their silver wedding journey v3-第37章

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drove　next　to　the　old　court　garden　beside　the　Rhine　where　the　poet　says
he　used　to　play　with　the　little　Veronika；　and　probably　did　not。　　At　any
rate；　the　garden　is　gone；　the　Schloss　was　burned　down　long　ago；　and
nothing　remains　but　a　detached　tower　in　which　the　good　Elector　Jan
Wilhelm；　of　Heine's　time；　amused　himself　with　his　many　mechanical
inventions。　　The　tower　seemed　to　be　in　process　of　demolition；　but　an
intelligent　workman　who　came　down　out　of　it；　was　interested　in　the
strangers'　curiosity；　and　directed　them　to　a　place　behind　the　Historical
Museum　where　they　could　find　a　bit　of　the　old　garden。　　It　consisted　of
two　or　three　low　trees；　and　under　them　the　statue　of　the　Elector　by　which
Heine　sat　with　the　little　Veronika；　if　he　really　did。　　Afresh　gale
blowing　through　the　trees　stirred　the　bushes　that　backed　the　statue；　but
not　the　laurel　wreathing　the　Elector's　head；　and　meeting　in　a　neat　point
over　his　forehead。　　The　laurel　wreath　is　stone；　like　the　rest　of　the
Elector；　who　stands　there　smirking　in　marble　ermine　and　armor；　and
resting　his　baton　on　the　nose　of　a　very　small　lion；　who；　in　the
exigencies　of　foreshortening；　obligingly　goes　to　nothing　but　a　tail　under
the　Elector's　robe。

This　was　a　prince　who　loved　himself　in　effigy　so　much　that　he　raised　an
equestrian　statue　to　his　own　renown　in　the　market…place；　though　he
modestly　refused　the　credit　of　it；　and　ascribed　its　erection　to　the
affection　of　his　subjects。　　You　see　him　therein　a　full…bottomed　wig；
mounted　on　a　rampant　charger　with　a　tail　as　big　round　as　a　barrel；　and
heavy　enough　to　keep　him　from　coming　down　on　his　fore　legs　as　long　as　he
likes　to　hold　them　up。　　It　was　to　this　horse's　back　that　Heine　clambered
when　a　small　boy；　to　see　the　French　take　formal　possession　of　Dusseldorf；
and　he　clung　to　the　waist　of　the　bronze　Elector；　who　had　just　abdicated；
while　the　burgomaster　made　a　long　speech；　from　the　balcony　of　the
Rathhaus；　and　the　Electoral　arms　were　taken　down　from　its　doorway。

The　Rathhaus　is　a　salad…dressing　of　German　gothic　and　French　rococo　as　to
its　architectural　style；　and　is　charming　in　its　way；　but　the　Marches　were
in　the　market…place　for　the　sake　of　that　moment　of　Heine's　boyhood。　　They
felt　that　he　might　have　been　the　boy　who　stopped　as　he　ran　before　them；
and　smacked　the　stomach　of　a　large　pumpkin　lying　at　the　feet　of　an　old
market…woman；　and　then　dashed　away　before　she　could　frame　a　protest
against　the　indignity。　　From　this　incident　they　philosophized　that　the
boys　of　Dusseldorf　are　as　mischievous　at　the　end　of　the　century　as　they
were　at　the　beginning；　and　they　felt　the　fascination　that　such　a
bounteous；　unkempt　old　marketplace　must　have　for　the　boys　of　any　period。
There　were　magnificent　vegetables　of　all　sorts　in　it；　and　if　the　fruits
were　meagre　that　was　the　fault　of　the　rainy　summer；　perhaps。　　The　market…
place　was　very　dirty；　and　so　was　the　narrow　street　leading　down　from　it
to　the　Rhine；　which　ran　swift　as　a　mountain　torrent　along　a　slatternly
quay。　　A　bridge　of　boats　crossing　the　stream　shook　in　the　rapid　current；
and　a　long　procession　of　market　carts　passed　slowly　over；　while　a　cluster
of　scows　waited　in　picturesque　patience　for　the　draw　to　open。

They　saw　what　a　beautiful　town　that　was　for　a　boy　to　grow　up　in；　and　how
many　privileges　it　offered；　how　many　dangers；　how　many　chances　for
hairbreadth　escapes。　　They　chose　that　Heine　must　often　have　rushed
shrieking　joyfully　down　that　foul　alley　to　the　Rhine　with　other　boys；　and
they　easily　found　a　leaf…strewn　stretch　of　the　sluggish　Dussel；　in　the
Public　Garden；　where　his　playmate；　the　little　Wilhelm；　lost　his　life　and
saved　the　kitten's。　　They　were　not　so　sure　of　the　avenue　through　which
the　poet　saw　the　Emperor　Napoleon　come　riding　on　his　small　white　horse
when　he　took　possession　of　the　Elector's　dominions。　　But　if　it　was　that
where　the　statue　of　the　Kaiser　Wilhelm　I。　comes　riding　on　a　horse　led　by
two　Victories；　both　poet　and　hero　are　avenged　there　on　the　accomplished
fact。　　Defeated　and　humiliated　France　triumphs　in　the　badness　of　that
foolish　denkmal　（one　of　the　worst　in　all　denkmal…ridden　Germany）；　and　the
memory　of　the　singer　whom　the　Hohenzollern　family　pride　forbids　honor　in
his　native　place；　is　immortal　in　its　presence。

On　the　way　back　to　their　hotel；　March　made　some　reflections　upon　the　open
neglect；　throughout　Germany；　of　the　greatest　German　lyrist；　by　which　the
poet　might　have　profited　if　he　had　been　present。　　He　contended　that　it
was　not　altogether　an　effect　of　Hohenzollern　pride；　which　could　not
suffer　a　joke　or　two　from　the　arch…humorist；　but　that　Heine　had　said
things　of　Germany　herself　which　Germans　might　well　have　found
unpardonable。　　He　concluded　that　it　would　not　do　to　be　perfectly　frank
with　one's　own　country。　　Though；　to　be　sure；　there　would　always　be　the
question　whether　the　Jew…born　Heine　had　even　a　step…fatherland　in　the
Germany　he　loved　so　tenderly　and　mocked　so　pitilessly。　　He　had　to　own
that　if　he　were　a　negro　poet　he　would　not　feel　bound　to　measure　terms　in
speaking　of　America；　and　he　would　not　feel　that　his　fame　was　in　her
keeping。

Upon　the　whole　he　blamed　Heine　less　than　Germany　and　he　accused　her　of
taking　a　shabby　revenge；　in　trying　to　forget　him；　in　the　heat　of　his
resentment　that　there　should　be　no　record　of　Heine　in　the　city　where　he
was　born；　March　came　near　ignoring　himself　the　fact　that　the　poet
Freiligrath　was　also　born　there。　　As　for　the　famous　Dusseldorf　school　of
painting；　which　once　filled　the　world　with　the　worst　art；　he　rejoiced
that　it　was　now　so　dead；　and　he　grudged　the　glance　which　the　beauty　of
the　new　Art　Academy　extorted　from　him。　　It　is　in　the　French　taste；　and　is
so　far　a　monument　to　the　continuance　in　one　sort　of　that　French
supremacy；　of　which　in　another　sort　another　denkmal　celebrates　the
overthrow。　　Dusseldorf　is　not　content　with　the　denkmal　of　the　Kaiser　on
horseback；　with　the　two　Victories　for　grooms；　there　is　a　second；　which
the　Marches　found　when　they　strolled　out　again　late　in　the　afternoon。　　It
is　in　the　lovely　park　which　lies　in　the　heart　of　the　city；　and　they　felt
in　its　presence　the　only　emotion　of　sympathy　which　the　many　patriotic
monuments　of　Germany　awakened　in　them。　　It　had　dignity　and　repose；　which
these　never　had　elsewhere；　but　it　was　perhaps　not　so　much　for　the　dying
warrior　and　the　pitying　lion　of　the　sculpture　that　their　hearts　were
moved　as　for　the　gentle　and　mournful　humanity　of　the　inscription；　which
dropped　into　equivalent　English　verse　in　March's　note…book：

　　　　　Fame　was　enough　for　the　Victors；　and　glory　and　verdurous　laurel；
　　　　　Tears　by　their　mothers　wept　founded　this　image　of　stone。

To　this　they　could　forgive　the　vaunting　record；　on　the　reverse；　of　the
German　soldiers　who　died　heroes　in　the　war　with　France；　the　war　with
Austria；　and　even　the　war　with　poor　little　Denmark！

The　morning　had　been　bright　and　warm；　and　it　was　just　that　the　afternoon
should　be　dim　and　cold；　with　a　pale　sun　looking　through　a　September　mist；
which　seemed　to　deepen　the　seclusion　and　silence　of　the　forest　reaches；
for　the　park　was　really　a　forest　of　the　German　sort；　as　parks　are　apt　to
be　in　Germany。　　But　it　was　beautiful；　and　they　strayed　through　it；　and
sometimes　sat　down　on　the　benches　in　its　damp　shadows；　and　said　how　much
seemed　to　be　done　in　Germany　for　the　people's　comfort　and　pleasure。　　In
what　was　their　own　explicitly；　as　well　as　what　was　tacitly　theirs；　they
were　not　so　restricted　as　we　were　at　home；　and　especially　the　children
seemed　made　fondly　and　lovingly　free　of　all　public　things。　　The　Marches
met　troops　of　them　in　the　forest；　as　they　strolled　slowly　back　by　the
winding　Dussel　to　the　gardened　avenue　leading　to　the　park；　and　they　found
them　everywhere　gay　and　joyful。　　But　their　elders　seemed　subdued；　and
were　silent。　　The　strangers　heard　no　sound　of　laughter　in　the　streets　of
Dusseldorf；　and　they　saw　no　smiling　except　on　the　part　of　a　very　old
couple；　whose　meeting　they　witnessed　and　who　grinned　and　cackled　at　each
other　like　two　children　as　they　shook　hands。　　Perhaps　they　were　indeed
children　of　that　sad　second　childhood　which　one　would　rather　not　blossom
back　into。

In　America；　life　is　yet　a　joke　wit