Book: Stories by Foreign Authors: German (V.2)

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STORIES BY FOREIGN AUTHORS - GERMAN

CHRISTIAN GELLERT'S LAST
CHRISTMAS ...... BY BERTHOLD AUERBACH

A GHETTO VIOLET ..... BY LEOPOLD KOMPERT

THE SEVERED HAND .... BY WILHELM HAUFF

PETER SCHLEMIHL..... BY ADELBERT VON CHAMISSO




PUBLISHERS' NOTE

The translations in this volume, where previously published, are used
by arrangement with the owners of the copyrights (as specified at the
beginning of each story). Translations made especially for the series
are covered by its general copyright. All rights in both classes are
reserved.




CHRISTIAN GELLERT'S LAST CHRISTMAS

BY

BERTHOLD AUERBACH


From "German Tales."

1869


Three o'clock had just struck from the tower of St. Nicholas, Leipzig,
on the afternoon of December 22d, 1768, when a man, wrapped in a loose
overcoat, came out of the door of the University. His countenance was
exceedingly gentle, and on his features cheerfulness still lingered, for
he had been gazing upon a hundred cheerful faces; after him thronged a
troop of students, who, holding back, allowed him to precede them: the
passengers in the streets saluted him, and some students, who pressed
forwards and hurried past him homewards, saluted him quite
reverentially. He returned their salutations with a surprised and almost
deprecatory air, and yet he knew, and could not conceal from himself,
that he was one of the best beloved, not only in the good city of
Leipzig, but in all lands far and wide.

It was Christian Furchtegott Gellert, the Poet of Fables, Hymns, and
Lays, who was just leaving his college.

When we read his "Lectures upon Morals," which were not printed until
after his death, we obtain but a very incomplete idea of the great power
with which they came immediately from Gellert's mouth. Indeed, it was
his voice, and the touching manner in which he delivered his lectures,
that made so deep an impression upon his hearers; and Rabener was right
when once he wrote to a friend, that "the philanthropic voice" of
Gellert belonged to his words.

Above all, however, it was the amiable and pure personal character of
Gellert which vividly and edifyingly impressed young hearts. Gellert was
himself the best example of pure moral teaching; and the best which a
teacher can give his pupils is faith in the victorious might, and the
stability of the eternal moral laws. His lessons were for the Life, for
his life in itself was a lesson. Many a victory over the troubles of
life, over temptations of every kind, ay, many an elevation to nobility
of thought, and to purity of action, had its origin in that
lecture-hall, at the feet of Gellert.

It was as though Gellert felt that it was the last time he would deliver
these lectures; that those words so often and so impressively uttered
would be heard no more from his mouth; and there was a peculiar sadness,
yet a peculiar strength, in all he said that day.

He had this day earnestly recommended modesty and humility; and it
appeared almost offensive to him, that people as he went should tempt
him in regard to these very virtues; for continually he heard men
whisper, "That is Gellert!"

What is fame, and what is honor? A cloak of many colors, without warmth,
without protection: and now, as he walked along, his heart literally
froze in his bosom, as he confessed to himself that he had as yet done
nothing--nothing which could give him a feeling of real satisfaction.
Men honored him and loved him: but what was all that worth? His
innermost heart could not be satisfied with that; in his own estimation
he deserved no meed of praise; and where, where was there any evidence
of that higher and purer life which he would fain bring about! Then,
again, the Spirit would comfort him and say: "Much seed is lost, much
falls in stony places, and much on good ground and brings forth
sevenfold."

His inmost soul heard not the consolation, for his body was weak and
sore burdened from his youth up, and in his latter days yet more than
ever; and there are conditions of the body in which the most elevating
words, and the cheeriest notes of joy, strike dull and heavy on the
soul. It is one of the bitterest experiences of life to discover how
little one man can really be to another. How joyous is that youthful
freshness which can believe that, by a thought transferred to another's
heart, we can induce him to become another being, to live according to
what he must acknowledge true, to throw aside his previous delusions,
and return to the right path!

The youngsters go their way! Do your words follow after? Whither are
they going? What are now their thoughts? What manner of life will be
theirs? "My heart yearns after them, but cannot be with them: oh, how
happy were those messengers of the Spirit, who cried aloud to youth or
manhood the words of the Spirit, that they must leave their former ways,
and thenceforth change to other beings! Pardon me, O God! that I would
fain be like them; I am weak and vile, and yet, methinks, there must be
words as yet unheard, unknown--oh! where are they, those words which at
once lay hold upon the soul?"

With such heavy thoughts went Gellert away from his college-gate to
Rosenthal. There was but one small pathway cleared, but the passers
cheerfully made way for him, and walked in the snow that they might
leave him the pathway unimpeded; but he felt sad, and "as if each tree
had somewhat to cast at him." Like all men really pure, and cleaving to
the good with all their might, Gellert was not only far from contenting
himself with work already done: he also, in his anxiety to be doing,
almost forgot that he the inward depression easily changes to
displeasure against every one, and the household of the melancholic
suffers thereby intolerably; for the displeasure turns against them,--no
one does anything properly, nothing is in its place. How very different
is Gellert's melancholy! Not a soul suffers from it but himself, against
himself alone his gloomy thoughts turn, and towards every other creature
he is always kind, amiable, and obliging: he bites his lips; but when
he speaks to any one, he is wholly good, forbearing, and self-forgetful.

Whilst they were talking together, Gellert was sitting in his room, and
had lighted a pipe to dispel the agitation which he would experience in
opening his letters; and while smoking, he could read them much more
comfortably. He reproached himself for smoking, which was said to be
injurious to his health, but he could not quite give up the "horrible
practice," as he called it.

He first examined the addresses and seals of the letters which had
arrived, then quietly opened and read them. A fitful smile passed over
his features; there were letters from well-known friends, full of love
and admiration, but from strangers also, who, in all kinds of
heart-distress, took counsel of him. He read the letters full of
friendly applause, first hastily, that he might have the right of
reading them again, and that he might not know all at once; and when he
had read a friend's letter for the second time, he sprang from his seat
and cried, "Thank God! thank God! that I am so fortunate as to have such
friends!" To his inwardly diffident nature these helps were a real
requirement; they served to cheer him, and only those who did not know
him called his joy at the reception of praise--conceit; it was, on the
contrary, the truest modesty. How often did he sit there, and all that
he had taught and written, all that he had ever been to men in word and
deed, faded, vanished, and died away, and he appeared to himself but a
useless servant of the world. His friends he answered immediately; and
as his inward melancholy vanished, and the philanthropy, nay, the
sprightliness of his soul beamed forth, when he was among men and looked
in a living face, so was it also with his letters. When he bethought him
of the friends to whom he was writing, he not only acquired
tranquillity, that virtue for which his whole life long he strove; but
his loving nature received new life, and only by slight intimations did
he betray the heaviness and dejection which weighed upon his soul. He
was, in the full sense of the word, "philanthropic," in the sight of
good men; and in thoughts for their welfare, there was for him a real
happiness and a joyous animation.

When, however, he had done writing and felt lonely again, the gloomy
spirits came back: he had seated himself, wishing to raise his thoughts
for composing a sacred song; but he was ill at ease, and had no power
to express that inward, firm, and self-rejoicing might of faith which
lived in him. Again and again the scoffers and free-thinkers rose up
before his thoughts: he must refute their objections, and not until that
was done did he become himself.

It is a hard position, when a creative spirit cannot forget the
adversaries which on all sides oppose him in the world: they come
unsummoned to the room and will not be expelled; they peer over the
shoulder, and tug at the hand which fain would write; they turn images
upside down, and distort the thoughts; and here and there, from ceiling
and wall, they grin, and scoff, and oppose: and what was just gushing
as an aspiration from the soul, is converted to a confused absurdity.

At such a time, the spirit, courageous and self-dependent, must take
refuge in itself and show a firm front to a world of foes.

A strong nature boldly hurls his inkstand at the Devil's head; goes to
battle with his opponents with words both written and spoken; and keeps
his own individuality free from the perplexities with which opponents
disturb all that has been previously done, and make the soul unsteadfast
and unnerved for what is to come.

Gellert's was no battling, defiant nature, which relies upon itself; he
did not hurl his opponents down and go his way; he would convince them,
and so they were always ready to encounter him. And as the applause of
his friends rejoiced him, so the opposition of his enemies could sink
him in deep dejection. Besides, he had always been weakly; he had, as
he himself complained, in addition to frequent coughs and a pain in his
loins, a continual gnawing and pressure in the centre of his chest,
which accompanied him from his first rising in the morning until he
slept at night.

Thus he sat for a while, in deep dejection: and, as often before, his
only wish was, that God would give him grace whereby when his hour was
come, he might die piously and tranquilly.

It was past midnight when he sought his bed and extinguished his light.

And the buckets at the well go up and go down.

About the same hour, in Duben Forest, the rustic Christopher was rising
from his bed. As with steel and flint he scattered sparks upon the
tinder, in kindling himself a light, his wife, awakening, cried:

"Why that heavy sigh?"

"Ah! life is a burden: I'm the most harassed mortal in the world. The
pettiest office-clerk may now be abed in peace, and needn't break off
his sleep, while I must go out and brave wind and weather."

"Be content," replied his wife: "why, I dreamt you had actually been
made magistrate, and wore something on your head like a king's crown."

"Oh! you women; as though what you see isn't enough, you like to chatter
about what you dream."

"Light the lamp, too," said his wife, "and I'll get up and make you a
nice porridge."

The peasant, putting a candle in his lantern, went to the stable; and
after he had given some fodder to the horses, he seated himself upon the
manger. With his hands squeezed between his knees and his head bent
down, he reflected over and over again what a wretched existence he had
of it. "Why," thought he, "are so many men so well-off, so comfortable,
whilst you must be always toiling? What care I if envy be not a
virtue?--and yet I'm not envious, I don't grudge others being well-off,
only I should like to be well-off too; oh, for a quiet, easy life! Am
I not worse off than a horse? He gets his fodder at the proper time, and
takes no care about it. Why did my father make my brother a minister?
He gets his salary without any trouble, sits in a warm room, has no care
in the world; and I must slave and torment myself."

Strange to say, his very next thought, that he would like to be made
local magistrate, he would in no wise confess to himself.

He sat still a long while; then he went back again to the sitting-room,
past the kitchen, where the fire was burning cheerily. He seated himself
at the table and waited for his morning porridge. On the table lay an
open book; his children had been reading it the previous evening:
involuntarily taking it up, he began to read. Suddenly he started,
rubbed his eyes, and then read again. How comes this verse here just at
this moment? He kept his hand upon the book, and so easily had he caught
the words, that he repeated them to himself softly with his lips, and
nodded several times, as much as to say: "That's true!" And he said
aloud: "It's all there together: short and sweet!" and he was still
staring at it, when his wife brought in the smoking porridge. Taking off
his cap, he folded his hands and said aloud:

"Accept God's gifts with resignation,
Content to lack what thou hast not:
In every lot there's consolation;
There's trouble, too, in every lot!"

The wife looked at her husband with amazement. What a strange expression
was upon his face! And as he sat down and began to eat, she said: "What
is the meaning of that grace? What has to you? Where did you find it?"

"It the best of all graces, the very best,--real God's word. Yes, and
all your life you've never made such nice porridge before. You must have
put something special in it!"

"I don't know what you mean. Stop! There's the book lying there--ah!
that's it-- and it's by Gellert, of Leipzig."

"What! Gellert, of Leipzig! Men with ideas like that don't live now;
there may have been such, a thousand years ago, in holy lands, not among
us; those are the words of a saint of old."

"And I tell you they are by Gellert, of Leipzig, of whom your brother
has told us; in fact, he was his tutor, and haven't you heard how pious
and good he is?"

"I wouldn't have believed that such men still lived, and so near us,
too, as Leipzig."

"Well, but those who lived a thousand years ago were also once living
creatures: and over Leipzig is just the same heaven, and the same sun
shines, and the same God rules, as over all other cities."

"Oh! yes, my brother has an apt pupil in you!"

"Well, and why not? I've treasured up all he told us of Professor
Gellert."

"Professor!"

"Yes, Professor!"

"A man with such a proud, new-fangled title couldn't write anything like
that!"

"He didn't give himself the title, and he is poor enough withal! and how
hard it has fared with him! Even from childhood he has been well
acquainted with poverty: his father was a poor minister in Haynichen,
with thirteen children; Gellert, when quite a little fellow, was obliged
to be a copying office-clerk: who can tell whether he didn't then
contract that physical weakness of his? And now that he's an old man,
things will never go better with him; he has often no wood, and must be
pinched with cold. It is with him, perhaps, as with that student of whom
your brother has told us, who is as poor as a rat, and yet must read;
and so in winter he lies in bed with an empty stomach, until day is far
advanced; and he has his book before him, and first he takes out one
hand to hold his book, and then, when that is numb with cold, the other.
Ah! tongue cannot tell how poorly the man must live; and yet your
brother has told me, if he has but a few pounds, he doesn't think at all
of himself; he always looks out for one still poorer than he is, and
then gives all away: and he's always engaged in aiding and assisting
others. Oh! dear, and yet he is so poor! May be at this moment he is
hungry and cold; and he is said to be in ill-health, besides."

"Wife, I would willingly do the man a good turn if I could. If, now, he
had some land, I could plough, and sow, and reap, and carry, and thresh
by the week together for him. I should like to pay him attention in such
a way that he might know there was at least one who cared for him. But
his profession is one in which I can't be of any use to him."

"Well, just seek him out and speak with him once; you are going to-day,
you know, with your wood to Leipzig. Seek him out and thank him; that
sort of thing does such a man's heart good. Anybody can see him."

"Yes, yes; I should like much to see him, and hold out to him my
hand,--but not empty: I wish I had something!"

"Speak to your brother, and get him to give you a note to him."

"No, no; say nothing to my brother; but it might be possible for me to
meet him in the street. Give me my Sunday coat; it will come to no harm
under my cloak."

When his wife brought him the coat, she said: "If, now, Gellert had a
wife, or a household of his own, one might send him something; but your
brother says he is a bachelor, and lives quite alone."

Christopher had never before so cheerfully harnessed his horses and put
them to his wood-laden wagon; for a long while he had not given his hand
so gayly to his wife at parting as to-day. Now he started with his
heavily-laden vehicle through the village; the wheels creaked and
crackled in the snow. At the parsonage he stopped, and looked away
yonder where his brother was still sleeping; he thought he would wake
him and tell him his intention: but suddenly he whipped up his horses,
and continued his route. He wouldn't yet bind himself to his intention--
perchance it was but a passing thought; he doesn't own that to himself,
but he says to himself that he will surprise his brother with the news
of what he has done; and then his thoughts wandered away to the good man
still sleeping yonder in the city; and he hummed the verse to himself
in an old familiar tune.

Wonderfully in life do effects manifest themselves, of which we have no
trace. Gellert, too, heard in his dreams a singing; he knew not what it
was, but it rang so consolingly, so joyously! ... Christopher drove on,
and he felt as though a bandage had been taken from his eyes; he
reflected what a nice house, what a bonny wife and rosy children he had,
and how warm the cloak which he had thrown over him was, and how well
off were both man and beast; and through the still night he drove along,
and beside him sat a spirit; but not an illusion of the brain, such as
in olden time men conjured up to their terror, a good spirit sat beside
him--beside the woodman who his whole life long had never believed that
anything could have power over him but what had hands and feet.

It is said that, on troublous nights, evil spirits settle upon the necks
of men, and belabor them so that they gasp and sweat for very terror;
quite another sort it was to-day which sat by the woodman: and his heart
was warm, and its beating quick.

In ancient times, men also carried loads of wood through the night, that
heretics might be burned thereon: these men thought they were doing a
good deed in helping to execute justice; and who can say how painful it
was to their hearts, when they were forced to think: To-morrow, on this
wood which now you carry, will shriek, and crackle, and gasp, a human
being like yourself? Who can tell what black spirits settled on the
necks of those who bore the wood to make the funeral-pile? How very
different was it to-day with our woodman Christopher!

And earlier still, in ancient times, men brought wood to the temple,
whereon they offered victims in the honor of God; and, according to
their notions, they did a good deed: for when words can no longer
suffice to express the fervency of the heart, it gladly offers what it
prizes, what it dearly loves, as a proof of its devotion, of the
earnestness of its intent.

How differently went Christopher from the Duben Forest upon his way! He
knew not whether he were intending to bring a purer offering than men
had brought in bygone ages; but his heart grew warm within him.

It was day as he arrived before the gates of Leipzig. Here there met him
a funeral-procession; behind the bier the scholars of St. Thomas, in
long black cloaks, were chanting. Christopher stopped and raised his
hat. Whom were they burying? Supposing it were Gellert.--Yes, surely,
he thought, it is he: and how gladly, said he to himself, would you now
have done him a kindness--ay, even given him your wood! Yes, indeed you
would, and now he is dead, and you cannot give him any help!

As soon as the train had passed, Christopher asked who was being buried.
It was a simple burgher, it was not Gellert; and in the deep breath
which Christopher drew lay a double signification: on the one hand, was
joy that Gellert was not dead; on the other, a still small voice
whispered to him that he had now really promised to give him the wood:
ah! but whom had he promised?--himself: and it is easy to argue with
one's own conscience.

Superstition babbles of conjuring-spells, by which, without the
co-operation of the patient, the evil spirit can be summarily ejected.
It would be convenient if one had that power, but, in truth, it is not
so: it is long ere the evil desire and the evil habit are removed from
the soul into which they have nestled; and the will, for a long while
in bondage, must co-operate, if a releasing spell from without is to set
the prisoner free. One can only be guided, but himself must move his
feet.

As Christopher now looked about him, he found that he had stopped close
by an inn; he drove his load a little aside, went into the parlor, and
drank a glass of warmed beer. There was already a goodly company, and
not far from Christopher sat a husbandman with his son, a student here,
who was telling him how there had been lately quite a stir. Professor
Gellert had been ill, and riding a well- trained horse had been
recommended for his health. Now Prince Henry of Prussia, during the
Seven Years' War, at the occupation of Leipzig, had sent him a piebald,
that had died a short time ago; and the Elector, hearing of it, had sent
Gellert from Dresden another--a chestnut--with golden bridle, blue
velvet saddle, and gold-embroidered housings. Half the city had
assembled when the groom, a man with iron-gray hair, brought the horse;
and for several days it was to be seen at the stable; but Gellert dared
not mount it, it was so young and high-spirited. The rustic now asked
his son whether the Professor did not make money enough to procure a
horse of his own, to which the son answered: "Certainly not. His salary
is but one hundred and twenty-five dollars, and his further gains are
inconsiderable. His Lectures on Morals he gives publicly, i.e., gratis,
and he has hundreds of hearers; and, therefore, at his own lectures,
which must be paid for, he has so many the fewer. To be sure, he has now
and then presents from grand patrons; but no one gives him, once and for
all, enough to live upon, and to have all over with a single
acknowledgment."

Our friend Christopher started as he heard this; he had quite made up
his mind to take Gellert the wood: but he had yet to do it. How easy
were virtue, if will and deed were the same thing! if performance could
immediately succeed to the moment off burning enthusiasm! But one must
make way over obstacles; over those that outwardly lie in one's path,
and over those that are hidden deep in the heart; and negligence has a
thousand very cunning advocates.

How many go forth, prompted by good intentions, but let little
hindrances turn them from their way--entirely from their way of life!
In front of the house Christopher met other woodmen whom he knew,
and--"You are stirring betimes!" "Prices are good to-day!" "But little
comes to the market now!" was the cry from all sides. Christopher wanted
to say that all that didn't concern him, but he was ashamed to confess
that his design was, and an inward voice told him he must not lie.
Without answering he joined the rest, and wended his way to the market;
and on the road he thought: "There are Peter, and Godfrey, and John, who
have seven times your means, and not one of them, I'm sure, would think
of doing anything of this kind; why will you be the kind-hearted fool?
Stay! what matters it what others do or leave undone? Every man shall
answer for himself. Yes, but go to market--it is better it should be so;
yes, certainly, much better: sell your wood--who knows? perhaps he
doesn't want it--and take him the proceeds, or at least the greater
portion. But is the wood still yours? You have, properly speaking,
already given it away; it has only not been taken from your keeping...."

There are people who cannot give; they can only let a thing be taken
either by the hand of chance, or by urgency and entreaty. Christopher
had such fast hold of possession, that it was only after sore wrestling
that he let go; and yet his heart was kind, at least to-day it was so
disposed, but the tempter whispered: "It is not easy to find so
good-natured a fellow as you. How readily would you have given, had the
man been in want, and your good intention must go for the deed." Still,
on the other hand, there was something in him which made opposition,--an
echo from those hours, when, in the still night, he was driving
hither,--and it burned in him like sacred fire, and it said, "You must
now accomplish what you intended. Certainly no one knows of it, and you
are responsible to no one; but you know of it yourself, and One above
you knows, and how shall you be justified?" And he said to himself,
"I'll stand by this: look, it is just nine; if no one ask the price of
your wood until ten o'clock, until the stroke of ten,--until it has done
striking, I mean; if no one ask, then the wood belongs to Professor
Gellert: but if a buyer come, then it is a sign that you need
not--should not give it away. There, that's all settled. But how? what
means this? Can you make your good deed dependent on such a chance as
this? No, no; I don't mean it. But yet--yet--only for a joke, I'll try
it."

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