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All day long he had been poring over the score. "'Kennst du das Land wo die Citronen bluhen?" he sang with feeling while he polished the floors.
He waved his thin, bare, white arms as he leapt, his chest grew pink with the exercise. Now he felt he was doing something that became a member of his Sportverein. Down we went, jumping, running, britching. It was wonderful on this south side, so sunny, with feathery trees and deep black shadows. It reminded me of Goethe, of the romantic period: Kennst du das Land, wo die Citronen bluehen?
"Kennst du das Land wo die Citronen blühen," and "Faust" and "Margaret" tell their story to all who have felt life's struggles and temptations, whether they have read them in Goethe's version or not. Added to this power of pathos and sentiment is the deep religious feeling which pervades every work of his pencil, whatever be its outward form.
The Portier below was polishing floors, right foot, left foot, any foot at all. And as he polished he sang in a throaty tenor. "Kennst du das Land wo die Citronen bluhen," he sang at the top of his voice, and coughed, a bit of floor wax having got into the air. The antlers of the deer from the wild-game shop hung now in his bedroom.
"'Kennst du das Land' Good-morning, sir the old Rax wears a crown. It will snow soon. 'Kennst du das Land wo die Citronen' Ah, madam the milk Frau, and are the cows frozen up to-day like the pump? No? Marvelous! Dost thou know that to-night is Mignon at the Opera, and that the Engel sings? 'Kennst du das Land' " At eleven came Rosa with her husband, the soldier from Salzburg with one lung.
The effect upon the unconcentrated mind is something like The cosine of X plus the ewig weibliche makes the difference between the message of Carlyle and that of Matthew Arnold antedate the Bergsonian theory of the elan vital minus the sine of Y since Barbarians, Philistines and Populace make up the eternal flux wo die citronen bluhn but fortunately the Wellesley mind does concentrate, and uncomplainingly.
Often have I shed tears of rapture whilst I beheld it, and listened to the thrush and the nightingale piping forth their melodious songs in the woods, and inhaled the breeze laden with the perfume of the thousand orange gardens of Seville. 'Kennst du das land wo die citronen bluhen?"
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