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Page 69
I need not tell you that I did not accept my uncle Christian's
invitation, though I am quite aware that a similar call will one day
arrive from One who must be obeyed. The remembrance of my brief abode at
Burckhardt's fort has wonderfully brought down the great opinion I had
once formed of my own importance, for the vision of that night taught me
that though orchards and meadows may not pass away their owners do, and
this fact compels to serious reflection upon the nature of our duties and
responsibilities.
I therefore wisely resolved not to risk the loss of manly energy and of
the best prizes of life by tarrying at that Capua, but to betake myself,
without further loss of time, to the pursuit of music as a science, and
I hope to produce next year, at the Royal Theatre of Berlin, an opera
which, I hope, will disarm all criticism at once.
I have come to the final conclusion that glory and renown, which
speculative people speak of as if they were mere smoke, is, after all,
the most enduring good. Life and a noble reputation do not depart
together; on the contrary, death confirms well-deserved glory and adds
to it a brighter lustre.
Suppose, for instance, that Homer returned to life, no one would dispute
with him his claim to be the author of the _Iliad_, and each would vie
with the rest to do honour to the father of epic poetry. But if
peradventure some rich landowner of that day came back to assert a claim
to the fields, the woods, the pastures of which he used to be so proud,
ten to one he would be received like a thief and perhaps die a miserable
death.
THE BEAR-BAITING.
"If any one thing distresses my dear aunt," said Caspar, "more than my
fondness for S�baldus Dick's tavern, it is that there is an artist in the
family!
"Dame Catherine would have been glad to see me an advocate, a priest, or
a councillor. If I had become a councillor, like Monsieur Andreas Van
Berghem; if I had snuffled out long and weary sentences, caressing my
lace bands with dainty finger-tips, with what esteem and veneration would
not that worthy woman have regarded monsieur her nephew! She would have
greeted Monsieur le Conseiller Caspar with profound respect; she would
have set before me her best preserves, she would have poured out for me,
in the midst of her circle of gossips, just a drop of Muscadel of the
year XI. with--
"Pray take this, monsieur le conseiller; I have but two bottles left!"
Anything that monsieur my nephew Caspar, conseiller at the court of
justice, could do would certainly have been perfectly right and suitable,
and quite perfect in its way.
Alas for the vanity of human wishes! the poor woman's ambition was never
to be gratified. Her nephew is plain Caspar--Caspar Diderich; he has no
title, no wand of office, no big wig--he is just an artist! and Dame
Catherine has running in her head the old proverb, "Beggarly as an
artist," which distresses her more than she can tell.
At first I used to try to make her understand that a true artist is
worthy of great respect, that his works sometimes endure for ages, and
are admired by many successive generations, and that, in point of fact,
a good artist is quite as good as a councillor. Unhappily, I failed to
convince her; she merely shrugged her shoulders, clasped her hands in
despair, and vouchsafed no answer.
I would have done anything to convert my aunt Catherine to my
views--anything; but I would rather die than sacrifice art and an
artist's life, music, painting, and S�baldus's tavern!
S�baldus's tavern is delightful. It is the corner house between the
narrow Rue des Hallebardes and the little square De la Cigogne. As soon
as you are through the archway you find within a spacious square court,
with old carved wooden galleries all round it, and a wooden staircase to
reach it; everywhere are scattered in disorder small windows of last
century with leaden sashes, skylights, and air-holes; old wooden posts
are nearly yielding under the weight of a roof that threatens to sink in.
The barn, the rows of casks piled up in a corner, the cellar door at the
left, a pigeon-cote forming the point of the gable end; then, again,
beneath the galleries, other darkened windows in the same style, where
you can see swillers and topers in three-cornered hats, distinguished by
noses red, purple, or crimson; little women of Hundsruck, in velvet caps
with long fluttering ribbons, some grave, some laughing, others queer and
grotesque-looking; the hay-loft high up under the roof; stables,
pigsties, cowsheds, all in picturesque confusion attract and confound
your attention. It is a strange sight!
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