Justice and truth were ever in his thoughts. One evening he was lying in bed and should have been asleep, but enough light came through the partly closed curtains to allow him to read, and he wanted to finish the story about Solon.
His thoughts lifted him, carried him on a strange journey. His bed became a boat sailing on a great sea, and in his mind he asked himself if he were dreaming. He traveled across the great ocean of time and he heard Solon speak; and though spoken in a foreign tongue, he heard the old Danish proverb: “Upon law shall a country be built.”
And the spirit of Human Genius stood in the room of the poor cottage and pressed a kiss on the boy’s forehead and said: “May you have strength and honor in the battle that life is. May your life be a flight toward the land of truth.”
The older brother was not in bed yet. He stood by the window and looked out at the meadows over which lay a mist. It was not the elves dancing—an old woman had tried to tell him that, but he knew better. The mist was caused by the heat, by the water evaporating from the earth. He saw a falling star and the boy’s mind flew from the earth up to the burning meteor. All the stars sparkled and blinked as if they were connected by golden threads to the earth.
“Fly with us,” sang the child’s heart, and faster than a bird, an arrow, or anything earthly his genius carried him out into space, where the rays of light bind the whole universe together. In the thin atmosphere our earth turned and all the great towns were close together. “But what are near and far when you are borne by the spirit of Human Genius?”
Again the older boy stood by the window; his little brother lay asleep in his bed. Their mother called their names: “Anders and Hans Christian!”
Denmark knows them well and the world knows them: the two Oersted brothers!
103
The Old Church Bell
Written for the “Schiller Album”
In the district of Germany called Württemberg, where the acacia trees bloom along the roads and the apple and pear trees in autumn are filled with fruit, there lies a small town called Marbach. It is one of the poorest towns in the district, although it is beautifully situated on the banks of the Neckar. This river flows past many towns, castles, and mountains covered with vineyards before it finally becomes part of the Rhine.
It was late in the year. The leaves on the grapevines had turned red. It was raining and a cold wind blew. That is not the time of year most pleasant for the poor; it was dark outside and even darker and more dismal inside the little old houses of the town. One of them had its gable facing the street; its windows were tiny and the whole house gave an impression of poverty, and truly, the family that lived there were poor. But they were kind, hard-working, and God-fearing. A child was just about to be born. The mother lay in pain.
The great deep tone of the church bell was heard, so solemn and yet so comforting; and just at that moment the mother gave birth to her son. She felt terribly happy and the bells seemed to her to be telling of her happiness to the whole town. Two bright little eyes looked at her, and the baby’s hair shone as if the sun were shining on it. The boy arrived in this world on a dark November day to the sound of the ringing of bells. His mother and father kissed him and then wrote in their Bible: “The tenth of November, 1759, God has given us a son.” Later they added that he had been baptized “Johan Christoph Friederich.”
What became of the little fellow, the poor boy from the little town of Marbach? When he was born no one could have predicted how far and wide he was to be known, not even the old bell, although it hung up so high and therefore could see so much. But it had been the first to sing for him. One day he would repay that serenade with a lovely song called “The Bell.”
The little boy grew and the world grew; at least, so it seemed to him. His parents moved to another town but they still had friends in Marbach. When the boy was six, mother and son went back for a visit. The boy was a lively lad who knew several psalms by heart and could retell the fables of Gellert, which his father had read aloud for him and his younger sister. They knew the story of Our Saviour, too, and had wept when they heard how he died on a Cross.
The town of Marbach had not changed very much. The same little houses with tall gables, small windows, and crooked walls lined the streets. In the churchyard new graves had been dug; and in the grass by the wall stood the old bell: it had fallen down from the church tower and cracked. It would never ring again and a new bell now hung in its place.
Mother and son stood in front of the old bell and the mother told her son how the bell, for several hundred years, had served the citizens of the town. It had rung for baptisms, weddings, and funerals; it had tolled when a fire broke out; in every event of importance—whether of joy, sorrow, or terror—it had played its part. The boy did not forget what his mother told him that day. It was as if the bell were ringing in his chest. His mother recalled how the bell had comforted her when, in fear and pain, she was giving birth to him, and how it had pealed in happiness when he finally was born. The boy looked with affection at the old bell. He bent down and kissed it, there where it stood among nettles and weeds.
The bell was part of the boy’s memory. He grew and became a lanky young man with red hair and freckles, and a pair of eyes as clear as the deep waters. But what happened to him? Oh, everything went well for him, enviably so. He had been accepted at the Military Academy. Most of the other young cadets were noblemen. It was an honor and a piece of luck. He wore boots, a silk neckband, and a powdered wig. Learning he got too: “March! Halt! About face!” He had it drilled into him.
The old church bell that stood forgotten, overgrown with weeds and grass, would someday be melted down and what would become of it? Then, that was as impossible to tell as what was to become of the bell inside the young soldier’s chest. Its tone was deep; certainly one day it must be heard far out in the world.
Narrower and narrower grew the walls of the academy, and the commands, “March! Halt! About face!” became more and more deafening. Stronger and more forcefully other tunes rang in the young man’s chest; he sang his songs for his friends and comrades, and they echoed even outside the borders of his country. But it was not for the sake of poetry he had been given free schooling, a uniform, and his keep. In the practical world, he was destined to be a small wheel in the great clock. When it is so difficult for us to understand ourselves, how then can others understand us, even those who love us? But by great pressure, diamonds are created; here, too, was pressure. Would it in time produce a gem?
A celebration took place in the capital of the state. Thousands of lamps illuminated the town and rockets shot up into the air. We can still read about it, for it was on that very night that the young man, though filled with pain and sorrow, fled from his country. Everything that was dear to him he had to leave behind or he would have drowned in the river of mediocrity.
The old church bell still stood forgotten by the wall of the churchyard. The wind flew above it and could have told the old bell what had happened to the young man at whose birth it had rung. The wind could have told how it blew coldly upon him as he sank to the ground from exhaustion, in a forest of a neighboring state. His only wealth, his only hope for the future, were some pages of a manuscript. The wind could have told, too, how his only friends—artists and poets like himself—would sneak out to the bowling greens to avoid reading them. Oh yes, the wind knew all about the impoverished, pale, young exile who lived at a sordid inn where the innkeeper was a drunkard and every night there was a noisy drinking bout. Here in a garret he wrote, and composed songs about the ideal. These days were dark, but the heart has to learn suffering or it will never be able to sing about it.
The old bell was experiencing dark and dismal days too, but it could not really feel them. It is only the bell within one’s chest that can feel the days of trial. What happened further to the young man? And what happened to the old church bell? The bell traveled farther than it was ever heard when it hung, in all its glory, in the bell tower. And the bel
l in the young man’s chest was heard farther than his feet would ever wander or his eyes ever see. It still can be heard across the great oceans, the whole world round.
But let us hear what happened to the church bell first. It was sold as old metal and transported from Marbach all the way to Bayern. There it was to be melted down. When did this happen and how? Well, that the bell can tell itself, if it is capable of it; it is of little importance. The only thing that is certain is that it arrived in the royal capital of Bayern many, many years after it had fallen from the tower and its metal was to be used for a statue, a monument to a great figure who had cast glory on the German people.
Now listen to what else happened. Strange are the ways of this world of ours. In Denmark, on the green islands where the Viking graves are and the beech tree grows, there lived a poor woodcarver whose son brought him his lunch basket every day. This poor child had grown up to become the pride of his nation. He carved in marble such beauty that all the world looked with wonder at it. He had been given the honor of forming in clay the figure of this great and distinguished man; the sculpture was then to be cast in bronze. It was to be a likeness of the poor boy whose name his father had written down in the Bible: Johan Christoph Friederich.
The melted bronze was flowing into the form. The old church bell was no more; now it was the chest and head of a statue. The monument was placed on the square in Stuttgart in front of the old castle, where he whom the sculpture portrayed had so often walked: the boy from Marbach; the student at the military academy; the exile; Germany’s great, immortal poet, who has sung about the liberator of Switzerland and St. Joan of France.
The day that the monument was to be unveiled was warm and sunny. From all the roofs and towers of the city banners flew. The church bells rang in celebration and joy. A hundred years had passed since the bell in the church tower of Marbach had rung to give comfort to the mother in pain: she who in poverty had borne the child who was to become so rich that he could leave a treasure to the world; he, the great poet of the heart, the immortal singer of all that is great and beautiful, Johan Christoph Friedrich Schiller.
104
The Twelve Passengers
It was freezing cold. The night was clear, the wind was still, and the sky was filled with stars. “Bang! Bang!” That was a firecracker. They were being shot off because it was New Year’s Eve and the clock was just striking twelve.
“Trat tra … Trat tra!” the coachman’s bugle was heard as the stagecoach arrived at the city gate. There were twelve passengers; exactly the number that there was room for: every seat was occupied.
“Hurrah! Hurrah!” In all the houses people were shouting, “Hurrah!” for the New Year. They were standing glass in hand, ready to toast: “Health and prosperity in the New Year!” they said. Or they made other wishes for each other; such as: “May you find a nice wife,” or “May you earn lots of money,” or “May all this unpleasant nonsense come to an end.” This latter, of course, was rather too much to ask.
While everyone was welcoming in the New Year, the stagecoach waited outside the city gate with its passengers.
Who were these strangers? They had their passports and luggage, and in it there were gifts for you and me, for everyone in the whole city. But what did they want and what did they bring?
“Good morning,” they said to the sentry at the gate.
“Good morning,” he answered; and it was, after all, past midnight. “Your name and profession,” the sentry asked the first man who descended from the coach.
“Look in the passport,” he grumbled. “I am I!” He was big and gruff. He was wearing a bearskin coat and sled boots. “I am the man a lot of people pin their hopes on. Come around tomorrow and I will tell you what New Year is like. I throw away pennies and silver coins as well; you can scramble for them. And I give grand balls: thirty-one of them, that is all the nights I have to give away. I am a merchant, my ships are all icebound, but it is warm in my office. My name is January; my luggage is filled with unpaid bills.”
The next passenger was more amusing. He was a theater director who only played comedies and held masquerades. He traveled with an empty barrel as luggage.
“I live for the pleasure of others and for myself because I have such a short life, only twenty-eight days. Sometimes a collection is made among the family and I am given an extra day, but I don’t care one way or the other. Hurrah!”
“Don’t shout so loud!” said the soldier on guard.
“Certainly I may!” said the traveler. “I am Prince of the Carnival, though I travel under the name of Februarius.”
Now the third of the strangers came out of the coach. He was thin and tall. One would think that he had never got enough to eat. He was always fasting and proud of it. They say that he can tell the weather for the rest of the year, but that is not a profession one can grow fat on. He wore a black suit with a few violets in his buttonhole; they were very small.
“March, March!” screamed the fourth, and pushed him out of the way with a laugh. “March, March, right inside with you. I can smell they are brewing punch in there.” But that wasn’t true at all. He was just playing an April fool’s prank on the thin man. Now this fourth traveler looked like a lively fellow; he did not work hard and kept a lot of holidays. But he was subject to moods.
“With me it is always rain or sunshine,” he declared. “I can both laugh and cry at the same time. My suitcase is filled with summer clothes, but it is not wise to put them on. You will have to accept me as I am. When I am dressed up I wear a silk shirt and a woolen muffler.”
Now a lady got out of the coach.
“Miss May,” she said. She was wearing summer clothes but had overshoes on her feet. Her light green dress was made of silk. She had put anemones in her hair and she smelled so strongly of woodruff that the poor guard sneezed.
“God bless you,” she said, and meant it. She was very pretty indeed, and she sang—not in the theaters, but out in the forest, among the fresh green trees. She sang for her own pleasure and not for applause. In her sewing bag she kept a book of poetry.
“Here comes our young mistress!” they cried from inside the stagecoach. Out stepped a young woman, beautiful and proud. She was born to wealth, one could see that. She waited for the longest day of the year to throw a party; she wanted her guests to have time enough to eat all the courses. She could afford to drive in her own carriage, but she had sat in the coach along with the others because she didn’t want them to think that she was too proud to join them. As traveling companion she had her younger brother, Julius.
He also was well to do and was wearing a white suit and a Panama hat. He carried so little luggage that it could hardly have been less: a pair of bathing trunks.
Now came Madame August. She was a wholesale dealer in apples and other fruits. She owned farms, too; she looked big and fat and comfortable. She took part in all the work and could carry the beer barrel herself out to her workers at harvest time. “In the sweat of thy brow shalt thou eat thy bread.” That is written in the Bible, but afterward one can hold a feast and dance. Yes indeed, she was a straightforward person.
Next a man came out. He was a painter by profession. The trees in the forest were his canvas. He changed their color and made them even more beautiful. Red, yellow, and brown were his favorites. He could whistle like a starling and had decorated his beer mug with a garland of hops; it was very pretty and he had an eye for the pretty. He traveled light, a pot of paint and some brushes were all his baggage.
Now came the farmer; he was concerned about plowing and getting the soil ready for the coming year, though he had time to think of hunting. He carried a gun and a dog ran at his side; he had his hunting bag filled with nuts. Goodness me, he carried a lot of goods with him, among other things, an English plow. He talked incessantly about economics, but one had a hard time hearing what he said, for the next passenger, who had already got out of the coach, had a bad cold and was sniffing and coughing.
He was November! His cold was so bad that he used a sheet as a handkerchief. But he thought he might get rid of it as soon as he had found some lumber to cut, for that was his profession.
Now came the last of the passengers, a little old lady carrying a brazier. She was freezing, but her eyes shone like two stars. In her other hand she had a little potted pine tree. “I will tend it so well that it will grow big enough by Christmas to reach all the way up to the ceiling. Then it shall have lighted candles, apples, and sugar pigs on it. My little brazier gives as much warmth as a stove. I shall take my fairy-tale book out of my pocket and read aloud. And the children will sit perfectly still, while the dolls on the tree come alive, and the little wax angel on the top of the tree will flutter his golden wings and fly down and kiss every person in the room, both grownups and children. Yes, he will kiss the poor children, too, who are standing outside, singing Christmas carols, singing about the star that once shone over Bethlehem.”
“The coach is leaving,” shouted the guard, “now that the passengers have got out.”
“Let the twelve of them enter the city one at a time,” said the captain of the guard. “I will keep your passports, they are only good for one month each. When that is over, then I shall write a report on your behavior. Mr. January, you may enter first.”
And Mr. January entered.
When the year is over I shall tell you what the twelve passengers brought me and you and all of us. I don’t know now, nor do I think they even know themselves—for surely we live in a strange time.
105
The Dung Beetle
The Complete Fairy Tales Page 79