Knight, Death, and the Devil
[Der Weg 1947-04] An original translation of "Ritter, Tod und Teufel"
Title: Knight, Death, and the Devil [de: Ritter, Tod und Teufel]
Author(s): Der Weg Editorial Staff
“Der Weg” Issue: Year 01, Issue 04 (September 1947)
Page(s): 212-214
Dan Rouse’s Note(s):
Der Weg - El Sendero is a German and Spanish language magazine published by Dürer-Verlag in Buenos-Aires, Argentina by Germans with connections to the defeated Third Reich.
Der Weg ran monthly issues from 1947 to 1957, with official sanction from Juan Perón’s Government until his overthrow in September 1955.
Source Document(s):
[LINK] Scans of 1947 Der Weg Issues (archive.org)
Knight, Death, and the Devil
The knight rides into the morning.
The night, which rouses demons and drives them across the shadowed paths, sometimes descends into the hearts of men as well, to stir the great unrest that slumbers within each of us. Then the mighty questions rise up in us—questions of path and purpose and meaning—and all at once, these questions cease to be mere inquiries, becoming instead needs, demands, and decisions. And only when night dwells within us, when abandonment whispers its anguished words to us, when we face the future as though newly born—terribly alien, helpless, and alone—only then are the great battles within us waged, battles that must be fought if we are to press onward, upward, into the distance, toward our destiny and our calling, toward our work. And just as nothing great in the world comes into being without torment, just as no new life emerges without a person’s fearful groans, so it is within us too.
What would a soul be worth that bears only flowers—dainty, colorful blooms, neatly fenced and softly brushed by springtime, by mirth and happiness? Our souls must be battlegrounds where God and the devil clash, where wounds gape and weapons ring, where there is anguish, defeat, pain, and death—and triumph. Who has never teetered on the edge of despair, who has never leaned over the abyss—the final solace of humankind—who has never stood at the brink, in the utmost, in the very last—how could such a one ever seize victory with steadfast hands and a humble, resolute heart?
Blessed is he who, after a wakeful night ridden through, arrives at such thoughts! Blessed is he who bears such insight from the fray! Blessed is he who can stand proud yet humble all at once. When morning bursts through leaves and ravines, when the great, cherished sun paints the world anew with color and brightens the heart, then may it find the valiant warriors strong and sure, ready for fresh deeds to which fate summons them.
The knight rides into the morning.
He rides toward a day that stretches uncertain and vast before him, its evening a mystery he cannot pierce. Lights dance through the trees; a wind from afar sweeps through their leaves, setting them aquiver. He recalls the night now past, musing on its toil and peril, on the guilt and distress of battles fought before. Thus he speaks to himself in the vast solitude:
“So I ride forth to meet my strange fate, which awaits me somewhere along my ways.”
My heart is heavy with knowledge of all the world’s woe and sweetness, and my hand, gripping the spear, trembles faintly still when memories of long-vanished, blissful nights drift over it. How distant lies all that once lent my life meaning and singular worth. Where are the women—the fair, gentle ones with deep blue mother-of-God eyes, and those with crimson lips and quaking hands? Where are the flowers, the children—where is all that once made me laugh and brought light into my soul? Where are the friends, companions of wild and profound hours? How estranged I have grown from my youth. How mightily has my task displaced within me all that can no longer find room! My dog Obedience and my horse are my sole wayfarers, yet when I would speak to them, they comprehend me not. And still I love them, for without them I could not complete my path, and with me they serve my work. Perhaps unknown others ride on different roads, bound in like service to a shared end. I know not. I know only that I must press on, without joy or rest. How I long to lay my head in tall grass amid summer’s hum, to hear a warm woman’s voice and be glad! But it is otherwise ordained for me, and I bow willingly to the great voice that calls me to the fight. And I had nearly forgotten that my soul too once wove tender dreams, that my heart sought to lure me to cheer and calm, to contentment and love—that I too was once enraptured and shaken when a tree blazed with bloom against a blue horizon, or a woman with darkened eyes and yearning lips bent toward me.
But fate called. And now I cling ever and ever to my great hope as to my spear, and the sword Faith strays not from my side. I need sword and spear as I need my daily bread—not only when the comrades of my stillest hours rise beside me once more. There stands Doubt-Death, holding the hourglass before me and saying:
“Why do you fight, why do you ride endless roads, when the sky hangs so gray and the heart so heavy? Know you not that life’s fulfillment lies not in struggle but in beauty? Think you not that you can never find joy, however grand your triumph? Have you forgotten how happy you were once, before you set forth, when maidens smiled at you and friends waved, when the vivid whirl of feasts cast its veils about you? Do you never ponder it now? We mortals are all so poor and small; our minds grasp nothing of life’s expanse, and our souls catch but a glimmer of things’ true essence. What avails it to seek, to question, to strive? What avails it to ride unknown paths into strange lands? What avails it to stand in hate and strife? What avails it to have a goal, a task, a work, if you are not happy?”
And there too is Greed-Devil, who at times crouches upon my back, seeking to steal the heart’s peace I have so dearly won, and he speaks:
“The years slip by; again and again spring’s first warmth drapes tender floral veils over the weary earth, again and again summer bestows its ripeness and warmth like a blessing upon the world, again and again autumn shatters the bounty and bliss of fruit-laden trees with dark storms and chill-bearing mists, and again and again winter reconciles the warring elements and the year’s clashing colors with soft-falling snow. Yes, the years slip by, and still you wander, perhaps yet at your journey’s dawn. Forsake this path, endless and meaningless; soon your life will end, and behold: not a single second is yours to squander idly or waste on things too far, for each is unique and precious! You will not turn back! Then ride on, wretched dreamer, step by step, and raise your visor, for you face no foe! I wager you seek the highest peak! I wager you seek the farthest mark! I wager you seek the grandest stronghold! Why spur not your horse Power till it bleeds and foams? Why stand you not ever and ever and ever ready for battle? Why have you not ever and ever and ever foes? Why linger when you know your road is vast—that it spans the earth and perhaps plunges into hell? You must not rest within! You must not linger on quiet thoughts! You must harbor no certainty if you would stay alive!”
The knight rides into the morning.
And deep within, he knows:
“I ride my path, and neither death nor devil daunts me.”
At times the horse Power grows weary, and the dog Obedience is no longer as willing or patient as before; at times the hand that holds the spear Hope trembles, and the sword Faith chafes my side raw—yet I ride my path, knowing not whither it leads. We mortals all stand beneath the great Perhaps—whether we hurl ourselves into adventure and danger or bide at home behind the hearth. Long it takes to tell the will-o’-the-wisps drifting over bogs from stars that smile in the boundless sky. Whoso grasps at every light veers from the way and sinks into the mire of common bliss. Whoso wins not discipline and humility finds the great faith untrue, and the fire of his will burns him to cinders. Whoso shirks the fight, great or small, never reaches the work. And whoso dwells not in grace may come to ruin. I know not if I am in grace. But this I know: somewhere, sometime, my work awaits me. Toward it I ride—years upon years. I know not if it be grand or slight, but I would be ready for the greatest, the heaviest, the bitterest—for the most radiant and the very last. I would be worthy of the great voice within that calls me to my work. I would never let the vision of that distant, lofty, luminous castle—my goal—fade from my eyes or my soul. I would know but one plea, one prayer:
“Fate, grant me a valiant heart!”
The knight rides into the morning.
K. M.
Niemals darf ein Mensch, ein Volk wähnen, das Ende sei gekommen; Güterverlust läßt sich ersetzen; über andern Verlust tröstet die Zeit; nur ein Uebel ist unheilbar: wenn ein Volk sich aufgibt. - Goethe
There are moments when a person or Volk may think the end has arrived; material deprivations can be overcome; time heals other wounds; yet one affliction is eternal: when a Volk loses its will to endure.