NINTH PART.

TEACHING AND LEARNING. Winds and the swift river's current Hardly had swept off the dulcet Melodies of Monteverde, When the people in the city Held no other conversation Than of this great feast of music. Not, however, of the spirit Of the melodies they'd heard then, Neither of the deep emotion Which was in their souls awakened, Were they speaking; they disputed Who received the Baron's thanks first At the end of the performance; Whom the Abbot had distinguished Most that evening by his praises; And what finally was served up From the kitchen and the cellar. As the tail of a dead lizard Still, when life has long departed, With spasmodic jerks is writhing: So the memory of great actions Still lives on in daily gossip. But with thoughts above such nonsense Margaretta took an early Solitary walk next morning To the honeysuckle arbour, There to dream of last night's music, Specially of Werner's solo, Which still through her soul was thrilling Like a message of sweet love. But what saw she? In the arbour On the little rustic table She beheld the very trumpet. Like the magic horn of Huon, Wondrous mysteries containing; Dumb, but full of deep expression, Like a star it sparkled there. Margaretta stood confounded At the arbour's shady entrance: "Came he here? And now, where is he? Wherefore has he left his trumpet Here so wholly unprotected? Easily a worm might crawl in, Or a thief might come and steal it. Shall I take it to the castle, Take it in my careful keeping? No, I'll go, do nothing with it, Should indeed have gone before." But she tarried, for her eyes were Held in durance by the trumpet, Like a shad caught by the fish-hook. "Oh, I wonder," she was thinking, "Whether my breath would be able From its depths a tone to waken. Oh I much should like to know this! No one sees what I am doing, All around no living being. Only my old Hiddigeigei Licks the dew from off the box-tree; Only insects in the sand here Follow out their digging instinct, And the caterpillars gently Up and down the arbour crawl." So the maiden shyly entered, Shyly she took up the trumpet, To her rosy lips she pressed it; But with fright she well-nigh trembled At her breath to sound transforming In the trumpet's golden calyx. Which the air was bearing farther, Farther--ah, who knoweth where? But she cannot stop the fun now, And with sounds discordant, horrid, Fit to rend the ears to pieces, So disturbed the morning stillness, That the poor cat Hiddigeigei's Long black hair stood up like bristles, Like the sharp quills of a hedgehog. Raising then his paw to cover His offended ear, he spoke thus: "Suffer on, my valiant cat-heart, Which so much has borne already, Also bear this maiden's music! We, we understand the laws well, Which do regulate and govern Sound, enigma of creation. And we know the charm mysterious Which invisibly through space floats, And, intangible a phantom, Penetrates our hearing organs, And in beasts' as well as men's hearts Wakes up love, delight and longing, Raving madness and wild frenzy. And yet, we must bear this insult, That when nightly in sweet mewing We our love-pangs are outpouring, Men will only laugh and mock us, And our finest compositions Rudely brand as caterwauling. And in spite of this we witness That these same fault-finding beings Can produce such horrid sounds as Those which I have just now heard. Are such tones not like a nosegay Made of straw, and thorns, and nettles, In the midst a prickly thistle? And in presence of this maiden Who the trumpet there is blowing, Can a man then without blushing E'er sneer at our caterwauling? But, thou valiant heart, be patient! Suffer now, the time will yet come When this self-sufficient monster, Man, will steal from us the true art Of expressing all his feelings; When the whole world in its struggle For the highest form of culture Will adopt our style of music. For in history, there is justice. She redresses every wrong." But besides old Hiddigeigei, Standing far down by the river There was still another listener To these first attempts at blowing, Who felt anger more than pleasure. It was Werner. He came early With his trumpet to the garden, Wanted to compose a song there In that quiet morning-hour. First, however, his dear trumpet He laid on the rustic table. Then stood musing by the stone-wall Gazing at the rapid river. "Yes, I see, your waves preserve still Their old course and disposition, Ever toward the ocean rushing, As my heart for my love striveth. Who now from the goal is farthest, Clear green river, thou or I?" All this train of thought was broken By the stork from the old tower, Who, full of a father's pride, had Taken his young brood to ramble On the Rhine-shore for the first time. 'Twas amusing to young Werner How just then the old stork gravely, On the sand with stealthy cunning, Closely a poor eel was watching, Who of various worms was making There a comfortable meal. He, however, who was wielding O'er the little worms the strand-law, Soon himself will serve as breakfast. For the greater eats the lesser, And the greatest eats the great ones. In this simple manner nature Solves the knotty social question. No more did his smoothness help him, No more his sleek body's wriggling, No more his spasmodic beating With his tail so strong and supple. Tightly held in the indented Beak of the determined parent, He was given to the hopeful Stork-brood, now to be divided; And they held with noisy clatter Solemnly their morning-feast. Nearer to observe this, Werner Had descended to the Rhine-bank, And he seemed in no great hurry To commence his composition. There he sat himself down gently On the insect-covered moss-bank. Shaded by a silvery willow, And it gave him much amusement Thus to be a silent witness Of this banquet of the storks. Pleasures, yet, of all descriptions Are but fleeting on our planet. Even to the most contented Doth it happen that fate often Like a meteor bursts upon them. Only a short time had Werner Viewed this scene when he was startled By the tones of his own trumpet, Which like keen-edged Pandour daggers Deep into his soul were cutting. "'Tis the gardener's saucy youngster Who my trumpet thus is blowing," Said young Werner, in his anger Starting from his seat so quickly That the storks thereby much frightened, Fluttering upward sought the tower; And so quickly that they even Had no time to take the eel off. Like a poor old torso lay he On the sand so pitifully; And the chronicles are silent Whether the old father stork came Ever back to take his booty. Werner meanwhile to the garden Climbed up; to the shady arbour On the soft green sward he's walking, That the pebbly footpath may not By the noise betray his coming. In the very act of sinning Doth he wish to catch the rascal, And to beat time to his music On his back without relenting. Thus he comes up to the arbour, With his hand raised high in anger. But, as if 'twere struck by lightning, To his side it dropped down quickly, And the stroke remained, like German Unity and other projects, Only an ideal dream. Then beheld he Margaretta Pressing to her lips the trumpet, And her rosy cheeks are puffed out Like those trumpet-blowing angels' In the church of Fridolinus. Up she starts now as a thief would In the neighbour's yard detected, And the trumpet drops abruptly From the touch of her soft lips. Werner covered her confusion Through a clever maze of language; And with ardour he commences On the spot to teach the maiden The first steps in trumpet-blowing In strict order, with due method; Shows the instrument's construction, How to use the lips in blowing, That true tones may be forthcoming. Margaretta listened docile. And before she is aware, new Tones she finds she is awaking From the trumpet which young Werner With low bows had handed to her. Easily from him she learneth What her father's cuirassiers blew As the call to charge in battle; Only a few notes and simple, But most pithy and inspiring. Love is, there can be no question, Of all teachers the most skilful; And what years of earnest study Do not conquer, he is winning With the charm of an entreaty, With the magic of a look. E'en a common Flemish blacksmith Once became through love's sweet passion In advanced age a great painter. Happy teacher, happy scholar, In the honeysuckle arbour! 'Twas as if the only safety Of the German empire rested On this trumpet-call's performance. But within their souls was stirring Quite a different melody: That sweet song, old as creation, Of the bliss of youthful lovers; True, a song without the words yet, But they had divined its meaning, And beneath a playful manner Hid the blissful consciousness, Startled by this trumpet-blowing Came the Baron reconnoitring, Tried to frown, but soon his anger Was converted into pleasure, When he heard his child there blowing The old fanfar of his horsemen. Friendly spoke he to young Werner: "You are truly in your office A most ardent zeal unfolding. If you go on in this manner, We shall see most wondrous things yet. The old stable-door which harshly Creaks and groans upon its hinges, Even in the pond the bull-frogs May perhaps change for the better, Through your trumpet's magic charm." Werner held, however, henceforth His dear trumpet as a jewel, Which the richest Basel merchant, With the fullest bag of money, Could not ever purchase from him; For the lips of Margaretta Made it sacred by their touch.