Mrs. Adelaide S. Buckley.
Mrs. Buckley, who has already been numbered among our Poets, has translated a German story called "Sought and Found" from the original work of Golo Raimund, which has passed to its second edition. The translator says, in her four line preface, "This romance was translated because of its rare simplicity and beauty, and is published that those who have not seen it in the original may enjoy it also."
One never takes up these charming little German stories without exclaiming, no other country-people ever write in the same sweet, simple way! The reason is evident to those who have lived among Germans and experienced their unaffected hospitality. There is a peculiar simplicity of home life even among the nobility. A friend says: "I so well remember now, a lovely morning visit, in particular, to a little, gentle German lady in her beautiful drawing-room which contained the treasures of centuries. No one, I am sure, could have helped being struck by her gentle simplicity and unaffected courtesy. She came in dressed in the plainest of black dresses, a white apron tied around her waist, and on her head the simplest of morning caps. But her sweet German language,—how beautiful it seemed, as in the low, musical voice which bespoke her breeding, she talked of her own German poets; of Walther von der Vogelweide and the great Goethe and Schiller, of Auerbach and Richter and modern story writers." Afterwards, in speaking of the charm and beauty of such simplicity, the friend added, "Yes, and she belongs to one of the oldest noble, hereditary families of Germany, and carries the sixteen quarterings upon the family shield, which, to those who understand German heraldry, means the longest unmixed German descent. We could not help contrasting such quiet manners with many of the artificial assumptions and the aggressive boldness found that winter in Dresden." Therefore we always hail with pleasure translations of these stories of German life among all classes. Though to translate requires no creative power, translating is in some respects more difficult than creating, for the reason that to translate demands a quick comprehension and intuitive discernment of the spirit of a foreign language, of the conception of the writer and of the national life which the language embodies. And we must remember that it is in the power of interpretation that woman especially excels.
This little story is essentially well rendered, with the animation and vivacity of the original, and it has great merit in preserving its German spirit, that sentiment which is so marked and so unlike any other people.
What Dr. Johnson said of translation had a ring of truth as had all his mighty utterances, namely: "Philosophy and science may be translated perfectly and history, so far as it does not reach oratory, but poetry can never be translated without losing its most essential qualities." It would seem then that to know the poetry of a people one must read it in the original language, which every one surely cannot do. Mrs. Buckley however, recognizing this subtle quality of the poetry of a language, has left the little verses of the story untouched, wisely giving the translation at the bottom of the page. A very lovely translation it is however and after a short passage from the book, "Sought and Found", we shall give another poetic translation of the poem "Im Arm der Liebe", by Georg Scheurlin.
The following is a short passage from the story:
EXTRACT FROM "SOUGHT AND FOUND."
TRANSLATED FROM THE GERMAN OF GOLO RAIMUND.
Upon the table lay Veronica's picture, which in the meantime had been sent. The flowers, painted by her hand, appeared to him like a friendly greeting. He took it up and regarded it a long time; then, followed a sudden inspiration, he wrote upon the back:
(Here follows the German verse, the translation below:)
Thy merry jest is gentle as the May,
Thy tender heart a lily of the dell;
Fragrant as the rose thy inmost soul,
Thy wondrous song a sweet-toned bell.
As in sport he subscribed his name; and then, as this homage, which had so long existed in his heart, suddenly expressed in words, stood before him, black upon white it was to him as if another had opened his eyes and he must guard the newly discovered secret. He placed the picture in a portfolio, in order to lock it in his writing-desk, and his eye fell upon the journal which had so singularly come into his hands. He laid the portfolio beside it. Did they not belong together? Did not the mysterious author resemble Veronica?
Like a revelation it flashed over him and so powerfully affected his imagination that the blood mounted hotly to his temples, and, in spite of the severe cold, he threw open the window that he might have more air.
"If it were she!" thought he; restlessly striding up and down, and yet exultant that he had now found a trace which could be followed.
THE ARM OF LOVE.
TRANSLATED FROM THE GERMAN OF GEORG SCHEURLIN.
A young wife sits by a cradle nest,
Her fair boy smiling on her breast;
In the quiet room draws on the night,
And she rocks and sings by the soft lamplight;
On mother bosom the rest is deep;
In the arm of love—so fall asleep.
In the cool vale, 'neath sunny sky,
We sit alone, my own and I;
A song of joy wells in my breast,
Ah, heart to heart, how sweet the rest!
The brooklets ripple, the breezes sweep;
In the arm of love—so fall asleep.
From the churchyard tolls the solemn bell,
For the pilgrim has finished his journey well;
Here lays he down the staff, long pressed;
In the bosom of earth, how calm the rest!
Above the casket the earth they heap;
In the arm of love—so fall asleep.