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The German Classics Of The Nineteenth And Twentieth Centuries, Volume 12 by Various

V >> Various >> The German Classics Of The Nineteenth And Twentieth Centuries, Volume 12




Whatever his reason may have been, however, Ferber was soon as popular
in his new place of residence as previously in Berlin, for he had that
kindliness of character which is the "dearest child of the
dram-bottle." He was very fond of my father, who reciprocated the
sentiment. But this friendship did not spring up at the very beginning
of their acquaintance. In fact it developed out of a little
controversy between them, that is to say, a defeat sustained by my
father, one of whose amiable peculiarities it was, within twenty-four
hours at the latest to convert his anger at being put to flight, into
approbation bordering on homage for the victor.

His defeat came about thus. One day the assertion was made by Ferber,
that, whether we liked it or not, a German must be looked upon as the
"father of the French Revolution," for Minister Necker, though born in
Geneva, was the son or grandson of a Kuestrin postmaster. This seemed
to my father a perfectly preposterous assertion, and he combated it
with a rather supercilious mien, till it was finally shown to be
substantially correct. Then my father's arrogance, growing out of a
conviction of his superior knowledge, was transformed first into
respect and later into friendship, and even twenty years after,
whenever we drove from our Oderbruch village to the neighboring city
of Kuestrin, he never had much to say about Crown Prince Fritz, or
Katte's decapitation, but regularly remarked: "Oh yes, Necker, who may
be called the father of the French Revolution, traced his ancestry
back to this city of Kuestrin. I owe the information to Ferber, Captain
Ferber, whom we called Teinturier. It is a pity he could not give up
his _aqua vitae_. At times it was pitiable."

Yes, pitiable it was, but not to us children, who, on the contrary,
always broke out into cheers whenever the captain, usually in rather
desolate costume, came staggering up the Great Church Street to find a
place to continue his breakfast. We used to follow close behind him
and tease and taunt him till he would try to catch and thrash one or
the other of us. Occasionally he succeeded; but I always escaped with
ease, because I chose for my teasings only days when it had rained a
short time before. Then there stood in the street between our house
and the church on the other side a huge pool of water, which became my
harbor of refuge. Holding my stilts at the proper angle, I sprang
quickly upon them as soon as I saw that Teinturier, in spite of his
condition, was close on my heels, and then I marched triumphantly into
the pool of water. There I stood like a stork on one stilt and
presented arms with the other, as I continued scoffing at him. Cursing
and threatening he marched away, the poor captain. But he took care
not to make good his threats, because in his good moments he did not
like to be reminded of the bad ones.

We had several playgrounds. The one we liked best perhaps was along
the "Bulwark," at the point where the side street branched off from
our house. The whole surroundings were very picturesque, especially in
the winter time, when the ships, stripped of their topmasts, lay at
their moorings, often in three rows, the last pretty far out in the
river. We were allowed to play along the "Bulwark" and practice our
rope-walking art on the stretched hawsers as far as they hung close to
the ground. Only one thing was prohibited. We were not allowed to go
on board the ships, much less to climb the rope ladders to the
mastheads. A very sensible prohibition. But the more sensible it was,
the greater was our desire to disregard it, and in the game of "robber
and wayfarer," of which we were all very fond, disregarding of this
prohibition was almost a matter of course. Furthermore, discovery lay
beyond the range of probability; our parents were either at their
"party" or invited to dine out. "So let's go ahead. If anybody tells
on us, he will be worse off than we."

So we thought one Sunday in April, 1831. It must have been about that
time of year, for I can still recall the clear, cold tone of the
atmosphere. On the ship there was not a sign of life, and on the
"Bulwark" not a human soul to be seen, which further proves to me that
it was a Sunday.

I, being the oldest and strongest, was the robber, of course. Of the
eight or ten smaller boys only one was in any measure able to compete
with me. That was an illegitimate child, called Fritz Ehrlich
(Honorable), as though to compensate him for his birth. These boys had
set out from the Church Square, the usual starting-point of the chase,
and were already close after me. I arrived at the "Bulwark" exhausted,
and, as there was no other way of escape, ran over a firm broad plank
walk toward the nearest ship, with the whole pack after me. This
naturally forced me to go on from the first ship to the second and
from the second to the third. There was no going any further, and if I
wished, in spite of this dilemma, to escape my enemies, there was
nothing left for me but to seek a hiding-place on the ship itself, or
at least a spot difficult of access. I found such a place and climbed
up about the height of a man to the top of the superstructure near the
cabin. In this superstructure was usually to be found, among other
rooms, the ship's cuisine. My climbing was facilitated by steps built
in the perpendicular wall. And there I stood then, temporarily safe,
gazing down as a victor at my pursuers. But the sense of victory did
not last long; the steps were there for others as well as for me, and
an instant later Fritz Ehrlich was also on the roof. Now I was indeed
lost if I foiled to find another way of escape. So, summoning all my
strength, I took as long a running start as the narrow space would
permit and sprang from the roof of the kitchen over the intervening
strip of water back to the second ship and then ran for the shore, as
though chased by all the furies. When I had reached the shore it was
nothing to run to the base in front of our house and be free. But I
was destined not to enjoy my happiness very long, for almost the very
moment I once more had solid ground beneath my feet I heard cries of
distress coming from the third and second ships, and my name called
repeatedly, which made me think something must have happened. Swiftly
as I had made for the shore over the noisy plank walk, I now hastened
back over it. There was no time to lose. Fritz Ehrlich had tried to
imitate my leap from the kitchen, but, failing to equal my distance,
had fallen into the water between the ships. And there the poor boy
was, digging his nails into the cracks in the ship's hull. Swimming
was out of the question, even if he knew anything about it. Besides,
the water was icy cold. To reach him from the deck with the means at
hand was impossible. So I grasped a piece of rope hanging from a rope
ladder and, letting myself down the side of the ship, tried every way
I could think of to lengthen my body as much as possible, till finally
Fritz was barely able to catch hold of my left foot, which reached
furthest down, while I held on above with my right hand. "Take hold,
Fritz!" But the doughty fellow, who may have realized that we should
both be lost if he really took a firm hold, contented himself with
laying his hand lightly upon the toe of my boot, and little as that
was, it nevertheless sufficed to keep his head above water. To be
sure, he may have been by natural endowment a "water treader," as they
are called; or he may have had the traditional luck of the
illegitimate, which seems to me on second thought more probable. In
any case he kept afloat till some people came from the shore and
reached a punt-pole down to him, while some others untied a boat
lying at Hannemann's Clapper and rowed it into the space between the
ships to fish him out. The moment that the saving punt-pole arrived
some man unknown to me reached down from the ladder, seized me by the
collar, and with a vigorous jerk hoisted me back on deck.

On this occasion not a word of reproach was uttered, though I could
not say as much of any other occasion of the kind. The people took
Fritz Ehrlich, drenched and freezing, to a house in the immediate
neighborhood, while the rest of us started home in a very humble frame
of mind. To be sure, I had also a feeling of elation, despite the fact
that my prospects for the future were not of the pleasantest. But my
fears were not realized. Quite the contrary. The following morning, as
I was starting to school, my father met me in the hall and stopped me.
Neighbor Pietzker, the good man with the nightcap, had been tattling
again, though with better intentions than usual.

"I've heard the whole business," said my father. "Why, in the name of
heaven, can't you be obedient! But we'll let it pass, since you
acquitted yourself so well. I know all the details. Pietzker across
the street ..."

Hereupon I was allowed to go to school.




SIR RIBBECK OF RIBBECK[3]

By THEODOR FONTANE



Sir Ribbeck of Ribbeck in Havelland--
A pear-tree in his yard did stand,
And in the golden autumn-tide,
When pears were shining far and wide,
Sir Ribbeck, when barely the bells struck noon,
Would stuff both his pockets with pears right soon.
If a boy in clogs would come his way,
He would call: "My boy, have a pear today?"
To a girl he'd call: "Little maid over there,
Now come here to me, and I'll give you a pear."
And thus he did ever, as years went by,
Till Sir Ribbeck of Ribbeck came to die.
He felt his end coming, 'twas autumn-tide,
And the pears were laughing, far and wide,
Then spoke Sir Ribbeck: "And now I must die.
Lay a pear in my grave, beside me to lie!"
From the double-roofed house in three days more,
Sir Ribbeck to his grave they bore.
All the peasants and cotters with solemn face,
Did sing: "Lord Jesus, in Thy Grace"--
And the children moaned with hearts of lead:
"Who will give us a pear? Now he is dead."
Thus moaned the children--that was not good--
Not knowing old Ribbeck as they should.
The new, to be sure, is a miser hard;
Over park and pear-tree he keeps stern guard.
But the old, who this doubtless could foretell,
Distrusting his son, he knew right well
What he was about when he bade them lay
A pear in his grave, on his dying day:

Out of his silent haunt, in the third year,
A little pear-tree shoot did soon appear.
And many a year now comes and goes,
But a pear-tree on the grave there grows,
And in the golden autumn-tide,
The pears are shining far and wide.
When a boy o'er the grave-yard wends his way,
The tree whispers: "Boy, have a pear today?"
To a girl it says: "Little maid over there,
Come here to me and I'll give you a pear."
So there are blessings still from the hand
Of Sir Ribbeck of Ribbeck in Havelland.


[Footnote 3: Translator: Margarete Muensterberg.]


THE BRIDGE BY THE TAY[4] (1879)

/#
"_When shall we three meet again_".--Macbeth
#/


"When shall we three meet again?"
"The dam of the bridge at seven attain!"
"By the pier in the middle. I'll put out amain
"The flames."
"I too."
"I'll come from the north."
"And I from the south."
"From the sea I'll soar forth."

"Ha, that will be a merry-go-round,
The bridge must sink into the ground."
"And with the train what shall we do
That crosses the bridge at seven?"
"That too."
"That must go too!"
"A bawble, a naught,
What the hand of man hath wrought!"

The bridgekeeper's house that stands in the north--
All windows to the south look forth,
And the inmates there without peace or rest
Are gazing southward with anxious zest;
They gaze and wait a light to spy
That over the water "I'm coming!" should cry,
"I'm coming--night and storm are vain--
I from Edinburg the train!"

And the bridgekeeper says: "I see a gleam
On the other shore. That's it, I deem.
Now mother, away with bad dreams, for see,
Our Johnnie is coming--he'll want his tree,
And what is left of candles, light
As if it were on Christmas night.
Twice we shall have our Christmas cheer--
In eleven minutes he must be here."

It is the train, with the gale it vies
And panting by the south tower flies.
"There's the bridge still," says Johnnie. "But that's all right,
We'll make it surely out of spite!
A solid boiler and double steam
Should win in such a fight, 'twould seem,
Let it rave and rage and run at its bent,
We'll put it down: this element!

And our bridge is our pride. I must laugh always
When I think back of the olden days,
And all the trouble and misery
That with the wretched boat would be;
And many cheerful Christmas nights
I spent at the ferryman's house--the lights
From our windows I'd watch and count them o'er,
And could not reach the other shore."

The bridgekeeper's house that stands in the north--
All windows to the south look forth,
And the inmates there without peace or rest
Are gazing southward with anxious zest:
More furious grew the winds' wild games,
And now, as if the sky poured flames,
Comes shooting down a radiance bright
O'er the water below.--Now again all is night.

"When shall we three meet again?"
"At midnight the top of the mountain attain!"
"By the alder-stem on the high moorland plain!"
"I'll come."
"And I too."
"And the number I'll tell."
"And I the names."
"I the torture right well."
"Whoo!
Like splinters the woodwork crashed in two."
"A bawble,--a naught,
What the hand of man hath wrought!"


[Footnote 4: Translator: Margarete Muensterberg.]

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