She and I Volume I Part 23

"'An der Quelle sa.s.s der Knabe Blumen wand er sich zum Kranz, Und er sah sie fortgerissen Treiben in den wellen Tanz.

Und so fleihen meine Tage, Wie die quelle rastlos hin!

Und so bleichet meine Jugend, Wie die Kranze schnell verbluhn!'"

"They are very pretty," said Min. "Still, do you know, as a rule I do not think German poetry nice. It always sounds so harsh and guttural to me, however tender and sentimental the words may be."

"That may be true in some respects," I answered; "but if you hear it well read, or sung, there is much more pathos and softness about it than one is able to discern when simply skimming it over to oneself. Some of Goethe's little ballads, for instance, such as 'The Erl King,' and others that Walter Scott has translated, are wonderfully beautiful; not to speak of Uhland's poetry, and La Motte Fouque's charming _Undine_, which is as pretty a poem as I have ever read."

"I confess," said Min, "that I have not had any general experience of German literature. Indeed, I have quite neglected it since I left school; and then I only studied heavy books--such as _The History of Frederick the Great_, that wearisome _Jungfrau von Orleans_, and others of Schiller's plays."

"Ah!" I replied, "that accounts for it, then. The more you read German, the more you will like it. I think our schoolmasters and schoolmistresses make a great mistake, generally, in the books they select for the instruction and familiarising of their pupils with foreign languages. They appear, really, to choose the driest authors they can pick out! If I had anything to do with 'teaching the young idea how to shoot,' I should adopt a very different plan."

"Dear me!" she exclaimed, laughing. "I can fancy I see you, a grim old pedagogue, with a pair of horn-rimmed spectacles and a snuff-coloured coat! What would be your new system, Mr Professor?"

"Well," said I, "in the first place, I should not dream of putting books like Schiller's dramas into their hands, as is the ordinary course, before they were able to translate pretty fluently, gathering the sense of what they read without the aid of a dictionary. I say nothing against the masterpieces of the great German cla.s.sic. I like Schiller, myself. But, what boy or girl can appreciate the poetry of his descriptions, and the grandeur of his verse, when every second word they meet with is a stumbling-block, that has to be sought out diligently in the lexicon ere they can understand the context? Instead of this inculcating a love for what they read, it breeds disgust. Even now, I confess, I cannot take an interest in _William Tell_, just because he, and his fellow Switzers, of Uri and elsewhere, will always be a.s.sociated in my mind with so many lines of translation and repet.i.tion that I had to learn by heart at school."

"But, what would you give your pupils to study in lieu of such works?"

she asked.

"Vividly interesting stories--novels, if you like--in the language they had to learn. Not short pieces, or 'elegant extracts;' but, good, long tales of thrilling adventure and well worked-up plots, whose interest, and the desire to know what was coming next, would make them read on and stammer out the sense, until they reached the denouement. And, if it should be objected that German and French novels are not exactly what you would place before young children for study, I would retort, that, the majority of the works of our best authors are now translated into both those languages almost as soon as they are published over here; let them read those! However, you were saying that you did not think German poetry pleasing or euphonious?"

"No," she said, "I do not; although, it may be owing to what you have remarked, that school study has given me a distaste for it. Still, you have now made me wish that I knew more of it. I think I will take it up again; and, perhaps, Mr Professor, under your tuition, I may learn better to like it."

"I should be only too glad, Min," I said, "to unfold its beauties to you; but, I'm the worst teacher in the world, and too impatient of blunders. Yet, I don't think I could be a very hard master to _you_" I added, lowering my voice to a whisper.

"Couldn't you?" she said. "I don't know about that, Master Frank! I well remember a particular evening, and my birthday party; and how a certain gentleman--whom I won't name--behaved then and since."

"Oh! Haven't you forgiven me yet, Min?" I exclaimed. "I thought--"

"Don't mind about that," she said, hurriedly.--"Go on with what you were telling me concerning German; the others will hear you! Do you think the language soft?"

"I can't say exactly that it _is_ as soft as our own," I proceeded to say, for the benefit of Miss Spight, who appeared to be listening to our conversation.--"But, a good many people, who call the Teuton tongue uncouth, seem to forget its close resemblance both in style and expression, to English. Either language can be rendered in the vernacular of the other, without losing its force or even sound; and that is more than can be said for French or Italian. Shakspeare, for instance, in German, is almost equally as telling and forcible as Shakspeare in English; while, in French--Bah! you should just hear it as _once_ I heard it, and you would laugh! Indeed, if we are strictly logical on the point of the euphony of language, the Italian dialect, which we deem so soft and liquid, sounds quite harsh, I'm told, in comparison with the l.a.b.i.al syllables that the Polynesian islanders use in the South Seas."

We then relapsed into silence again, Min still leaning over the side of the boat and dipping her fingers in the limpid, silvery water, which sparkled with gem-like coruscations of light as she stirred it to and fro.

At Mortlake she splashed a shower of sprinkling pearls over an irate swan pater-familias, who had hurried out from the alders, to see what business we meant by coming at that time of night so near the domain of Mrs Swan and her cygnet progeny. We were both much amused at the fierce air with which he advanced, as if to eat us all up; and then, his precipitate retreat, on getting wetted so unceremoniously. He turned tail at once; and, propelling himself away with vigorous strokes of his webbed sculls, made the water foam from his prow-like curving neck, leaving a broad wake behind him of glistening sheen.

"What a nice day we have had," said Min, presently. "All has gone off so well, without a hitch. We have had such a nice talk, too. Why is it, I wonder," she continued, musingly, "that ordinary conversation is generally so empty and silly? Gentlemen appear to believe that ladies know nothing but about b.a.l.l.s, and dancing, and the weather, and croquet!

I do not mean, when we are all talking together, as to-day; but, when one is alone with them, and not one of a circle of talkers, they never say anything of any depth and reflection. Perhaps, when I go out, it is my fate to meet with exceptional partners at parties. But, I declare, they never utter a sensible remark! I suppose they think me very stupid, and not worth the trouble of seriously conversing to. Really, I imagine that gentlemen believe all girls to belong to an inferior order of intellect; and fancy that it is necessary for them to descend from their G.o.d-like level, in order to talk to them about such senseless trivialities as they think suited to their age and s.e.x!"

"Perhaps it is not all the fault of the men," said I. "They are probably bashful, as most of us are."

"Bashful?" she replied; "I like that, Master Frank. Why, you are all a most intolerable set of conceited mortals! No, it is not that:--it is, because the 'lords of creation' think us beneath the notice of their superior minds."--And she tossed her little head proudly.

"Well, then," I said, "your duty is to draw us out. Many men are diffident of speaking earnestly and showing their feelings, from the fear of being laughed at, or ridiculed, as solemn prigs and book-worms.

Ladies should think of this, and encourage us."

"Yet, some of you," she replied, undauntedly, "are not so reticent and retiring. There is Mr Mawley, for instance. He always talks to me about literature and art, and politics, too--although I do not care much about _them_--just as if I were a man like himself, and blessed with the same understanding!"

"Oh," said I, "the curate is usually fond of hearing himself talk!"

"You need not abuse poor Mr Mawley," she said, laughing. "'Those who live in gla.s.s houses,' you know, 'should not throw stones!' _You_ are, also, not averse to airing your opinions, Master Frank! But, don't get angry--" she continued, as I slightly withdrew from her side, in momentary pique at hearing the curate's part taken.--"I like to hear you talk of such things, Frank, far better than if you only spoke to me of commonplace matters, as most gentlemen do, or dosed me with flattery, which I detest!"

"I do not talk so to _everybody_,"--I said, meaningly, coming closer to her again and taking one of her hands captive.--"Do you know why I like to let you know my deeper thoughts, Min, and learn more of my inner nature than others?" I whispered, bending over her.

"N-o!" she said, faintly, turning away her head.

"Because, Min--" I said, hesitatingly, almost abashed at my own rashness--"because, I--I--love you!"

She said nothing in reply; but she bent her head lower, so that I could not see her face; and, the little hand I held, trembled in my grasp.

At this point, too, our conversation was interrupted by the vicar asking Bessie Dasher and her sister to start the "Canadian Boat Song," in which we all joined in harmony:--the music, borne far and wide over the expanse of resonant water, sounding like some fairy chorus of yellow- haired sea-maidens, singing fathoms deep below in ocean caves!

When I was seeing her home, however, after we had all arrived at the vicarage, and separated severally with a cheerful "good-night," I was able to prosecute my wooing.

We were walking along side by side--she declined taking my arm, being shy, and quite unlike the frank, straightforward Min whom I had before known. I was not downhearted at this change, though:--I really felt shy, and nervous, myself!

As soon as we had got a safe distance from the others, and there was no fear of being overheard in the stillness of the night, I again spoke to her.

"Min," I said, "do you remember what I said to you just now when we were on the river?"

She made no answer; but, quickening her steps, walked on hurriedly, I still keeping pace by her side.

"Min, my darling," I said once more, "I love you dearer than life.

Won't you try to like me a little in return? Won't you listen to me?

Won't you hear me?"

"O-oh, Frank!" she exclaimed.

"Ever since I first saw you in church, so many long months ago, Min, I have thought of you, dreamt of you, loved you!"--I proceeded, pa.s.sionately.--"O, my darling! my darling! won't you try and like me a little; or, have I been deceived in thinking that you could care for me?"

"I _do_ like you, Frank," she said, softly, laying her little hand on my arm.

I seized it in transport, and put it within my arm proudly.

"Sweet!" I said, "_liking_ alone will not do for me! You must learn to love me, darling, as I love you! Will it be very hard?"

"I don't know, Frank, I can try," she said, demurely; looking up at me with her deep, grey eyes, which, now suffused with a tender love-light, had a greater charm for me than ever.

I felt as if I were walking on air!

After a little pause, during which we both walked on slowly, I too happy to speak, Min squeezed my arm.

"Do you then love me so _very_ much, Frank?" she said; and, there was a wistful look in her eyes, an earnest pathos in her voice, that touched me to the heart.

"Love you, Min? I adore you! I dote on you! I wors.h.i.+p the very ground you walk on; and, if you were cruel to me, I think I would die to- morrow!"

"Poor fellow!" she said, pressing closer to my side.