Part 6 (1/2)
Men, who are born for business, for action, cannot too soon contemplate for themselves and animate all things. They must themselves grapple with and pa.s.s through many relations, must harden their whole being against the influence of new situations, and the dissipation which a mult.i.tude and variety of objects engenders; and they must accustom themselves, even in the urgency of great occasions to hold fast to the thread of their object. They should not yield to the invitations of inactive contemplation. Their soul must not be gazing at self; it must be ceaselessly directed to outward things, a handmaid to the understanding, active and prompt in discrimination. They are heroes; and events press about them which must be fulfilled, and their problems solved. By their influence all occurrences of chance become history, and their life is an unbroken chain of remarkable and splendid, intricate and singular events.
Far otherwise is it with those quiet, unknown men, whose world is their own mind, whose activity the action of the contemplative intellect, and whose life a gentle development of their inner powers. No desquietude drives them to outward things. A tranquil possession satisfies them; and the immense drama without does not entice them to engage in it themselves; but they regard it as significant and wonderful, a source of contemplation for their leisure moments. Longings for the spirit hold them in the distance; and it is this spirit that destines them to act the mysterious part of the mind in this human worlds while others represent the outer limbs and senses, the mind's projected powers. They would be disturbed by great and various events. A simple life is their lot, and they become acquainted with the rich subject-matter and countless phenomena of the world from relations and writings alone. But seldom in the course of their lives does any occurrence draw them along with it in its sudden vortex, in order to acquaint them by a few experiences more accurately with the situation and character of active men. On the contrary, their susceptible minds are already sufficiently busied with near and insignificant phenomena, which represent the great world as it were renewed; and they will advance no step, without making the most surprising discoveries in themselves, concerning the nature and significance of these phenomena. They are poets, those men of rare inspiration, who at times wander through our dwelling-place, and everywhere renew the ancient, venerable, service of humanity, and of its first G.o.ds,--the stars, spring, love, happiness, fertility, health, and the joyous heart; they, who are already here in possession of heavenly rest, and, driven about by no foolish desires, breathe only the fragrance of earthly fruits, without devouring them, then to be irrevocably chained to the lower world. They are free guests whose golden feet tread softly, and whose presence involuntarily outspreads its wings around. A poet may be known, like a good king, by cheerful and bright faces, and he alone justly bears the name of sage. If you compare him with heroes, you will find that the songs of the poets frequently awake heroic courage in youthful hearts; but heroic deeds have probably never awakened the spirit of poesy in any mind whatever.
Henry was a poet by nature. Many events seemed to conspire to aid his development, and as yet nothing had disturbed the elasticity of his soul. All that he saw and heard seemed only to remove new bars within him, and to open new windows for his spirit. The world, with its great and changing relations, lay before him. But as yet it was silent; and its soul, its language was not yet awakened. Soon did a poet approach, holding a lovely girl by the hand, that by the sound of the mother tongue, and by the movement of a sweet and tender mouth; the soft lips might unlock and the simple harmony unfold in unending melodies.
The journey was now ended. It was towards evening when our travellers, in safety and good spirits, arrived at the far-famed city of Augsburg, and, full of expectation, rode through the high streets to the s.p.a.cious mansion of the old Swaning.
The surrounding country had already appeared delightful to the eyes of Henry. The animated bustle of the city, and the great houses of stone affected him strangely, yet agreeably. He experienced a real pleasure in thinking of his future abode. His mother was very much pleased to see herself in her native city after her wearisome journey, soon to embrace again her father and old acquaintances, to introduce Henry to them, and for once be able quietly to forget all household cares in the cordial remembrances of her youth. The merchants hoped by the pleasures there to indemnify themselves for the discomforts of their journey, and to do a profitable business.
Lights gleamed from the house of the old Swaning, and joyous music swelled towards them. ”What will you bet,” said the merchants, ”that your grandfather is not giving a merry party? We came as if invited.
How much his uninvited guests will astonish him. He is not dreaming that now the true festivity is about to commence.” Henry felt embarra.s.sed, and his mother was only anxious about their dress. They alighted; the merchants remained with the horses, and Henry and his mother entered the splendid mansion. Not a soul belonging to the house was to be seen below. They were obliged to ascend the lofty stairs.
Some servants ran past them; they asked them to inform the old Swaning of the arrival of some strangers who wished to speak with him. The servants made some objection at first, for the travellers did not appear in very good condition as to dress, yet finally they announced them to the master of the house. The old Swaning came out. He did not know them at first, and asked them their names and business. Henry's mother wept and fell upon his neck.
”Do you not know your own daughter?” she exclaimed weeping. ”I bring you my son.”
The aged father was extremely moved. He pressed her long to his bosom.
Henry sank upon his knee and tenderly kissed his hand. He raised him to himself and held both mother and son in his embrace.
”Come right in,” said Swaning, ”I have only my friends and acquaintances here, who will rejoice with me.” Henry's mother hesitated, but had no time to consider. The father led them both into the lighted hall.
”Here I bring my daughter and grandson from Eisenach,” cried Swaning, in the merry crowd of gaily dressed guests.
All eyes were turned towards the door; all ran to it; the music ceased, and the two travellers stood bewildered and dazzled in their dusty dresses, in the midst of the motley throng. A thousand joyful exclamations pa.s.sed from mouth to mouth. All her acquaintances pressed around the mother. Innumerable were the questions which were asked.
Each one wished to be recognised and welcomed first. Whilst the elder part of the company were attending to the mother, the attention of the younger portion was directed to the strange youth, who was standing with downcast eyes, not daring to look again upon the unknown faces.
His grandfather introduced him to the company, and inquired after his father and about the occurrences of his journey.
The mother thought of the merchants, who out of politeness had remained below by the horses. She told her father, who sent down for them immediately, and invited them to ascend. The horses were led into the stable, and the merchants appeared.
Swaning thanked them heartily for the friendly escort they had afforded his daughter. They were acquainted with many who were present, and exchanged friendly greetings. The mother asked permission to change her dress. Swaning led her to her chamber, and Henry followed for the same purpose.
The appearance of one man was very striking to Henry, who thought that he had seen him in that book. His n.o.ble bearing distinguished him from all the rest. His face wore an expression of serene gravity, an open, finely arched forehead, large, black, penetrating, and tranquil eyes, a humorous expression about his pleasant mouth, and his full manly proportions, gave to him a meaning and fascinating appearance. He was strongly built, his movements quiet and expressive, and where he stood he seemed about to stay forever. Henry asked his grandfather about him.
”I am glad,” said the old man, ”that you noticed him. It is my excellent friend Klingsohr, the poet. You should be prouder of his acquaintance than of the emperor's. But how is your heart? He has a beautiful daughter, who perhaps will surpa.s.s the father in your eyes.
It would be strange if you had not noticed her.”
Henry blushed; ”my mind has been distracted, dear grandfather. The company is numerous, and I was looking only at your friend.”
”We see that you came from the North,” replied Swaning; ”we shall soon thaw you out here. You shall learn soon to look after pretty faces.”
They were now ready, and returned to the hall, where in the mean time preparations for supper had been made. The old Swaning led Henry to Klingsohr, and told him that Henry had noticed him particularly, and ardently desired to become acquainted with him.
Henry was confused. Klingsohr spoke kindly to him of his fatherland and of his journey. There was so much to inspire confidence in his voice, that Henry soon gained courage and conversed with him freely. After a little while Swaning came to them again, bringing with him the beautiful Matilda.
”You must receive my grandson kindly, and pardon him that he has noticed your father before you. Your bright eyes will awaken his youth within him. In his native land Spring comes too late.”
Henry and Matilda blushed. They gazed admiringly upon each other. She asked him, with scarcely audible words, whether he was fond of dancing.
While he was answering in the affirmative, the merry music struck up.
He silently offered her his hand; she accepted it, and they mingled among the rows of waltzers. Swaning and Klingsohr looked on. The mother and the merchants were delighted with Henry's grace and with his lovely partner. The mother had enough to converse about with the friends of her youth, who wished her much happiness from so well educated and hopeful a son.
Klingsohr said to Swaning,--”Your grandson has an attractive countenance; it indicates a clear and comprehensive mind, and his voice comes deep from his heart.”
”I hope,” replied Swaning, ”that he will become your docile pupil. It seems to me that he is born for a poet. May your spirit fall upon him.