Time, at the court of the Grand-duke of Rosenmold, at the beginning of the eighteenth century might seem to have been standing still almost since the Middle Age — since the days of the Emperor Charles the Fifth, at which period, by the marriage of the hereditary Grand-duke with a princess of the Imperial house, a sudden tide of wealth, flowing through the grand-ducal exchequer, had left a kind of golden architectural splendour on the place, always too ample for its population.  The sloping Gothic roofs for carrying off the heavy snows still indented the sky — a world of tiles, with space uncurtailed for the awkward gambols of that very German goblin, Hans Klapper, on the long, slumberous, northern nights.  Whole quarryfuls of wrought stone had been piled along the streets and around the squares, and were now grown, in truth, like nature’s self again, in their rough, time-worn massiveness, with weeds and wild flowers where their decay accumulated, blossoming, always the same, beyond people’s memories, every summer, as the storks came back to their platforms on the remote chimney-tops.  Without, all was as it had been on the eve of the Thirty Years’ War:  the venerable dark-green mouldiness, priceless pearl of architectural effect, was unbroken by a single new gable.  And within, human life — its thoughts, its habits, above all, its etiquette — had been put out by no matter of excitement, political or intellectual, ever at all, one might say, at any time.  The rambling grand-ducal palace was full to overflowing with furniture, which, useful or useless, was all ornamental, and none of it new.  Suppose the various objects, especially the contents of the haunted old lumber-rooms, duly arranged and ticketed, and their Highnesses would have had a historic museum, after which those famed “Green Vaults” at Dresden would hardly have counted as one of the glories of Augustus the Strong.  An immense heraldry, that truly German vanity, had grown, expatiating, florid, eloquent, over everything, without and within — windows, house-fronts, church walls, and church floors.  And one-half of the male inhabitants were big or little State functionaries, mostly of a quasi decorative order — the treble-singer to the town-council, the court organist, the court poet, and the like — each with his deputies and assistants, maintaining, all unbroken, a sleepy ceremonial, to make the hours just noticeable as they slipped away.  At court, with a continuous round of ceremonies, which, though early in the day, must always take place under a jealous exclusion of the sun, one seemed to live in perpetual candle-light.

It was in a delightful rummaging of one of those lumber-rooms, escaped from that candle-light into the broad day of the uppermost windows, that the young Duke Carl laid his hand on an old volume of the year 1486, printed in heavy type, with frontispiece, perhaps, by Albert Duerer — Ars Versificandi:  The Art of Versification:  by Conrad Celtes.  Crowned poet of the Emperor Frederick the Third, he had the right to speak on that subject; for while he vindicated as best he might old German literature against the charge of barbarism, he did also a man’s part towards reviving in the Fatherland the knowledge of the poetry of Greece and Rome; and for Carl, the pearl, the golden nugget, of the volume was the Sapphic ode with which it closed — To Apollo, praying that he would come to us from Italy, bringing his lyre with him:  Ad Apollinem, ut ab Italis cum lyra ad Germanos veniat.  The god of light, coming to Germany from some more favoured world beyond it, over leagues of rainy hill and mountain, making soft day there:  that had ever been the dream of the ghost-ridden yet deep-feeling and certainly meek German soul; of the great Duerer, for instance, who had been the friend of this Conrad Celtes, and himself, all German as he was, like a gleam of real day amid that hyperborean German darkness — a darkness which clave to him, too, at that dim time, when there were violent robbers, nay, real live devils, in every German wood.  And it was precisely the aspiration of Carl himself.  Those verses, coming to the boy’s hand at the right moment, brought a beam of effectual day-light to a whole magazine of observation, fancy, desire, stored up from the first impressions of childhood.  To bring Apollo with his lyre to Germany!  It was precisely that he, Carl, desired to do — was, as he might flatter himself, actually doing.

The daylight, the Apolline aurora, which the young Duke Carl claimed to be bringing to his candle-lit people, came in the somewhat questionable form of the contemporary French ideal, in matters of art and literature — French plays, French architecture, French looking-glasses — Apollo in the dandified costume of Lewis the Fourteenth.  Only, confronting the essentially aged and decrepit graces of his model with his own essentially youthful temper, he invigorated what he borrowed; and with him an aspiration towards the classical ideal, so often hollow and insincere, lost all its affectation.  His doating grandfather, the reigning Grand-duke, afforded readily enough, from the great store of inherited wealth which would one day be the lad’s, the funds necessary for the completion of the vast unfinished Residence, with “pavilions” (after the manner of the famous Mansard) uniting its scattered parts; while a wonderful flowerage of architectural fancy, with broken attic roofs, passed over and beyond the earlier fabric; the later and lighter forms being in part carved adroitly out of the heavy masses of the old, honest, “stump Gothic” tracery.  One fault only Carl found in his French models, and was resolute to correct.  He would have, at least within, real marble in place of stucco, and, if he might, perhaps solid gold for gilding.  There was something in the sanguine, floridly handsome youth, with his alertness of mind turned wholly, amid the vexing preoccupations of an age of war, upon embellishment and the softer things of life, which soothed the testy humours of the old Duke, like the quiet physical warmth of a fire or the sun.  He was ready to preside with all ceremony at a presentation of Marivaux’s Death of Hannibal, played in the original, with such imperfect mastery of the French accent as the lovers of new light in Rosenmold had at command, in a theatre copied from that at Versailles, lined with pale yellow satin, and with a picture, amid the stucco braveries of the ceiling, of the Septentrional Apollo himself, in somewhat watery red and blue.  Innumerable wax lights in cut-glass lustres were a thing of course.  Duke Carl himself, attired after the newest French fashion, played the part of Hannibal.  The old Duke, indeed, at a council-board devoted hitherto to matters of state, would nod very early in certain long discussions on matters of art — magnificent schemes, from this or that eminent contractor, for spending his money tastefully, distinguishings of the rococo and the baroque.  On the other hand, having been all his life in close intercourse with select humanity, self-conscious and arrayed for presentation, he was a helpful judge of portraits and the various degrees of the attainment of truth therein — a phase of fine art which the grandson could not value too much.  The sergeant-painter and the deputy sergeant-painter were, indeed, conventional performers enough; as mechanical in their dispensation of wigs, finger-rings, ruffles, and simpers, as the figure of the armed knight who struck the bell in the Residence tower.  But scattered through its half-deserted rooms, state bed-chambers and the like, hung the works of more genuine masters, still as unadulterate as the hock, known to be two generations old, in the grand-ducal cellar.  The youth had even his scheme of inviting the illustrious Antony Coppel to the court; to live there, if he would, with the honours and emoluments of a prince of the blood.  The illustrious Mansard had actually promised to come, had not his sudden death taken him away from earthly glory.

And at least, if one must forgo the masters, masterpieces might be had for their price.  For ten thousand marks — day ever to be remembered! — a genuine work of “the Urbinate,” from the cabinet of a certain commercially-minded Italian grand-duke, was on its way to Rosenmold, anxiously awaited as it came over rainy mountain-passes, and along the rough German roads, through doubtful weather.  The tribune, the throne itself, were made ready in the presence-chamber, with hangings in the grand-ducal colours, laced with gold, together with a speech and an ode.  Late at night, at last, the wagon was heard rumbling into the courtyard, with the guest arrived in safety, but, if one must confess one’s self, perhaps forbidding at first sight.  From a comfortless portico, with all the grotesqueness of the Middle Age, supported by brown, aged bishops, whose meditations no incident could distract, Our Lady looked out no better than an unpretending nun, with nothing to say the like of which one was used to hear.  Certainly one was not stimulated by, enwrapped, absorbed in the great master’s doings; only, with much private disappointment, put on one’s mettle to defend him against critics notoriously wanting in sensibility, and against one’s self.  In truth, the painter wham Carl most unaffectedly enjoyed, the real vigour of his youthful and somewhat animal taste finding here its proper sustenance, was Rubens — Rubens reached, as he is reached at his best, in well-preserved family portraits, fresh, gay, ingenious, as of privileged young people who could never grow old.  Had not he, too, brought something of the splendour of a “better land” into those northern regions; if not the glowing gold of Titian’s Italian sun, yet the carnation and yellow of roses or tulips, such as might really grow there with cultivation, even under rainy skies?  And then, about this time something was heard at the grand-ducal court of certain mysterious experiments in the making of porcelain; veritable alchemy, for the turning of clay into gold.  The reign of Dresden china was at hand, with one’s own world of little men and women more delightfully diminutive still, amid imitations of artificial flowers.  The young Duke braced himself for a plot to steal the gifted Herr Boettcher from his enforced residence, as if in prison, at the fortress of Meissen.  Why not bring pots and wheels to Rosenmold, and prosecute his discoveries there?  The Grand-duke, indeed, preferred his old service of gold plate, and would have had the lad a virtuoso in nothing less costly than gold — gold snuff-boxes.

For, in truth, regarding what belongs to art or culture, as elsewhere, we may have a large appetite and little to feed on.  Only, in the things of the mind, the appetite itself counts for so much, at least in hopeful, unobstructed youth, with the world before it.  “You are the Apollo you tell us of, the northern Apollo,” people were beginning to say to him, surprised from time to time by a mental purpose beyond their guesses — expressions, liftings, softly gleaming or vehement lights, in the handsome countenance of the youth, and his effective speech, as he roamed, inviting all about him to share the honey, from music to painting, from painting to the drama, all alike florid in style, yes! and perhaps third-rate.  And so far consistently throughout he had held that the centre of one’s intellectual system must be understood to be in France.  He had thoughts of proceeding to that country, secretly, in person, there to attain the very impress of its genius.

Meantime, its more portable flowers came to order in abundance.  That the roses, so to put it, were but excellent artificial flowers, redolent only of musk, neither disproved for Carl the validity of his ideal nor for our minds the vocation of Carl himself in these matters.  In art, as in all other things of the mind, again, much depends on the receiver; and the higher informing capacity, if it exist within, will mould an unpromising matter to itself, will realise itself by selection, and the preference of the better in what is bad or indifferent, asserting its prerogative under the most unlikely conditions.  People had in Carl, could they have understood it, the spectacle, under those superficial braveries, of a really heroic effort of mind at a disadvantage.  That rococo seventeenth-century French imitation of the true Renaissance, called out in Carl a boundless enthusiasm, as the Italian original had done two centuries before.  He put into his reception of the aesthetic achievements of Lewis the Fourteenth what young France had felt when Francis the First brought home the great Da Vinci and his works.  It was but himself truly, after all, that he had found, so fresh and real, among those artificial roses.

He was thrown the more upon such outward and sensuous products of mind — architecture, pottery, presently on music — because for him, with so large intellectual capacity, there was, to speak properly, no literature in his mother-tongue.  Books there were, German books, but of a dulness, a distance from the actual interests of the warm, various, coloured life around and within him, to us hardly conceivable.  There was more entertainment in the natural train of his own solitary thoughts, humoured and rightly attuned by pleasant visible objects, than in all the books he had hunted through so carefully for that all-searching intellectual light, of which a passing gleam of interest gave fallacious promise here or there.  And still, generously, he held to the belief, urging him to fresh endeavour, that the literature which might set heart and mind free must exist somewhere, though court librarians could not say where.  In search for it he spent many days in those old book-closets where he had lighted on the Latin ode of Conrad Celtes.  Was German literature always to remain no more than a kind of penal apparatus for the teasing of the brain?  Oh! for a literature set free, conterminous with the interests of life itself.

In music, it might be thought, Germany had already vindicated its spiritual liberty.  One and another of those North-german towns were already aware of the youthful Sebastian Bach.  The first notes had been heard of a music not borrowed from France, but flowing, as naturally as springs from their sources, out of the ever musical soul of Germany itself.  And the Duke Carl was a sincere lover of music, himself playing melodiously on the violin to a delighted court.  That new Germany of the spirit would be builded, perhaps, to the sound of music.  In those other artistic enthusiasms, as the prophet of the French drama or the architectural taste of Lewis the Fourteenth, he had contributed himself generously, helping out with his own good-faith the inadequacy of their appeal.  Music alone hitherto had really helped him, and taken him out of himself.  To music, instinctively, more and more he was dedicate; and in his desire to refine and organise the court music, from which, by leave of absence to official performers enjoying their salaries at a distance, many parts had literally fallen away, like the favourite notes of a worn-out spinet, he was ably seconded by a devoted youth, the deputy organist of the grand-ducal chapel.  A member of the Roman Church amid a people chiefly of the Reformed religion, Duke Carl would creep sometimes into the curtained court pew of the Lutheran Church, to which he had presented its massive golden crucifix, to listen to the chorales, the execution of which he had managed to time to his liking, relishing, he could hardly explain why, those passages of a pleasantly monotonous and, as it might seem, unending melody — which certainly never came to what could rightly be called an ending here on earth; and having also a sympathy with the cheerful genius of Dr. Martin Luther, with his good tunes, and that ringing laughter which sent dull goblins flitting.

At this time, then, his mind ran eagerly for awhile on the project of some musical and dramatic development of a fancy suggested by that old Latin poem of Conrad Celtes — the hyperborean Apollo, sojourning, in the revolutions of time, in the sluggish north for a season, yet Apollo still, prompting art, music, poetry, and the philosophy which interprets man’s life, making a sort of intercalary day amid the natural darkness; not meridian day, of course, but a soft derivative daylight, good enough for us.  It would be necessarily a mystic piece, abounding in fine touches, suggestions, innuendoes.  His vague proposal was met half-way by the very practical executant power of his friend or servant, the deputy organist, already pondering, with just a satiric flavour (suppressible in actual performance, if the time for that should ever come) a musical work on Duke Carl himself; Balder, an Interlude.  He was contented to re-cast and enlarge the part of the northern god of light, with a now wholly serious intention.  But still, the near, the real and familiar, gave precision to, or actually superseded, the distant and the ideal.  The soul of the music was but a transfusion from the fantastic but so interesting creature close at hand.  And Carl was certainly true to his proposed part in that he gladdened others by an intellectual radiance which had ceased to mean warmth or animation for himself.  For him the light was still to seek in France, in Italy, above all in old Greece, amid the precious things which might yet be lurking there unknown, in art, in poetry, perhaps in very life, till Prince Fortunate should come.

Yes! it was thither, to Greece, that his thoughts were turned during those romantic classical musings while the opera was made ready.  That, in due time, was presented, with sufficient success.  Meantime, his purpose was grown definite to visit that original country of the Muses, from which the pleasant things of Italy had been but derivative; to brave the difficulties in the way of leaving home at all, the difficulties also of access to Greece, in the present condition of the country.

At times the fancy came that he must really belong by descent to a southern race, that a physical cause might lie beneath this strange restlessness, like the imperfect reminiscence of something that had passed in earlier life.  The aged ministers of heraldry were set to work (actually prolonging their days by an unexpected revival of interest in their too well-worn function) at the search for some obscure rivulet of Greek descent — later Byzantine Greek, perhaps, — in the Rosenmold genealogy.  No! with a hundred quarterings, they were as indigenous, incorruptible heraldry reasserted, as the old yew-trees asquat on the heath.

And meantime those dreams of remote and probably adventurous travel lent the youth, still so healthy of body, a wing for more distant expeditions than he had ever yet inclined to, among his own wholesome German woodlands.  In long rambles, afoot or on horseback, by day and night, he flung himself, for the resettling of his sanity, on the cheerful influences of their simple imagery; the hawks, as if asleep on the air below him; the bleached crags, evoked by late sunset among the dark oaks; the water-wheels, with their pleasant murmur, in the foldings of the hillside.

Clouds came across his heaven, little sudden clouds, like those which in this northern latitude, where summer is at best but a flighty visitor, chill out the heart, though but for a few minutes at a time, of the warmest afternoon.  He had fits of the gloom of other people — their dull passage through and exit from the world, the threadbare incidents of their lives, their dismal funerals — which, unless he drove them away immediately by strenuous exercise, settled into a gloom more properly his own.  Yet at such times outward things also would seem to concur unkindly in deepening the mental shadow about him, almost as if there were indeed animation in the natural world, elfin spirits in those inaccessible hillsides and dark ravines, as old German poetry pretended, cheerfully assistant sometimes, but for the most part troublesome, to their human kindred.  Of late these fits had come somewhat more frequently, and had continued.  Often it was a weary, deflowered face that his favourite mirrors reflected.  Yes! people were prosaic, and their lives threadbare: — all but himself and organist Max, perhaps, and Fritz the treble-singer.  In return, the people in actual contact with him thought him a little mad, though still ready to flatter his madness, as he could detect.  Alone with the doating old grandfather in their stiff, distant, alien world of etiquette, he felt surrounded by flatterers, and would fain have tested the sincerity even of Max, and Fritz who said, echoing the words of the other, “Yourself, Sire, are the Apollo of Germany!”

It was his desire to test the sincerity of the people about him, and unveil flatterers, which in the first instance suggested a trick he played upon the court, upon all Europe.  In that complex but wholly Teutonic genealogy lately under research, lay a much-prized thread of descent from the fifth Emperor Charles, and Carl, under direction, read with much readiness to be impressed all that was attainable concerning the great ancestor, finding there in truth little enough to reward his pains.  One hint he took, however.  He determined to assist at his own obsequies.

That he might in this way facilitate that much-desired journey occurred to him almost at once as an accessory motive, and in a little while definite motives were engrossed in the dramatic interest, the pleasing gloom, the curiosity, of the thing itself.  Certainly, amid the living world in Germany, especially in old, sleepy Rosenmold, death made great parade of itself.  Youth even, in its sentimental mood, was ready to indulge in the luxury of decay, and amuse itself with fancies of the tomb; as in periods of decadence or suspended progress, when the world seems to nap for a time, artifices for the arrest or disguise of old age are adopted as a fashion, and become the fopperies of the young.  The whole body of Carl’s relations, saving the drowsy old grandfather, already lay buried beneath their expansive heraldries:  at times the whole world almost seemed buried thus — made and re-made of the dead — its entire fabric of politics, of art, of custom, being essentially heraldic “achievements,” dead men’s mementoes such as those.  You see he was a sceptical young man, and his kinsmen dead and gone had passed certainly, in his imaginations of them, into no other world, save, perhaps, into some stiffer, slower, sleepier, and more pompous phase of ceremony — the last degree of court etiquette — as they lay there in the great, low-pitched, grand-ducal vault, in their coffins, dusted once a year for All Souls’ Day, when the court officials descended thither, and Mass for the dead was sung, amid an array of dropping crape and cobwebs.  The lad, with his full red lips and open blue eyes, coming as with a great cup in his hands to life’s feast, revolted from the like of that, as from suffocation.  And still the suggestion of it was everywhere.  In the garish afternoon, up to the wholesome heights of the Heiligenberg suddenly from one of the villages of the plain came the grinding death-knell.  It seemed to come out of the ugly grave itself, and enjoyment was dead.  On his way homeward sadly, an hour later, he enters by chance the open door of a village church, half buried in the tangle of its churchyard.  The rude coffin is lying there of a labourer who had but a hovel to live in.  The enemy dogged one’s footsteps!  The young Carl seemed to be flying, not from death simply, but from assassination.

And as these thoughts sent him back in the rebounding power of youth, with renewed appetite, to life and sense, so, grown at last familiar, they gave additional purpose to his fantastic experiment.  Had it not been said by a wise man that after all the offence of death was in its trappings?  Well! he would, as far as might be, try the thing, while, presumably, a large reversionary interest in life was still his.  He would purchase his freedom, at least of those gloomy “trappings,” and listen while he was spoken of as dead.  The mere preparations gave pleasant proof of the devotion to him of a certain number, who entered without question into his plans.  It is not difficult to mislead the world concerning what happens to these who live at the artificial distance from it of a court, with its high wall of etiquette.  However the matter was managed, no one doubted, when, with a blazon of ceremonious words, the court news went forth that, after a brief illness, according to the way of his race, the hereditary Grand-duke was deceased.  In momentary regret, bethinking them of the lad’s taste for splendour, those to whom the arrangement of such matters belonged (the grandfather now sinking deeper into bare quiescence) backed by the popular wish, determined to give him a funeral with even more than grand-ducal measure of lugubrious magnificence.  The place of his repose was marked out for him as officiously as if it had been the delimitation of a kingdom, in the ducal burial vault, through the cobwebbed windows of which, from the garden where he played as a child, the young Duke had often peered at the faded glories of the immense coroneted coffins, the oldest shedding their velvet tatters around them.  Surrounded by the whole official world of Rosenmold, arrayed for the occasion in almost forgotten dresses of ceremony as if for a masquerade, the new coffin glided from the fragrant chapel where the Requiem was sung, down the broad staircase lined with peach-colour and yellow marble, into the shadows below.  Carl himself, disguised as a strolling musician, had followed it across the square through a drenching rain, on which circumstance he overheard the old people congratulate the “blessed” dead within, had listened to a dirge of his own composing brought out on the great organ with much bravura by his friend, the new court organist, who was in the secret, and that night turned the key of the garden entrance to the vault, and peeped in upon the sleepy, painted, and bewigged young pages whose duty it would be for a certain number of days to come to watch beside their late master’s couch.

And a certain number of weeks afterwards it was known that “the mad Duke” had reappeared, to the dismay of court marshals.  Things might have gone hard with the youth had the strange news, at first as fantastic rumour, then as matter of solemn enquiry, lastly as ascertained fact, pleasing or otherwise, been less welcome than it was to the grandfather, too old, indeed, to sorrow deeply, but grown so decrepit as to propose that ministers should possess themselves of the person of the young Duke, proclaim him of age and regent.  From those dim travels, presenting themselves to the old man, who had never been fifty miles away from home, as almost lunar in their audacity, he would come back — come back “in time,” he murmured faintly, eager to feel that youthful, animating life on the stir about him once more.

Carl himself, now the thing was over, greatly relishing its satiric elements, must be forgiven the trick of the burial and his still greater enormity in coming to life again.  And then, duke or no duke, it was understood that he willed that things should in no case be precisely as they had been.  He would never again be quite so near people’s lives as in the past — a fitful, intermittent visitor — almost as if he had been properly dead; the empty coffin remaining as a kind of symbolical “coronation incident,” setting forth his future relations to his subjects.  Of all those who believed him dead one human creature only, save the grandfather, had sincerely sorrowed for him; a woman, in tears as the funeral train passed by, with whom he had sympathetically discussed his own merits.  Till then he had forgotten the incident which had exhibited him to her as the very genius of goodness and strength; how, one day, driving with her country produce into the market, and, embarrassed by the crowd, she had broken one of a hundred little police rules, whereupon the officers were about to carry her away to be fined, or worse, amid the jeers of the bystanders, always ready to deal hardly with “the gipsy,” at which precise moment the tall Duke Carl, like the flash of a trusty sword, had leapt from the palace stair and caused her to pass on in peace.  She had half detected him through his disguise; in due time news of his reappearance had been ceremoniously carried to her in her little cottage, and the remembrance of her hung about him not ungratefully, as he went with delight upon his way.

The first long stage of his journey over, in headlong flight night and day, he found himself one summer morning under the heat of what seemed a southern sun, at last really at large on the Bergstrasse, with the rich plain of the Palatinate on his left hand; on the right hand vineyards, seen now for the first time, sloping up into the crisp beeches of the Odenwald.  By Weinheim only an empty tower remained of the Castle of Windeck.  He lay for the night in the great whitewashed guest-chamber of the Capuchin convent.

The national rivers, like the national woods, have a family likeness:  the Main, the Lahn, the Moselle, the Neckar, the Rhine.  By help of such accommodation as chance afforded, partly on the stream itself, partly along the banks, he pursued the leisurely winding course of one of the prettiest of these, tarrying for awhile in the towns, grey, white, or red, which came in his way, tasting their delightful native “little” wines, peeping into their old overloaded churches, inspecting the church furniture, or trying the organs.  For three nights he slept, warm and dry, on the hay stored in a deserted cloister, and, attracted into the neighbouring minster for a snatch of church music, narrowly escaped detection.  By miraculous chance the grimmest lord of Rosenmold was there within, recognised the youth and his companions — visitors naturally conspicuous, amid the crowd of peasants around them — and for some hours was upon their traces.  After unclean town streets the country air was a perfume by contrast, or actually scented with pinewoods.  One seemed to breathe with it fancies of the woods, the hills, and water — of a sort of souls in the landscape, but cheerful and genial now, happy souls!  A distant group of pines on the verge of a great upland awoke a violent desire to be there — seemed to challenge one to proceed thither.  Was their infinite view thence?  It was like an outpost of some far-off fancy land, a pledge of the reality of such.  Above Cassel, the airy hills curved in one black outline against a glowing sky, pregnant, one could fancy, with weird forms, which might be at their old diableries again on those remote places ere night was quite come there.  At last in the streets, the hundred churches, of Cologne, he feels something of a “Gothic” enthusiasm, and all a German’s enthusiasm for the Rhine.

Through the length and breadth of the Rhine country the vintage was begun.  The red ruins on the heights, the white-walled villages, white Saint Nepomuc upon the bridges, were but isolated high notes of contrast in a landscape, sleepy and indistinct under the flood of sunshine, with a headiness in it like that of must, of the new wine.  The noise of the vineyards came through the lovely haze, still, at times, with the sharp sound of a bell — death-bell, perhaps, or only a crazy summons to the vintagers.  And amid those broad, willowy reaches of the Rhine at length, from Bingen to Mannheim, where the brown hills wander into airy, blue distance, like a little picture of paradise, he felt that France was at hand.  Before him lay the road thither, easy and straight. — That well of light so close!  But, unexpectedly, the capricious incidence of his own humour with the opportunity did not suggest, as he would have wagered it must, “Go, drink at once!” Was it that France had come to be of no account at all, in comparison of Italy, of Greece? or that, as he passed over the German land, the conviction had come, “For you, France, Italy, Hellas, is here!” — that some recognition of the untried spiritual possibilities of meek Germany had for Carl transferred the ideal land out of space beyond the Alps or the Rhine, into future time, whither he must be the leader?  A little chilly of humour, in spite of his manly strength, he was journeying partly in search of physical heat.  To-day certainly, in this great vineyard, physical heat was about him in measure sufficient, at least for a German constitution.  Might it be not otherwise with the imaginative, the intellectual, heat and light; the real need being that of an interpreter — Apollo, illuminant rather as the revealer than as the bringer of light?  With large belief that the Éclaircissement, the Aufklaerung (he had already found the name for the thing) would indeed come, he had been in much bewilderment whence and how.  Here, he began to see that it could be in no other way than by action of informing thought upon the vast accumulated material of which Germany was in possession:  art, poetry, fiction, an entire imaginative world, following reasonably upon a deeper understanding of the past, of nature, of one’s self — an understanding of all beside through the knowledge of one’s self.  To understand, would be the indispensable first step towards the enlargement of the great past, of one’s little present, by criticism, by imagination.  Then, the imprisoned souls of nature would speak as of old.  The Middle Age, in Germany, where the past has had such generous reprisals, never far from us, would reassert its mystic spell, for the better understanding of our Raffaelle.  The spirits of distant Hellas would reawake in the men and women of little German towns.  Distant times, the most alien thoughts, would come near together, as elements in a great historic symphony.  A kind of ardent, new patriotism awoke in him, sensitive for the first time at the words national poesy, national art and literature, German philosophy.  To the resources of the past, of himself, of what was possible for German mind, more and more his mind opens as he goes on his way.  A free, open space had been determined, which something now to be created, created by him, must occupy.  “Only,” he thought, “if I had coadjutors!  If these thoughts would awake in but one other mind!”

At Strasbourg, with its mountainous goblin houses, nine stories high, grouped snugly, in the midst of that inclement plain, like a great stork’s nest around the romantic red steeple of its cathedral, Duke Carl became fairly captive to the Middle Age.  Tarrying there week after week he worked hard, but (without a ray of light from others) in one long mistake, at the chronology and history of the coloured windows.  Antiquity’s very self seemed expressed there, on the visionary images of king or patriarch, in the deeply incised marks of character, the hoary hair, the massive proportions, telling of a length of years beyond what is lived now.  Surely, past ages, could one get at the historic soul of them, were not dead but living, rich in company, for the entertainment, the expansion, of the present:  and Duke Carl was still without suspicion of the cynic afterthought that such historic soul was but an arbitrary substitution, a generous loan of one’s self.

The mystic soul of Nature laid hold on him next, saying, “Come! understand, interpret me!” He was awakened one morning by the jingle of sledge-bells along the street beneath his windows.  Winter had descended betimes from the mountains:  the pale Rhine below the bridge of boats on the long way to Kehl was swollen with ice, and for the first time he realised that Switzerland was at hand.  On a sudden he was captive to the enthusiasm of the mountains, and hastened along the valley of the Rhine by Alt Breisach and Basle, unrepelled by a thousand difficulties, to Swiss farmhouses and lonely villages, solemn still, and untouched by strangers.  At Grindelwald, sleeping at last in the close neighbourhood of the greater Alps, he had the sense of an overbrooding presence, of some strange new companions around him.  Here one might yield one’s self to the unalterable imaginative appeal of the elements in their highest force and simplicity — light, air, water, earth.  On very early spring days a mantle was suddenly lifted; the Alps were an apex of natural glory, towards which, in broadening spaces of light, the whole of Europe sloped upwards.  Through them, on the right hand, as he journeyed on, were the doorways to Italy, to Como or Venice, from yonder peak Italy’s self was visible! — as, on the left hand, in the South-german towns, in a high-toned, artistic fineness, in the dainty, flowered ironwork for instance, the overflow of Italian genius was traceable.  These things presented themselves at last only to remind him that, in a new intellectual hope, he was already on his way home.  Straight through life, straight through nature and man, with one’s own self-knowledge as a light thereon, not by way of the geographical Italy or Greece, lay the road to the new Hellas, to be realised now as the outcome of home-born German genius.  At times, in that early fine weather, looking now not southwards, but towards Germany, he seemed to trace the outspread of a faint, not wholly natural, aurora over the dark northern country.  And it was in an actual sunrise that the news came which finally put him on the directest road homewards.  One hardly dared breathe in the rapid uprise of all-embracing light which seemed like the intellectual rising of the Fatherland, when up the straggling path to his high beech-grown summit (was one safe nowhere?) protesting over the roughness of the way, came the too familiar voices (ennui itself made audible) of certain high functionaries of Rosenmold, come to claim their new sovereign, close upon the runaway.

Bringing news of the old Duke’s decease!  With a real grief at his heart, he hastened now over the ground which lay between him and the bed of death, still trying, at quieter intervals, to snatch profit by the way; peeping, at the most unlikely hours, on the objects of his curiosity, waiting for a glimpse of dawn through glowing church windows, penetrating into old church treasuries by candle-light, taxing the old courtiers to pant up, for “the view,” to this or that conspicuous point in the world of hilly woodland.  From one such at last, in spite of everything with pleasure to Carl, old Rosenmold was visible — the attic windows of the Residence, the storks on the chimneys, the green copper roofs baking in the long, dry German summer.  The homeliness of true old Germany!  He too felt it, and yearned towards his home.

And the “beggar-maid” was there.  Thoughts of her had haunted his mind all the journey through, as he was aware, not unpleased, graciously overflowing towards any creature he found dependent upon him.  The mere fact that she was awaiting him, at his disposition, meekly, and as though through his long absence she had never quitted the spot on which he had said farewell, touched his fancy, and on a sudden concentrated his wavering preference into a practical decision.  “King Cophetua” would be hers.  And his goodwill sunned her wild-grown beauty into majesty, into a kind of queenly richness.  There was natural majesty in the heavy waves of golden hair folded closely above the neck, built a little massively; and she looked kind, beseeching also, capable of sorrow.

She was like clear sunny weather, with bluebells and the green leaves, between rainy days, and seemed to embody Die Ruh auf dem Gipfel — all the restful hours he had spent of late in the wood-sides and on the hilltops.  One June day, on which she seemed to have withdrawn into herself all the tokens of summer, brought decision to our lover of artificial roses, who had cared so little hitherto for the like of her.  Grand-duke perforce, he would make her his wife, and had already re-assured her with lively mockery of his horrified ministers.  “Go straight to life!” said his new poetic code; and here was the opportunity; — here, also, the real “adventure,” in comparison of which his previous efforts that way seemed childish theatricalities, fit only to cheat a little the profound ennui of actual life.  In a hundred stolen interviews she taught the hitherto indifferent youth the art of love.

Duke Carl had effected arrangements for his marriage, secret, but complete and soon to be made public.  Long since he had cast complacent eyes on a strange architectural relic, an old grange or hunting-lodge on the heath, with he could hardly have defined what charm of remoteness and old romance.  Popular belief amused itself with reports of the wizard who inhabited or haunted the place, his fantastic treasures, his immense age.  His windows might be seen glittering afar on stormy nights, with a blaze of golden ornaments, said the more adventurous loiterer.  It was not because he was suspicious still, but in a kind of wantonness of affection, and as if by way of giving yet greater zest to the luxury of their mutual trust that Duke Carl added to his announcement of the purposed place and time of the event a pretended test of the girl’s devotion.  He tells her the story of the aged wizard, meagre and wan, to whom she must find her way alone for the purpose of asking a question all-important to himself.  The fierce old man will try to escape with terrible threats, will turn, or half turn, into repulsive animals.  She must cling the faster; at last the spell will be broken; he will yield, he will become a youth once more, and give the desired answer.

The girl, otherwise so self-denying, and still modestly anxious for a private union, not to shame his high position in the world, had wished for one thing at least — to be loved amid the splendours habitual to him.  Duke Carl sends to the old lodge his choicest personal possessions.  For many days the public is aware of something on hand; a few get delightful glimpses of the treasures on their way to “the place on the heath.”  Was he preparing against contingencies, should the great army, soon to pass through these parts, not leave the country as innocently as might be desired?

The short grey day seemed a long one to those who, for various reasons, were waiting anxiously for the darkness; the court people fretful and on their mettle, the townsfolk suspicious, Duke Carl full of amorous longing.  At her distant cottage beyond the hills, Gretchen kept herself ready for the trial.  It was expected that certain great military officers would arrive that night, commanders of a victorious host making its way across Northern Germany, with no great respect for the rights of neutral territory, often dealing with life and property too rudely to find the coveted treasure.  It was but one episode in a cruel war.  Duke Carl did not wait for the grandly illuminated supper prepared for their reception.  Events precipitated themselves.  Those officers came as practically victorious occupants, sheltering themselves for the night in the luxurious rooms of the great palace.  The army was in fact in motion close behind its leaders, who (Gretchen warm and happy in the arms, not of the aged wizard, but of the youthful lover) are discussing terms for the final absorption of the duchy with those traitorous old councillors.  At their delicate supper Duke Carl amuses his companion with caricature, amid cries of cheerful laughter, of the sleepy courtiers entertaining their martial guests in all their pedantic politeness, like people in some farcical dream.  A priest, and certain chosen friends to witness the marriage, were to come ere nightfall to the grange.  The lovers heard, as they thought, the sound of distant thunder.  The hours passed as they waited, and what came at last was not the priest with his companions.  Could they have been detained by the storm?  Duke Carl gently re-assures the girl — bids her believe in him, and wait.  But through the wind, grown to tempest, beyond the sound of the violent thunder — louder than any possible thunder — nearer and nearer comes the storm of the victorious army, like some disturbance of the earth itself, as they flee into the tumult, out of the intolerable confinement and suspense, dead-set upon them.

The Enlightening, the Aufklaerung, according to the aspiration of Duke Carl, was effected by other hands; Lessing and Herder, brilliant precursors of the age of genius which centered in Goethe, coming well within the natural limits of Carl’s lifetime.  As precursors Goethe gratefully recognised them, and understood that there had been a thousand others, looking forward to a new era in German literature with the desire which is in some sort a “forecast of capacity,” awakening each other to the permanent reality of a poetic ideal in human life, slowly forming that public consciousness to which Goethe actually addressed himself.  It is their aspirations I have tried to embody in the portrait of Carl.

A hard winter had covered the Main with a firm footing of ice.  The liveliest social intercourse was quickened thereon.  I was unfailing from early morning onwards; and, being lightly clad, found myself, when my mother drove up later to look on, fairly frozen.  My mother sat in the carriage, quite stately in her furred cloak of red velvet, fastened on the breast with thick gold cord and tassels.

“Dear mother,” I said, on the spur of the moment, “give me your furs, I am frozen.”

She was equally ready.  In a moment I had on the cloak.  Falling below the knee, with its rich trimming of sables, and enriched with gold, it became me excellently.  So clad I made my way up and down with a cheerful heart.

That was Goethe, perhaps fifty years later.  His mother also related the incident to Bettina Brentano; — “There, skated my son, like an arrow among the groups.  Away he went over the ice like a son of the gods.  Anything so beautiful is not to be seen now.  I clapped my hands for joy.  Never shall I forget him as he darted out from one arch of the bridge, and in again under the other, the wind carrying the train behind him as he flew.”  In that amiable figure I seem to see the fulfilment of the Resurgam on Carl’s empty coffin — the aspiring soul of Carl himself, in freedom and effective, at last.