The German Classics of the Nineteenth and Twentieth Centuries, Volume 06. Коллектив авторов
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СКАЧАТЬ is a ghost? Define one. Deduce for me the conditions of the possibility of a ghost. What reasonable connection is there between such an apparition and reason? Reason, I say, Reason!" Here the ghost proceeded to analyze reason, cited from Kant's Critique of Pure Reason, part II, section I, book 2, chap. 3, the distinction between phenomena and noumena, then went on to construct a hypothetical system of ghosts, piled one syllogism on another, and concluded with the logical proof that there are absolutely no ghosts. Meanwhile the cold sweat ran down my back, my teeth clattered like castanets, and from very agony of soul I nodded an unconditional assent to every assertion which the phantom doctor alleged against the absurdity of being afraid of ghosts, and which he demonstrated with such zeal that once, in a moment of distraction, instead of his gold watch he drew a handful of grave-worms from his vest-pocket, and remarking his error, replaced them with a ridiculous but terrified haste. "Reason is the highest—!" Here the clock struck one, but the ghost vanished.

      The next morning I left Goslar and wandered along, partly at random, and partly with the intention of visiting the brother of the Clausthal miner. Again we had beautiful Sunday weather. I climbed hill and mountain, saw how the sun strove to drive away the mists, and wandered merrily through the quivering woods, while around my dreaming head rang the bell-flowers of Goslar. The mountains stood in their white night-robes, the fir-trees were shaking sleep out of their branching limbs, the fresh morning wind curled their drooping green locks, the birds were at morning prayers, the meadow-vale flashed like a golden surface sprinkled with diamonds, and the shepherd passed over it with his bleating flock.

* * * * *

      After much circuitous wandering I came to the dwelling of the brother of my Clausthal friend. Here I stayed all night and experienced the following beautiful poem—

        Stands the but upon the mountain

          Where the ancient woodman dwells

        There the dark-green fir-trees rustle,

          Casts the moon its golden spells.

        In the but there stands an arm-chair,

          Richly carved and cleverly;

        He who sits therein is happy,

          And that happy man am I.

        On the footstool sits a maiden,

          On my lap her arms repose,

        With her eyes like blue stars beaming,

          And her mouth a new-born rose.

        And the dear blue stars shine on me,

          Wide like heaven's great arch their gaze;

        And her little lily finger

          Archly on the rose she lays.

        Nay, the mother cannot see us,

          For she spins the whole day long;

        And the father plays the cithern

          As he sings a good old song.

        And the maiden softly whispers,

          Softly, that none may hear;

        Many a solemn little secret

          Hath she murmured in my ear.

        "Since I lost my aunt who loved me,

          Now we never more repair

        To the shooting-lodge at Goslar,

          And it is so pleasant there!

        "Here above it is so lonely,

          On the rocks where cold winds blow;

        And in winter we are always

          Deeply buried in the snow.

        "And I'm such a timid creature,

          And I'm frightened like a child

        At the evil mountain spirits,

          Who by night are raging wild"

        Silent falls the winsome maiden,

          Frightened by her own surmise,

        Little hands, so white and dimpled,

          Pressing on her sweet blue eyes.

        Louder now the fir-trees rustle,

          Spinning-wheel more harshly drones;

        In their pauses sounds the cithern,

          And the old song's simple tones:

        "Do not fear, my tender nursling,

          Aught of evil spirits' might;

        For good angels still are watching

          Round thy pathway day and night."

        Now the fir-tree's dark-green fingers

          Tap upon the window low,

        And the moon, a yellow listener,

          Casts within her sweetest glow.

        Father, mother, both are sleeping,

          Near at hand their rest they take;

        But we two, in pleasant gossip,

          Keep each other long awake.

        "That thou prayest much too often,

          Seems unlikely, I declare;

        On thy lips there is a quiver

          Which was never born of prayer.

        "Ah! that heartless, cold expression

          All my being terrifies—

        Though my darkling fear is lessened

          By thy frank and honest eyes.

        "Yet I doubt if thou believest

          What is held for truth by most;

        Hast thou faith in God the Father,

          In the Son and Holy Ghost?"

        "Ah, my darling! when an infant

          By my mother's knee I stood,

        I believed in God the Father,

          In the Ruler great and good.

        "He who made the world so lovely,

          Gave man beauty, gave him force,

        And to sun and moon and planets

          Pre-appointed each its course.

        "As I older grew, my darling,

          And my way in wisdom won,

        I in reason comprehended,

          And believe now in the Son—

        "In the well-loved Son, who, loving,

          Oped the gates of Love so wide;

        And for thanks—as is the custom—

        By the world was crucified.

        "Now, that I in full-grown manhood

          Reading, travel, wisdom boast;

        Still my heart expands, and, truly

          I believe the Holy Ghost,

        "Who bath worked the greatest wonders—

          Greater still he'll work again;

        He СКАЧАТЬ