When my excellent uncle Christian Haas, burgomaster of Lauterbach, died,I had a good situation as maitre de chapelle, or precentor, under theGrand Duke Yeri Peter, with a salary of fifteen hundred florins,notwithstanding which I was a poor man still.
Uncle Christian knew exactly how I was situated, and yet had never sentme a kreutzer. So when I learned that he had left me owner of two hundredacres of rich land in orchards and vineyards, a good bit of woodland, andhis large house at Lauterbach, I could not help shedding tears ofgratitude.
"My dear uncle," I cried, "now I can appreciate the depth of your wisdom,and I thank you most sincerely for your judicious illiberality. Wherewould now the money be, supposing you had sent me anything? In the handsof the Philistines, no doubt; whereas by your prudent delays you havesaved the country, like another Fabius Cunctator--
"'Qui cunctando restituit rem--'
I honour your memory, Uncle Christian! I do indeed!"
Having delivered myself of these deep feelings, and many more which Icannot enter into now, I got on horseback and rode off to Lauterbach.
Strange, is it not, how the Spirit of Avarice, hitherto quite a strangerto me, came to make my acquaintance?
"Caspar!" he whispered, "now you are a rich man! Hitherto vain shadowshave filled your mind. A man must be a fool to follow glory. There isnothing solid but acres, and buildings, and crown-pieces, put out insafe mortgages. Fling aside all your vain delusions! Enlarge yourboundaries, round off your estate, heap up money, and then you will behonoured and respected! You will be a burgomaster as your uncle wasbefore you, and the country folks, when they see you coming a mile off,will pull off their hats, and say--'Here is Monsieur Caspar Haas, therichest man and the biggest _herr_ in the country.'"
These notions kept passing and repassing in my mind like the figures in amagic-lantern, with grave and measured step. The whole thing seemed to meperfectly reasonable.
It was the middle of July. The lark was warbling in the sky. The cropswere waving in the plain, the gentle breezes carried on them the soft cryof the quail and the partridge amongst the standing wheat; the foliagewas glancing in the sunshine, and the Lauter ran its course beneath thewillows; but what was all that to me, the great burgomaster? I puffed upmy cheeks and rounded off my figure in anticipation of the portlyappearance I was to present, and repeated to myself those delightfulobservations--
"This is Monsieur Caspar Haas; he is a very rich man! He is the first_herr_ in the country! Get on, Blitz!"
And the nag trotted forward.
I was anxious to try on my uncle's three-cornered hat and scarletwaistcoat. "If they fit me," I said, "what is the use of buying?"
About four in the afternoon the village of Lauterbach appeared at the endof the valley, and very proud I felt as I surveyed the tall and handsomehouse of the late Christian Haas, my future abode, the centre of myproperty, real and speculative. I admired its situation by the long dustyroad, its vast roof of grey shingle, the sheds and barns covering withtheir broad expanse the wagons, the carts, and the crops; behind, thepoultry-yard, then the little garden, the orchard, the vineyards up thehill, the green meadows farther off.
I chuckled with delight over all these comforts and luxuries.
As I went down the principal street the old women with nose and chinnearly meeting at the extremity, the bare-pated children with raggedhair, the men in their otter-skin caps, and silver-chained pipes in theirmouths, all gaze upon me, and respectfully salute me--
"Good day, Monsieur Caspar! How do you do, Monsieur Haas?"
And all the small windows were filled with wondering faces. I am at homenow; I seem as if I had always been a great landowner at Lauterbach, anda notable. My kapellmeister's life seems a dream, a thing of the past, myenthusiastic fondness for music a youthful folly! How money does modifymen's views of things!
And now I draw bridle before the house of the village notary, MonsieurBecker. He has my title-deeds under his care, and is to hand them over tome. I fasten my horse to the ring at the door, I run up the steps, andthe ancient scribe, with his bald head very respectfully uncovered, andhis long spare figure clad in a green dressing-gown with full skirts,advances alone to receive me.
"Monsieur Caspar Haas, I have the honour to salute you."
"Your servant, Monsieur Becker."
"Pray walk in, Monsieur Haas."
"After you, sir, after you."
We cross the vestibule, and I find at the end of a small, neat, andwell-aired room a table nicely and comfortably laid, and sitting by ita young maiden rosy and fresh-coloured, the very picture of modesty andpropriety.
The venerable notary announced me--
"Monsieur Caspar Haas!"
I bowed.
"My daughter Lothe!" added the good man.
And whilst I felt in myself a reviving taste for the beautiful, and wasadmiring Mademoiselle Lothe's pretty little chubby nose, the rosy lips,and the large blue eyes, her dainty little figure, and her dimpled hands,Maitre Becker invited me to sit down at the table, informing me that hehad been expecting me, and that before entering on matters of business itwould be well to take a little refreshment, a glass of Bordeaux, etc., aninvitation of which I fully recognised the propriety, and which Iaccepted very willingly.
And so we sit down. We talk first of the beautiful country. And I formopinions about the old gentleman, and wonder what a notary is likely tomake at Lauterbach!
"Mademoiselle, will you take a wing?"
"Monsieur, you are very kind; thank you, I will."
Lothe looks down bashfully. I fill her glass, in which she dips her rosylips. Papa is in good spirits; he tells me about hunting and fishing.
"Of course Monsieur Haas will live as we do in the country. We haveexcellent rabbit-warrens. The rivers abound in trout. The shooting in theforests is let out. People mostly spend their evenings at the inn.Monsieur the inspector of woods and forests is a delightful young man.The _juge-de-paix_ is a capital whist-player," and so on, and so on.
I listen, and think all this quiet life must be delightful. MademoiselleLothe pleases me a good deal. She does not talk much, but she smiles andlooks so agreeable! How loving and amiable she must be!
At last the coffee came, then the kirschwasser. Mademoiselle Lotheretires, and the old lawyer gradually passes to business. He explains tome the nature of my uncle's property, and I listen attentively. There wasno part of the will in dispute; there were no legacies, no mortgages.Everything is clear and straightforward. Happy Caspar! Happy man!
Then we went into the office to look over the deeds. The close air ofthis place of dry, hard business, those long rows of boxes, the files ofbills--all these together put weak notions of love out of my head. I satdown in an arm-chair while Monsieur Becker, collecting his thoughts, putshis horn spectacles in their place upon his long, sharp nose.
"These deeds relate to your meadow-land at Eichmatt. There, MonsieurHaas, you have a hundred acres of excellent land, the finest andbest-watered in the commune; two and even three crops a year are got offthat land. It brings in four thousand francs a year. Here are the deedsbelonging to your vine-growing land at Sonnenthal, thirty-five acres inall. One year with another you may get from this two hundred hectolitres(4,400 gals.) of light wine, sold on the ground at twelve or fifteenfrancs the hectolitre. Good years make up for the bad. This, MonsieurHaas, is your title to the forest of Romelstein, containing fifty orsixty hectares (a hectare is 2-1/2 acres) of excellent timber. This isyour property at Hacmatt; this your pasture-land at Tiefenthal. This isyour farm at Grueneswald, and here is the deed belonging to your house atLauterbach; it is the largest house in the place, and was built in thesixteenth century."
"Indeed, Monsieur Becker! but is that saying much in its favour?"
"Certainly, certainly. It was built by Jean Burckhardt, Count of Barth,for a hunting-box. Many generations have lived in it since then, but ithas never been neglected, and it is now in excellent repair."
I thanked Monsieur Becker f
or the information he had given me, and havingsecured all my title-deeds in a large portfolio which he was good enoughto lend me, I took my leave, more full than ever of my vast importance!
Arriving before my house, I enjoyed introducing the key into the lock ofthe door, and bringing down my foot firmly and proudly on the first step.
"This is all mine!" I cried enthusiastically.
I enter the hall--"Mine!" I open the wardrobes--"Mine!" Mine--all thatlinen piled up to the top! I pace majestically up the broad staircase,repeating like a fool, "This is mine, and that is mine! Here I am, ownerof all this! No more uneasiness about the future! Not an anxious thoughtfor the morrow! Now I am going to make a figure in the world!--not on theweak ground of merit--not for anything that fashion can alter. I am agreat man because I hold really and effectually that which the worldcovets.
"Ye poets and artists! what are you in comparison with the richproprietor who has everything he wants, and who feeds your inspirationwith the crumbs that fall from his table? What are you but ornamentalportions of his feasts and banquets, just to fill up a weary interval?You are no more than the sparrow that warbles in his hedges, or thestatue that figures in his garden-walk. It is by him and for him that youexist. What need has he to envy you the incense of pride and vanity--hewho possesses the only solid good this world has to offer?"
At that moment of inflated conceit if the poor Kapellmeister Haas hadappeared before me I might very likely have turned and looked at him overmy shoulder and asked, "What fool is that? What business has he with me?"
I threw a window open; evening was closing in. The setting sun gilded myorchards and my vines as far as I could see. On the declivity of the hilla few white patches indicated the cemetery.
I turned round. A great Gothic hall, with rich mouldings decorating theceiling, pleased my taste exceedingly. This was the Seigneur Burckhardt'shunting-saloon.
An old spinet stood between two windows; I ran my fingers absently overthe keys, and the loose strings jingled with the disagreeable squeakingof a toothless old woman trying to sing like a young damsel.
At the end of this long apartment was an arched alcove closed in by deepred curtains, and containing a lofty four-post bedstead with a kind ofgrand baldacchino covering it in. The sight of this reminded me that Ihad been six hours on horseback, and undressing with a self-satisfiedsmirk on my face all the time--
"It is the first time," I said, "that I shall sleep in a bed of my own."
And laying myself comfortably down, with my eyes dreamily wandering overthe distant plains on which the shadows of evening were settling down, Ifelt my eyelids gently yielding to the sweet influence of sleep. Not aleaf was stirring; the village noises ceased one by one, the last goldenrays of the sun had disappeared, and I dropped into the unconsciousnessof welcome sleep.
Dark night fell on the face of the earth, and then the moon was rising inall her splendour, when I awoke, I cannot tell why. The wandering scentsof summer air reached me through the open window, fragrant with the sweetperfume of the new-mown hay. I gazed with surprise, then I made an effortto rise and open the window, but some obstacle prevented me. To myastonishment, though my head was perfectly free to move in any direction,my body was buried in a deep sleep like a lump of lead. Not a singlemuscle obeyed my repeated efforts to raise my body; I was conscious of myarms lying extended near me, and my legs being stretched out straight andimmovable; but my head was swaying helplessly to and fro. My breathing,deep and regular--the breathing of my body went on all the same, andfrightened me dreadfully. My head, exhausted with its vain efforts toobtain obedience from the limbs, fell back in despair, and I said, "What!Is it paralysis?"
My eyes closed. I was reflecting with a feeling of horror upon thisstrange phenomenon, and my ears were listening intently to the agitatedbeating of my heart, over whose hurried flow of blood the mind had nopower.
"What, what is this?" I thought presently. "Do my own body and limbsrefuse to obey my will? Cannot Caspar Haas, the undisputed lord of somany rich vineyards and fat pastures, move this wretched clod of earthwhich most certainly belongs to him? Oh, what does it all mean?"
As I was thus wondering and meditating I heard a slight noise. The doorof my alcove opened, and a man clothed in some stiff material resemblingfelt, such as is worn by the monks in the chapel of St. Werburgh atMayence, with a broad-brimmed hat and feather pushed off from the leftear, his hands buried up to the elbows in gauntlets of strong untannedleather, entered the room. This gentleman's huge jack-boots came over theknees, and were folded down again. A heavy chain of gold, withdecorations suspended to it, hung from his shoulders. His tanned andangular countenance, his sallow complexion, his hollow eyes, bore anexpression of bitterness and melancholy.
This dismal personage traversed the hall with a hard and sounding step asmeasured as the ticking of a clock, and placing his skinny hand upon thehilt of an immense long rapier, and stamping with his heel on the floor,he uttered in a horribly disagreeable creaking voice resembling thegrating of an engine these words, which dropped in a dry mechanicalfashion from his ashy lips:--
"This is mine--mine--Hans Burckhardt, Count of Barth!"
I felt a creeping sensation coming all over me.
At the same instant the door opposite flew open wide, and the Count ofBarth disappeared in the next apartment; and I could hear his hard, dryautomatic tread upon the stairs descending the steps, one by one, fora long time; there seemed no end to it, until at last the awful soundsdied in the remote distance as if they had descended into the bowels ofthe earth.
But as I was still listening, and hearing nothing further, all in amoment the vast hall filled as if by magic with a numerous company; thespinet began to jingle; there was music and singing of love, andpleasure, and wine.
I gazed and saw by the bluish-grey moonlight ladies in the bloom of youthnegligently floating over the floor, and chiefly about the old spinet;elegant cavaliers attired, as in the olden time, in innumerable danglingribbons, and the very perfection of lace collars and ruffles, seatedcross-legged upon gold-fringed stools, affectedly inclining sidelong,shaking their perfumed locks, making little bows, studying all kinds ofgraceful attitudes, and paying their court to the ladies, all soelegantly, and with such an air of gallantry, that it reminded me of theold mezzotint engravings of the graceful school of Lorraine in thesixteenth century.
And the stiff little fingers of an ancient dowager, with a parrot bill,were rattling the keys of the old spinet; bursts of thin laughter setdiscordant echoes flying, and ended in little squeaks with such a sharpdiscordant rattle of constrained laughter as made my hair stand on end.
All this silly little world--all this quintessence of fashion andelegance, long out of date, all exhaled the acrid odour of rose-water andessence of mignonette turned into vinegar.
I made new and superhuman exertions to get rid of this disagreeablenightmare, but it was all in vain. But at that instant a lady of thehighest fashion cried aloud--
"Lords, you are at home here in all this domain--"
But she was cut short in her compliments; a silence like death fell onthe whole assembly. They faded away. I looked, and the whole picture hadvanished from my sight.
Then the sound of a trumpet fell on my listening ears. Horses were pawingthe ground outside, dogs were barking, while the moon, calm, clear,inviting to meditation, still poured her soft light into my alcove.
The door opened as if by a blast of wind, and fifty huntsmen, followed bya company of young ladies attired as they were two centuries ago, in longtrains, defiled with majestic pace out of one chamber into the other.Four serving-men passed amongst them, bearing on their brawny shoulderson a stout litter of oak boughs the bloody carcass of a monstrous wildboar, with dim and faded eye, and with the foam yet lying white on hisformidable tusks and grisly jaws.
Then I heard the flourishes of the brazen trumpets redoubled in loudnessand energy; but silence fell, and the pomp and dignity, passed away witha sigh like the last moans of a
storm in the woods; then--nothing atall--nothing to hear--nothing to see!
As I lay dreaming over this strange vision, and my eyes wandering vaguelyover the empty space in the silent darkness, I observed with astonishmentthe blank space becoming silently occupied by one of the old Protestantfamilies of former days, calm, solemn, and dignified in their bearing andconversation.
There sat the white-haired patriarch with the big Bible upon his knees;the aged mother, tall and pale, spinning the flax grown by themselves,sitting as straight and immovable as her own distaff, her ruff up to herears, her long waist compressed in a stiff black bodice; then there satthe fat and rosy children, with serious countenances and thoughtful blueeyes, leaning in silence with their elbows on the table; the dog laystretched by the great hearth apparently listening to the reading; theold clock stood in the corner ticking seconds; farther on in the shadowwere girls' faces and young men, talking seriously to them about Jacoband Rachel by way of love-making.
And this good family seemed penetrated with the truth of the sacredstory; the old man in broken accents was reading aloud the edifyinghistory of the settlement of the children of Israel in the Land ofCanaan--
"This is the Land of Promise--the land promised to Abraham and Isaac andJacob your fathers--that you may be multiplied in it as the stars ofheaven for multitude, and as the sand which is upon the seashore. Andnone shall disturb you, for ye are the chosen people."
The moon, which had veiled her light for a few minutes, reappeared, andhearing no more sounds of voices, I looked round, and her clear cold raysfell in the great empty hall. Not a figure, not a shade, was left. Themoonlight poured its silver flood upon the floor, and in the distance theforms of a few trees stood out against the dark purple sky.
But now suddenly the high walls appeared lined with books, the old spinetgave way to the _secretaire_ of some man of learning, whose full-bottomedwig was peering above the back of a red-leather arm-chair. I could hearthe quill coursing over the paper. The learned man, buried in thought,never moved; the silence was oppressive.
But fancy my astonishment when, slowly turning, the great scholar facedme, and I recognised the portrait of the famous lawyer Gregorius, markedNo. 253 in the portrait-gallery at Darmstadt.
How on earth had this personage walked out of his grave?
I was asking myself this question when, in a hollow sepulchral voice, hepronounced these words:--
"_Dominorum, ex jure Quintio, est jus utendi et abutendi quatenusnaturalis ratio patitur_."
As this sapient precept dropped oracularly from his lips, a word at atime, his figure faded and turned pale. With the last word he had passedout of existence.
What more shall I tell you, my dear friends? For hours, twentygenerations came defiling past me in Hans Burckhardt's ancientmansion--Christians and Jews, nobles and commoners, fools and wise menof high art, and men of mere prose. Every one proclaimed his indefeasibleright to the property; every one firmly believed himself sole lord andmaster of all he surveyed. Alas! Death breathed upon one after another,and they were all carried out, each as his turn came!
I was beginning to be familiar with this strange phantasmagoria. Eachtime that any of these honest folks turned round and declared to me,"This is mine!" I laughed and said, "Wait a bit, my fine fellow!--youwill melt away just like the rest!"
At last I began to feel tired of it, when far away--very far--the cockcrowed, announcing the dawn of day. His piercing call began to rouse thesleeper. The leaves rustled with the morning air; a slight shiver shookmy frame; I felt my limbs gradually regaining their freedom, and, restingupon my elbow, I gazed with rapture upon the silent wide-spread land. Butwhat I saw presently did not tend to exalt my spirits.
Along the little winding path to the cemetery were moving, in solemnprocession, all the ghosts that had visited me in the night. Step by stepthey approached the decaying moss-grown door of the sacred inclosure;that silent, mournful march of spectres under the dim grey light of earlymorning was a gaunt and fearful sight.
And as I lay, more dead than alive, with gaping mouth and my face wetwith cold perspiration, the head of the dismal line melted anddisappeared among the weeping willows.
There were not many spectres, left, and I was beginning to feel a littlemore composed, when the very last, my uncle Christian himself, turnedround to me under the mossy gate and beckoned me to follow! A distantfaint ironical voice said--
"Caspar! Caspar! come! Six feet of this ground belong to you!"
Then he too disappeared.
A streak of crimson and purple stretched across the eastern sky announcedthe coming day.
I need not tell you that I did not accept my uncle Christian'sinvitation, though I am quite aware that a similar call will one dayarrive from One who must be obeyed. The remembrance of my brief abode atBurckhardt's fort has wonderfully brought down the great opinion I hadonce formed of my own importance, for the vision of that night taught methat though orchards and meadows may not pass away their owners do, andthis fact compels to serious reflection upon the nature of our duties andresponsibilities.
I therefore wisely resolved not to risk the loss of manly energy and ofthe best prizes of life by tarrying at that Capua, but to betake myself,without further loss of time, to the pursuit of music as a science, andI hope to produce next year, at the Royal Theatre of Berlin, an operawhich, I hope, will disarm all criticism at once.
I have come to the final conclusion that glory and renown, whichspeculative people speak of as if they were mere smoke, is, after all,the most enduring good. Life and a noble reputation do not departtogether; on the contrary, death confirms well-deserved glory and addsto it a brighter lustre.
Suppose, for instance, that Homer returned to life, no one would disputewith him his claim to be the author of the _Iliad_, and each would viewith the rest to do honour to the father of epic poetry. But ifperadventure some rich landowner of that day came back to assert a claimto the fields, the woods, the pastures of which he used to be so proud,ten to one he would be received like a thief and perhaps die a miserabledeath.