Henry of Ofterdingen: A Romance Part 7

"From cradle's murky bosom faring, He winketh through a crystal dress, The rose of close alliance bearing, Expressive in its ruddiness.

"And everywhere around are pressing His merry men in jubilee, Their love find grat.i.tude confessing To him with jocund tongue and free.

"He scatters o'er the fields and valleys His innerlife in countless rays, And Love is sipping from his chalice, And pledged forever with him stays.

"As spirit of the golden ages, The Poet alway he beguiles, Who everywhere in reeling pages Doth celebrate his pleasant wiles.

"He gave him, his allegiance sealing, To every pretty mouth a right, And this the G.o.d through him revealing, That none the edict dare to slight."

"A fine prophet!" exclaimed the girls. Swaning was heartily pleased.

They made some objections, but all to no purpose. They were obliged to reach out their sweet lips to him. Henry blushed only on account of his earnest neighbor; otherwise he would have loudly rejoiced in the privilege of the poet. Veronika was among the garland bearers. She came suddenly back and said to Henry, "truly, is it not a fine thing to be a poet?"

Henry did not trust himself to take advantage of this question. Excess of joy and the earnestness of first love were contending in his breast.

The charming Veronika was joking with the others, and in the meanwhile he found time somewhat to quench his joy. Matilda told him that she played the guitar. "Ah!" said he, "how I should love to learn it from you. I have for a long time desired it."

"My father instructed me; he plays it matchlessly," said she blus.h.i.+ng.

"I believe, however," said Henry, "that I can learn it more easily from you. How delighted I should be to hear you sing."

"Do not expect too much."

"O!" said Henry, "what may I not expect, since your speech merely is song, and your form is expressive of heavenly music."

Matilda was silent. Her father commenced a conversation, in which Henry spoke with the most lively spirit Those who were near wondered at the fluency of the young man's speech, and the richness of his imagery.

Matilda gazed upon him with silent attention. She seemed to delight in his words, which were still more clearly explained by his speaking features. His eyes appeared unusually brilliant. He turned at times towards Matilda, who was astonished by the expression of his face. In the warmth of conversation, he involuntarily seized her hand, and she could not but sanction much of what he said, with a gentle pressure.

Klingsohr knew how to keep up his enthusiasm, and gradually drew his whole soul from his lips. At last all rose. There was a general confusion. Henry remained by the side of Matilda. They stood apart un.o.bserved. He clasped her hand and kissed it tenderly. She suffered him to hold it without opposition, and looked upon him with unspeakable kindness. He could not restrain himself, bent towards her, and kissed her lips. She was taken unawares and involuntarily returned his ardent kiss. "Sweet Matilda,"--"Dear Henry,"--this was all they could say to each other. She pressed his hand, and then mingled with her companions.

Henry stood as if in Heaven. His mother came to him. He told her all concerning his love.

"Is it not a good thing that we have visited Augsburg?" said she. "Does it not in truth please you?"

"Dear mother," said Henry, "I had not represented it to myself thus. It is most glorious."

The remainder of the evening pa.s.sed away in infinite pleasure. The old people played, talked, and observed the dancing. The music undulated through the hall like a pleasure-sea, and bore along the enraptured youth upon its surface.

Henry felt the rapturous presages of the first buoyancy of love.

Matilda also willingly suffered herself to be carried away by the flattering waves, and only concealed from him her tender trust, her budding inclination, behind a light flower veil. The old Swaning noticed the growing intimacy between them, and teazed them both about it. Klingsohr had taken a liking to Henry, and was pleased with his tenderness towards his daughter.--The other young men and girls soon noticed it. They brought the sober Matilda forward with the young Thuringian, and did not conceal that they were glad no longer to be obliged to shun Matilda's observation of the secrets of their hearts.

It was late in the evening when the company separated. "The first and only feast of my life," said Henry, when he was alone, and his mother had retired wearied to rest. "Do I not feel as I felt in that dream about the blue flower? What peculiar connexion is there between Matilda and that flower? That face, which bowed towards me from the petals, was Matilda's heavenly countenance, and I also now remember that I saw it in that book. But why did it not there thus move my heart? O! she is the visible spirit of song, the worthy daughter of her father. She will dissolve me into music. She will become my inmost soul, the guardian spirit of my holy fire. What an eternity of faithful love do I feel within me? I was born only to revere her, to serve her forever, to think of and to feel her. Does there not belong a peculiar, undivided existence to her contemplation and wors.h.i.+p? Am I the happy one, whose being may be the echo, the mirror of her's? It is not owing to chance that I have seen her at the end of my journey, that a happy feast has encircled the highest moment of my life. It could not have been otherwise; for does not her presence render every thing a feast?"

He stepped to the window. The choir of the stars stood in the dusky sky, and in the east a white glimmer announced the coming day.

Full of rapture, Henry exclaimed, "Ye eternal stars, ye silent wanderers, I call upon you as witnesses of my sacred oath. For Matilda will I live, and eternal constancy shall bind her to my heart. The morning of eternal day is also opening for me. The night is past. I kindle myself to the rising sun, for an inextinguishable offering."

Henry was heated, and only fell asleep late in the morning. The thoughts of his soul flowed together into a wonderful dream. A deep blue stream glimmered from the green plains. A boat was floating upon the smooth surface. Matilda was sitting in it, and steering. She was adorned with garlands, singing a simple song, and looked over to him with sweet sadness. His bosom was oppressed, he knew not why. The sky was clear; the flood quiet. Her heavenly face was reflected in the waves. Suddenly the boat began to whirl. He cried out to her earnestly.

She smiled and laid down the helm in the boat which continued its whirling. He was seized with overwhelming fear. He plunged into the stream, but could not move, and was hurried along. She beckoned to him, as if she had something to tell him, and though the boat was fast filling with water, yet she smiled with unspeakable tenderness, and looked down serenely into the abyss. Suddenly it drew her in. A gentle breath of air pa.s.sed over the stream, which, flowed on as quiet and glittering as ever. His intense anxiety robbed Henry of all consciousness. His heart no longer throbbed. On recovering, his senses, he was on the dry land. He must have floated a long distance. It was a strange country. He knew not what had happened to him. His mind had vanished. Thoughtlessly he plunged deeper and deeper into the country.

He was excessively weary. A little spring gushed from the side of a hill, sounding like the music of bells. In his hand he caught a few drops, and with them wetted his parched lips. The terrible occurrence lay behind him like a fearful dream. He walked on farther and farther;--flowers and trees spoke to him.

Now he felt in high spirits and at home. He heard that song again. He ran to the place whence the sounds proceeded. Suddenly some one held him by the clothes. "Dear Henry," cried a well known voice. He looked round, and Matilda clasped him in her arms.

"Why did you run from me, dear heart," cried she panting. "I could scarcely overtake you."

Henry wept. He clasped her to himself, "Where is the stream?" cried he with tears.

"Do you not see its blue waves above us?"

He looked up, and the blue stream was flowing gently over his head.

"Where are we, dear Matilda?"

"With our fathers."

"Shall we remain together?"

"Forever," she replied, while she pressed her lips to his, and so embraced him that she could not tear herself from him. She put a wondrous, secret word into his mouth, and it rang through his whole being. He was about to repeat it, when his grandfather called, and he awoke. He would have given his life to remember that word.

CHAPTER VII.

Klingsohr stood before his bed and kindly bade him good morning. He was in high spirits, and fell upon Klingsohr's neck. "That is not meant for you," cried Swaning. Henry smiled, and hid his blushes on his mother's cheeks.

"Would you like to go with me," said Klingsohr, "and breakfast on a beautiful eminence just before the city? The fine morning would refresh you. Dress yourself. Matilda is already waiting for us."

Henry with a thousand joyful feelings thanked him for his welcome invitation. In a moment he was ready, and kissed Klingsohr's hand with much fervor. They went to Matilda, who looked wonderfully lovely in her simple morning dress, and who greeted him kindly. She had already packed her breakfast into a little basket which she hung upon one arm, and without ceremony gave the other to Henry. Klingsohr followed them, and thus they pa.s.sed through the city, already full of animation, to a little hill by the river, where a wide and full prospect opened between some lofty trees.

"Though I have often," said Henry, "delighted in the unfolding of varied nature in the peaceful neighborhood of her manifold possessions; yet never has such a creative and pure serenity filled me, as today.

Those distant points seem so near to me, and the rich landscape is like an inward fantasy. How changeable is nature, however unchangeable appears its surface! How different is it when an angel, a spirit of power is at our side, than when a person in distress utters his complaints before us, or a farmer tells us how unfortunate the weather is for him, or how much he needs some rainy days for his crops. To you, dearest master, do I owe this bliss; yes, this bliss,--for there is no other word that can more truly express my heart's condition. Joy, desire, transport, are merely the members of that bliss which inspires them with a higher life. He pressed Matilda's hand to his heart, and his ardent gaze sank deep into her mild and susceptible eyes.

"Nature," replied Klingsohr, "is for our mind, what a body is for light. It reflects it, separates it into its proper colors, kindles a light on its surface or within it, when it equals its opacity: when it is superior, it rays forth in order to enlighten other bodies. But eyen the darkest bodies can, by water, fire, and air, be made clear and brilliant."

"I understand you," dear master. "Men are crystals for our minds. They are the transparent nature. Dear Matilda, I might call you a pure and costly sapphire. You are clear and transparent as the heavens; you beam with the mildest light. But tell me, dear master, whether I am right; it seems to me that at the very point when one is most intimate with nature, he can and would say the least concerning her."

"That depends upon your view of her," said Klingsohr. "Nature is one thing for our enjoyment and our disposition, but another for our intellect, the guiding faculty of our earthward powers. We must take good care not to lose sight of one more than the other. There are many who only know the one side, and think but little of the other. But we can unite them both, and that too with profit. A great pity it is, that so few think of being able to move freely and fitly in their inner natures, and to insure for themselves, by a necessary separation, the most effectual and natural use of their faculties. Usually the one hinders the other; and thus a helpless sluggishness gradually arises, so that, if such men should ever arise with united powers, a great confusion and contention would ensue, and all things would be tossed here and there in an ungainly manner. I cannot sufficiently impress upon you, to endeavor with industry and care to be acquainted with your own intellect and natural bias. Nothing is more indispensable to the poet, than insight into the nature of every occupation, acquaintance with the means by which every object may be attained, and the power of fitly regulating the presence of the spirit according to time and circ.u.mstances. Inspiration without intellect is useless and dangerous; and the poet will be able to perform few wonders, when he is astonished by wonders."

"But is not an implicit faith in man's dominion over destiny indispensable to the poet?"

"Certainly indispensable, because he cannot represent fate to himself in any other light, when he maturely reflects upon it. But how distant is this calm certainty from that anxious doubt, which proceeds from the blind fear of superst.i.tion! And thus also the steady, animating warmth of a poetic mind is exactly the reverse of the wild heat of a sickly heart; The one is poor, overwhelming, and transient; the other perfectly distinguishes all forms, favors the culture of the most manifold relations, and is in itself eternal. The youthful poet cannot be too cool and considerate. A far-reaching, attentive, and quiet disposition belongs to the true, melodious ease of address. It becomes a confused prattling, when a violent storm is raging in the breast; and the attention is lost in a trembling emptiness of thought. Once more I repeat it; the true mind is like the light; even as calm and sensitive, as elastic and penetrating, as powerful and as imperceptibly active, as that costly element, which with its native regularity scatters itself upon all objects, and exhibits them in charming variety. The poet is pure steel, as sensitive as a brittle thread of gla.s.s, as hard as the unyielding flint."

"I have indeed at times felt," said Henry, "that in the moments when my inner nature was most awake, I was less excited than at other times, when I could run about freely and attend to all occupations with pleasure. A spiritual, penetrative essence permeated me, and I could employ every sense at pleasure, could revolve every thought like an actual body, and view it from all sides. I stood with silent sympathy in my father's work-shop, and rejoiced when I could help him to accomplish anything properly. Propriety has a peculiarly strengthening charm, and it is true that the consciousness of it gives rise to a more lasting and distinct enjoyment, than that overflowing feeling of an incomprehensible, superfluous splendor."

"Believe not," said Klingsohr, "that I disregard the latter; but it must come of itself and not be bought. The rarity of its appearance is beneficent; if more frequent, it would weary and weaken. One cannot quickly enough tear himself from the sweet rapture which it leaves behind, and return to a regular and laborious occupation. It is as with pleasant morning dreams, from whose sleepy vortex one must extricate himself by force, if he would not fall into a la.s.situde, continually more oppressive, and so struggle through the whole day in sickly exhaustion."

"Poetry," continued Klingsohr, "will be cultivated strictly as an art.

As mere enjoyment it ceases to be poetry. The poet must not run about unoccupied the whole day in chase of figures and feelings. That is the very reverse of the proper method. A pure, open mind, dexterity in reflection and contemplation, and ability to put forth all the faculties in a mutually animating effort, and to keep them so,--these are the requisites of our art. If you will commit yourself to my care, no day shall pa.s.s in which you shall not add stores to your knowledge, and obtain some useful views. The city is rich in artists of all descriptions. There are some experienced statesmen and educated merchants here. One can get acquainted with all ranks without much difficulty, with people of all pursuits, and with all social circ.u.mstances and requirements. I will with pleasure instruct you in the mechanical part of our art, and read its most remarkable productions with you. You may share Matilda's hours of instruction, and she will willingly teach you to play the guitar. Each occupation will usher in the rest; and when you have thus well spent the day, the conversation and pleasures of a social evening, and the views of the beautiful landscapes around, will continually renew to you the calmest enjoyment."

"What a glorious life you here lay open to me, dear master. Under your guidance I shall for the first time understand what a n.o.ble mark is before me, and how by your counsel alone I can hope to attain it."