12860 (#282) ##########################################
12860
JOSEPH VICTOR VON SCHEFFEL
"If the brave lad's name were only
Damian von Wildenstein!
12860
JOSEPH VICTOR VON SCHEFFEL
"If the brave lad's name were only
Damian von Wildenstein!
Warner - World's Best Literature - v22 - Sac to Sha
" would be heard: she comes rushing.
down with disheveled locks and in her rustling ducal mantle,
and drives his tormentors away, as the Savior drove out the usur-
ers from the temple. And she presents him her hand and lips
for the kiss of reconciliation.
Long and ardently his fantasy dwelt on that beautiful possi-
bility; a breath of consolation came to him; he spoke in the
words of the Preacher: "As gold is purified from dross in the
fire, so the heart of man is purified by sorrow. ' We will wait
and see what will happen. "
He heard a slight noise in the antechamber of his dungeon.
A stone jug was put down.
"You are to drink like a man," said a voice to the lay brother
on guard; "for on St. John's night all sorts of unearthly vis-
itors people the air and pass over our castle. So you must take
care to keep your courage up.
There's another jug for you
too. "
It was Praxedis who had brought the wine.
Ekkehard did not understand what she wanted. "Then she also
is false," thought he. "God protect me! "
He closed his eyes and fell asleep. After a good while he
was awakened. The wine had evidently been to the lay brother's
taste: he was singing a song in praise of the four goldsmiths
who once on a time had refused to make heathenish idols at
Rome, and suffered martyrdom. With his heavy sandal-clad foot
he was beating time on the stone flags. Ekkehard heard another
*«The good Lord is as much the sport of the wind as a sleeve. "
## p. 12852 (#274) ##########################################
12852
JOSEPH VICTOR VON SCHEFFEL
jug of wine brought to the man. The singing became loud and
uproarious. Then he held a soliloquy, in which he had much
to say about Italy and good fare, and "Santa Agnese fuori le
mura. " Then he ceased talking. The prisoner could distinctly
hear his snoring through the stone walls.
·
The castle was silent. It was about midnight. Ekkehard
lay in a doze, when it seemed to him as if the bolts were softly
drawn. He remained lying on his straw. A figure came in; a
soft hand was laid on the slumberer's forehead. He jumped up.
"Hush! " whispered his visitor.
« The
When all had gone to rest, Praxedis had kept awake.
wicked cellarer shall not have the satisfaction of punishing our
poor melancholy teacher," was her thought; and woman's cun-
ning always finds ways and means to accomplish her schemes.
Wrapping herself up in a gray cloak, she had stolen down. No
special artifices were necessary: the lay brother was sleeping the
sleep of the just. If he had been awake, the Greek girl would
have frightened him by some ghost trickery. That was her plan.
"You must escape! " said she to Ekkehard. "They mean to
>>
do their worst to you. "
"I know it," he replied sadly.
"Come, then. "
He shook his head. "I prefer to endure it," said he.
"Don't be a fool," whispered Praxedis. "First you built your
castle on the glittering rainbow; and now that it has all tumbled
down, you will allow them to ill-treat you into the bargain? As
if they had a right to flog you and drag you away!
And you
will let them have the pleasure of witnessing your humiliation?
It would be a nice spectacle they would make of you! 'One
does not see an honest man put to death every day,' said a man
to me once in Constantinople, when I asked him why he was in
such a hurry. "
"Where should I go to ? " asked Ekkehard.
"Neither to the Reichenau nor to your monastery," said Praxe-
"There is many a hiding-place left in the world. "
dis.
She was getting impatient; and seizing Ekkehard by the hand,
she dragged him on. "Come! " whispered she. He allowed him-
self to be led by her.
They glided past the sleeping watchman: now they stood in
the court-yard; the fountain was splashing merrily. Ekkehard
bent over the spout, and took a long draught of the cool water.
"All is over," said he. "And now away. "
## p. 12853 (#275) ##########################################
JOSEPH VICTOR VON SCHEFFEL
12853
It was a stormy night. "You cannot go out by the doorway,
the bridge is drawn up," said Praxedis; "but you can get down
between the rocks on the eastern side. Our shepherd boy has
tried that path before. "
They entered the little garden. A gust of wind went roaring
through the branches of the maple-tree. Ekkehard scarcely knew
what was happening to him.
He mounted the battlement. Steep and rugged fell the klink-
stone precipices; a dark abyss yawned before him; black clouds.
were chasing each other across the dusky sky,- weird, uncouth
shapes, as if two bears were pursuing a winged dragon. Soon
the fantastic forms melted together; the wind whipped them on-
ward toward the Bodensee, that glittered faintly in the distance.
Indistinctly outlined lay the landscape.
"Blessings on your way! " said Praxedis.
Ekkehard sat motionless on the battlement; he still held the
Greek girl's hand clasped in his. A mingled feeling of gratitude
and melancholy surged through his storm-tossed brain. Then her
cheek pressed against his, and a kiss trembled on his lips; he felt
a pearly tear. Gently Praxedis drew away her hand.
"Don't forget," said she, "that you still owe us a story. May
God lead your steps back again to this place some day, so that
we may hear it from your own lips. "
――――――――
Ekkehard now let himself down. He waved his hand once
more, then disappeared from her sight. The stillness of night
was interrupted by a rattling and clattering down the cliff. The
Greek girl peered down into the depths. A piece of rock had
become loosened, and fell noisily down into the valley. Another
followed somewhat slower; and on this Ekkehard was sitting,
guiding it as a rider does his horse. So he went down the steep
precipice into the blackness of the night.
Farewell!
She crossed herself and went back, smiling in spite of all her
sadness. The lay brother was still fast asleep. As she crossed
the court-yard, Praxedis spied a basket filled with ashes, which
she seized; and softly stealing back into Ekkehard's dungeon, she
poured out its contents in the middle of the room, as if this were
all that was left of the prisoner's earthly remains.
"Why dost thou snore so heavily, most reverend brother? "
she asked; and hurried away.
## p. 12854 (#276) ##########################################
12854
JOSEPH VICTOR VON SCHEFFEL
SONG OF THE ICHTHYOSAURUS
From Gaudeamus. ' By permission of the Translator
HERE'S a rustling in the rushes,
There's a flashing in the sea;
There's a tearful Ichthyosaurus
Swims hither mournfully!
TH
He weeps o'er the modern corruption,
Compared with the good old times,
And don't know what is the matter
With the Upper Jura limes!
The hoary old Plesiosaurus
Does naught but quaff and roar;
And the Pterodactylus lately
Flew drunk to his own front door!
The Iguanodon of the Period
Grows worse with every stratum
He kisses the Ichthyosauresses
Whenever he can get at 'em!
I feel a catastrophe coming;
This epoch will soon be done :
And what will become of the Jura
If such goings-on go on?
The groaning Ichthyosaurus
Turns suddenly chalky pale;
He sighs from his steaming nostrils,
He writhes with his dying tail!
In that selfsame hour and minute
Died the whole Saurian stem:
The fossil-oil in their liquor
Soon put an end to them!
And the poet found their story
Which here he doth indite,
In the form of a petrified album-leaf
Upon a coprolite!
Translation of Rossiter W. Raymond.
## p. 12855 (#277) ##########################################
JOSEPH VICTOR VON SCHEFFEL
12855
DECLARATION AND DEPARTURE
From The Trumpeter of Säkkingen'
Α
THIS morning meal the baron
Sat, deep poring o'er a letter
Which the day before had reached him.
From afar a post had ridden,
From the Danube, deep in Suabia,
Where the baby river ripples
Gleeful through a narrow valley.
Lofty crags jut sharply o'er it,
And its limpid waters mirror
Clear and bright their rugged outlines,
And the tender green of beech-woods.
Thence the messenger had ridden.
This the purport of the letter:
-
"My old comrade, do you ever
Think of Hans von Wildenstein?
Down the Rhine and down the Danube
Many drops of clearest water
Must have run to reach the ocean,
Since we lay beside our watch-fires,
In our last campaign together.
And I mark it by my youngster,
Who has grown a lusty fellow,
And his years count four-and-twenty.
First, as page, he went to Stuttgart,
To the duke; and then to college
To old Tübingen I sent him.
If I reckon by the money
He has squandered, it is certain
He must be a mighty scholar.
Now by me at home he tarries,
Chasing deer and hares and foxes;
And when other sport is lacking,
Chasing pretty peasant-maidens:
And 'tis time that he were broken
To the wholesome yoke of marriage.
Now, methinks, you have a daughter
Who a fitting bride would make him.
'Twixt old comrades, such as we are,
Many words are surely needless;
So, Sir Baron, I would ask you
## p. 12856 (#278) ##########################################
12856
JOSEPH VICTOR VON SCHEFFEL
Would it please you if my Damian
To your castle rode a-wooing,
Rode a-wooing to the Rhineland?
Send me speedy answer. -Greetings
From old Hans von Wildenstein.
Postscript. -Do you still remember
That great fray we fought at Augsburg
With the horsemen of Bavaria ?
And the rage of yon rich miser
And his most ungracious lady?
Why, 'tis two-and-thirty years since! "
Toilsomely the baron labored
At his comrade's crabbed writing,
And a full half-hour he puzzled,
Ere he mastered all its import.
Laughing then he spake :-"These Suabians
Are in sooth most knowing devils!
They are lacking in refinement,
Somewhat coarse in grain and fibre,
Yet of wit and prudence plenty
In their rugged pates is garnered.
Many a brainless coxcomb's noddle
They could stock and never miss it.
And my valiant Hans manœuvres
Rarely, like a veteran statesman.
His poor, mortgaged, moldering owl's-nest
By the Danube would be bolstered
Bravely by a handsome dowry.
Yet the scheme deserves a hearing.
Far and wide throughout the kingdom.
Are the Wildensteins respected,
Since with Kaiser Barbarossa
To the Holy Land they journeyed.
Let the varlet try his fortune! "
To the baron entered Werner.
Slow his gait and black his jerkin,
As on feast-days. Melancholy
Sat upon his pallid features.
Jestingly the other hailed him:
"I was in the act of sending
Honest Anton out to seek you.
Pray you, mend your pen and write me,
As my trusty scribe, a letter,
Letter of most weighty import.
---
## p. 12857 (#279) ##########################################
JOSEPH VICTOR VON SCHEFFEL
12857
For a knight has written asking.
Tidings of my lady daughter,
And he seeks her hand in marriage
For his son, the young Sir Damian.
Tell him, then, how Margaretha
Has grown tall and fair and stately.
Tell him but you need no prompting:
- -
Fancy you a painter-paint him,
Black on white, her living image,
Fairly, and forget no detail.
Say, if 'tis the youngster's pleasure,
I shall make no opposition
If he saddle and ride hither. "
"If he saddle and ride hither- »
Spake young Werner, as if dreaming.
To himself; and somewhat sharply
Quoth the baron, "But what ails you
That you wear a face as lengthy
As a Calvinistic preacher's
On Good Friday? Has the fever.
Once more taken hold upon you? "
Gravely made reply young Werner:-
"Sire, I cannot write the letter;
You must seek another penman,
Since I come myself to ask you
For your daughter's hand in marriage. "
:-
"For my daughter's hand in marriage ? »
Gasped the baron, sore bewildered
In his turn; and wryly twitching
Worked his mouth, as his who playeth
-
On a Jew's-harp. Through his left foot.
Shot a bitter throb of anguish.
"My young friend, the fever blazes
In your brain-pan like a furnace.
Go, I rede you, to the garden,
Where there plays a shady fountain.
If you dip your head beneath it
Thrice, the fever straight will vanish. "
"Noble sir," rejoined young Werner,
"Spare your gibes. You may require them,
Peradventure, when the wooer
Out of Suabia rideth hither.
## p. 12858 (#280) ##########################################
12858
JOSEPH VICTOR VON SCHEFFEL
Sober come I, free from fever,
On a very sober errand;
And of Margaretha's father
Ask, once more, her hand in marriage. ”
Darkly frowning spake the baron:-
"Do you force me, then, to tell you
What your own wit should have taught you?
Sore averse am I to meet you
With harsh earnest; for the pike-thrust,
That so late your forehead suffered,
Have I not forgotten; neither
In whose service you received it.
Yet he only may look upward
To my child, whose noble lineage
Makes such union meet and fitting.
For each one of us has nature
Limits strait and wise appointed,
Where, within our proper circle,
We may fitly thrive and prosper.
From the Holy Roman Empire
Has come down the social order
Threefold,- Noble, Burgess, Peasant:
Each, within itself included,
From itself itself renewing,
Full of health abides and hearty.
Each is thus a sturdy pillar
Which the whole supports, but never
Prospers any intermixture.
Wot ye what that has for issue?
Grandsons who of all have something
Yet are altogether nothing;
Shallow, empty, feeble mongrels,
Tottering, unloosed and shaken
From tradition's steadfast foothold.
Sharp-edged, perfect, must each man be;
And within his veins, as heirloom
From the foregone generations,
He should bear his life's direction.
Therefore equal rank in marriage
Is demanded by our usage,
Which, by me, as law is honored,
And across its fast-fixed ramparts
I will have no stranger scramble.
## p. 12859 (#281) ##########################################
JOSEPH VICTOR VON SCHEFFEL
12859
Item: Shall no trumpet-blower
Dare to court a noble maiden! "
Thus the baron. Sorely troubled
By such serious and unwonted
Theoretic disquisition,
Had he pieced his words together.
By the stove the cat was lying,
Hiddigeigei, listening heedful,
With his head approval nodding
At the close. Yet, musing, pressed he
With his paw upon his forehead,
Deep within himself reflecting:-
"Why do people kiss each other?
Ancient question, new misgiving!
For I thought that I had solved it,—
Thought a kiss was an expedient
Swift another's lips to padlock,
That no word of cruel candor
Issue forth. But this solution
Is, I fear me, quite fallacious;
Else my youthful friend most surely
Would long since have kissed my master. "
-
To the baron spake young Werner,
And his voice was low and muffled:-
"Sire, I thank you for your lesson.
In the glamour of the pine-woods,
In the May month's radiant sunshine,
By the river's crystal billows,
Did mine eyes o'erlook the ramparts
Raised by men, which lay between us.
Thanks for this reminder timely.
Thanks, too, for the hours so joyous
I have spent beneath your roof-tree.
But my span is run: the order
'Right about! ' your words have given me.
And in sooth, I make no murmur.
As a suitor worthy of her
One day I return, or never.
Fare you well! Think kindly of me. "
So he said, and left the chamber,
Knowing well what lay before him.
Long, with troubled mien, the baron
Scanned the door through which he vanished.
"Sooth, it grieves me sore," he muttered.
## p.
12860 (#282) ##########################################
12860
JOSEPH VICTOR VON SCHEFFEL
"If the brave lad's name were only
Damian von Wildenstein! "
Parting, bitter hour of parting!
Ah, who was it first conceived thee?
Sure, some chilly-hearted mortal
By the distant Arctic Ocean.
Freezing blew the North Pole zephyrs
Round his nose; sore pestered was he
By his wife, unkempt and jealous.
E'en the whale's delicious blubber
Tickled not his jaded palate.
O'er his ears a yellow sealskin
Drew he; in his fur-gloved right hand
Grasped his staff, and nodding curtly
To his stolid Ylaleyka,
Uttered first those words ill-omened,—
"Fare thee well, for I must leave thee. "
Parting, bitter hour of parting!
In his turret chamber, Werner
Girded up his few belongings,
Girded up his slender knapsack,
Threw a last regretful greeting
To the whitewashed walls familiar-
Loth to part, as from old comrades.
Farewell spake he to none other.
Margaretha's eyes of azure
Dared he never more encounter.
To the castle court descending,
Saddled swift his faithful palfrey;
Then there rang an iron hoof-fall,
And a drooping, joyless rider
Left the castle's peace behind him.
In the lowland by the river
Grows a walnut-tree. Beneath it
Once again he reined his palfrey,—
Once again he grasped his trumpet.
From his sorrow-laden spirit
Upward soared his farewell greeting,
Winged with saddest love and longing.
Soared-ah, dost thou know the fable
Of the song the swan sang dying?
At her heart was chill foreboding,
But she soug the lake's clear waters
## p. 12861 (#283) ##########################################
JOSEPH VICTOR VON SCHEFFEL
12861
Yet once more, and through the roses,
Through the glistening water-lilies,
Rose her plaintive song regretful:—
"Fairest world, 'tis mine to leave thee;
Fairest world, I die unwilling! "
Thus he blew. Was that a tear-drop
Falling, glancing, on the trumpet?
Was it but a summer rain-drop?
Onward now! His spurs relentless
In his palfrey's flanks he buried,
And was borne in rousing gallop
To the outskirts of the forest.
SONG: FAREWELL
From The Trumpeter of Säkkingen >
THIS
HIS is the bitterness of life's long story,—
That ever near the rose the thorns are set;
Poor heart, that dwells at first in dreams of glory,
The parting comes, and eyes with tears are wet.
Ah, once I read thine eyes, thy spirit's prison,
And love and joy in their clear depths could see:
May God protect thee! 'twas too fair a vision;
May God protect thee! it was not to be.
Long had I borne with envy, hate, and sorrow,
Weary and worn, by many a tempest tried;
I dreamed of peace and of a bright to-morrow,
And lo! my pathway led me to thy side.
I longed within thine arms to rest; then, risen
In strength and gladness, give my life to thee:
May God protect thee! 'twas too fair a vision;
May God protect thee! it was not to be.
Winds whirl the leaves, the clouds are driven together,
Through wood and meadow beats a storm of rain:
To say farewell 'tis just the fitting weather,
For like the sky, the world seems gray with pain.
Yet good nor ill shall shake my heart's decision;
Thou slender maid, I still must dream of thee!
May God protect thee! 'twas too fair a vision;
May God protect thee! it was not to be.
## p. 12862 (#284) ##########################################
12862
JOSEPH VICTOR VON SCHEFFEL
SONGS OF HIDDIGEIGEI, THE TOM-CAT
From The Trumpeter of Säkkingen'
I
Y THE storms of fierce temptation
Undisturbed I long have dwelt;
Yet e'en pattern stars of virtue
Unexpected pangs have felt.
Β΄
Hotter than in youth's hot furnace,
Dreams of yore steal in apace;
And the Cat's winged yearnings journey,
Unrestrained, o'er Time and Space.
Naples, land of light and wonder,
Cup of nectar never dry!
To Sorrento I would hasten,
On its topmost roof to lie.
Greets me dark Vesuvius; greets me
The white sail upon the sea;
Birds of spring make sweetest concert
In the budding olive-tree.
Toward the loggia steals Carmela,-
Fairest of the feline race,—
And she softly pulls my whiskers,
And she gazes in my face;
And my paw she gently presses;
Hark! I hear a growling noise:
Can it be the Bay's hoarse murmur,
Or Vesuvius's distant voice?
_____
Nay, Vesuvius's voice is silent,
For to-day he takes his rest.
In the yard, destruction breathing,
Bays the dog of fiendish breast,-
Bays Francesco the Betrayer,
Worst of all his evil race;
And I see my dream dissolving,
Melting in the sky's embrace.
-
## p. 12863 (#285) ##########################################
JOSEPH VICTOR VON SCHEFFEL
12863
II
EARTH once was untroubled by man, they say;
Those days are over and fled,
When the forest primeval crackling lay
'Neath the mammoth's mighty tread.
Ye may search throughout all the land in vain
For the lion, the desert's own;
In sooth we are settled now, 'tis plain,
In a truly temperate zone.
The palm is borne, in life and in verse,
By neither the Great nor the Few:
The world grows weaker and ever worse,
'Tis the day of the Small and the New.
When we Cats are silenced, ariseth the Mouse,
But she too must pack and begone;
And the Infusoria's Royal House
Shall triumph, at last, alone.
III
NEAR the close of his existence
Hiddigeigei stands and sighs;
Death draws nigh with fell insistence,
Ruthlessly to close his eyes.
Fain from out his wisdom's treasure,
Counsels for his race he'd draw,
That amid life's changeful measure
They might find some settled law.
Fain their path through life he'd soften:
Rough it lies and strewn with stones;
E'en the old and wise may often
Stumble there, and break their bones.
Life with many brawls is cumbered,
Useless wounds and useless pain;
Cats both black and brave unnumbered
Have for naught been foully slain.
Ah, in vain our tales of sorrow!
Hark! I hear the laugh of youth.
Fools to-day and fools to-morrow,
Woe alone will teach them truth.
## p. 12864 (#286) ##########################################
12864
JOSEPH VICTOR VON SCHEFFEL
All in vain is history's teaching:
Listen how they laugh again!
Hiddigeigei's lore and preaching
Locked in silence must remain.
IV
SOON life's thread must break and ravel;
Weak this arm, once strong and brave;
In the scene of all my travail,
In the granary, dig my grave.
Warlike glory there I won me;
All the fight's fierce joy was mine:
Lay my shield and lance upon me,
As the last of all my line.
Ay, the last! The children's merit
Like their sires' can never grow:
Naught they know of strife of spirit;
Upright are they, dull and slow,
Dull and meagre; stiffly, slowly,
Move their minds, of force bereft;
Few indeed will keep as holy
The bequest their sires have left.
Yet once more, in days far distant,
When at rest I long have lain,
One fierce caterwaul insistent
Through your ranks shall ring again:-
"Flee, ye fools, from worse than ruin! "
Hark to Hiddigeigei's cry:
Hark, his wrathful ghostly mewing:-
"Flee from mediocrity! "
## p. 12865 (#287) ##########################################
12865
EDMOND SCHÉRER
XXII-805
(1815-1889)
BY VICTOR CHARBONNEL
L
DMOND SCHÉRER was at once a very learned theologian, a very
profound philosopher, a very vigorous writer. What makes
him especially interesting is the crisis in his faith and in
his thought which led him to abandon theology for philosophy and
literature. He is one of those great spirits, very numerous in our
century, who have delivered themselves from the formulas of an
unquestioning and passive faith, and sought with absolute sincerity
the religion of the conscience.
Edmond Schérer was born at Paris, in 1815. His family was of
Swiss descent, and held the Protestant faith. He early manifested
an ardent love of reading: his school tasks suffered somewhat from
it. Moreover, his father sent him to England to be with the Rev.
Thomas Loader of Monmouth. This earnest clergyman had a salu-
tary influence upon the young man; he inspired him with the love
of duty and of work, he made a Christian of him. When Edmond
Schérer, after an absence of two years, was about to leave England,
he determined to become a shepherd of souls; and besides, he now
understood the language admirably, and had made a study of Eng-
lish literature.
He then entered upon the course of the Faculty of Theology at
Strasbourg, where celebrated professors were among the instructors,
notably Édouard Reuss. When his theological studies were over, he
retired for several years, and published his first writings.
Owing to the reputation thus achieved, he was elected in 1845
professor in the School of Liberal Theology at Geneva. The instruc-
tion he gave at that time had no small renown. But one of the
fundamental doctrines of the School of Liberal Theology was faith
in the full inspiration of the Bible. He soon declared himself unable
to accept it, and spoke of resigning his chair.
In his remarkable article, the Crisis of the Faith,' he protested
against the abuse of authority in religious things, and affirmed the
duty of personal examination, of unrestricted investigation, of religion
founded on criticism. Thenceforward, according to Sainte-Beuve, he
was "an indefatigable intelligence, ever advancing in ceaseless evo-
lution. "
## p. 12866 (#288) ##########################################
12866
EDMOND SCHÉRER
Having resigned his professorship in 1850, he became, with Colani,
the head of the new French school of liberal Protestantism, and took
a most active part in editing the Review of Theology and Christian
Philosophy, of Strasbourg. His articles and his studies gave rise to
violent discussions. Assuredly he recognized that "if there is any-
thing certain in the world, it is that the destiny of the Bible is
closely linked with the destiny of holiness upon the earth. ” But he
whom he called with full conviction a great Christian-a Goethe or
a Hegel in intellectual power and literary talent, but carrying the
Evangel in his heart-was "he who will let fall like a worn-out gar-
ment all that is temporary in the faith of past ages, all that criticism
has victoriously assailed, all that divides the churches, but who shall
know at the same time how to speak to men's consciences, how to
revive the love of the truth, how to find the word of the future,
while disengaging all that is identical, eternal in the Christianity of
all ages. "
Suddenly in 1860, a volume that he published under the title
'Miscellanies of Religious Criticism,'-containing vigorous studies of
Joseph de Maistre, Lamennais, Le P. Gratry, Veuillot, Taine, Proud-
hon, Renan, revealed in the theologian a very searching critic.
Sainte-Beuve hailed the book with many encomiums, and placed the
author in "the front rank of French writers. "
Also, the contradictions perceptible between different parts of this
work clearly show that Edmond Schérer continually sought his way;
and that he tended towards that philosophical rather than theologi-
cal conception, which makes of Christianity the perfect and defini-
tive religion, but not the absolute and complete truth. Christianity
appeared to him the result of a long elaboration of the human con-
science, destined to prepare further elaborations; in a word, one of
the phases of universal transformation. The theory of the evolu-
tion of the human mind became his new religion.
But if he ceased to be an orthodox believer, Edmond Schérer was
always a man of noble moral faith, a true Christian; and he, was
so throughout his work of literary criticism. When the newspaper
Le Temps was established in 1861, he did a share of the editing; he
wrote for it political articles, and above all studies in literature.
They showed the talent of a writer, the force of a thinker; and the
prodigious extent of knowledge manifested in the care he took to
attack all subjects, to reduce them to two or three essential points,
to discuss them exhaustively, to give a concise opinion in regard
to ideas and a firm judgment in regard to literary qualities, and
that with reference to works that chance brought to his notice. How-
ever, the preoccupations of a high morality of art, frankness and recti-
tude,—in a word, virtue and character,—were still more perceptible
## p. 12867 (#289) ##########################################
EDMOND SCHERER
12867
in his work. "He held," says M. Gréard, "that there is an infection
of the taste that is not compatible with honesty of the soul. He
reckoned among the virtues of a man of letters of the first rank, self-
respect and decency, that supreme grace. " » And Sainte-Beuve consid-
ers him a true judge, who neither gropes nor hesitates, having in
his own mind the means of taking the exact measure of any other
mind.
His literary criticism forms a collection of several volumes, bear-
ing the title 'Studies in Contemporary Literature. ' His other prin-
cipal works are 'Criticism and Belief' (1850), 'Letters to my Pastor'
(1853), Miscellanies of Religious Criticism' (1860), 'Miscellanies of
Religious History' (1864); and a considerable number of articles for
the newspapers and magazines.
Edmond Schérer died in 1889. He had taken for rule the maxim
of Emerson: "Express clearly to-day what thou thinkest to-day; to-
morrow thou shalt say what thou thinkest to-morrow. " To this rule
he was ever faithful.
He was grandly sincere.
Victor Charbonnel.
THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY
FROM REVIEW OF WOMAN IN THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY,' BY THE
GONCOURTS
I
COULD have wished this book of the brothers Goncourt a little
different: not abler, more instructive, better supported with
facts, for no man ever had a firmer grasp on his eighteenth
century than these authors; not juster in its appreciations, be-
cause, captivated as they were by the graces of that corrupt
century, their judgment of it was none the less rigorous. I could
only have wished that they had not proceeded so exclusively by
means of description and enumeration; and that in the many
pictures that pass before our eyes, the characteristic feature,
the association, the anecdote, had not taken the form of simple.
allusions, had not so often been indicated by a simple refer-
ence to some book I had not under my hand, to some engraving
I have no time to look up among the cartoons of the Imperial
Library. In a word, I should have liked more narratives and
more citations. With this reservation, I willingly recognize that
## p. 12868 (#290) ##########################################
12868
EDMOND SCHERER
the volume of the brothers Goncourt is one of those works that
most fully enable us to understand the century of which it treats;
which at least make us enter most fully into its innermost life,
its intellectual character. An epoch is not wholly known when
its literature is known; it does not even suffice us to read the
memoirs of those who lived in it: there are, besides, endless
details of manners, customs, dress; a thousand observations upon
the different classes of society and their condition; a thousand
nothings, unnoticed as the very air we breathe, yet having their
value and making their contribution to the complete effect. Now
the brothers Goncourt, with praiseworthy zeal and discretion, have
brought all this together. They have done for the eighteenth
century what learned pedants with fewer resources but with no
more ability have done for past civilizations: they have recon-
structed it by means of the monuments.
This volume on the woman of the eighteenth century is to
be followed by three others, dealing with man, the State, and
Paris at the same epoch. To say truth, however, the woman is
already the man, she is already the State itself, she is the whole
century. The most striking characteristic of the period under
consideration is, that it personifies itself in its women. This the
brothers Goncourt have recognized. "The soul of this time,"
say they in their somewhat exuberant style, "the centre of the
world, the point whence everything radiates, the summit whence
all descends, the image after which all things are modeled, is
woman. Woman in the eighteenth century is the principle that
governs, the reason that directs, the voice that commands. She
is the universal and inevitable cause, the origin of events, the
source of things. Nothing escapes her, and she holds everything
in her hand: the king and France, the will of the sovereign and
the power of opinion. She rules at court, she is mistress at the
fireside. The revolutions of alliances and systems, peace, war,
letters, arts, the fashions of the eighteenth century as well as its
destinies, all these she carries in her robe, she bends them to
her caprice or her passions. She causes degradations and pro-
motions. No catastrophes, no scandals, no great strokes, that
cannot be traced to her, in this century that she fills up with
prodigies, marvels, and adventures, in this history into which
she works the surprises of a novel. " The book of the brothers
Goncourt furnishes proof of these assertions on every page. It
sets forth on a small scale, but in a complete way, that epoch of
—
## p. 12869 (#291) ##########################################
EDMOND SCHERER
12869
which they have so truly said that it is the French century par
excellence, and that all our roots are found in it. This volume
puts a finger on its meanness, its greatness, its vices and its
virtues. It is the vices that are the most conspicuous. The
corruption of the eighteenth century has become proverbial. To
tell the truth, this corruption is the result of a historical situa-
tion. What is meant by the France of the eighteenth century is
a particular class of society, the polite and brilliant world. The
theme of history has always gone on enlarging. In old times
there was no history save that of conquerors and lawgivers.
Later we have that of the courts and of the nobility. After
the French Revolution, it is the nations and their destinies who
occupy the first plane. In the eighteenth century the middle
class has already raised and enriched itself, the distinction of
ranks is leveled; there is more than one plebeian name among
those that adorn the salons: nevertheless, society is still essen-
tially aristocratic; it is chiefly composed of people who have
nothing to do in the world save to enjoy their hereditary privi-
leges. The misfortune of the French nobility has always been
thus to constitute a dignity without functions. It formed not so
much an organic part of the State as a class of society. Con-
fined within the limits of a narrow caste, it had reduced life to
a matter of elegant and agreeable relations.
Hence the French salon, and all those graces of conversation,
all those refinements of mind and manners, that make up its
inimitable character. Hence at the same time, something arti-
ficial and unwholesome. Life does not easily forego a serious
aim. It offers this eternal contradiction: that, tending to happi-
ness, it nevertheless cannot adopt that as its special object with-
out in that very act destroying the conditions of it.
These men, these women, who seemed to exist only for those
things that appear most enviable,— grace and honor, love and
intelligence, these people had exhausted in themselves the
sources of intelligence and love. This consummate epicurism
defeated its own object. These virtues, limited to the virtues
of good-fellowship, were manifestly insufficient to uphold society.
This activity, in which duty, effort, sacrifice, had no place, con-
sumed itself. Extinguish the soul, the conscience, as useless
lights, and lo, all is utter darkness! The intellect was to have.
taken the place of everything; and the intellect has succeeded
only in blighting everything, and in blighting itself before all.
―――――――
## p. 12870 (#292) ##########################################
12870
EDMOND SCHÉRER
Only one demand was made of human destiny,- pleasure; and it
was ennui that responded.
That incurable evil of ennui - the eighteenth century betrays
it everywhere. That was its essential element, I had almost said
its principle. This explains its agitations, its antipathies, its fur-
tive sadnesses, the boldness of its vices. It floats about, finding
no object worth its constancy. It undertakes everything, always
to fall back into a profounder disenchantment. Each fruit it
gnaws can only leave a more bitter taste of ashes. It shakes
itself in the vain effort to realize that it is alive. It is sorrow-
ful, sorrowful as death, and has not even the dignity of melan-
choly. It finds all things spectacular; it watches itself live, and
that experiment has ceased to interest it. Lassitude, spiritual bar-
renness, prostration of all the vital forces,- this is all that came
of it. Then a well-known phenomenon makes its appearance.
Man never pauses: he goes on digging, he scoops out the very
void; no longer believing anything, he yet seeks an unknown
good that escapes him. Dissipation, even, pursues a fleeting
dream. It demands of the senses what they can never yield.
Irritated by its miscalculations, it invents subtleties. It seasons
libertinism with every kind of infamy. It becomes savage. It
takes pleasure in bringing suffering upon the creatures it annihi-
lates. It enjoys the remorse, the shame, of its victims. Its vanity
is occupied with compromising women, with breaking their hearts,
with corrupting them if it can. Thus gallantry is converted into
a cynicism of immorality. Men make a boast of cruelty and of
calculation in their cruelty. Good style advertises villainy. But
even this is not enough. Insatiable appetites will demand of
crime a certain savor that vice has lost for them. "There is,"
as the brothers Goncourt truly say,- "there is an inexorable logic
that compels the evil passions of humanity to go to the end of
themselves, and to burst in a final and absolute horror. This
logic assigned to the voluptuous immorality of the eighteenth
century its monstrous coronation. The habit of cruelty had be-
come too strong to remain in the head and not reach the senses.
Man had played too long with the suffering heart of woman not
to feel tempted to make her suffer more surely and more visibly.
Why, after exhausting tortures for her soul, should he not try
them upon her body? Why not seek grossly in her blood the
delights her tears had given? The doctrine sprang up, it took
shape: the whole century went over to it without knowing it; it
-
## p. 12871 (#293) ##########################################
EDMOND SCHERER
12871
was, in its last analysis, nothing more than the materialization.
of their appetites: and was it not inevitable that this last word
should be said, that the erethism of ferocity should establish itself
as a principle, as a revelation; and that at the end of this pol
ished and courtly decadence, after all these approaches to the
supreme torture of woman, M. de Sade, with the blood of the
guillotines, should set up the Terror in Love? "
This then is the eighteenth century: a century brilliant rather
than delicate, pleasure-loving without passion, whose void forever
goes on emptying itself, whose blunted vices seek a stimulus in
crime, whose frivolity becomes in the end almost tragical; a cen-
tury of impotence and of decline, a society that is sinking and
putrefying.
down with disheveled locks and in her rustling ducal mantle,
and drives his tormentors away, as the Savior drove out the usur-
ers from the temple. And she presents him her hand and lips
for the kiss of reconciliation.
Long and ardently his fantasy dwelt on that beautiful possi-
bility; a breath of consolation came to him; he spoke in the
words of the Preacher: "As gold is purified from dross in the
fire, so the heart of man is purified by sorrow. ' We will wait
and see what will happen. "
He heard a slight noise in the antechamber of his dungeon.
A stone jug was put down.
"You are to drink like a man," said a voice to the lay brother
on guard; "for on St. John's night all sorts of unearthly vis-
itors people the air and pass over our castle. So you must take
care to keep your courage up.
There's another jug for you
too. "
It was Praxedis who had brought the wine.
Ekkehard did not understand what she wanted. "Then she also
is false," thought he. "God protect me! "
He closed his eyes and fell asleep. After a good while he
was awakened. The wine had evidently been to the lay brother's
taste: he was singing a song in praise of the four goldsmiths
who once on a time had refused to make heathenish idols at
Rome, and suffered martyrdom. With his heavy sandal-clad foot
he was beating time on the stone flags. Ekkehard heard another
*«The good Lord is as much the sport of the wind as a sleeve. "
## p. 12852 (#274) ##########################################
12852
JOSEPH VICTOR VON SCHEFFEL
jug of wine brought to the man. The singing became loud and
uproarious. Then he held a soliloquy, in which he had much
to say about Italy and good fare, and "Santa Agnese fuori le
mura. " Then he ceased talking. The prisoner could distinctly
hear his snoring through the stone walls.
·
The castle was silent. It was about midnight. Ekkehard
lay in a doze, when it seemed to him as if the bolts were softly
drawn. He remained lying on his straw. A figure came in; a
soft hand was laid on the slumberer's forehead. He jumped up.
"Hush! " whispered his visitor.
« The
When all had gone to rest, Praxedis had kept awake.
wicked cellarer shall not have the satisfaction of punishing our
poor melancholy teacher," was her thought; and woman's cun-
ning always finds ways and means to accomplish her schemes.
Wrapping herself up in a gray cloak, she had stolen down. No
special artifices were necessary: the lay brother was sleeping the
sleep of the just. If he had been awake, the Greek girl would
have frightened him by some ghost trickery. That was her plan.
"You must escape! " said she to Ekkehard. "They mean to
>>
do their worst to you. "
"I know it," he replied sadly.
"Come, then. "
He shook his head. "I prefer to endure it," said he.
"Don't be a fool," whispered Praxedis. "First you built your
castle on the glittering rainbow; and now that it has all tumbled
down, you will allow them to ill-treat you into the bargain? As
if they had a right to flog you and drag you away!
And you
will let them have the pleasure of witnessing your humiliation?
It would be a nice spectacle they would make of you! 'One
does not see an honest man put to death every day,' said a man
to me once in Constantinople, when I asked him why he was in
such a hurry. "
"Where should I go to ? " asked Ekkehard.
"Neither to the Reichenau nor to your monastery," said Praxe-
"There is many a hiding-place left in the world. "
dis.
She was getting impatient; and seizing Ekkehard by the hand,
she dragged him on. "Come! " whispered she. He allowed him-
self to be led by her.
They glided past the sleeping watchman: now they stood in
the court-yard; the fountain was splashing merrily. Ekkehard
bent over the spout, and took a long draught of the cool water.
"All is over," said he. "And now away. "
## p. 12853 (#275) ##########################################
JOSEPH VICTOR VON SCHEFFEL
12853
It was a stormy night. "You cannot go out by the doorway,
the bridge is drawn up," said Praxedis; "but you can get down
between the rocks on the eastern side. Our shepherd boy has
tried that path before. "
They entered the little garden. A gust of wind went roaring
through the branches of the maple-tree. Ekkehard scarcely knew
what was happening to him.
He mounted the battlement. Steep and rugged fell the klink-
stone precipices; a dark abyss yawned before him; black clouds.
were chasing each other across the dusky sky,- weird, uncouth
shapes, as if two bears were pursuing a winged dragon. Soon
the fantastic forms melted together; the wind whipped them on-
ward toward the Bodensee, that glittered faintly in the distance.
Indistinctly outlined lay the landscape.
"Blessings on your way! " said Praxedis.
Ekkehard sat motionless on the battlement; he still held the
Greek girl's hand clasped in his. A mingled feeling of gratitude
and melancholy surged through his storm-tossed brain. Then her
cheek pressed against his, and a kiss trembled on his lips; he felt
a pearly tear. Gently Praxedis drew away her hand.
"Don't forget," said she, "that you still owe us a story. May
God lead your steps back again to this place some day, so that
we may hear it from your own lips. "
――――――――
Ekkehard now let himself down. He waved his hand once
more, then disappeared from her sight. The stillness of night
was interrupted by a rattling and clattering down the cliff. The
Greek girl peered down into the depths. A piece of rock had
become loosened, and fell noisily down into the valley. Another
followed somewhat slower; and on this Ekkehard was sitting,
guiding it as a rider does his horse. So he went down the steep
precipice into the blackness of the night.
Farewell!
She crossed herself and went back, smiling in spite of all her
sadness. The lay brother was still fast asleep. As she crossed
the court-yard, Praxedis spied a basket filled with ashes, which
she seized; and softly stealing back into Ekkehard's dungeon, she
poured out its contents in the middle of the room, as if this were
all that was left of the prisoner's earthly remains.
"Why dost thou snore so heavily, most reverend brother? "
she asked; and hurried away.
## p. 12854 (#276) ##########################################
12854
JOSEPH VICTOR VON SCHEFFEL
SONG OF THE ICHTHYOSAURUS
From Gaudeamus. ' By permission of the Translator
HERE'S a rustling in the rushes,
There's a flashing in the sea;
There's a tearful Ichthyosaurus
Swims hither mournfully!
TH
He weeps o'er the modern corruption,
Compared with the good old times,
And don't know what is the matter
With the Upper Jura limes!
The hoary old Plesiosaurus
Does naught but quaff and roar;
And the Pterodactylus lately
Flew drunk to his own front door!
The Iguanodon of the Period
Grows worse with every stratum
He kisses the Ichthyosauresses
Whenever he can get at 'em!
I feel a catastrophe coming;
This epoch will soon be done :
And what will become of the Jura
If such goings-on go on?
The groaning Ichthyosaurus
Turns suddenly chalky pale;
He sighs from his steaming nostrils,
He writhes with his dying tail!
In that selfsame hour and minute
Died the whole Saurian stem:
The fossil-oil in their liquor
Soon put an end to them!
And the poet found their story
Which here he doth indite,
In the form of a petrified album-leaf
Upon a coprolite!
Translation of Rossiter W. Raymond.
## p. 12855 (#277) ##########################################
JOSEPH VICTOR VON SCHEFFEL
12855
DECLARATION AND DEPARTURE
From The Trumpeter of Säkkingen'
Α
THIS morning meal the baron
Sat, deep poring o'er a letter
Which the day before had reached him.
From afar a post had ridden,
From the Danube, deep in Suabia,
Where the baby river ripples
Gleeful through a narrow valley.
Lofty crags jut sharply o'er it,
And its limpid waters mirror
Clear and bright their rugged outlines,
And the tender green of beech-woods.
Thence the messenger had ridden.
This the purport of the letter:
-
"My old comrade, do you ever
Think of Hans von Wildenstein?
Down the Rhine and down the Danube
Many drops of clearest water
Must have run to reach the ocean,
Since we lay beside our watch-fires,
In our last campaign together.
And I mark it by my youngster,
Who has grown a lusty fellow,
And his years count four-and-twenty.
First, as page, he went to Stuttgart,
To the duke; and then to college
To old Tübingen I sent him.
If I reckon by the money
He has squandered, it is certain
He must be a mighty scholar.
Now by me at home he tarries,
Chasing deer and hares and foxes;
And when other sport is lacking,
Chasing pretty peasant-maidens:
And 'tis time that he were broken
To the wholesome yoke of marriage.
Now, methinks, you have a daughter
Who a fitting bride would make him.
'Twixt old comrades, such as we are,
Many words are surely needless;
So, Sir Baron, I would ask you
## p. 12856 (#278) ##########################################
12856
JOSEPH VICTOR VON SCHEFFEL
Would it please you if my Damian
To your castle rode a-wooing,
Rode a-wooing to the Rhineland?
Send me speedy answer. -Greetings
From old Hans von Wildenstein.
Postscript. -Do you still remember
That great fray we fought at Augsburg
With the horsemen of Bavaria ?
And the rage of yon rich miser
And his most ungracious lady?
Why, 'tis two-and-thirty years since! "
Toilsomely the baron labored
At his comrade's crabbed writing,
And a full half-hour he puzzled,
Ere he mastered all its import.
Laughing then he spake :-"These Suabians
Are in sooth most knowing devils!
They are lacking in refinement,
Somewhat coarse in grain and fibre,
Yet of wit and prudence plenty
In their rugged pates is garnered.
Many a brainless coxcomb's noddle
They could stock and never miss it.
And my valiant Hans manœuvres
Rarely, like a veteran statesman.
His poor, mortgaged, moldering owl's-nest
By the Danube would be bolstered
Bravely by a handsome dowry.
Yet the scheme deserves a hearing.
Far and wide throughout the kingdom.
Are the Wildensteins respected,
Since with Kaiser Barbarossa
To the Holy Land they journeyed.
Let the varlet try his fortune! "
To the baron entered Werner.
Slow his gait and black his jerkin,
As on feast-days. Melancholy
Sat upon his pallid features.
Jestingly the other hailed him:
"I was in the act of sending
Honest Anton out to seek you.
Pray you, mend your pen and write me,
As my trusty scribe, a letter,
Letter of most weighty import.
---
## p. 12857 (#279) ##########################################
JOSEPH VICTOR VON SCHEFFEL
12857
For a knight has written asking.
Tidings of my lady daughter,
And he seeks her hand in marriage
For his son, the young Sir Damian.
Tell him, then, how Margaretha
Has grown tall and fair and stately.
Tell him but you need no prompting:
- -
Fancy you a painter-paint him,
Black on white, her living image,
Fairly, and forget no detail.
Say, if 'tis the youngster's pleasure,
I shall make no opposition
If he saddle and ride hither. "
"If he saddle and ride hither- »
Spake young Werner, as if dreaming.
To himself; and somewhat sharply
Quoth the baron, "But what ails you
That you wear a face as lengthy
As a Calvinistic preacher's
On Good Friday? Has the fever.
Once more taken hold upon you? "
Gravely made reply young Werner:-
"Sire, I cannot write the letter;
You must seek another penman,
Since I come myself to ask you
For your daughter's hand in marriage. "
:-
"For my daughter's hand in marriage ? »
Gasped the baron, sore bewildered
In his turn; and wryly twitching
Worked his mouth, as his who playeth
-
On a Jew's-harp. Through his left foot.
Shot a bitter throb of anguish.
"My young friend, the fever blazes
In your brain-pan like a furnace.
Go, I rede you, to the garden,
Where there plays a shady fountain.
If you dip your head beneath it
Thrice, the fever straight will vanish. "
"Noble sir," rejoined young Werner,
"Spare your gibes. You may require them,
Peradventure, when the wooer
Out of Suabia rideth hither.
## p. 12858 (#280) ##########################################
12858
JOSEPH VICTOR VON SCHEFFEL
Sober come I, free from fever,
On a very sober errand;
And of Margaretha's father
Ask, once more, her hand in marriage. ”
Darkly frowning spake the baron:-
"Do you force me, then, to tell you
What your own wit should have taught you?
Sore averse am I to meet you
With harsh earnest; for the pike-thrust,
That so late your forehead suffered,
Have I not forgotten; neither
In whose service you received it.
Yet he only may look upward
To my child, whose noble lineage
Makes such union meet and fitting.
For each one of us has nature
Limits strait and wise appointed,
Where, within our proper circle,
We may fitly thrive and prosper.
From the Holy Roman Empire
Has come down the social order
Threefold,- Noble, Burgess, Peasant:
Each, within itself included,
From itself itself renewing,
Full of health abides and hearty.
Each is thus a sturdy pillar
Which the whole supports, but never
Prospers any intermixture.
Wot ye what that has for issue?
Grandsons who of all have something
Yet are altogether nothing;
Shallow, empty, feeble mongrels,
Tottering, unloosed and shaken
From tradition's steadfast foothold.
Sharp-edged, perfect, must each man be;
And within his veins, as heirloom
From the foregone generations,
He should bear his life's direction.
Therefore equal rank in marriage
Is demanded by our usage,
Which, by me, as law is honored,
And across its fast-fixed ramparts
I will have no stranger scramble.
## p. 12859 (#281) ##########################################
JOSEPH VICTOR VON SCHEFFEL
12859
Item: Shall no trumpet-blower
Dare to court a noble maiden! "
Thus the baron. Sorely troubled
By such serious and unwonted
Theoretic disquisition,
Had he pieced his words together.
By the stove the cat was lying,
Hiddigeigei, listening heedful,
With his head approval nodding
At the close. Yet, musing, pressed he
With his paw upon his forehead,
Deep within himself reflecting:-
"Why do people kiss each other?
Ancient question, new misgiving!
For I thought that I had solved it,—
Thought a kiss was an expedient
Swift another's lips to padlock,
That no word of cruel candor
Issue forth. But this solution
Is, I fear me, quite fallacious;
Else my youthful friend most surely
Would long since have kissed my master. "
-
To the baron spake young Werner,
And his voice was low and muffled:-
"Sire, I thank you for your lesson.
In the glamour of the pine-woods,
In the May month's radiant sunshine,
By the river's crystal billows,
Did mine eyes o'erlook the ramparts
Raised by men, which lay between us.
Thanks for this reminder timely.
Thanks, too, for the hours so joyous
I have spent beneath your roof-tree.
But my span is run: the order
'Right about! ' your words have given me.
And in sooth, I make no murmur.
As a suitor worthy of her
One day I return, or never.
Fare you well! Think kindly of me. "
So he said, and left the chamber,
Knowing well what lay before him.
Long, with troubled mien, the baron
Scanned the door through which he vanished.
"Sooth, it grieves me sore," he muttered.
## p.
12860 (#282) ##########################################
12860
JOSEPH VICTOR VON SCHEFFEL
"If the brave lad's name were only
Damian von Wildenstein! "
Parting, bitter hour of parting!
Ah, who was it first conceived thee?
Sure, some chilly-hearted mortal
By the distant Arctic Ocean.
Freezing blew the North Pole zephyrs
Round his nose; sore pestered was he
By his wife, unkempt and jealous.
E'en the whale's delicious blubber
Tickled not his jaded palate.
O'er his ears a yellow sealskin
Drew he; in his fur-gloved right hand
Grasped his staff, and nodding curtly
To his stolid Ylaleyka,
Uttered first those words ill-omened,—
"Fare thee well, for I must leave thee. "
Parting, bitter hour of parting!
In his turret chamber, Werner
Girded up his few belongings,
Girded up his slender knapsack,
Threw a last regretful greeting
To the whitewashed walls familiar-
Loth to part, as from old comrades.
Farewell spake he to none other.
Margaretha's eyes of azure
Dared he never more encounter.
To the castle court descending,
Saddled swift his faithful palfrey;
Then there rang an iron hoof-fall,
And a drooping, joyless rider
Left the castle's peace behind him.
In the lowland by the river
Grows a walnut-tree. Beneath it
Once again he reined his palfrey,—
Once again he grasped his trumpet.
From his sorrow-laden spirit
Upward soared his farewell greeting,
Winged with saddest love and longing.
Soared-ah, dost thou know the fable
Of the song the swan sang dying?
At her heart was chill foreboding,
But she soug the lake's clear waters
## p. 12861 (#283) ##########################################
JOSEPH VICTOR VON SCHEFFEL
12861
Yet once more, and through the roses,
Through the glistening water-lilies,
Rose her plaintive song regretful:—
"Fairest world, 'tis mine to leave thee;
Fairest world, I die unwilling! "
Thus he blew. Was that a tear-drop
Falling, glancing, on the trumpet?
Was it but a summer rain-drop?
Onward now! His spurs relentless
In his palfrey's flanks he buried,
And was borne in rousing gallop
To the outskirts of the forest.
SONG: FAREWELL
From The Trumpeter of Säkkingen >
THIS
HIS is the bitterness of life's long story,—
That ever near the rose the thorns are set;
Poor heart, that dwells at first in dreams of glory,
The parting comes, and eyes with tears are wet.
Ah, once I read thine eyes, thy spirit's prison,
And love and joy in their clear depths could see:
May God protect thee! 'twas too fair a vision;
May God protect thee! it was not to be.
Long had I borne with envy, hate, and sorrow,
Weary and worn, by many a tempest tried;
I dreamed of peace and of a bright to-morrow,
And lo! my pathway led me to thy side.
I longed within thine arms to rest; then, risen
In strength and gladness, give my life to thee:
May God protect thee! 'twas too fair a vision;
May God protect thee! it was not to be.
Winds whirl the leaves, the clouds are driven together,
Through wood and meadow beats a storm of rain:
To say farewell 'tis just the fitting weather,
For like the sky, the world seems gray with pain.
Yet good nor ill shall shake my heart's decision;
Thou slender maid, I still must dream of thee!
May God protect thee! 'twas too fair a vision;
May God protect thee! it was not to be.
## p. 12862 (#284) ##########################################
12862
JOSEPH VICTOR VON SCHEFFEL
SONGS OF HIDDIGEIGEI, THE TOM-CAT
From The Trumpeter of Säkkingen'
I
Y THE storms of fierce temptation
Undisturbed I long have dwelt;
Yet e'en pattern stars of virtue
Unexpected pangs have felt.
Β΄
Hotter than in youth's hot furnace,
Dreams of yore steal in apace;
And the Cat's winged yearnings journey,
Unrestrained, o'er Time and Space.
Naples, land of light and wonder,
Cup of nectar never dry!
To Sorrento I would hasten,
On its topmost roof to lie.
Greets me dark Vesuvius; greets me
The white sail upon the sea;
Birds of spring make sweetest concert
In the budding olive-tree.
Toward the loggia steals Carmela,-
Fairest of the feline race,—
And she softly pulls my whiskers,
And she gazes in my face;
And my paw she gently presses;
Hark! I hear a growling noise:
Can it be the Bay's hoarse murmur,
Or Vesuvius's distant voice?
_____
Nay, Vesuvius's voice is silent,
For to-day he takes his rest.
In the yard, destruction breathing,
Bays the dog of fiendish breast,-
Bays Francesco the Betrayer,
Worst of all his evil race;
And I see my dream dissolving,
Melting in the sky's embrace.
-
## p. 12863 (#285) ##########################################
JOSEPH VICTOR VON SCHEFFEL
12863
II
EARTH once was untroubled by man, they say;
Those days are over and fled,
When the forest primeval crackling lay
'Neath the mammoth's mighty tread.
Ye may search throughout all the land in vain
For the lion, the desert's own;
In sooth we are settled now, 'tis plain,
In a truly temperate zone.
The palm is borne, in life and in verse,
By neither the Great nor the Few:
The world grows weaker and ever worse,
'Tis the day of the Small and the New.
When we Cats are silenced, ariseth the Mouse,
But she too must pack and begone;
And the Infusoria's Royal House
Shall triumph, at last, alone.
III
NEAR the close of his existence
Hiddigeigei stands and sighs;
Death draws nigh with fell insistence,
Ruthlessly to close his eyes.
Fain from out his wisdom's treasure,
Counsels for his race he'd draw,
That amid life's changeful measure
They might find some settled law.
Fain their path through life he'd soften:
Rough it lies and strewn with stones;
E'en the old and wise may often
Stumble there, and break their bones.
Life with many brawls is cumbered,
Useless wounds and useless pain;
Cats both black and brave unnumbered
Have for naught been foully slain.
Ah, in vain our tales of sorrow!
Hark! I hear the laugh of youth.
Fools to-day and fools to-morrow,
Woe alone will teach them truth.
## p. 12864 (#286) ##########################################
12864
JOSEPH VICTOR VON SCHEFFEL
All in vain is history's teaching:
Listen how they laugh again!
Hiddigeigei's lore and preaching
Locked in silence must remain.
IV
SOON life's thread must break and ravel;
Weak this arm, once strong and brave;
In the scene of all my travail,
In the granary, dig my grave.
Warlike glory there I won me;
All the fight's fierce joy was mine:
Lay my shield and lance upon me,
As the last of all my line.
Ay, the last! The children's merit
Like their sires' can never grow:
Naught they know of strife of spirit;
Upright are they, dull and slow,
Dull and meagre; stiffly, slowly,
Move their minds, of force bereft;
Few indeed will keep as holy
The bequest their sires have left.
Yet once more, in days far distant,
When at rest I long have lain,
One fierce caterwaul insistent
Through your ranks shall ring again:-
"Flee, ye fools, from worse than ruin! "
Hark to Hiddigeigei's cry:
Hark, his wrathful ghostly mewing:-
"Flee from mediocrity! "
## p. 12865 (#287) ##########################################
12865
EDMOND SCHÉRER
XXII-805
(1815-1889)
BY VICTOR CHARBONNEL
L
DMOND SCHÉRER was at once a very learned theologian, a very
profound philosopher, a very vigorous writer. What makes
him especially interesting is the crisis in his faith and in
his thought which led him to abandon theology for philosophy and
literature. He is one of those great spirits, very numerous in our
century, who have delivered themselves from the formulas of an
unquestioning and passive faith, and sought with absolute sincerity
the religion of the conscience.
Edmond Schérer was born at Paris, in 1815. His family was of
Swiss descent, and held the Protestant faith. He early manifested
an ardent love of reading: his school tasks suffered somewhat from
it. Moreover, his father sent him to England to be with the Rev.
Thomas Loader of Monmouth. This earnest clergyman had a salu-
tary influence upon the young man; he inspired him with the love
of duty and of work, he made a Christian of him. When Edmond
Schérer, after an absence of two years, was about to leave England,
he determined to become a shepherd of souls; and besides, he now
understood the language admirably, and had made a study of Eng-
lish literature.
He then entered upon the course of the Faculty of Theology at
Strasbourg, where celebrated professors were among the instructors,
notably Édouard Reuss. When his theological studies were over, he
retired for several years, and published his first writings.
Owing to the reputation thus achieved, he was elected in 1845
professor in the School of Liberal Theology at Geneva. The instruc-
tion he gave at that time had no small renown. But one of the
fundamental doctrines of the School of Liberal Theology was faith
in the full inspiration of the Bible. He soon declared himself unable
to accept it, and spoke of resigning his chair.
In his remarkable article, the Crisis of the Faith,' he protested
against the abuse of authority in religious things, and affirmed the
duty of personal examination, of unrestricted investigation, of religion
founded on criticism. Thenceforward, according to Sainte-Beuve, he
was "an indefatigable intelligence, ever advancing in ceaseless evo-
lution. "
## p. 12866 (#288) ##########################################
12866
EDMOND SCHÉRER
Having resigned his professorship in 1850, he became, with Colani,
the head of the new French school of liberal Protestantism, and took
a most active part in editing the Review of Theology and Christian
Philosophy, of Strasbourg. His articles and his studies gave rise to
violent discussions. Assuredly he recognized that "if there is any-
thing certain in the world, it is that the destiny of the Bible is
closely linked with the destiny of holiness upon the earth. ” But he
whom he called with full conviction a great Christian-a Goethe or
a Hegel in intellectual power and literary talent, but carrying the
Evangel in his heart-was "he who will let fall like a worn-out gar-
ment all that is temporary in the faith of past ages, all that criticism
has victoriously assailed, all that divides the churches, but who shall
know at the same time how to speak to men's consciences, how to
revive the love of the truth, how to find the word of the future,
while disengaging all that is identical, eternal in the Christianity of
all ages. "
Suddenly in 1860, a volume that he published under the title
'Miscellanies of Religious Criticism,'-containing vigorous studies of
Joseph de Maistre, Lamennais, Le P. Gratry, Veuillot, Taine, Proud-
hon, Renan, revealed in the theologian a very searching critic.
Sainte-Beuve hailed the book with many encomiums, and placed the
author in "the front rank of French writers. "
Also, the contradictions perceptible between different parts of this
work clearly show that Edmond Schérer continually sought his way;
and that he tended towards that philosophical rather than theologi-
cal conception, which makes of Christianity the perfect and defini-
tive religion, but not the absolute and complete truth. Christianity
appeared to him the result of a long elaboration of the human con-
science, destined to prepare further elaborations; in a word, one of
the phases of universal transformation. The theory of the evolu-
tion of the human mind became his new religion.
But if he ceased to be an orthodox believer, Edmond Schérer was
always a man of noble moral faith, a true Christian; and he, was
so throughout his work of literary criticism. When the newspaper
Le Temps was established in 1861, he did a share of the editing; he
wrote for it political articles, and above all studies in literature.
They showed the talent of a writer, the force of a thinker; and the
prodigious extent of knowledge manifested in the care he took to
attack all subjects, to reduce them to two or three essential points,
to discuss them exhaustively, to give a concise opinion in regard
to ideas and a firm judgment in regard to literary qualities, and
that with reference to works that chance brought to his notice. How-
ever, the preoccupations of a high morality of art, frankness and recti-
tude,—in a word, virtue and character,—were still more perceptible
## p. 12867 (#289) ##########################################
EDMOND SCHERER
12867
in his work. "He held," says M. Gréard, "that there is an infection
of the taste that is not compatible with honesty of the soul. He
reckoned among the virtues of a man of letters of the first rank, self-
respect and decency, that supreme grace. " » And Sainte-Beuve consid-
ers him a true judge, who neither gropes nor hesitates, having in
his own mind the means of taking the exact measure of any other
mind.
His literary criticism forms a collection of several volumes, bear-
ing the title 'Studies in Contemporary Literature. ' His other prin-
cipal works are 'Criticism and Belief' (1850), 'Letters to my Pastor'
(1853), Miscellanies of Religious Criticism' (1860), 'Miscellanies of
Religious History' (1864); and a considerable number of articles for
the newspapers and magazines.
Edmond Schérer died in 1889. He had taken for rule the maxim
of Emerson: "Express clearly to-day what thou thinkest to-day; to-
morrow thou shalt say what thou thinkest to-morrow. " To this rule
he was ever faithful.
He was grandly sincere.
Victor Charbonnel.
THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY
FROM REVIEW OF WOMAN IN THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY,' BY THE
GONCOURTS
I
COULD have wished this book of the brothers Goncourt a little
different: not abler, more instructive, better supported with
facts, for no man ever had a firmer grasp on his eighteenth
century than these authors; not juster in its appreciations, be-
cause, captivated as they were by the graces of that corrupt
century, their judgment of it was none the less rigorous. I could
only have wished that they had not proceeded so exclusively by
means of description and enumeration; and that in the many
pictures that pass before our eyes, the characteristic feature,
the association, the anecdote, had not taken the form of simple.
allusions, had not so often been indicated by a simple refer-
ence to some book I had not under my hand, to some engraving
I have no time to look up among the cartoons of the Imperial
Library. In a word, I should have liked more narratives and
more citations. With this reservation, I willingly recognize that
## p. 12868 (#290) ##########################################
12868
EDMOND SCHERER
the volume of the brothers Goncourt is one of those works that
most fully enable us to understand the century of which it treats;
which at least make us enter most fully into its innermost life,
its intellectual character. An epoch is not wholly known when
its literature is known; it does not even suffice us to read the
memoirs of those who lived in it: there are, besides, endless
details of manners, customs, dress; a thousand observations upon
the different classes of society and their condition; a thousand
nothings, unnoticed as the very air we breathe, yet having their
value and making their contribution to the complete effect. Now
the brothers Goncourt, with praiseworthy zeal and discretion, have
brought all this together. They have done for the eighteenth
century what learned pedants with fewer resources but with no
more ability have done for past civilizations: they have recon-
structed it by means of the monuments.
This volume on the woman of the eighteenth century is to
be followed by three others, dealing with man, the State, and
Paris at the same epoch. To say truth, however, the woman is
already the man, she is already the State itself, she is the whole
century. The most striking characteristic of the period under
consideration is, that it personifies itself in its women. This the
brothers Goncourt have recognized. "The soul of this time,"
say they in their somewhat exuberant style, "the centre of the
world, the point whence everything radiates, the summit whence
all descends, the image after which all things are modeled, is
woman. Woman in the eighteenth century is the principle that
governs, the reason that directs, the voice that commands. She
is the universal and inevitable cause, the origin of events, the
source of things. Nothing escapes her, and she holds everything
in her hand: the king and France, the will of the sovereign and
the power of opinion. She rules at court, she is mistress at the
fireside. The revolutions of alliances and systems, peace, war,
letters, arts, the fashions of the eighteenth century as well as its
destinies, all these she carries in her robe, she bends them to
her caprice or her passions. She causes degradations and pro-
motions. No catastrophes, no scandals, no great strokes, that
cannot be traced to her, in this century that she fills up with
prodigies, marvels, and adventures, in this history into which
she works the surprises of a novel. " The book of the brothers
Goncourt furnishes proof of these assertions on every page. It
sets forth on a small scale, but in a complete way, that epoch of
—
## p. 12869 (#291) ##########################################
EDMOND SCHERER
12869
which they have so truly said that it is the French century par
excellence, and that all our roots are found in it. This volume
puts a finger on its meanness, its greatness, its vices and its
virtues. It is the vices that are the most conspicuous. The
corruption of the eighteenth century has become proverbial. To
tell the truth, this corruption is the result of a historical situa-
tion. What is meant by the France of the eighteenth century is
a particular class of society, the polite and brilliant world. The
theme of history has always gone on enlarging. In old times
there was no history save that of conquerors and lawgivers.
Later we have that of the courts and of the nobility. After
the French Revolution, it is the nations and their destinies who
occupy the first plane. In the eighteenth century the middle
class has already raised and enriched itself, the distinction of
ranks is leveled; there is more than one plebeian name among
those that adorn the salons: nevertheless, society is still essen-
tially aristocratic; it is chiefly composed of people who have
nothing to do in the world save to enjoy their hereditary privi-
leges. The misfortune of the French nobility has always been
thus to constitute a dignity without functions. It formed not so
much an organic part of the State as a class of society. Con-
fined within the limits of a narrow caste, it had reduced life to
a matter of elegant and agreeable relations.
Hence the French salon, and all those graces of conversation,
all those refinements of mind and manners, that make up its
inimitable character. Hence at the same time, something arti-
ficial and unwholesome. Life does not easily forego a serious
aim. It offers this eternal contradiction: that, tending to happi-
ness, it nevertheless cannot adopt that as its special object with-
out in that very act destroying the conditions of it.
These men, these women, who seemed to exist only for those
things that appear most enviable,— grace and honor, love and
intelligence, these people had exhausted in themselves the
sources of intelligence and love. This consummate epicurism
defeated its own object. These virtues, limited to the virtues
of good-fellowship, were manifestly insufficient to uphold society.
This activity, in which duty, effort, sacrifice, had no place, con-
sumed itself. Extinguish the soul, the conscience, as useless
lights, and lo, all is utter darkness! The intellect was to have.
taken the place of everything; and the intellect has succeeded
only in blighting everything, and in blighting itself before all.
―――――――
## p. 12870 (#292) ##########################################
12870
EDMOND SCHÉRER
Only one demand was made of human destiny,- pleasure; and it
was ennui that responded.
That incurable evil of ennui - the eighteenth century betrays
it everywhere. That was its essential element, I had almost said
its principle. This explains its agitations, its antipathies, its fur-
tive sadnesses, the boldness of its vices. It floats about, finding
no object worth its constancy. It undertakes everything, always
to fall back into a profounder disenchantment. Each fruit it
gnaws can only leave a more bitter taste of ashes. It shakes
itself in the vain effort to realize that it is alive. It is sorrow-
ful, sorrowful as death, and has not even the dignity of melan-
choly. It finds all things spectacular; it watches itself live, and
that experiment has ceased to interest it. Lassitude, spiritual bar-
renness, prostration of all the vital forces,- this is all that came
of it. Then a well-known phenomenon makes its appearance.
Man never pauses: he goes on digging, he scoops out the very
void; no longer believing anything, he yet seeks an unknown
good that escapes him. Dissipation, even, pursues a fleeting
dream. It demands of the senses what they can never yield.
Irritated by its miscalculations, it invents subtleties. It seasons
libertinism with every kind of infamy. It becomes savage. It
takes pleasure in bringing suffering upon the creatures it annihi-
lates. It enjoys the remorse, the shame, of its victims. Its vanity
is occupied with compromising women, with breaking their hearts,
with corrupting them if it can. Thus gallantry is converted into
a cynicism of immorality. Men make a boast of cruelty and of
calculation in their cruelty. Good style advertises villainy. But
even this is not enough. Insatiable appetites will demand of
crime a certain savor that vice has lost for them. "There is,"
as the brothers Goncourt truly say,- "there is an inexorable logic
that compels the evil passions of humanity to go to the end of
themselves, and to burst in a final and absolute horror. This
logic assigned to the voluptuous immorality of the eighteenth
century its monstrous coronation. The habit of cruelty had be-
come too strong to remain in the head and not reach the senses.
Man had played too long with the suffering heart of woman not
to feel tempted to make her suffer more surely and more visibly.
Why, after exhausting tortures for her soul, should he not try
them upon her body? Why not seek grossly in her blood the
delights her tears had given? The doctrine sprang up, it took
shape: the whole century went over to it without knowing it; it
-
## p. 12871 (#293) ##########################################
EDMOND SCHERER
12871
was, in its last analysis, nothing more than the materialization.
of their appetites: and was it not inevitable that this last word
should be said, that the erethism of ferocity should establish itself
as a principle, as a revelation; and that at the end of this pol
ished and courtly decadence, after all these approaches to the
supreme torture of woman, M. de Sade, with the blood of the
guillotines, should set up the Terror in Love? "
This then is the eighteenth century: a century brilliant rather
than delicate, pleasure-loving without passion, whose void forever
goes on emptying itself, whose blunted vices seek a stimulus in
crime, whose frivolity becomes in the end almost tragical; a cen-
tury of impotence and of decline, a society that is sinking and
putrefying.
