Hermann and Dorothea Part 1

Hermann and Dorothea.

by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe.

INTRODUCTORY NOTE

There are few modern poems of any country so perfect in their kind as the "Hermann and Dorothea" of Goethe. In clearness of characterization, in unity of tone, in the adjustment of background and foreground, in the conduct of the narrative, it conforms admirably to the strict canons of art; yet it preserves a freshness and spontaneity in its emotional appeal that are rare in works of so cla.s.sical a perfection in form.

The basis of the poem is a historical incident. In the year 1731 the Archbishop of Salzburg drove out of his diocese a thousand Protestants, who took refuge in South Germany, and among whom was a girl who became the bride of the son of a rich burgher.

The occasion of the girl's exile was changed by Goethe to more recent times, and in the poem she is represented as a German from the west bank of the Rhine fleeing from the turmoil caused by the French Revolution. The political element is not a mere background, but is woven into the plot with consummate skill, being used, at one point, for example, in the characterization of Dorothea, who before the time of her appearance in the poem has been deprived of her first betrothed by the guillotine; and, at another, in furnishing a telling contrast between the revolutionary uproar in France and the settled peace of the German village.

The characters of the father and the minister Goethe took over from the original incident, the mother he invented, and the apothecary he made to stand for a group of friends. But all of these persons, as well as the two lovers, are recreated, and this so skillfully that while they are made notably familiar to us as individuals, they are no less significant as permanent types of human nature. The hexameter measure which he employed, and which is retained in the present translation, he handled with such charm that it has since seemed the natural verse for the domestic idyl--witness the obvious imitation of this, as of other features of the poem, in Longfellow's "Evangeline."

Taken as a whole, with its beauty of form, its sentiment, tender yet restrained, and the compelling pathos of its story, "Hermann and Dorothea" appeals to a wider public than perhaps any other product of its author.

HERMANN AND DOROTHEA

CALLIOPE

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.

Fully a league it must be to the causeway they have to pa.s.s 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, 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.

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, Unto his wife was speaking mine host of the Golden Lion.

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, Many a piece that was better, indeed, in shirts and in bed-clothes; 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, Gave I away: it was thin and old, and quite out of the fashion."

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 Always to go in surtout, and never appear but in jacket; Always to have on our boots; forbidden are night-cap and slippers."

"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!

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."

Thereupon answered and said, with emphasis, thus, the good father: "Rarely does weather like this attend such a harvest as this is.

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."

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, 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.

Finally broke in, however, the worthy housewife, exclaiming: "Yonder our pastor, see! is. .h.i.therward 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."

Cordially then the two men drew nigh, and saluted the couple; 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, 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, 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."

Thereupon answered and said the n.o.ble, 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, 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, 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; Finally longs for the good by which he is raised and enn.o.bled.

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; Who, in good fortune or ill, with zeal and activity labors: Such an one bringeth to pa.s.s what is good, and repaireth the evil."

Then broke familiarly in the housewife impatient, exclaiming: "Tell us of what ye have seen; for that I am longing to hear of!"

"Hardly," with emphasis then the village doctor made answer, "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 Pa.s.sed away out of our sight, and we could distinguish but little, 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 pa.s.sing, And could from some of them learn how bitter the sorrowful flight was, Yet how joyful the feeling of life thus hastily rescued.

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, 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, 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 enc.u.mbered the horses and oxen; Such as old barrels and boards, the pen for the goose, and the bird-cage.

Women and children, too, went toiling along with their bundles,

"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.

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, 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 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,-- 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."

Thereupon answered and said the kind-hearted landlord, with feeling: "Would that our Hermann might meet them and give them refreshment and clothing!

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 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 Of our old eighty-three, with which we may banish our fancies.