Guillaume Apollinaire published “La Rose de Hildesheim. Ou les Trésors des Rois Mages” in the collection, L’Hérésiarque & Cie (The Heresiarch & Co., 1910). Make sure to read about the history and legend of the “Thousand Year Rose.”
At the end of the last century, in Hildesheim, in the province of Hanover, there was a girl called Ilse. Her pale blond hair had a slightly golden sheen, giving the impression of moonlight. Her body was slender and trim. Her face was clear, comely and laughing, with a lovely dimple in her chubby chin, and gray eyes that, while not beautiful, suited her figure and moved like birds all the time. Her grace was incomparable. She was a very bad housewife, like most German women, and sewed very badly. When the housework was done, she would sit down at the piano and sing what sounded like a siren, or she would read, in which case she seemed like a poetess.
When she spoke, German, the language of horses, became sweeter than Italian, the language of ladies. And because she had a Hanoverian accent, where the S never sounds like Sh, her speech was truly charming.
Her father, having once been to America, had married an Englishwoman there, then, after many years, had returned to his native country to live in his father’s house.
Hildesheim is one of the prettiest little towns in the world. With its strangely shaped, painted houses and oversized roofs, it looks like something out of a fairy tale. What traveler could forget the sight of its Town Hall Square, which is so picturesque that it’s perfect for framing opera?
Ilse’s parents’ home, like almost all the houses in Hildesheim, was very tall. Its roof, almost vertical, was higher than the entire facade. Its shutterless windows opened outwards. They were numerous, with little space between them. On the doors and beams were carved pious or grimacing figures, commented on by ancient German verses or Latin inscriptions. These included: the Three Theological Virtues, the Four Cardinal Virtues, the Capital Sins, the Four Evangelists, the Apostles, Saint Martin giving his cloak to a beggar, Saint Catherine and her wheel, storks and shields. All painted in blue, red, green and yellow. The floors, advancing one above the other, gave it the air of an upside-down staircase. It was a colorful and pleasant house.
Ilse had come to this house as a child and had grown up here. As soon as she turned eighteen, the fame of her beauty spread as far as Hanover, and from there to Berlin. Visitors to the pretty town of Hildesheim, with its thousand-year-old rosebush and the treasures of its cathedral, were sure to come and admire her, nicknamed the Rose of Hildesheim. She was repeatedly asked to marry, but invariably replied, eyes downcast, to her father’s arguments about the advantages of the latest suitor, that she still wanted to remain a girl to enjoy her youth. The father would say:
“You’re wrong, but do as you please.”
And the suitor was forgotten.
When Ilse returned from a walk, all the figures cut out on the house would smile and welcome her. The Sins shouted in chorus:
“Look at us, Ilse. We represent the Seven Deadly Sins, it’s true. But those who cut us out and painted us didn’t have enough malice themselves to make us mortal sins. Look at us. We are seven venial sins, seven peccadilloes. We’re not trying to tempt you. Quite the contrary. We’re so ugly!”
The Theological and Worldly Virtues, holding hands, as if dancing in circles, sang:
“Ringel, Ringel, Reihe. The seven of us represent your virtue. Look at us, smile at us. None of us is as beautiful as you! Ringel, Ringel, Reihe.”
Ilse had a cousin studying in Heidelberg. His name was Egon. He was tall, blond, broad-shouldered and dreamy. The young men met in Dresden during a vacation and fell in love. They said it to each other in front of Raphael’s admirable painting of the Sistine Madonna, with Ilse’s angelically gentle features.
Egon asked for Ilse’s hand in marriage, but of course his father demanded wealth and position. And so, back in Heidelberg, in the spare time left to him by his studies and the duels of the Hirschgasse, the young man went to the side of the castle, to the Philosopher’s Alley, to dream of the means to conquer the fortune that was to give him his cousin.
One Sunday in January, when he had gone to the sermon, the pastor spoke of the wise men from the East who came to visit Jesus in his manger. He quoted the verse from Matthew’s Gospel, which says nothing about the number or status of the pious people who brought Jesus the gold, frankincense and myrrh.
In the days that followed, Egon could not help thinking of these wise men from the East, whom, though Protestant, he imagined, according to Catholic legend, to be crowned and three in number: Gaspard, Balthasar and Melchior. The Three Wise Men, with the Negro in the middle, paraded before him. He pictured them all wearing gold. A few days later, he saw them only in the guise and costume of alchemist necromancers, transmuting everything in their path into gold.
All this phantasmagoria had only come about because he loved the gold that would enable him to marry his cousin. He lost his appetite for food and drink, as if, as the new Midas, his only nourishment had been the ingots transmuted by the astrologers whose bones Cologne Cathedral is proud to possess.
He searched the libraries, reading everything about the Three Wise Men: the venerable Bede, ancient legends and all the modern authors who have discussed the authenticity of the Gospels. Then, as he walked, he rolled golden thoughts:
“How priceless this treasure of fine gold must be! Nowhere is it written that this treasure was distributed, used, spent, stolen or found…”
Finally, one evening, he admitted to himself that he wanted the Three Kings’ treasure. In addition to the happiness of love, this find would give him undeniable glory.
Heidelberg’s professors and students were soon intrigued by his bizarre appearance. Those who did not belong to the same corps as him didn’t hesitate to call him crazy.
Those in his association defended him, so much so that he was the cause of an endless series of duels, which are still talked about on the banks of the Neckar. Then came the anecdotes about him. A student had followed him on one of his walks in the countryside. He recounted how Egon had approached an ox and spoken to it:
“I am looking for a cherub. Analogies move me. I find an ox. Cherubim, it is true, are winged oxen. But tell me, beautiful grazing ox. It may be that your bonhomie holds some of the knowledge of these animals, which are part of one of the noblest hierarchies in the heavens. Tell me, has the tradition of Christmas not been perpetuated in your race? Aren’t you honored that one of your own has warmed the child in his crib with his breath? And, if so, perhaps you know, noble animal created in the image of the cherubim, where the gold of the Magi is? I’m looking for that treasure which will make me rich with a sacred fortune. O ox, my only hope, answer! I have questioned the donkeys, but they are only beasts, and are the image of nothing heavenly. Alas, these energetic animals know only one answer: the hoarse Germanic affirmation.”
It was late twilight. Lamps were being lit in distant houses. Villages gleamed in the distance. The ox turned his head slowly and bellowed.
In Hildesheim, a confident Ilse received enthusiastic, loving letters from her cousin. She and her parents assumed that Egon was about to make his fortune.
It was winter, and the snow fell, warm as the down of a swan. The carved figures on the houses were themselves covered in it, looking as if they were shivering. It was Christmas, with its luminous trees and carols:
The Christmas tree, it’s the most beautiful tree
On earth.
How beautifully it blooms, the miraculous tree,
When its blossoms shine,
When its blossoms shine,
Yes, shine!
One frosty morning, as the sleighs glided through the little town, a stamped letter arrived from Dresden, where Egon’s parents lived. Ilse’s father couldn’t find his glasses, so she read the letter aloud. The missive was sad and short. Egon’s father told how his son had gone mad for love. He recounted the story of the Magi’s treasure, which his son wanted at all costs, then his fury, which had led to his being committed to an asylum, and how, in his madness, he kept repeating his cousin’s name.
In the wake of this letter, Ilse began to wither rapidly. Her cheeks became emaciated, her lips paler, her eyes brighter. She gave up all housework and needlework. She spent all her time at the piano or daydreaming. Then, in mid-February, she was bedridden.
Around the same time, Hildesheim was gripped by news. The thousand-year-old rose, miraculous witness to the town’s foundation, was dying of cold and old age. Behind the cathedral, in the enclosed cemetery where it climbs, its ancient wood was drying up. Everyone was distraught. The municipality called in the most skillful gardeners. All declared themselves powerless to revive it. Finally, one came from Hanover to undertake the cure. He brought to bear the most skillful resources of his art. And one morning in early March, Hildesheim was overjoyed. Everyone greeted him with congratulations:
“The rosebush has been resurrected. The gardener from Hanover has brought it back to life with the help of skillfully used ox blood.”
That same morning, Ilse’s parents wept beside the coffin of their daughter who had died for love. As the white-sheeted coffin was carried away, the cut-out, painted figures shivering in the snow on the front of the old house seemed to be sobbing:
“Ringel, Ringel, Reihe. Farewell, Ilse, forever. Farewell, your virtuous sins and virtues less beautiful than you. Farewell, forever.”
A regiment passed in front of the convoy. Drums and fifes played light, sad music. Women said, bowing:
“The legendary rose has been resurrected, but the Rose of Hildesheim is buried.”
1910.
Featured: La forêt de Broceliande (Broceliande Forest), by Élisabeth Sonrel; ca. early 20th century.
