Tales of the German Imagination from the Brothers Grimm to Ingeborg Bachmann (Penguin Classics)

by Unknown

  In the meantime, the hall had emptied out. Everybody swarmed down into the garden to take a stroll in the warm night air, and that curious double image disappeared. Florio followed the flow and sauntered, lost in thought, along the high hedgerows. The countless lights cast a magical shimmer between the trembling leaves. The masks hovering here and there with their shrill voices, distorted outdoors, and the wondrous costumes of their wearers took on a still stranger, almost ghostlike appearance in the dim uncertain light.

  Having inadvertently taken a turn down a lonesome path, a bit removed from the rest, he heard a sweet voice singing among the bushes:

  Over the moonstruck mountain peaks,

  Hailing softly from the distance,

  Tilting, as if it’s love they seek,

  The furtive treetops take a chance.

  Isn’t he a handsome lad!

  Nocturnal voices carry on.

  Secretly they make me glad

  Whispering me awake at dawn.

  Hold your tongues, you bubbling brooks,

  Better keep it from the day.

  The moon keeps casting knowing looks,

  So will the sun’s enquiring rays.

  Florio followed the singing and came to an open, round patch of grass in the middle of which a fountain played cheerfully with the sparks of moonlight. The Greek girl sat like a lovely naiad on the stone rim of the pool. She had taken off the mask and played thoughtfully with a rose, studying its reflection in the shimmering surface of the water. The rays of moonlight ran up and down her dazzling white neck; he could not see her face, as she had her back turned to him. When she heard the branches rustle behind her, the lovely creature leapt up, refastened the mask and bounded, swift as a frightened deer, back to the crowd of revellers.

  Florio likewise returned to the colourful rows of strollers. Some delicate endearments sounded in the still, warm night air, and with its invisible threads the moonlight knitted the crowd together as in a golden net of love, in which only the masks with their grimacing expressions tore comic holes. Fortunato, in particular, had changed disguises several times that evening, and kept on playing curious and ever-different pranks to poignant effect, appearing ever anew and unrecognized, often even surprising himself with the audacity and drift of his tomfoolery, so that he sometimes fell silent when the others were inclined to laugh themselves half to death.

  The lovely Greek, meanwhile, was nowhere to be seen; she seemed deliberately intent upon avoiding Florio.

  The host, on the other hand, took the young man under his wing. Artfully drawing him out, he asked him about his life to date, his travels and his future plans. Florio was hard pressed to reply honestly, since Pietro, as the man was called, kept studying him with an intensely enquiring look, as if behind all his questions there lurked a hidden purpose. He sought in vain to establish the reason for this obtrusive curiosity.

  He had just pried himself free again from the former’s importunate company when, slipping out of the door and turning the bend down a green alley, he met many masked figures, unexpectedly spotting the lovely Greek again among them. The masks chattered a lot, their conversations creating a curious cacophony, but though one of the voices sounded familiar he could not say for sure to whom it belonged. Soon thereafter, one after another, the masked revellers disappeared until finally, without at first realizing it, he suddenly found himself alone with the girl. Hesitating, she remained standing there, for a moment gazing at him in silence. The mask was gone, but a short white veil embroidered with all sorts of wondrous golden figures covered her little face. He was surprised that such coyness continued in his presence.

  ‘You listened in on my singing,’ she finally said in a not unfriendly manner. Those were the first clearly spoken words of hers he’d heard. The melodious sound of her voice swept through his soul; it was as if the music of it stirred the memory of every beloved, lovely and joyous moment he’d ever experienced in life. He apologized for his brashness and muttered in confusion how, in his solitude, the purling of the water fountains had lured him on. Meanwhile, the sound of several voices drew nearer. The girl looked shyly about and hastened off into the dark of night. She seemed to be pleased that Florio followed.

  Boldly and with a greater intimacy he bid her now not to hide any longer or at least to tell him her name so that her loveliness not be lost to him again amongst the thousand bewildering images of the day. ‘Enough,’ replied the dreamlike presence, ‘take your flowers cheerfully, as life offers them, and don’t dig for their roots in the ground, it’s sad and silent down below.’ Florio looked puzzled; he could not conceive how such cryptic words could emanate from the mouth of the cheerful girl. The moonlight fell shifting through the trees on her comely figure. Now it seemed to him as if she were taller, slenderer and more noble still than she appeared before on the dance floor and by the fountain.

  In the meantime they reached the garden gate. All the lanterns had gone out, only every now and then a voice could still be heard dying away in the distance. Outside, the sprawling circle of nature’s splendour hung solemn and still in the lovely moonlight. In the twilight, in a meadow that lay there before him, Florio noticed the faint outline of many horses and people milling about.

  Here his companion suddenly stopped. ‘It would please me,’ she said, ‘to see you some time in my house. Our friend will lead you there. Farewell!’ With these words she pulled back the veil and Florio gave a start. It was the wondrously lovely lady whose song he’d overheard in the garden on that sultry midday. But, bathed by bright moonlight, her face looked pale and motionless, almost like the marble statue on the pond.

  He watched now as she walked away across the meadow and was received by many servants in stately attire, who whipped a shimmering cloth off a snow-white steed, which she mounted. He stopped dead in his tracks, as if stunned with amazement, joy and a secret dread that welled up from within, until horses, riders and the whole strange spectacle disappeared in the night.

  A call from the garden finally roused him from his dreams. He recognized Fortunato’s voice and rushed off towards his friend who, having missed him, had searched for him in vain. No sooner did Fortunato set eyes on him than he promptly sang out to him:

  By the breeze

  Born along,

  Weak the knees

  When scent is strong.

  Hear her sigh,

  Watch him rise,

  Kiss the sky,

  No reprise.

  Heart grown fearful,

  Wait too long,

  Tender and tearful

  Moonlight song.

  Lips to lips whisper then,

  Lover and beloved together again!

  ‘But where in heaven’s name have you been mooning about for such a long time?’ Fortunato concluded, laughing.

  Under no circumstances was Florio prepared to reveal his secret. ‘Long?’ he replied, himself surprised. For, in fact, the garden had in the meantime become completely deserted, most of the lights were extinguished and only a few lanterns still flickered in the wind like will-o’-the-wisps.

  Fortunato did not press the youth, and without exchanging another word they climbed the steps to the silent house. ‘I take back my words,’ said Fortunato as they reached the terrace overlooking the rooftop of the villa, where a small group of revellers was still gathered under the bright starry sky. Florio immediately recognized many faces he’d seen that first happy evening gathered around the tents. Amongst them he once again spotted his comely tablemate. But this time the merry wreath was missing from her hair; unfastened, unadorned, her lovely locks hung loose around her head and comely neck. He stood still, almost struck dumb at the sight of her. The memory of that evening overwhelmed him now with a strange melancholy force. It seemed to him as if it had already been long ago, things had changed so much since then.

  The girl’s name was Bianca and she was introduced to him as Pietro’s niece. She seemed to shrink back as he approached her, and hardly dared look up at him.
He expressed surprise not to have seen her the whole evening. ‘You saw me many times,’ she said quietly, and he thought he recognized her whisper. Meanwhile she observed pinned to his breast the rose that the lovely Greek had given him and, turning red in the face, cast her gaze to the ground. Florio noticed this – it suddenly struck him that he’d seen the Greek twice after the dance. My God! he thought to himself, bewildered; but who was it then?

  ‘It’s such a strange thing,’ she broke the silence, digressing, ‘suddenly to step from the noisy atmosphere indoors out into the wide, open night. Look how the clouds sleek so eerily across the sky, it’s enough to make you go mad if you watch too long; sometimes they look like towering moon mountains with dizzying slopes and terrible jagged cliffs that peer back at you like faces, at other times they look like dragons suddenly extending their long necks, and down below the river slithers by stealthily like a golden snake in the dark, and the white house over there looks like a marble statue.’

  ‘Where?’ Florio cried out at these words, roused from his thoughts.

  The girl gazed at him in surprise, and both went silent for a while. ‘You’re planning on leaving Lucca?’ she finally said hesitantly and quietly, as though she feared a response.

  ‘No,’ replied Florio absently, ‘I mean, yes, yes, soon, very soon!’ She seemed to want to say something else, but suddenly turned her face to the darkness, swallowing her words.

  Finally, he could no longer control his feelings. His heart was so full and beat so fast and yet he felt so blissful. He hastily took his leave, rushed out and rode without Fortunato or any other companions back into the town.

  The window of his room was open; he cast another furtive look out. Outside everything was unrecognizable and silent like a strange, indecipherable hieroglyph in the bewitching shimmer of the moonlight. A bit apprehensively, he shut the window and flung himself into his bed, where, with a feverish frenzy, he drifted off into the most marvellous dreams.

  But Bianca still sat a long while on the terrace. All the others had gone to bed, every now and then a lark awakened, fluttering with uncertain song through the still air; the branches started rustling, faint dun-coloured morning lights flickered over her wide-awake face, framed by her carelessly tumbling locks. It is said that a girl who falls asleep with a wreath of nine flowers in her hair espies her future husband in her dreams. Having fallen asleep in this way after that evening among the tents, Bianca saw Florio in her dream. But it all proved to be lies, he was so evasive, so cold and distant. She plucked apart the false flowers which she had until now preserved as a wedding wreath. Then she leant her forehead on the cold railing and burst into bitter tears.

  Many days had since elapsed when, one afternoon, Florio found himself at Donati’s country house outside the city. At a table bedecked with fruit and cool wine they whiled away the sultry hours of the day in lively conversation until the sun had almost faded into night. All the while Donati bid his servant play his guitar, from which he managed to extract sweet sounds. The big, wide windows were flung open, allowing the warm evening air, infused with the scent of many flowers, to waft in. In the distance, amidst a merry mesh of gardens and vineyards, lay the city, whose windows emitted a cheerful chatter. Florio felt profoundly happy, as he kept thinking to himself of the lovely lady.

  In the meantime hunting horns sounded in the distance. Now nearer, now further, they kept answering each other with pleasant notes from the green mountains. Donati went to the window.

  ‘That is the lady you met in the beautiful garden,’ he said, ‘she’s just now on her way home from the hunt to her castle.’ Florio looked out. He saw the girl on the fine ambling palfrey passing through the green meadow below. A falcon attached by a golden chain to her belt sat on her hand; catching the rays of the setting sun, a diamond dangling from her breast flung a greenish-golden shimmer over the grass. She nodded in a friendly manner up at him.

  ‘The girl is seldom home,’ said Donati, ‘if you like, we could still visit her today.’ At these words Florio snapped out of the dreamy gaze he’d fallen into and could have hugged the knight. And soon the two sat outside in the saddle.

  They hadn’t been riding a long time when the palace, ringed by splendid columns, reared into view, surrounded by the beautiful garden, as if bedecked with a wreath of flowers. From time to time jets of water from the many fountains spouted, as though shouting for joy, high above the tops of the bushes, sparkling brightly in the evening’s golden glow. Florio looked up in amazement, as if he’d never seen the garden like this before. His heart beat quickly with rapture and anticipation, as they finally rode up to the castle.

  Many servants rushed forward to tend to the horses. The palace itself was made of marble and strangely fashioned like a pagan temple. The beautiful symmetry of all its parts, the towering columns that soared like youthful thoughts, all the artful decorations depicting stories from a glorious bygone time, and, finally, the splendid marble statues of gods standing in all the niches – everything cheered the spirits with an indescribable joy. Now they stepped inside the wide hall that ran the length of the castle. Everywhere they looked, in the gaps between the columns, the scents and sights of the garden wafted and flickered forth.

  On the wide, smooth-polished steps that led down into the garden they finally spotted below the lovely mistress of the palace, who gave them a gracious welcome. She was resting, half reclining, on a chaise longue covered with costly material. She had removed her hunting attire and her lithe figure was draped in a sky-blue gown drawn in at the waist by a wondrously elegant belt. A girl kneeling beside her held up a lavishly ornamented mirror, while many others were engaged in bedecking their lovely mistress in roses. Seated at her feet a circle of young girls took turns serenading her to the sweet strains of a lute, now in a joyous rapture, now a soft lament, like nightingales responding to each other’s song on a warm summer night. The garden itself was all astir with merriment everywhere you turned. Many foreign-looking gentlemen and ladies wandered up and down amongst the rose bushes and fountains, engaged in lively conversations. Elegantly attired boys served wine and oranges and other fruits on silver platters covered with flowers. Further in the distance, bathed in the strains of lute music and the flicker of twilight that wafted over the flowery field, beautiful girls poked their heads out among the flowers, as if awakened from a midday dream, shook their dark locks from their foreheads, rinsed their eyes out in the clear water of the fountains and rejoined the joyous crowd.

  As though blinded, Florio’s gaze wandered with wild abandon amongst the scattered scenes, always returning with a drunken rush to the lovely mistress of the castle, who, unperturbed, went about her charming business, now rearranging the dark, fragrant wreath of flowers in her hair, now casting another look at herself in the mirror, all the while chatting playfully with the youths, finding artful words to discuss this and that. Every now and then she suddenly turned around and cast such an indescribably sweet gaze at him that reached deep down into the depths of his soul.

  In the meantime night had already begun mingling darkness amongst the last flickering glimmers of daylight, the cheerful chatter in the garden faded by and by into the intimate whisper of love, and moonlight laid its enchanted glow over the lovely spectacle. Then the lady arose from her flowery bed and took cheerful hold of Florio’s hand to lead him inside her palace, on which he kept showering words of praise. Many of the others followed them inside. They climbed a few steps up, then down; the others scattered, meanwhile, laughing and joking, down countless rows of columns. Donati got lost in the crowd, and soon Florio found himself alone with the lady in one of the castle’s most resplendent rooms.

  His comely guide now let herself sink onto several silken pillows lying on the ground, while flinging her luminous white veil in countless directions, now puffing it out in ever-lovelier, more elusive shapes, now pulling them back in. Florio looked on with burning eyes. Then, all of a sudden, outside in the garden someone started singing an ex
ceedingly beautiful song. It was an old religious song he’d often heard in his childhood and had since then, in the sweep of passing impressions of his travels, almost forgotten. He became all flustered, as it seemed to him that the voice was Fortunato’s. ‘Do you know the singer?’ he hastily asked the lady, who seemed to be taken aback by the question and shook her head in emphatic confusion. Then she sat there a long while silently lost in thought.

  Florio meanwhile availed himself of the opportunity to take a closer look at the room’s curious decorations. It was only dimly lit by a few candles held up by two massive metal arms extending from the wall. Tall, exotic flowers artfully arranged in vases scattered around the room spread a bewitching scent. Directly across from him stood a row of painted marble columns, over the charming shapes of which the dancing lights cast their enticing glimmer. The remaining walls were covered with costly silken tapestries whose life-size images recounted scenes of exceptional quality.

  In all the ladies depicted here, Florio, whose eyes lit up, was convinced he recognized the unmistakable figure of the lovely lady of the house. Here she appeared, falcon in hand, as he’d seen her earlier that day, riding with a young knight out on the hunt; here she was depicted in a gorgeous rose garden with another handsome young lad kneeling at her feet.

  It suddenly occurred to him, as with the strains of the song outside, that back home in early childhood he had often seen such a picture of a ravishingly lovely lady dressed in the same clothes, with a knight at her feet, a vast garden stretching behind them with many fountains and artfully trimmed alleys, much like the garden he’d just beheld. He also remembered seeing images of Lucca and other famous cities.