"We came to the centre of the hamlet, which was used as a bleach green, and encircled by immense beach trees, beneath whose boughs were humble cots and capricious pathways traced by the footsteps of cattle. The place appeared enchanted as the early rays of the sun fell on the emerald carpet of its meadows. Silvery dews hung over the brows of the mountains. Everything had a fresh and healthy appearance; even the grey-bearded peasants, the ivy-coated trees, and the old moss-covered cottages. In an open space, where a sparkling rivulet ran, dividing and multiplying its many crystal branches, we saw Trismegistus with his children, two beautiful girls and a lad of fifteen, handsome as the Endymion of the sculptor and poet.
"'This is Wanda,' said the Zingara, showing us the elder girl, 'and the younger is named Winceslawa. Our son has been called Zdenko, after his father's best friend. Old Zdenko has a marked preference for him. You see he has Winceslawa between his legs and the other girl on his knee, he is not thinking of them, however, but is gazing at Zdenko as if he could never be satisfied.'
"We looked at the old man, whose cheeks were wet with tears; and his thin, bony face, though marked by many a wrinkle, yet looked on the last scion of the Rudolstadts with an expression of beatitude and ecstacy as he held him by the hand. I could have wished myself able to paint this group, with Trismegistus in the foreground, as he sadly tuned his violin and arranged his bow.
"'Is it you, my friends?' says he, as he returned our respectful salute with cordiality. 'My wife has brought you? She was right, as I have good things to say to you, and will be happy if you hear me.'
"He played more mysteriously than on the previous evening; such at least was our impression; but the music no doubt was more delicious from association, as his little audience thrilled with enthusiasm on hearing the old ballads of their country and its sacred hymns of freedom. Emotion was differently marked on their manly brows. Some, like Zdenko, delighted in the vision of the past and seemed to impregnate themselves with its poetry, as a transplanted flower in its strange home receives with joy a few drops of moisture. Others were transported by religious fanaticisms, when they remembered their present sorrows, and with closed fists they menaced their visionary enemies, and appealed to heaven for outraged virtue and dignity. There were sobs and groans, blended with wild applause and delirious cries.
"'My friends,' said Albert, 'you see these simple men. They completely comprehend my meaning; and do not, as you did yesterday, ask the meaning of my prophecies.'
"'You spoke of them only of the past,' said Spartacus, who was anxious that he should continue his eloquent strain.
"'The past! the past!—the present!—what vain follies are these?' said Trismegistus, with a smile. 'Man has them all in his heart, and of them his life is compounded. Since, however, you insist on words to illustrate my ideas, listen to my son, who will repeat a canticle, the music of which was composed by his mother, and the verses by myself.'
"The handsome youth advanced calmly yet modestly into the circle. It was evident that his mother, without knowing it, was over anxious about her son's personal appearance, and that his beauty might be the more conspicuous, she had dressed him out superbly in comparison with the rest of her family. He took off his cap, bowed to his hearers, and kissed his hand, which salutation was returned by the company. After a prelude on the guitar from his mother, by which the lad became enraptured, so congenial was it to his soul, he sang in the Sclavic language a long ballad to the goddess of Poverty.
"Conceive the effect of a ballad in that mild and gentle tongue which seems formed for youthful lips alone. It was a melody that touched the heart, and brought forth tears, pure as crystal from our eyes. It was sung in a seraphic voice, with exquisite purity, and an incomparable musical accent; and all this from the son of Trismegistus, and the pupil and son of Zingara, from one of the best and most gifted children of the earth. If you can represent to yourself a large group of masculine faces, honest and picturesque, in such a landscape as Ruysdäel loved—the unseen torrent, which yet flung from the ravine a murmur that mingled with the distant bell of the mountain sheep—then you will have some idea of the poetic joy in which we were immersed.