Georg Ebers

“ This city was a remarkable treasure, a thousand-fold richer booty than had been garnered from the Ottoman treasure-ship on the sea at Lepanto.
Here was the fortune the Eletto needed, to build the palace in which he intended to place Ruth. To whom else would fall the lion’s share of the enormous prize!
His future happiness was to arise from the destruction of this proud city, stifling in its gold.
These were ambitious brilliant plans, but he devised them with gloomy eyes, in a darkened mind. He intended to win by force what was denied him, so long as the power belonged to him. ”

“ Oh, Ulrich! The mother has glided to her son at night, as if she were following forbidden paths. Oh, this is indeed a punishment. I know how heavily I have sinned, I deserve whatever may befall me; but you, you must not make me more wretched, than I already am. Your father, he... if he were still alive, for your sake I would crawl to him on my knees, and say: ‘Here I am, forgive me’—but he is dead. Pasquale, Zorrillo lives; do not think me a vain, deluded woman; Zorrillo cannot bear to have me leave him.... ”

“ Count Frohlinger’s heart also overflowed, and when, raising his tear-dimmed eyes, he saw Elizabeth’s deep grief stamped on her gentle features, and beheld reclining on her breast, the mild, beautiful face of the dying man, it seemed as if he saw before him the sorrowful Mother of God—and to-morrow would be Christmas. Wounded pride was silent, he forgot the insult he had sustained, and cried in a voice as loud, as if he wished every word to reach the ear now growing dull in death:
“I thank you for your aid, man. Adam is free, and may go with your wife and child wherever he lists. ”

“ The cuirass fell rattling on the ground, and now—no, there was no deception, the wounded man’s chest rose under her ear, she heard the faint throbbing of his heart, the feeble flutter of a gasping breach.
Bursting into loud, convulsive weeping, she raised his head and pressed it to her bosom.
“He is dead; I thought so!” said the lansquenet, and Adam sank on his knees before his wounded son. But Ruth’s sobs now changed to low, joyous, musical laughter, which echoed in her voice as she exclaimed: “Ulrich breathes, he lives! Oh, God! oh, God! how we thank Thee!” ”

“ Close-ranked, horse and foot in battle unite, In war, war, dwells fortune, good fortune! The city is taken, the booty mine; With red gold, I’ll deck—I know whom; Pair maids’ cheeks burn red, red too glows the wine, Fortune, Paradise of good fortune! Deep, scarlet wounds, brave breasts adorn, Impoverished, crippled age I shun A death of honor, ‘mid glory won, This too is good fortune, good fortune! A soldier-lad composed this ditty Hans Eitelfritz he, fair Colln’s son, His kindred dwell in the goodly city, But he himself in fortune, good fortune! ”

“ Ulrich had told her of it, and the desire to ride with him instantly arose in her mind. She had always accompanied Grandgagnage, and when she now went out, attired in a long velvet riding-habit, with floating plumes in her dainty little hat, beside her son, she soon noticed how admiringly even the hostile citizens and their wives looked after them. It was a pretty sight to behold the handsome soldier, full of pride and power, galloping on the most spirited stallion, beside the beautiful, white-haired woman, whose eyes sparkled with vivacious light. ”

“ Human love, the purest and fairest of virtues, is the sublime gift, the noble heritage, he left behind to his brothers in sorrow. My heart, the poor heart under this black doublet, this heart was created for human love, this soul thirsted, with all its powers, to help its neighbors and lighten their sorrows. To exercise human love is to be good, but they no longer know it, and what is worse, a thousand times worse, they constantly destroy in me and mine the desire to be good, good in the sense of their own Master. Worldly wealth is trash—to be rich the poorest happiness. ”

“ He knew and felt that this was the right goal; but one thing was certain, he could never attain it with pencil and charcoal. What his soul dreamed, what his mental vision beheld was colored. Drawing, perpetual drawing, became burdensome, repulsive, hateful; but with palette and brush in his hand he could not fail to become an artist, perhaps an artist like Titian.
He already used colors in secret; Sanchez Coello had been the cause of his making the first trial.
This precocious youth was suing for a fair girl’s favor, and made Ulrich his confidant. ”

“ Every living creature seemed to be holding its breath in anxious suspense, but Ulrich once more laughed joyously, then bracing his bare knee against a bundle of faggots, cried:
“Give me that stick, Ruth, that I may tie it up. How dry the stuff is, and how it snaps! A word! To sit over books all day long for one stupid word—that’s just nonsense!”
“But all words are not alike,” replied the girl.
“Piff is paff, and paff is puff!” laughed Ulrich. “When I snap the twigs, you always hear them say ‘knack, knack,’ and ‘knack’ is a word too. The juggler Caspar’s magpie, can say twenty.” ”

“ The nobleman had not grown younger since Ulrich’s mother fled into the world, but his eyes still sparkled joyously and the brick-red hue that tinged his handsome face between his thick white moustache and his eyes, announced that he was no less friendly to wine than to fair women. How well his satin clothes and velvet cloak became him, how beautifully the white puffs were relieved against the deep blue of his dress! How proudly the white and yellow plumes arched over his cap, and how delicate were the laces on his collar and cuffs! ”

“ Don Juan’s name echoed from the lips of men and women, girls and children. This was fame, this was the omnipresence of a god; there could be no higher aspiration for him, who had obtained such honor.
Fame, fame! again echoed in Ulrich’s soul; if there is a word, which raises a man above himself and implants his own being in that of millions of fellow-creatures, it is this.
And now he urged one steed after another until it broke down, giving himself no rest even at night; half an hour’s ride outside of Madrid he overtook the Venetian, and passed by him with a courteous greeting. ”

“ Before the Eletto quitted the city, he gave Hans Eitelfritz, whose regiment had secretly joined the mutiny, letters of safeguard for his family and the artist, Moor.
He had not forgotten the latter, but well-founded timidity withheld him from appearing before the honored man, while cherishing the gloomy thoughts that now filled his soul.
In Aalst the mutineers received him with eager joy, harsh and repellent as he appeared, they cheerfully obeyed him; for he could hold out to them a prospect, which lured a bright smile to the bearded lips of the grimmest warrior. ”

“ Like one possessed he plunged into passion’s wild whirl. From the embrace of beautiful arms he rushed to the gaming-table, where the ducats he flung down soon became a pile of gold; the zechins filled his purse to overflowing.
The quickly-won treasure melted like snow in the sun, and returned again like stray doves to their open cote.
The works of art were only enjoyed with drunken eyes—yet, once more the gracious word exerted its wondrous power on the misguided youth.
On Shrove-Tuesday, the ambassador took Ulrich to the great Titian. ”

“ The Holy Virgin once more wore his lost mother’s features; his father, Ruth, Pellicanus, Moor looked kindly at him. But the brightest light shone into his soul through the darkness of the dungeon, when he thought of art and his last work. It stood before him distinctly in brilliant hues, feature for feature, as on the canvas; he esteemed himself happy in having painted it, and would willingly have gone to the rack once, twice, thrice, if he could merely have obtained the certainty of creating other pictures like this, and perhaps still nobler, more beautiful ones.
Art! Art! ”

“ I have seen your portrait of Sophonisba. You are no longer a pupil, but a rising artist. Moor is a peerless portrait-painter, and you have profited greatly by his teaching. But Art has still higher aims. Every living thing belongs to her. The Venus, the horse... which of those two pictures won Apelles the greater fame? Not only copying, but creating original ideas, leads to the pinnacle of art. Moor praised your vivid imagination. We must use what we possess. Remember Buonarotti, Raphael! Their compositions and frescos, have raised their names above all others. ”

“ These things, piled high in a wagon of his own, he had sent into his native town as Florette’s dowry, for her whole outfit consisted of one pink and one grass-green gown, a lute and a little white dog.
A delightful life now began in the smithy for Adam. The gossips avoided his wife, but they stared at her in church, and among them she seemed to him, not unjustly, like a rose amid vegetables. The marriage he had made was an abomination to respectable citizens, but Adam did not heed them, and Flora appeared to feel equally happy with him. ”

“ When power was once his, he would build her a beautiful, cosy nest with his share of the booty. She must leave Zorrillo, leave him to-morrow. The little nest should belong to her and him alone, entirely alone, and when his soul longed for peace, love, and quiet, he would rest there with her, recall with her the days of his childhood, cherish and care for her, make her forget all her sins and sufferings, and enjoy to the full the happiness of having her again, calling a loving mother’s heart his own. ”

“ Fortune, he thought, cannot be escaped, art cannot be thrown aside; fame may be trampled under foot, yet still pursue us.
Power has this advantage over all three, it can be flung off like a worn-out doublet. Let it fly! Had he owed it the happiness of the last few weeks? No, no! He would have been happy with his mother in a poor, plain house, without the office of Eletto, without flowers, horses or servants. ”

“ Then he approached the stallion, stroked and patted his shining neck, and continued:
“I thank you, young man. You have saved my best horse. But for you I should have stabbed him. You are an artist?”
“At your service, Your Highness.”
“Your art is beautiful, and you alone know how it suits you. But much honor, perhaps also wealth and fame, can be gained among my troopers. Will you enlist?”
“No, Your Highness,” replied Ulrich, with a low bow. “If I were not an artist, I should like best to be a soldier; but I cannot give up my art.” ”

“ When the Richtberg lay close beneath them, Ruth sat down on a stone, placing her flowers in her lap. Ulrich threw his in too, and, as the bouquet grew, she held it towards him, and he thought it very pretty; but she said, sighing:
“I wish roses grew in the forest; not common hedge-roses, but like those in Portugal—full, red, and with the real perfume. There is nothing that smells sweeter.” ”

“ Don Juan was satiated with fame. “Power” was the food for which he longed. The busy spider in the Escurial could not deprive him of the laurel, but his own “word,” his highest ambition in life, his power, he would consent to share with no mortal man, not even his brother.
“Laurels are withering leaves, power is arable land,” said Don Juan to Escovedo.
It befits an emperor’s son, thought Ulrich, to cherish such lofty wishes; to men of lower rank fame can remain the guiding star on life’s pathway.
The elite of the army was in the Netherlands; there he could find what he desired. ”