 The
German author Theodor Fontane (1819 - 1898 ) was very fond of Scottish
history. Of course, as common in his time, his perspective is rather
romantic. He wrote travel diary "Jenseit des Tweed" (Beyond the Tweed,
publ. 1860) when he visited Scotland in 1858, deeply influenced by the
novels of Sir Walter Scott and the romantic view of Scotland. The book
combines his own experiences with historical information, place
descriptions and anecdotes, seasoned with German translations of some
poems, mostly by the celebrated Burns. Edinburgh is honoured by several
chapters. Other places visited are: Linlithgow, Stirling, Loch Lomond and
Loch Katrine, Flodden Field, Perth, Inverness, Culloden, Staffa and Iona,
Lochleven Castle, Abbotsford, and Melrose Abbey. (There is an English
translation of the book, titled "Across the Tweed" by B. Battershaw,
1965.)
In Germany, Fontane is best known as a
novelist. Most of his novels are realistic and often treating problems of
women in society. He has written another "travel diary" in several volumes
about the county round Berlin, called "Wandrings in the Mark Brandenburg",
and he is an excellent poet of ballads, too - some of them about Scottish
themes, of course.
Theodor Fontane (1819 - 1898)
Die Locke der Maria Stuart (The Lock of Queen Mary)
Lord William, he was dying
Lord William Hamilton.
He thus speaks to his son dear
"Now listen you, Sir John."
I'll leave you land and people,
Our name and our renown,
I'll leave you, more important yet,
This lock, a sacred heirlom.
This lock, I saw it falling,
I heard the scissors' sound -
And when Queen Mary prayéd,
I too spoke silently the words.
A holy oath I swore then:
To bear in pleasure and distress,
In times of joy or sorrow,
This lock upon my breast.
I've carried it in sorrow,
In death I'll leave it to my son -
To live and die for the Stuarts
This too you'll swear, Sir John."
Lord William thus has spoken,
And faithful was Sir John.
In silence he took the heirlom,
And silently he mourn'd.
For twenty years he bore it,
And when his hour arriv'd
He with his father's same words
The lock from his heart untied.
He gave it to his own son,
The son to his son in time.
Their heirlom was unbroken faith
And the lock, a holy sign.
And when on prancing stallion
King James to London rode,
And when King Charles on the scaffold
His head to the hangman bode,
And when at the river Boyne
The warcries again "Stuart" were -
In pain and joy, the lock dear,
And the Hamiltons were there.
And they were there the last time,
When on Cullodens moor
The thistle-banner flying
Their eyes beheld once more.
Once more it was a William,
And once again a John,
An old one and a young one,
But both were Hamilton.
Sir John, he fought on foot,
Lord William on proud steed,
Until an English ballot
Him from the saddle threw.
He handed to his son then
The lock, from blood all red,
He had no time for long speech,
"Keep it well" he only said.
He kept it well, the young one,
Many a month and many year,
And even when he self grew old
The lock, it was still dear.
And when in latest time
To him a message arrived
That dead away far in the South
The last of the Stuarts lied,
He spoke when he gave dying
The lock to his oldest son:
"The Stuarts might have ended
but faith will never so".
And still the noble Hamiltons,
They keep their old renown,
But one thing more than any else
The lock, a sacred heirlom.
Theodor Fontane
Das Trauerspiel von Afghanistan (The Drama of Afghanistan)
Snow like powder from the sky softly falls,
When before Djelalabad a rider halts.
"Who's there" - "A caval'rist from Britains army
A message from Afghanistan I carry."
Afghanistan. So weakly he'd said.
Half the town around him had met,
The British commander, Sir Robert Sale,
Helped to dismount the man who's face was so pale.
Into a guard-house they guided him
And made him sit at the fire's brim;
How warm was the fire, how bright was its shine,
He takes a deep breath, and begins to explain.
"Thirteen thousend men we had been,
When our outset from Kabul was seen -
Now soldiers, leaders, women and bairn
They are betrayed, and frozen and slain.
Dispersed is the entire host,
Who is alive in the darkness is lost,
A God to me salvation has sent -
To save the rest you might make an attempt."
Sir Robert enters the castle wall,
And soldiers and officers follow him all,
Sir Robert speaks "How dense the snow falls,
How hard they will seek, they'll never see the walls.
Like blindfold they'll err and yet are so near,
The way to their safety, now let it them hear,
Play songs of old, of the homeland so bright;
Trumpeter, let thy tune carry far in the night."
And they played and sang, and time passed by,
Song over song through the night they let fly,
The songs of their home so far and so dear,
And old Highland laments so mournful to hear.
They played all night and the following day,
They played like only love made them play,
The songs are still heard, but darkness did fall,
In vain is your watch, in vain is your call.
Those who should hear, they'll hear nevermore,
Destroyed is the proud host of yore;
With thirteen thousend their trail they began.
Only one man returned from Afghanistan.
Theodor Fontane
Admiral Keith
Where Scotlands mournful river,
The Tay, from the mountains spring,
Where still in cave and valley
Men of Bruce and Wallace sing;
At Tay, where every piece of soil
Is sacréd by victories,
There stood your modest cradle, too,
Field marshal Jacob Keith.
Your Highland nurse with battles
Would sing you into sleep,
And tell heroic stories
Of clan and family.
So while your chin still bare
From beard - a man you were,
And virtous as a man you fought
At the battle of Sherrifmuir.
You stood on the looser's side,
And the Stuarts had to flee.
So you a ship did enter
The coast of France to see.
A wandring life you started
Through counties and through lands;
Always a welcome guest you were
The broadsword in your hands.
You played a lot of roles;
Yes, even courtier's game.
But the only one you liked
Was of knightly deed the fame.
The boldness was your mode
And courage until death,
For many a bad stage
You saved the final quest.
But there was only one troop
Of widespread good renown,
The splendid, glorious army
That Friedrich had seen grown.
He seeked for this theater
New talents far and wide,
And you he too could win then
To serve a lifelong time.
The plays were all well stagéd
Though diferent was the place,
There was a lot of action,
In dialogue but little faith.
Comedy there was and drama
On foot and on proud mount;
The tricky battle of Rossbach (1)
Applause by Friedrich found.
But then of death a token,
The night of Hochkirch arrived.
You had to leave the stage
Before you thought, dear Keith.
There was no plan in playing
Only hurlyburly and cry,
Noone was able to organize,
How hard he e'er might try.
The final curtain fell;
Yet you, by enemies surroun'd
Cried "The best play is of all
Death unblemished, and renown!"
And in a rain of bullets
He left the stage ere long.
Let upon your grave me lay
Besides the buton this song.
(1) The battle of Rossbach was part of the war in Schlesien (1756-63),
where Preußen - Prussia - stood against an alliance of Austria, France,
and Russia. Support came from England due to the efforts of the minister
Pitt ("Canada will be won in Schlesien"). King Friedrich II had indeed an
excellent army and a good hand in chosing his generals. The battle of
Rossbach took part in 1758, but when Pitt lost his position in 1761,
support fell short and Prussia had to fight an overwhelming force
singlehanded. Its luck was probably the fact that the allies were
quarreling among each other after the Prussian defeat at Kunersdorf; and
finally Russia left the alliance. The way was free for Prussia to become
one of the main powers in Europe.
Much as Theodor Fontane liked the romantic
version of Scottish history and the novels of Sir Walter Scott, he
nevertheless was able to reagard them in an ironical distance, sometimes.
He surely did when he wrote the following poem:
Theodor Fontane
Walter Scotts Einzug in Abbotsford (Walter Scott's Move Into
Abbotsford)
Sir Walter, he comes from Edinburgh town
To Abbotsford Manor, still empty and lone,
Therefore he brings with him to fill
The many rooms as to his will,
Chests and caskets, large and small,
And servants, dogs, to roam the hall;
And in between the things he found,
And gather'd and collected the country round -
To set in a museum, the pepole to show.
Twenty-three wagons amounted the row.
The first wagon has old mem'ries to hold
Of noble king Bruce and Lord Balliol;
A stonecross, a comb, an ashfilled urn,
The lot came from the battle of Bannockburn.
An old sword, too, with runes engraved
That king Robert to the Earl Douglas gave.
And second: a stone from the very donjon
That was the prison of Coeur de Lion;
Blondel's harp (lacking many a string);
The jewelled sable king Saladin did swing;
An ashen bow and a piece of old rug
Belonging to Robin and the gallant priest Tuck.
From Nancy, the third one, already is here
Containing the tent of Charles Temeraire;
A peasant had killed him too early in life,
And the lance he used in the Manor'll arrive.
Some barber's basin (of gilded bronce)
That dates to the times of Louis once,
And the ladder on which hangman Tristan stood,
Believe me, 't was made entirely of wood.
And then, a prettiliy mixed-up collection
From many a country and many a section.
A cape belonging to old Master Hans;
A saddle, directly from Prestonpans;
A spindle that was used by queen Maud,
The crozier that was held by archbishop Laud.
Two portraits, finely made of pastell
Showing the famous While Lady of ruined Avenell.
A white laced jabot that fit Darnley well,
And another that graced his murd'rer, Bothwell.
A mother-of-pearl cradle in which Mary lay
(When she was baptized) for one single day;
The scaffold, directly from Fotheringhay;
And a book of prayers from unhappy Joan Gray.
The pulpit from which his sermons prayed John Knox,
And a giant whitepowdered wig from the older Fox.
A pistol from Cromwell, that one was still charged;
And from the battle of Flodden a whithered old targe.
And still things are coming, and more yet, and more,
A long row of wagons, three over score.
And on the last one, by sunrays lit,
Sir Walter himself, a happy man, sit.
He smiles, and he dreams, and he guides the wand
That will distribute all, with a knowing hand.
Be sure, a good place the whole lot will see
In Kenilworth, Woodstock, or Waverly.
To an abbey, a castle, a cod they'll go
In Quentin Durward or Ivanhoe;
In Midlothian they may find their rest,
Or in Montrose's noble quest.
A chamber of treasures and memories
In twenty-three wagons the onlooker sees.
Disload them, servants, lend a hand -
Sir Walter, swish your magic wand. |
