Minna/Book 1, Chapter 5
To one who loves German music—and who does not love it?—these shady and well-watered valleys possess a wealth of suggestion which can only be described by music. Men's choruses by Schumann seem to pour forth and meet one from the fir-trunk columns, when evening peacefully falls over the mountain woods; the clear mill-stream, in which trout glide swiftly by, trills out a Schubert melody, and the hunting-horn of Weber echoes in the wild labyrinth of rocks from its "Wolf-pits" to its "Hawk-pinnacles," which seem to be ideal scenery for Der Freischütz. But Wagner requires the grander scenery of the Rhine country.
Notwithstanding this, I stopped one fine day outside a small cave in which was placed a primitive bench, consisting of a plank, a hand's-breadth in width, supported on a couple of thin poles; and on the uneven stone-wall I found that the imposing name "Wotans Ruhe" was painted.
Had this inscription been put by a too naïve Wagnerian, or, perhaps, by a malicious anti-Wagnerian?
This question I addressed to no less a person than Miss Jagemann.
She was not seated on the bench, on which, in fact, no human being could sit, though maybe a god might, for I suppose they are made of a lighter material. She had chosen a more solid seat, a large block of stone, which projected far over the turbulent brook on the other side of the path.
There was a narrow fissure between this block and the path, so it almost formed a little island, and as a shrub was growing in front of it, I might easily have passed without seeing her, especially as I had been turning my back towards her while looking at the "Wotans Ruhe."
But she revealed herself, whether intentionally or not, by mingling her fresh youthful laughter with my involuntary outburst.
"Never mind," she said, "anyway he deserves to be laughed at!"
She sat on the grass, resting on one arm with the other lying in her lap, and in her hand she held a bunch of the lovely flowers that are so plentiful in these parts.
The sleeves of her pink morning dress were tucked up over the elbows, either for the sake of comfort or coolness. The arm in her lap looked milk-white, while the other one against the rich green grass showed a brownish outer side, and was overspread by a fine down which shone in the rays of the sun, its plump soft form giving the impression of childishness which is so touching in a woman.
The two little girls sat next her, making chains of straw; the juice of the bilberries, which they had been enjoying on the way, was smeared all over their faces. Miss Jagemann's lips also showed traces of the bilberries, and when she laughed her teeth did not shine as usual.
"It is rather incautious of you to speak in that way, Miss Jagemann," I answered, "as you cannot be sure that I am not an anti-Wagnerian."
"In that case you would not mind being laughed at by a girl. But, besides, you are from Denmark, and there they do not know much about Wagner, or so I was told."
As she spoke her gay expression disappeared, and I fancied that I was able to trace the thought which was passing through her mind, and casting a shadow over her face.
This secret thought, which she of course could not guess that I had fathomed, gave me a feeling of depression, and I became as silent as she was.
Suddenly I noticed that she was looking at me with an astonished glance which clearly said: "Why has he also nothing to talk about, and why does he look so sulky and disagreeable?" And at the same time I felt that my lips showed annoyance or mockery. It was indeed that telltale look of hers that made me conscious of my own mood; and this mood greatly surprised me, for I could not disguise from myself that it was caused by jealousy. And could anything be more foolish, than to be jealous for the sake of a girl with whom I had hardly spoken, and should very likely never become well acquainted?
During these meditations I had begun to be talkative. I told her I had been long enough in Dresden to gain some knowledge of the works of Wagner, and that they had a special interest for a Dane, as, in the Niebelungen-Ring he had used a subject from our own sagas.
Then I passed on to Danish literature, and hastened to ask if she had been getting on well enough with the language to read any of our authors.
"Yes, I have read Aladdin, by Oehlenschläger," she answered. "I spelt my way through it when I only knew a few words and a little grammar."
"Then, I suppose, you did not enjoy it much?"
"Indeed I did; I read it over several times, especially parts of it, which I found quite beautiful. But in the end I was rather annoyed because I could not feel any interest in this loafer who is always favoured by good luck."
I made some remarks about the Aladdin and Faust types, and about the Danish and German national characteristics—a part of which I borrowed from something I had read years before in a magazine; but the other part consisted of ideas which came to me on the spur of the moment, and which could not have been of any value.
"What you have just said," she remarked, "is not very flattering to your countrymen."
I looked at her in surprise, for it had not occurred to me that my words could bear such a meaning.
"Well, to be perfectly candid, do you really find that Faust is so much to be admired? I mean, if one looks at him with the sober eye of a moralist? To give up one's soul to the devil, to seduce a young, innocent girl, to kill her brother in a very doubtful duel …"
"I know that, but all the same … You are a Protestant, aren't you?" she suddenly asked with a triumphant smile, as if she had thought of something very much to the point.
"Yes?"
"Then you know that human beings are not judged by their actions only."
"By what, then? I really do not consider Faust an orthodox saint, in spite of the fact that he translated the Bible."
"Perhaps you are right, but Faust is anyhow worth more than this Mr. Aladdin," she said, evidently pleased at having used this mocking "Mister" instead of an argument—though no argument was really needed, as, at the bottom of my heart, I shared her opinion.
"In the same way as Marguerite is worth more than Gulnare," I remarked.
Naturally, in speaking of Marguerite, I thought of her, though in appearance, anyhow, she did not answer to the traditional notion of this German maiden, much less to a foreigner's conception of her. I could not help smiling as my thoughts reverted to a little Frenchman at the Polytechnic, who, whenever we passed a fair girl, used to nudge me and say, "Gretchen!" without troubling to notice whether she was nearly a dwarf or a giantess, a bold minx or an overdressed girl with a self-assertive air. Always, "Voilà Gretchen," with the impossible ch!
If she did not resemble Marguerite, neither could I in the least be compared with Faust—a fact which I at once made evident, by lacking the courage to offer myself as her escort.
For her part she seemed quite content to remain where she was. But I was in a difficulty, for although to converse across a chasm on such elevated topics appeared to be absurd, yet I could not persuade myself that I had the right to join her. Indeed, to propose such a thing was quickly made impossible by the smaller child exclaiming—
"Why doesn't he come over here, when he so much wants to speak to you?"
After this remark there seemed nothing else to do but to pretend that it was time for me to go home. So I wished her a pleasant walk, and consoled myself with a hope that I should soon have another chance to meet her.
This hope, however, was not realised. Day after day I wandered about, looking and listening like a hunter—coming again and again to "Wotans Ruhe." But all in vain.
I also fruitlessly taxed my poor brain to find an excuse, a way, any means—it did not matter what—to establish a communication between us. Impossible!—I might as well have tried to write a novel.