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MOTHER AND SON
THUS entertaining themselves, the men sat talking. The mother | |
| Went meanwhile to look for her son in front of the dwelling, | |
| First on the settle of stone, whereon ’twas his wont to be seated. | |
| When she perceived him not there, she went farther to look in the stable, | |
| If he were caring perhaps for his noble horses, the stallions, | 5 |
| Which he as colts had bought, and whose care he intrusted to no one. | |
| And by the servant she there was told: He is gone to the garden. | |
| Then with a nimble step she traversed the long, double court-yards, | |
| Leaving the stables behind, and the well-builded barns, too, behind her; | |
| Entered the garden, that far as the walls of the city extended; | 10 |
| Walked through its length, rejoiced as she went in every thing growing; | |
| Set upright the supports on which were resting the branches | |
| Heavily laden with apples, and burdening boughs of the pear-tree. | |
| Next some caterpillars removed from a stout, swelling cabbage; | |
| For an industrious woman allows no step to be wasted. | 15 |
| Thus was she come at last to the end of the far-reaching garden, | |
| Where stood the arbor embowered in woodbine; nor there did she find him, | |
| More than she had hitherto in all her search through the garden. | |
| But the wicket was standing ajar, which out of the arbor, | |
| Once by particular favor, had been through the walls of the city | 20 |
| Cut by a grandsire of hers, the worshipful burgomaster. | |
| So the now dried-up moat she next crossed over with comfort, | |
| Where, by the side of the road, direct the well-fenced vineyard, | |
| Rose with a steep ascent, its slope exposed to the sunshine. | |
| Up this also she went, and with pleasure as she was ascending | 25 |
| Marked the wealth of the clusters, that scarce by their leafage were hidden. | |
| Shady and covered the way through the lofty middlemost alley, | |
| Which upon steps that were made of unhewn blocks you ascended. | |
| There were the Muscatel, and there were the Chasselas hanging | |
| Side by side, of unusual size and colored with purple, | 30 |
| All set out with the purpose of decking the visitor’s table; | |
| While with single vine-stocks the rest of the hillside was covered, | |
| Bearing inferior clusters, from which the delicate wine comes. | |
| Thus up the slope she went, enjoying already the vintage, | |
| And that festive day on which the whole country, rejoicing, | 35 |
| Picks and tramples the grapes, and gathers the must into vessels: | |
| Fireworks, when it is evening, from every direction and corner | |
| Crackle and blaze, and so the fairest of harvests is honored. | |
| But more uneasy she went, her son after twice or thrice calling, | |
| And no answer receiving, except from the talkative echo, | 40 |
| That with many repeats rang back from the towers of the city. | |
| Strange it was for her to seek him; he never had gone to a distance | |
| That he told her not first, to spare his affectionate mother | |
| Every anxious thought, and fear that aught ill had befallen. | |
| Still did she constantly hope that, if further she went, she should find him; | 45 |
| For the two doors of the vineyard, the lower as well as the upper, | |
| Both were alike standing open. So now she entered the cornfield, | |
| That with its broad expanse the ridge of the hill covered over. | |
| Still was the ground that she walked on her own; and the crops she rejoiced in,— | |
| All of them still were hers, and hers was the proud-waving grain, too, | 50 |
| Over the whole broad field in golden strength that was stirring. | |
| Keeping the ridgeway, the footpath, between the fields she went onward, | |
| Having the lofty pear-tree in view, which stood on the summit, | |
| And was the boundary-mark of the fields that belonged to her dwelling. | |
| Who might have planted it, none could know, but visible was it | 55 |
| Far and wide through the country; the fruit of the pear-tree was famous. | |
| ’Neath it the reapers were wont to enjoy their meal at the noon-day, | |
| And the shepherds were used to tend their flocks in its shadow. | |
| Benches of unhewn stones and of turf they found set about it. | |
| And she had not been mistaken, for there sat her Hermann, and rested,— | 60 |
| Sat with his head on his hand, and seemed to be viewing the landscape | |
| That to the mountains lay: his back was turned to his mother. | |
| Towards him softly she crept, and lightly touched on the shoulder; | |
| Quick he turned himself round: there were tears in his eyes as he met her. | |
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| “Mother, how hast thou surprised me!” he said in confusion; and quickly | 65 |
| Wiped the high-spirited youth his tears away. But the mother, | |
| “What! do I find thee weeping, my son?” exclaimed in amazement. | |
| “Nay, that is not like thyself: I never before have so seen thee! | |
| Tell me, what burdens thy heart? what drives thee here, to be sitting | |
| Under the pear-tree alone? These tears in thine eyes, what has brought them?” | 70 |
| |
| Then, collecting himself, the excellent youth made her answer: | |
| “Truly no heart can that man have in his bosom of iron, | |
| Who is insensible now to the needs of this emigrant people; | |
| He has no brains in his head, who not for his personal safety, | |
| Not for his fatherland’s weal, in days like the present is anxious. | 75 |
| Deeply my heart had been touched by the sights and sounds of the morning; | |
| Then I went forth and beheld the broad and glorious landscape | |
| Spreading its fertile slopes in every direction about us, | |
| Saw the golden grain inclining itself to the reapers, | |
| And the promise of well-filled barns from the plentiful harvest. | 80 |
| But, alas, how near is the foe! The Rhine with its waters | |
| Guards us, indeed; but, ah, what now are rivers and mountains | |
| ’Gainst that terrible people that onward bears like a tempest! | |
| For they summon their youths from every quarter together, | |
| Call up their old men too, and press with violence forward. | 85 |
| Death cannot frighten the crowd: one multitude follows another. | |
| And shall a German dare to linger behind in his homestead? | |
| Hopes he perhaps to escape the everywhere threatening evil? | |
| Nay, dear mother, I tell thee, to-day has made me regretful | |
| That I was lately exempt, when out of our townsmen were chosen | 90 |
| Those who should serve in the army. An only son I am truly, | |
| Also our business is great, and the charge of our household is weighty. | |
| Yet were it better, I deem, in the front to offer resistance | |
| There on the border, than here to await disaster and bondage. | |
| So has my spirit declared, and deep in my innermost bosom | 95 |
| Courage and longing have now been aroused to live for my country, | |
| Yea, and to die, presenting to others a worthy example. | |
| If but the strength of Germany’s youth were banded together | |
| There on the frontier, resolved that it never would yield to the stranger, | |
| Ah, he should not on our glorious soil setting his footsteps, | 100 |
| Neither consuming before our eyes the fruit of our labor, | |
| Ruling our men, and making his prey of our wives and our daughters. | |
| Hark to me, mother: for I in the depths of my heart am determined | |
| Quickly to do, and at once, what appears to me right and in reason; | |
| For he chooses not always the best who longest considers. | 105 |
| Hearken, I shall not again return to the house; but directly | |
| Go from this spot to the city, and there present to the soldiers | |
| This right arm and this heart, to be spent in the fatherland’s service. | |
| Then let my father say if there be no feeling of honor | |
| Dwelling within my breast, nor a wish to raise myself higher.” | 110 |
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| Then with significant words spoke the good and intelligent mother, | |
| While from her eyes the quick-starting tears were silently falling: | |
| “Son, what change has come o’er thee to-day, and over thy temper, | |
| That thou speakest no more, as thou yesterday didst, and hast always, | |
| Open and free, to thy mother, and tellest exactly thy wishes? | 115 |
| Any one else, had he heard thee thus speak, would in sooth have commended, | |
| And this decision of thine would have highly approved as most noble, | |
| Being misled by thy tone and by thy significant language. | |
| Yet have I nothing but censure to speak; for better I know thee. | |
| Thou concealest thy heart, and thy thoughts are not such as thou tellest. | 120 |
| Well do I know that it is not the drum, not the trumpet that calls thee: | |
| Neither in uniform wouldst thou figure in sight of the maidens; | |
| Since, for all thou art honest and brave, it is thy vocation | |
| Here in quiet to care for the farm and provide for the household. | |
| Tell me honestly, therefore, what goads thee to such a decision?” | 125 |
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| Earnestly answered the son: “Nay, thou art mistaken, dear mother: | |
| One day is not like another. The youth matures into manhood: | |
| Better in stillness oft ripening to deeds than when in the tumult | |
| Wildering and wild of existence, that many a youth has corrupted. | |
| And, for as still as I am and was always, there yet in my bosom | 130 |
| Has such a heart been shaped as abhors all wrong and injustice; | |
| And I have learned aright between worldly things to distinguish. | |
| Arm and foot, besides, have been mightily strengthened by labor. | |
| All this, I feel, is true: I dare with boldness maintain it. | |
| Yet dost thou blame me with reason, O mother! for thou hast surprised me | 135 |
| Using a language half truthful and half that of dissimulation. | |
| For, let me honestly own,—it is not the near danger that calls me | |
| Forth from my father’s house; nor is it the lofty ambition | |
| Helpful to be to my country, and terrible unto the foeman. | |
| They were but words that I spoke: they only were meant for concealing | 140 |
| Those emotions from thee with which my heart is distracted; | |
| And so leave me, O mother! for, since the wishes are fruitless | |
| Which in my bosom I cherish, my life must go fruitlessly over. | |
| For, as I know, he injures himself who is singly devoted, | |
| When for the common cause the whole are not working together.” | 145 |
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| “Hesitate not,” replied thereupon the intelligent mother, | |
| “Every thing to relate me, the smallest as well as the greatest. | |
| Men will always be hasty, their thoughts to extremes ever running: | |
| Easily out of their course the hasty are turned by a hindrance. | |
| Whereas a woman is clever in thinking of means, and will venture | 150 |
| E’en on a roundabout way, adroitly to compass her object. | |
| Let me know every thing, then; say wherefore so greatly excited | |
| As I ne’er saw thee before, why thy blood is coursing so hotly, | |
| Wherefore, against thy will, tears are filling thine eyes to o’erflowing.” | |
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| Then he abandoned himself, the poor boy, to his sorrow, and weeping, | 155 |
| Weeping aloud on his kind mother’s breast, he brokenly answered: | |
| “Truly my father’s words to-day have wounded me sorely,— | |
| Words which I have not deserved; not to-day, nor at any time have I: | |
| For it was early my greatest delight to honor my parents. | |
| No one knew more, so I deemed, or was wiser than those who begot me, | 160 |
| And had with strictness ruled throughout the dark season of childhood. | |
| Many the things, in truth, I with patience endured from my playmates, | |
| When the good-will that I bore them they often requited with malice. | |
| Often I suffered their flings and their blows to pass unresented; | |
| But if they ventured to ridicule father, when he of a Sunday | 165 |
| Home from Church would come, with his solemn and dignified bearing; | |
| If they made fun of his cap-string, or laughed at the flowers of the wrapper | |
| He with such stateliness wore, which was given away but this morning,— | |
| Threateningly doubled my fist in an instant; with furious passion | |
| Fell I upon them, and struck out and hit, assailing them blindly, | 170 |
| Seeing not where. They howled as the blood gushed out from their noses: | |
| Scarcely they made their escape from my passionate kicking and beating. | |
| Then, as I older grew, I had much to endure from my father; | |
| Violent words he oft vented on me, instead of on others, | |
| When, at the board’s last session, the council had roused his displeasure, | 175 |
| And I was made to atone for the quarrels and wiles of his colleagues. | |
| Thou has pitied me often thyself; for much did I suffer, | |
| Ever remembering with cordial respect the kindness of parents, | |
| Solely intent on increasing for us their goods and possessions, | |
| Much denying themselves in order to save for their children. | 180 |
| But, alas! saving alone, for the sake of a tardy enjoyment,— | |
| That is not happiness: pile upon pile, and acre on acre, | |
| Make us not happy, no matter how fair our estates may be rounded. | |
| For the father grows old, and with him will grow old the children, | |
| Losing the joy of the day, and bearing the care of tomorrow. | 185 |
| Look thou below, and see how before us in glory are lying, | |
| Fair and abundant, the corn-fields; beneath them, the vineyard and garden; | |
| Yonder the stables and barns; our beautiful line of possessions. | |
| But when I look at the dwelling behind, where up in the gable | |
| We can distinguish the window that marks my room in the attic; | 190 |
| When I look back, and remember how many a night from that window | |
| I for the moon have watched; for the sun, how many a morning! | |
| When the healthful sleep of a few short hours sufficed me,— | |
| Ah, so lonely they seem to me then, the chamber and courtyard, | |
| Garden and glorious field, away o’er the hill that is stretching; | 195 |
| All so desert before me lie: ’tis the wife that is wanting.” | |
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| Thereupon spoke the good mother, and thus with intelligence answered: | |
| “Son, not greater thy wish to bring thee a bride to thy chamber, | |
| That thou mayst find thy nights a beautiful part of existence, | |
| And that the work of the day may gain independence and freedom, | 200 |
| Than is thy father’s wish too, and thy mother’s. We always have counselled,— | |
| Yea, we have even insisted,—that thou shouldst elect thee a maiden. | |
| But I was ever aware, and now my heart gives me assurance, | |
| That till the hour appointed is come, and the maiden appointed | |
| Shall with the hour appear, the choice will be left for the future, | 205 |
| While more strong than all else will be fear of grasping the wrong one. | |
| If I may say it, may son, I believe thou already hast chosen; | |
| For thy heart has been touched, and been made more than wontedly tender. | |
| Speak it out honestly, then; for my soul has told me beforehand: | |
| That same maiden it is, the exile, whom thou hast elected.” | 210 |
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| “Thou has said, mother!” the son thereupon with eagerness answered. | |
| “Yes, it is she; and if I to-day as my bride do not bring her | |
| Home to our dwelling, she from me will go, perhaps vanish for ever, | |
| Lost in the war’s confusion and sad movings hither and thither. | |
| Mother, for ever in vain would then our abundant possessions | 215 |
| Prosper before me, and seasons to come be in vain to me fruitful. | |
| Yea, I should hold in aversion the wonted house and the garden: | |
| Even my mother’s love, alas! would not comfort my sorrow. | |
| Every tie, so I feel in my heart, by love is unloosened | |
| Soon as she fastens her own; and not the maid is it only | 220 |
| Leaves behind father and mother, to follow the man she has chosen. | |
| He too, the youth, no longer knows aught of mother and father, | |
| When he the maiden, his only beloved, sees vanishing from him. | |
| Suffer me, then, to go hence wherever despair shall impel me: | |
| Since by my father himself the decisive words have been spoken; | 225 |
| Since his house can no longer be mine if he shut out the maiden, | |
| Her whom alone as my bride I desire to bring to our dwelling.” | |
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| Thereupon quickly made answer the good and intelligent mother: | |
| “How like to rocks, forsooth, two men will stand facing each other! | |
| Proud and not to be moved, will neither draw near to his fellow; | 230 |
| Neither will stir his tongue to utter the first word of kindness. | |
| Therefore I tell thee, my son, a hope yet lives in my bosom, | |
| So she be honest and good, thy father will let thee espouse her, | |
| Even though poor, and against a poor girl so decisive his sentence. | |
| Many a thing he is wont to speak out in his violent fashion | 235 |
| Which he yet never performs; and so what he denies will consent to. | |
| Yet he requires a kindly word, and is right to require it: | |
| He is the father! Besides we know that his wrath after dinner,— | |
| When he most hastily speaks, and questions all others’ opinions,— | |
| Signifies naught; the full force of his violent will is excited | 240 |
| Then by the wine, which lets him not heed the language of others; | |
| None but himself does he see and feel. But now is come evening, | |
| Talk upon various subjects has passed between him and his neighbors. | |
| Gentle, he is; I am sure now his little excitement is over, | |
| And he can feel how unjust his passion has made him to others. | 245 |
| Come, let us venture at once: success is alone to the valiant! | |
| Further we need the friends, still sitting together there with him; | |
| And in especial the worthy pastor will give us assistance.” | |
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| Thus she hastily spoke, and up from the stone then arising, | |
| Drew from his seat her son, who willingly followed. In silence | 250 |
| Both descended the hill, their important purpose revolving. | |
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