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FATE AND SYMPATHY
‘TRULY, I never have seen the market and street so deserted! | |
| How as if it were swept looks the town, or had perished! Not fifty | |
| Are there, methinks, of all our inhabitants in it remaining. | |
| What will not curiosity do! here is every one running, | |
| Hurrying to gaze on the sad procession of pitiful exiles. | 5 |
| Fully a league it must be to the causeway they have to pass over, | |
| Yet all are hurrying down in the dusty heat of the noonday. | |
| I, in good sooth, would not stir from my place to witness the sorrows | |
| Borne by good, fugitive people, who now, with their rescued possessions, | |
| Driven, alas! from beyond the Rhine, their beautiful country, | 10 |
| Over to us are coming, and through the prosperous corner | |
| Roam of this our luxuriant valley, and traverse its windings. | |
| Well hast thou done, good wife, our son in thus kindly dispatching, | |
| Laden with something to eat and to drink, and with store of old linen, | |
| ’Mongst the poor folk to distribute; for giving belongs to the wealthy. | 15 |
| How the youth drives, to be sure! What control he has over the horses! | |
| Makes not our carriage a handsome appearance,—the new one? With comfort, | |
| Four could be seated within, with a place on the box for the coachman. | |
| This time, he drove by himself. How lightly it rolled round the corner!” | |
| Thus, as he sat at his ease in the porch of his house on the market, | 20 |
| Unto his wife was speaking mine host of the Golden Lion. | |
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| Thereupon answered and said the prudent, intelligent housewife: | |
| “Father, I am not inclined to be giving away my old linen: | |
| Since it serves many a purpose; and cannot be purchased for money, | |
| When we may want it. To-day, however, I gave, and with pleasure, | 25 |
| Many a piece that was better, indeed, in shirts and in bedclothes; | |
| For I was told of the aged and children who had to go naked. | |
| But wilt thou pardon me, father? thy wardrobe has also been plundered. | |
| And, in especial, the wrapper that has the East-Indian flowers, | |
| Made of the finest of chintz, and lined with delicate flannel, | 30 |
| Gave I away: it was thin and old, and quite out of the fashion.” | |
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| Thereupon answered and said, with a smile, the excellent landlord: | |
| “Faith! I am sorry to lose it, my good old calico wrapper, | |
| Real East-Indian stuff: I never shall get such another. | |
| Well, I had given up wearing it: nowadays, custom compels us | 35 |
| Always to go in surtout, and never appear but in jacket; | |
| Always to have on our boots; forbidden are night-cap and slippers.” | |
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| “See!” interrupted the wife: “even now some are yonder returning, | |
| Who have beheld the procession: it must, then, already be over. | |
| Look at the dust on their shoes! and see how their faces are glowing! | 40 |
| Every one carries his kerchief, and with it is wiping the sweat off. | |
| Not for a sight like that would I run so far and so suffer, | |
| Through such a heat; in sooth, enough shall I have in the telling.” | |
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| Thereupon answered and said, with emphasis, thus, the good father: | |
| “Rarely does weather like this attend such a harvest as this is. | 45 |
| We shall be bringing our grain in dry, as the hay was before it. | |
| Not the least cloud to be seen, so perfectly clear is the heaven; | |
| And, with delicious coolness, the wind blows in from the eastward. | |
| That is the weather to last! over-ripe are the cornfields already; | |
| We shall begin on the morrow to gather our copious harvest.” | 50 |
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| Constantly, while he thus spoke, the crowds of men and of women | |
| Grew, who their homeward way were over the market-place wending; | |
| And, with the rest, there also returned, his daughters beside him, | |
| Back to his modernized house on the opposite side of the market, | |
| Foremost merchant of all the town, their opulent neighbor, | 55 |
| Rapidly driving his open barouche,—it was builded in Landau. | |
| Lively now grew the streets, for the city was handsomely peopled. | |
| Many a trade was therein carried on, and large manufactures. | |
| Under their doorway thus the affectionate couple were sitting, | |
| Pleasing themselves with many remarks on the wandering people. | 60 |
| Finally broke in, however, the worthy housewife, exclaiming: | |
| “Yonder our pastor, see! is hitherward coming, and with him | |
| Comes our neighbor the doctor, so they shall every thing tell us; | |
| All they have witnessed abroad, and which ’tis a sorrow to look on.” | |
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| Cordially then the two men drew nigh, and saluted the couple; | 65 |
| Sat themselves down on the benches of wood that were placed in the doorway, | |
| Shaking the dust from their feet, and fanning themselves with their kerchiefs. | |
| Then was the doctor, as soon as exchanged were the mutual greetings, | |
| First to begin, and said, almost in a tone of vexation: | |
| “Such is mankind, forsooth! and one man is just like another, | 70 |
| Liking to gape and to stare when ill-luck has befallen his neighbor. | |
| Every one hurries to look at the flames, as they soar in destruction; | |
| Runs to behold the poor culprit, to execution conducted: | |
| Now all are sallying forth to gaze on the need of these exiles, | |
| Nor is there one who considers that he, by a similar fortune, | 75 |
| May, in the future, if not indeed next, be likewise o’ertaken.Levity not to be pardoned, I deem; yet it lies in man’s nature.” | |
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| Thereupon answered and said the noble, intelligent pastor; | |
| Ornament he of the town, still young, in the prime of his manhood. | |
| He was acquainted with life,—with the needs of his hearers acquainted; | |
| Deeply imbued he was with the Holy Scriptures’ importance, | 80 |
| As they reveal man’s destiny to us, and man’s disposition; | |
| Thoroughly versed, besides, in best of secular writings. | |
| “I should be loath,” he replied, “to censure an innocent instinct, | |
| Which to mankind by good mother Nature has always been given. | |
| What understanding and reason may sometimes fail to accomplish, | 85 |
| Oft will such fortunate impulse, that bears us resistlessly with it. | |
| Did curiosity draw not man with its potent attraction, | |
| Say, would he ever have learned how harmoniously fitted together | |
| Worldly experiences are? For first what is novel he covets; | |
| Then with unwearying industry follows he after the useful; | 90 |
| Finally longs for the good by which he is raised and ennobled. | |
| While he is young, such lightness of mind is a joyous companion, | |
| Traces of pain-giving evil effacing as soon as ’tis over. | |
| He is indeed to be praised, who, out of this gladness of temper, | |
| Has in his ripening years a sound understanding developed; | 95 |
| Who, in good fortune or ill, with zeal and activity labors: | |
| Such an one bringeth to pass what is good, and repaireth the evil.” | |
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| Then broke familiarly in the housewife impatient, exclaiming: | |
| “Tell us of what ye have seen; for that I am longing to hear of!” | |
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| “Hardly,” with emphasis then the village doctor made answer, | 100 |
| “Can I find spirits so soon after all the scenes I have witnessed. | |
| Oh, the manifold miseries! who shall be able to tell them? | |
| E’en before crossing the meadows, and while we were yet at a distance, | |
| Saw we the dust; but still from hill to hill the procession | |
| Passed away out of our sight, and we could distinguish but little. | 105 |
| But when at last we were come to the street that crosses the valley, | |
| Great was the crowd and confusion of persons on foot and of wagons. | |
| There, alas! saw we enough of these poor unfortunates passing, | |
| And could from some of them learn how bitter the sorrowful flight was, | |
| Yet how joyful the feeling of life thus hastily rescued. | 110 |
| Mournful it was to behold the most miscellaneous chattels, - | |
| All those things which are housed in every well-furnished dwelling, | |
| All by the house-keeper’s care set up in their suitable places, | |
| Always ready for use; for useful is each and important. - | |
| Now these things to behold, piled up on all manner of wagons, | 115 |
| One on the top of another, as hurriedly they had been rescued. | |
| Over the chest of drawers were the sieve and wool coverlet lying; | |
| Thrown in the kneading-trough lay the bed, and the sheets on the mirror. | |
| Danger, alas! as we learned ourselves in our great conflagration | |
| Twenty years since, will take from a man all power of reflection, | 120 |
| So that he grasps things worthless and leaves what is precious behind him. | |
| Here, too, with unconsidering care they were carrying with them | |
| Pitiful trash, that only encumbered the horses and oxen; | |
| Such as old barrels and boards, the pen for the goose, and the birdcage. | |
| Women and children, too, went toiling along with their bundles, | 125 |
| Panting ’neath baskets and tubs, full of things of no manner of value: | |
| So unwilling is man to relinquish his meanest possession. | |
| Thus on the dusty road the crowded procession moved forward, | |
| All confused and disordered. The one whose beasts were the weaker, | |
| Wanted more slowly to drive, while faster would hurry another. | 130 |
| Presently went up a scream from the closely squeezed women and children, | |
| And with the yelping of dogs was mingled the lowing of cattle, | |
| Cries of distress from the aged and sick, who aloft on the wagon, | |
| Heavy and thus overpacked, upon beds were sitting and swaying. | |
| Pressed at last from the rut and out to the edge of the highway, | 135 |
| Slipped the creaking wheel; the cart lost its balance, and over | |
| Fell in the ditch. In the swing the people were flung to a distance, | |
| Far off into the field, with horrible screams; by good fortune | |
| Later the boxes were thrown and fell more near to the wagon. | |
| Verily all who had witnessed the fall, expected to see them | 140 |
| Crushed into pieces beneath the weight of trunks and of presses. | |
| So lay the cart all broken to fragments, and helpless the people. | |
| Keeping their onward way, the others drove hastily by them, | |
| Each thinking only of self, and carried away by the current. | |
| Then we ran to the spot, and found the sick and the aged, - | 145 |
| Those who at home and in bed could before their lingering ailments | |
| Scarcely endure,—lying bruised on the ground, complaining and groaning, | |
| Choked by the billowing dust and scorched by the heat of the noonday.” | |
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| Thereupon answered and said the kind-hearted landlord, with feeling: | |
| “Would that our Hermann might meet them and give them refreshment and clothing! | 150 |
| Loath should I be to behold them: the looking on suffering pains me. | |
| Touched by the earliest tidings of their so cruel afflictions, | |
| Hastily sent we a mite from out of our super-abundance, | |
| Only that some might be strengthened, and we might ourselves be made easy. | |
| But let us now no longer renew these sorrowful pictures | 155 |
| Knowing how readily fear steals into the heart of us mortals | |
| And anxiety, worse to me than the actual evil. | |
| Come with me into the room behind, our cool little parlor, | |
| Where no sunbeam e’er shines, and no sultry breath ever enters | |
| Through its thickness of wall. There mother will bring us a flagon | 160 |
| Of our old eighty-three, with which we may banish our fancies. | |
| Here ’tis not cosey to drink: the flies so buzz round the glasses.” | |
| Thither adjourned they then, and all rejoiced in the coolness. | |
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| Carefully brought forth the mother the clear and glorious vintage, | |
| Cased in a well-polished flask, on a waiter of glittering pewter, | 165 |
| Set round with large green glasses, the drinking cups meet for the Rhine wine. | |
| So sat the three together about the highly waxed table, | |
| Gleaming and round and brown, that on mighty feet was supported. | |
| Joyously rang at once the glasses of landlord and pastor, | |
| But his motionless held the third, and sat lost in reflection, | 170 |
| Until with words of good-humor the landlord challenged him, saying,— | |
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| “Come, sir neighbor, empty your glass, for God in his mercy | |
| Thus far has kept us from evil, and so in the future will keep us. | |
| For who acknowledges not, that since our dread conflagration, | |
| When he so hardly chastised us, he now is continually blessing, | 175 |
| Constantly shielding, as man the apple of his eye watches over, | |
| Holding it precious and dear above all the rest of his members? | |
| Shall he in time to come not defend us and furnish us succor? | |
| Only when danger is nigh do we see how great is his power. | |
| Shall he this blooming town which he once by industrious burghers | 180 |
| Built up afresh from its ashes, and afterwards blessed with abundance, | |
| Now demolish again, and bring all the labor to nothing?” | |
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| Cheerfully said in reply the excellent pastor, and kindly: | |
| “Keep thyself firm in the faith, and firm abide in this temper; | |
| For it makes steadfast and wise when fortune is fair, and when evil, | 185 |
| Furnishes sweet consolation and animates hopes the sublimest.” | |
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| Then made answer the landlord, with thoughts judicious and manly: | |
| “Often the Rhine’s broad stream have I with astonishment greeted, | |
| As I have neared it again, after travelling abroad upon business. | |
| Always majestic it seemed, and my mind and spirit exalted. | 190 |
| But I could never imagine its beautiful banks would so shortly | |
| Be to a rampart transformed, to keep from our borders the Frenchman, | |
| And its wide-spreading bed be a moat all passage to hinder. | |
| See! thus nature protects, the stout-hearted Germans protect us, | |
| And thus protects us the Lord, who then will be weakly despondent? | 195 |
| Weary already the combatants, all indications are peaceful. | |
| Would it might be that when that festival, ardently longed for, | |
| Shall in our church be observed, when the sacred Te Deum is rising, | |
| Swelled by the pealing of organ and bells, and the blaring of trumpets,— | |
| Would it might be that that day should behold my Hermann, sir pastor, | 200 |
| Standing, his choice now made, with his bride before thee at the altar, | |
| Making that festal day, that through every land shall be honored, | |
| My anniversary, too, henceforth of domestic rejoicing! | |
| But I observe with regret, that the youth so efficient and active | |
| Ever in household affairs, when abroad is timid and backward. | 205 |
| Little enjoyment he finds in going about among others; | |
| Nay, he will even avoid young ladies’ society wholly; | |
| Shuns the enlivening dance which all young persons delight in.” | |
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| Thus he spoke and listened; for now was heard in the distance | |
| Clattering of horses’ hoofs drawing near, and the roll of the wagon, | 210 |
| Which, with furious haste, came thundering under the gateway. | |
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