The German Classics of the Nineteenth and Twentieth Centuries, Volume 01. Коллектив авторов

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      Instantly now, when Hermann had ceased, the talkative neighbor

      Took up the word, and cried: "Oh happy, in days like the present,

      Days of flight and confusion, who lives by himself in his dwelling,

      Having no wife nor child to be clinging about him in terror!

      Happy I feel myself now, and would not for much be called father;

      Would not have wife and children to-day, for whom to be anxious.

      Oft have I thought of this flight before; and have packed up together

      All my best things already, the chains and old pieces of money

      That were my sainted mother's, of which not one has been sold yet.

      Much would be left behind, it is true, not easily gotten.

      Even the roots and the herbs, that were with such industry gathered,

      I should be sorry to lose, though the worth of the goods is but trifling.

      If my purveyor remained, I could go from my dwelling contented.

      When my cash I have brought away safe, and have rescued my person,

      All is safe: none find it so easy to fly as the single."

      "Neighbor," unto his words young Hermann with emphasis answered:

      "I can in no wise agree with thee here, and censure thy language.

      Is he indeed a man to be prized, who, in good and in evil,

      Takes no thought but for self, and gladness and sorrow with others

      Knows not how to divide, nor feels his heart so impel him?

      Rather than ever to-day would I make up my mind to be married:

      Many a worthy maiden is needing a husband's protection,

      And the man needs an inspiriting wife when ill is impending."

      Thereupon smiling the father replied: "Thus love I to hear thee!

      That is a sensible word such as rarely I've known thee to utter."

      Straightway, however, the mother broke in with quickness, exclaiming:

      "Son, to be sure, thou art right! we parents have set the example;

      Seeing that not in our season of joy did we choose one another;

      Rather the saddest of hours it was that bound us together.

      Monday morning—I mind it well; for the day that preceded

      Came that terrible fire by which our city was ravaged—

      Twenty years will have gone. The day was a Sunday as this is;

      Hot and dry was the season; the water was almost exhausted.

      All the people were strolling abroad in their holiday dresses,

      'Mong the villages partly, and part in the mills and the taverns.

      And at the end of the city the flames began, and went coursing

      Quickly along the streets, creating a draught in their passage.

      Burned were the barns where the copious harvest already was garnered;

      Burned were the streets as far as the market; the house of my father,

      Neighbor to this, was destroyed, and this one also fell with it.

      Little we managed to save. I sat, that sorrowful night through,

      Outside the town on the common, to guard the beds and the boxes.

      Sleep overtook me at last, and when I again was awakened,

      Feeling the chill of the morning that always descends before sunrise,

      There were the smoke and the glare, and the walls and chimneys in ruins.

      Then fell a weight on my heart; but more majestic than ever

      Came up the sun again, inspiring my bosom with courage.

      Then I rose hastily up, with a yearning the place to revisit

      Whereon our dwelling had stood, and to see if the hens had been rescued,

      Which I especially loved, for I still was a child in my feelings.

      Thus as I over the still-smoking timbers of house and of court-yard

      Picked my way, and beheld the dwelling so ruined and wasted,

      Thou camest up to examine the place, from the other direction.

      Under the ruins thy horse in his stall had been buried; the rubbish

      Lay on the spot and the glimmering beams; of the horse we saw nothing.

      Thoughtful and grieving we stood there thus, each facing the other,

      Now that the wall was fallen that once had divided our court-yards.

      Thereupon thou by the hand didst take me, and speak to me, saying,—

      'Lisa, how camest thou hither? Go back! thy soles must be burning;

      Hot the rubbish is here: it scorches my boots, which are stronger.'

      And thou didst lift me up, and carry me out through thy court-yard.

      There was the door of the house left standing yet with its archway,

      Just as 'tis standing now, the one thing only remaining.

      Then thou didst set me down and kiss me; to that I objected;

      But thou didst answer and say with kindly significant language:

      'See! my house lies in ruins: remain here and help me rebuild it;

      So СКАЧАТЬ