to the water's edge. Meanwhile the stork had descended to
terra firma, and was marching gravely among the vegetable
beds. “Halloo! ” cried Eric, clapping his hands: “is that long-
legged Egyptian stealing my short pea-sticks again ? » The bird
rose slowly, and perched on the roof of a new building, which,
almost covered by the branches of the peach and apricot trees
trained against it, lay at the end of the kitchen garden. “That
is the manufactory,” said Eric. “I had that added two years
ago. The business premises were built by my father, of blessed
.
memory; the dwelling-house dates from my grandfather's time.
So each generation gets forward a little. ”
As he spoke, they reached an open space, bounded on both
sides by the business premises, and on the background by the
manor-house, whose two wings were joined by a high garden
wall; which did not, however, quite shut out all view of the rows
of dark yew-trees within, and over which drooped here and there
the clusters of the now flowering lilacs. Men with faces heated
alike by toil and exposure came and went, and saluted the two
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« Rein-
»
friends; and for each Eric had some order or inquiry respecting
his daily work. At length they reached the house. A cool and
spacious hall received them, at the end of which they entered a
somewhat darker side passage. Here Eric opened a door, and
they passed into a large garden-room. The thick foliage which
covered the windows had filled both sides of this apartment
with a sort of green twilight; but between these the wide-open
folding-doors at once admitted the full splendor of the spring sun-
shine, and revealed the charming view of a garden, full of circular
flower-beds and dark shady alleys, and divided down the centre
by a broad walk, beyond which appeared the lake and the forest
on its opposite shore. As the two companions entered, a breeze
laden with delicious perfume from the parterres was wafted
towards them.
On the terrace, facing the garden, sat a slight, girlish figure.
She rose, and advanced to meet the new-comers; but half-way
paused and stared at the stranger, motionless as though rooted
to the spot. He smiled, and held his hand towards her.
hardt! » cried she, “Reinhardt! My God! is it you? It is long
since we met. ”
"Long indeed,” said he,- and could utter no more; for as
he heard her voice, a sharp bodily pang shot through his heart;
and when he looked at her, she stood before him, the same
sweet tender form to whom years ago, he had bidden farewell
in his native place.
Eric, his whole face beaming with delight, had remained stand-
ing at the door. “Well, Elizabeth,” said he, “what do you say
to that? You didn't expect him,- not him, to all eternity! ”
Elizabeth's eyes were turned with a look of sisterly affection
towards him. “You are always so kind, Eric! ” said she.
He took her small hand caressingly in his. "And now we have
got him,” said he, we will not let him go again in a hurry.
He has been so long away, we must make him one of ourselves.
He looks quite a stranger. Only see what a fine gentleman he
has become! ”
Elizabeth stole a shy glance at the well-remembered face.
"It is only the time that we have not seen each other,”
said he.
At this moment her mother entered, a little key-basket jing-
ling on her arm. «Mr. Werner! ” exclaimed she, on perceiving
Reinhardt; "a guest as welcome as unexpected! » And now
>
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14044
THEODOR STORM
>
the conversation became general. The ladies settled themselves
to their needlework; and while Reinhardt partook of the refresh-
ments provided for him, Eric lighted his pipe, and sat, puffing
and discoursing, by his side.
Some days after this, when evening was drawing on, the
family were assembled, as usual at this hour, in the garden-
room.
The door stood open, and the sun had already sunk
behind the forests beyond the lake.
At the request of the whole party, Reinhardt consented to
read aloud some ballads which he had that afternoon received
from a friend in the country. He went to his room, and re-
turned, bringing a roll of papers, which seemed to consist of
several clearly written but detached sheets of paper.
They seated themselves round the table, Elizabeth by Rein-
hardt's side. “We will take them as they come,” said he. "I
have not yet had time to look them over. ”
Elizabeth unrolled the manuscripts. "Some are set to music,
said she. “You must sing them, Reinhardt. ”
The first he came to were some Tyrolese herdsman's songs,
of which he now and then hummed the cheerful airs as he read.
A general gayety began to pervade the little circle.
“Who can have composed these charming songs? ” asked
Elizabeth.
“Ah! ” said Eric, "easy enough to guess, I should think!
,
Journeymen tailors and hairdressers, and merry souls of that
sort! )
"They never were composed,” observed Reinhardt: “they
grow,- fall from the air, are borne on every breeze, like the
gossamers, and are sung in thousands of spots at the same
moment. Every circumstance of our own most personal actions
or sufferings may be found described among these ballads. It is
as though all had helped to write them. ”
He took up another sheet. "I stood on the high mountain
“I know that! cried Elizabeth. “You begin, and I will join
in, Reinhardt ! » And now they sang together that wondrous
melody, which one can hardly believe to have been discovered
by any merely human being; Elizabeth with her rather subdued
contralto accompanying his deeper tones.
The mother sat meanwhile stitching industriously at her
needlework; and Eric had folded his hands, and was listening
with the most devout attention. They finished; and Reinhardt
>
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THEODOR STORM
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silently laid the paper aside. From the shore of the lake the
chiming of the cattle bells was borne through the still evening
air. Involuntarily they listened, and then in a clear boy's voice,
the familiar sounds broke on their ear:
“I stood on the high mountain,
And marked the vale beneath. ”
(
Reinhardt smiled. "Do you not hear ? So it is carried from
mouth to mouth. ”
“It is often sung about here,” said Elizabeth.
“Yes,” remarked Eric: “it is only Caspar the cowboy, driv-
ing home the cattle. ”
They listened till the sounds had died away.
« Those are creation's echoes, and sleep in the forest depths,”
said Reinhardt; «God alone knows who first awakened them. ”
He drew out a fresh leaf.
It had already grown darker, and a crimson glow now bathed
the distant woods which bounded their horizon. Reinhardt un.
rolled the paper.
Elizabeth laid her hand on its other side, and
looked over the lines with him. Reinhardt read:
“Mother would not list to me:
The other's bride I was to be;
All I had learnt to cherish
Was from my heart to perish:
But that could never be.
« Mother well her work may rue:
Whom I fondly loved she knew;
What else had been so blameless
Is sinful now and shameless.
What shall I do?
“For all my joy and pride
I've now this grief to hide:
Ah, were those vows unsaid!
Ah, could I beg my bread
Far o'er yon brown hillside! ”
While reading, Reinhardt had noticed a slight trembling of
the paper; and as he uttered the last words, Elizabeth gently
pushed back her chair and passed silently into the garden. Her
mother's look followed her. Eric would have gone after her;


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THEODOR STORM
(
but her mother remarked, Elizabeth is engaged in the garden,"
'and nothing more passed.
Gradually the pall of evening descended deeper and deeper on
lake and garden. The bats flew whirring past the open doors,
through which the perfume of the Aowers and shrubs entered
with ever-increasing strength. From the water rose the croaking
of the frogs; and while the moon shed her calm radiance over
the whole scene, a nightingale under the window commenced
her song, soon answered by another from a thicket in the gar-
den. Reinhardt's gaze long rested on the ot where Elizabeth's
graceful form had disappeared among the trees; then he rolled
up his papers, and bowing to his companions, he passed through
the house and down to the quiet water.
The silent forests threw their dark shadows far out over the
lake, while the centre glistened in the pale moonlight. As he
passed, a slight breeze shivered among the trees; but it was not
wind, - it was but the breath of the summer night. Reinhardt
strolled along the shore; and presently, at about a stone's-throw
from the water's edge, he perceived a white water-lily.
All at
once the wish seized him to examine it more closely; and throw-
ing off his clothes, he sprang into the water. The bottom was
level. Sharp stones and plants wounded his feet, and still it
never became deep enough for swimming. Suddenly the ground
ceased from beneath him, the water closed over his head, and
it was some time before he again rose to the surface. Now he
struggled with hand and foot; and swam round in circles until
he could find out where he had entered the lake. Soon he again
saw the lily. She lay lonely among her broad, shining leaves.
He swam slowly out, now and then raising his arms out of the
water, while the falling drops glittered in the moonlight. Still it
seemed as though the distance between himself and the flower
would never lessen: only when he looked towards the shore its
outline grew ever more and more indistinct.
He would not,
however, be baffled, and swimming boldly forward, he came at
length so close to the object of his pursuit that he could clearly
distinguish its silvery leaves; but at the same moment he felt
himself caught in a network of its strong and slippery roots,
which, rising from the earth, had entwined themselves round his
naked limbs. The unknown waters stretched black around him;
close behind he heard the spring of a fish; suddenly so strong
a thrill of horror came over him in the strange element, that


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« What
violently tearing himself free from the tangled plants, he swam
in breathless haste to the shore. Here he once more looked
back over the lake, where, beautiful and distant as ever, the lily
yet floated upon the surface of the dark deep. He dressed, and
returned slowly to the house; where, on entering, he found Eric
and his mother-in-law busied with the preparations for a short
journey on business matters which was to take place the follow-
ing day.
«Why, where have you been so late at night ? ” cried the
lady.
"I? ” replied he: “I wished to pay a visit to the water-lily;
but I could not manage it. ”
«Who would ever think of such a thing ? ” said Eric.
the deuce had you to do with the lily ? »
“I knew her well in former days,- a long time ago," an-
swered Reinhardt.
The following day Reinhardt and Elizabeth wandered together
on the farther shore of the lake; now through the wood, and
now on the steep and high banks by the water-side. Eric had
begged Elizabeth during his and her mother's absence to show
their visitor all the most beautiful views of the neighborhood;
and especially those from the farther shore, which commanded
the house itself. Thus they rambled from one lovely spot to
another, until at length Elizabeth became tired, and seated her-
self in the shade of some overhanging branches. Reinhardt
stood opposite to her, leaning against the trunk of a tree. All
at once, deep in the forest, he heard the cry of the cuckoo; and
suddenly it struck him that all this had happened just so once
before.
“Shall we gather strawberries? ” asked he, with a bitter
smile.
"It is not the strawberry season,” she replied.
“ It will soon be here, however. ”
Elizabeth shook her head in silence. She rose, and they con-
tinued their stroll. Often and often did his earnest gaze rest on
her as she walked by his side, - she moved so gracefully, almost
as though borne along by her light, floating drapery. Frequently
he involuntarily remained a step behind, that he might the bet-
ter observe her; and thus proceeding, they arrived at a wide,
open heath, from which there was an extensive prospect over the
surrounding country. Reinhardt stooped, and gathered something
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## p.