Читать книгу The Trumpeter of Säkkingen: A Song from the Upper Rhine - Joseph Victor von Scheffel - Страница 15

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To the Schwarzwald soars my song, up

To the Feldberg, where the last small

Cluster of its comrade mountains

Toward the south are boldly looking,

And, all mailed in fir-tree armour,

Keep good watch there on the Rhine.

Be thou greeted, peaceful forest!

Be ye greeted, ancient pine-trees,

Ye, who oft beneath your shadow

Me, the weary one, have sheltered.

Oddly twisted, spread your roots down

Deep within the earth's vast bowels,

Strength from out those depths imbibing,

While to us is closed the entrance.

And you envy not a transient

Human being's transient doings.

Only smile;--his feast at Christmas

You adorn with your young scions.

In your sturdy trunks lives also

Conscious life-sustaining power.

Resin through your veins is coursing;

And your dreamy thoughts are surging

Slow and heavy, upward, downward.

Oft I saw the clear and gummy

Tears which from your bark were oozing,

When a woodman's wanton axe-stroke

Rudely felled some loved companion.

Oft I heard your topmost summits

Spirit-like together whisper.

Then there breathed throughout my soul a

Sweet mysterious solemn dreaming.

Don't find fault then, if my song now

Soars within the forest shades.

'Twas in March: still played the Winter

Masquerade; the branches, laden

With fantastical ice-crystals,

To the ground were lowly drooping;

Here and there, out of Earth's bosom

Tender plants their heads were thrusting--

Wood-anemones and cowslips.

As the patriarch, old Noah,

At the time of the great Deluge,

Sent the dove to reconnoitre:

So with winter's ice sore burdened,

With impatience sends the Earth forth

These first flowers with a question,

Asking, whether the oppressor

Has not come to his last gasp yet.

Blustering from the Feldberg's summit

Now old Master Storm is rushing,

And rejoices, through the dark dense

Forest he again is blowing;

Says: "I greet you, ancient comrades;

Why I come, you know the reason--

They believe, poor mortal children,

When they see me tearing, snatching

Roughly some old hat away,

I am only there to frighten.

That would be a pretty business,

Breaking chimneys, smashing windows,

Scattering through the air some thatchings,

Tearing some old woman's clothing

Till she signs the cross in praying!

But you fir-trees know me better,

Me, the fair Spring's thorough cleaner,

Who what's mouldy sweeps afar off--

Who what's rotten blows to pieces--

Who the earth's domain well cleanses,

That his radiant Lord and Master

Worthily may make his entrance.

And you, noble forest comrades,

Who so oft, with bronze-like foreheads,

Bravely have withstood my rudeness,

Ye whose trunks I have to thank for

Many knocks against my skull-bone,

Ye alone shall hear my secret:

Soon the Spring himself he cometh,

And then, when the buds are bursting,

Lark and blackbird sing their carols,

And with fervent heat the Spring sun

Brightly on your heads is shining,

Then remember me, the Storm-wind,

Who to-day, with boisterous fury

As his harbinger swept past."

Speaking thus, he shook the tree-tops

With great roughness; boughs are snapping,

Branches falling, and a thick, fine

Rain of pine-leaves crackles downward.

But the fir-trees, quite indignant,

Took small notice of this homage.

From their summits rang the answer,

Rather scolding, I should call it:

"You unmannerly rude fellow!

We will have no business with you,

And regret much that the finest

Lords have oft the rudest servants.

To the Alps begone directly,

There is sport fit for your humour;

There stand walls of rock all barren;

Entertain yourself with them there."

Now, while thus the storm and fir-trees

Held such converse with each other,

Could be heard a horse's footfall.

Toiling through the snow-piled wood-path

Seeks his way a weary horseman;

Gaily flutters in the storm-wind,

To and fro, his long gray mantle,

His fair curling locks are waving,

And, from out the cocked-up hat there

Boldly nods a heron's feather.

On his lips was just appearing

Such a downy beard as ladies

Much admire, because it showeth

That its bearer is a man, still

One whose kisses will not wound them.

But not many pretty lips had

Felt the soft touch of this beard yet.

Which, as if for fun and mischief,

Snow and ice now decked with crystals.

In his clear blue eyes were glowing

Warmth and mildness, earnest meaning,

And you could not doubt his fist would

Strike a valiant blow, when needed,

With the heavy basket-hilted

Sword, which, worn suspended by a

Black belt from his shoulder, well-nigh

Grazed the ground as he was riding.

Wound around his riding-doublet

Was a sash, to which was tied the

Richly-gilded shining trumpet,

Which he often with his mantle

Sheltered from the falling snow-flakes;

But, whene'er the wind pierced through it,

Bringing forth tones shrill and wailing;

Then around his mouth there played a

Sweet strange smile of melancholy.

Silent through the forest's thicket

On he rode, while often roving

Were his glances--as the case is,

When a wanderer for the first time

Over unknown roads is travelling.

Rough the path--the poor horse often

In the snow was nearly sinking,

And o'er gnarl'd and tangled branches

Of the knotted pine-roots stumbling.

And the rider, in ill-humour,

Said: "Sometimes it is quite tedious,

Through the world alone to travel.

There are times, 'mid gloomy forests,

When one longeth for companions.

Since I bade farewell this morning

To the good monks of St. Blasien,

Lonely was the road and dreary.

Scattered here and there, a peasant,

Through the snow-storm running swiftly,

Hardly did my greeting notice.

Then a pair of coal-black ravens,

Who with hoarse discordant croakings,

O'er a dead mole fiercely quarrelled;

For the past two hours, however,

I not once have had the honour

To behold one living being.

And in this lone forest district,

Where the lofty snow-clad pine-trees

Look as if in shrouds enveloped,

I should like to have some comrades.

Were they even rogues or gipsies,

Or those two suspicious fellows

Who escorted the old knight once

Through the forest's gloom and thicket;

Then appeared as Death and Devil,

Grinning in his face with scorn!

I should rather ride with them now--

Rather fight them, or play lively

Dances for them, than so lonely

Thus to trot through this dense forest."

All comes to an end, however,

Even riding through the forests.

Round the trunks it grew much lighter,

Storm and snow-clouds were receding,

And the blue sky smiled benignant

Through the dense shade of the pine-woods.

Thus the miner, looking upward.

Sees, far at the pit's mouth shining.

Like a star, the distant daylight,

Which he greets with joyful shouting.

Likewise such a cheerful feeling

Brightens up our riders face.

So he reached the forest's border,

And his eyes, so long restricted

By dark woods to narrow prospects,

Gladly swept the wide horizon.

O how lovely woods and fields lay!

Green meads in the narrow valley,

Straw-thatched huts, low-roofed and mossy.

And the modest village steeple;

Deep below, where dusky forests

Stretch along unto the lowlands,

Like a long bright streak of silver,

Takes the Rhine his westward course.

Far off from the island glisten

Battlements and lofty houses,

And the minster's two tall spires;

While beyond, in misty distance

Shining, rise up unto Heaven

Snowy peaks of giant mountains,

Guardians of Helvetia's soil.

As the pallid ardent thinker's

Eye doth glow and cheek doth redden,

When a thought, new and creative,

Through his brain has flashed like lightning,

So the golden light of evening

Glows upon the Alpine Giants.

(Do they dream of throes of labour

Which their mother-earth of old felt,

When they from her womb were bursting?)

From the horse got off our rider,

To a pine-tree stump he bound it,

Gazed in wonder at the landscape,

Spoke no word, but shouting tossed up

In the air his pointed cocked hat,

And began to blow a cheering

Joyous tune upon his trumpet.

To the Rhine it bore a greeting,

Over toward the Alps it floated,

Merry now, then full of feeling,

Like a prayer devout and solemn,

Then again quite roguish, joyful.

Now trari-trara resounded,

Echo's voice her plaudits sending

From the bosom of the forest.

Fair it was o'er hill and valley,

But fair also to behold him,

As he in the deep snow standing

Lightly on his horse was leaning;

Now and then a golden sunbeam

Glory shed on man and trumpet,

In the background gloomy fir-trees,

Farther down among the meadows

Rang his tunes out not unheeded!

There was walking then the worthy

Pastor of the neighbouring village,

Who the snow-drifts was examining,

Which, fast melting with the surging

Waters rising o'er the meadows,

Threatened to destroy the grass there.

Plunged in thought, he deeply pondered

How to ward off this great danger.

Round him bounded, loudly barking,

His two white and shaggy dogs.

You who live in smoky cities,

And are separated wholly

From the simple life of nature,

Shrug your shoulders! for my muse will

Joyfully now sing the praises

Of a pastor in the country.

Simple is his life, and narrow:

Where the village ends, end also

All his labours and endeavours.

While men slaughtered one another,

In the bloody Thirty Years' War,

For God's honour, the calm grandeur

Of the Schwarzwald's solemn pine-woods

Breathed its peace into his soul.

Spider-webs spread o'er his book-shelves;

And, 'mid all the theologians'

Squabbles, he most likely never

Had read one polemic treatise.

With dogmatics altogether,

Science in her heavy armour,

He possessed but slight acquaintance.

But, whenever 'mongst his people

Could some discord be adjusted--

When the spiteful neighbours quarrelled;

When the demon of dissension

Marriage marred and children's duty;

When the daily load of sorrow

Heavily weighed down some poor man,

And the needy longing soul looked

Eagerly for consolation--

Then, as messenger from Heaven,

To his flock the old man hastened;

From the depths of his heart's treasure

Gave to each advice and comfort.

And if, in a distant village,

Someone lay upon a sick-bed,

With grim Death hard battle waging,

Then--at midnight--at each hour,

When a knock came at his hall-door--

E'en if snow the pathway covered--

Undismayed he went to comfort

And bestow the sacred blessing.

Solitary was his own life,

For his nearest friends were only

His two noble dogs (St. Bernards).

His reward: a little child oft

Bashfully approached him, kissing

His old hand with timid reverence;

Also oft a grateful smile played

O'er the features of the dying,

Which was meant for the old priest.

Unperceived the old man came now

By the border of the forest,

To the Trumpeter whose last notes

Rang resounding in the distance,

Tapped him friendly on the shoulder:

"My young master, may God bless you,

'Twas a fine tune you were playing!

Since the horsemen of the emperor

Buried here their serjeant-major,

Whom a Swedish cannon-ball had

Wounded mortally at Rhinefeld,

And they blew as a farewell then

The Reveille for their dead comrade--

Though 'tis long since it has happened,

I have never heard such sounds here.

Only on the organ plays my

Organist, and that quite poorly;

Therefore I am struck with wonder

To encounter such an Orpheus.

Will you treat to such fine music

The wild beasts here of our forest,

Stag and doe, and fox and badger?

Or, perhaps, was it a signal,

Like the call of the lost huntsman?

I can see that you are strange here,

By your long sword and your doublet;

It is far still to the town there,

And the road impracticable.

Look, the Rhine-fog mounts already

High up towards these upland forests,

And it seems to me but prudent

That with me you take your lodging;

In the vale there stands my glebe-house,

Plain, 'tis true, yet horse and rider

Find sufficient shelter there."

Then the horseman quickly answered:

"Yes, I'm strange in a strange country,

And I have not much reflected

Where to-night shall be my lodging.

To be sure, in these free forests

A free heart can sleep if need be;

But your courteous invitation

I most gratefully accept."

Then unfastened he his horse and

Led it gently by the bridle,

And the Pastor and the rider

Like old friends walked to the village

In the twilight of the evening.

By the window of the glebe-house

The old cook stood, looking serious;

Mournfully her hands she lifted,

Took a pinch of snuff and cried out:

"Good St. Agnes! good St. Agnes!

Stand by me in this my trouble!

Thoughtlessly my kind old master

Brings again a guest to stay here;

What a thorough devastation

Will he make in my good larder!

Now farewell, you lovely brook-trout,

Which I had reserved for Sunday,

When the Dean of Wehr will dine here.

Now farewell, thou hough of bacon!

The old clucking hen, I fear much,

Also now must fall a victim,

And the stranger's hungry horse will

Revel in our store of oats."